it does…right?

*in fleabag’s voice* i want to fuck a ceo killer. made in the nineties she/her

[johnnyvalance]

hating on x reader fics is genuinely like. so weird to me .wowww someone wants to imagine dating a fictional character. wow someone did the mortal sin of pretending their fav loves them.. boo fucking hoo people are dying

[moon-kn1ght]

(main masterlist here)

duke leto atreides - dune

mine. yours. | one shot | explicit | 1k | fem!reader leto struggles to keep his mind (and hands) off of you at a gathering. (spoiler: he loses the struggle).

the politic of love | one shot | explicit | 1k | fem!reader sent to caladan to marry the duke, you are alone.

the morning after | one shot | explicit | 1k | gn!reader you spend a night with duke leto of house atreides and leave without saying goodbye.

But what is not. | one shot | mature | .4k | Leto/Jessica They did what the Reverend Mother asked. Now they wait. drabbles: lust

moon knight alters - moon knight (marvel)

curiosity. | one shot | mature | .4k | Marc Spector x gn!reader who is this man?

guilty pleasure. | one shot | explicit (dark) | 2.3k | Steven Grant x fem!reader

jonathan levy - scenes from a marriage

justifier. | one shot | mature | .5k | gn!reader you know why you're there. so does he.

clean hands/dirty. | one shot | 1k | gn!reader when did the innocence stop? when were you implicated too?

drabbles: vows* // yet

william tell - the card counter

trouble & desperate.| duology | explicit | 2.k | fem!reader you know you're not supposed to be in his office, but you are anyway.

drabbles: pleads*

santiago garcia - triple frontier

possession and control. complete series | explicit | 11k | fem!reader santiago and you have a voracious relationship but maybe it's time for even more. attention* | 2.3k // the game* | 3.6k // the gift* | 2.1k // tonight | 3k

drabbles: forget it // please*

headcannons

nathan bateman - ex machina

fair game.* | one shot | explicit | 1.2k | fem!reader you're looking to explore new places with nathan, anything is fair game.

drabbles: just a movie* // outsmarting him // remembering // bored nsfw alphabet (collab w/ @acedameron)

rydal keener - two faces of january

unclaimed promise | one shot | general | .2k | gn!reader

poe dameron - star wars

emergency contact | one shot | teen | 1.5k | gn!reader there was no one else that you could ask to get your home after dental surgery besides poe dameron.

drabbles: your poe*

michael perry - won't back down

a dance. | one shot | explicit | 2.4k | gn!reader “My assumption is that you’re the kind of person that a guy will think about for the rest of his life. ”

the best kind of present. | one shot | mature | .7k | fem!reader It’s not a surprise that you end up pulling a crowd at Michael’s work party.

[sunniskyies]

𝐒𝐭𝐚𝐫-𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐞𝐰𝐧 || 𝐒𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐏𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐬 𝐎𝐧𝐞-𝐒𝐡𝐨𝐭

𝐑𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭: - 𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: After thirty years of missing you, Ford comes back out the portal <3 𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: Ford Pines x fem!reader 𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: Slight injury 𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐬: Cavity-inducing fluff, pining ig? 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 1.7k 𝐀/𝐍: Heyyy so I went insane and wrote this ramble about this old man in a worryingly short amount of time, because like I said, insane. (ask me for a part two 🙏)

(I really recommend reading this on dark mode!)

Twelve fingers clasp a photograph, so reverent and firm lest it whip from his hands and float away into the star-speckled void. It’s just smaller than his palm, the kind of picture one slips into the clear sleeve of a wallet. White creases split the picture in quarters, the seams threatening to rip further at each intersection.

Ford’s weightless body almost curls around it, eyes absorbing every detail. Thumbs mindlessly stroke the paper where they have a thousand times before, the card worn as soft and thin as fabric.

A picture taken from your university days, your graduation in fact. Your robes swamp your figure, only a sliver of a dress blouse peaking out from underneath. Your eyes aren’t focused on the camera lens, rather looking shyly up slightly at what one can assume is the photographer. Hands displaying a newly earned Master’s, cap slightly akilter to one side, hesitant smile. Ford has drunk in every detail hungrily, each day that has passed the photograph being carefully removed from his upper breast pocket and unfolded without fail. It’s all he has left of you, and it is unwaveringly sickening to him that his entire heart must only be displayed on a thin piece of paper.

He had other pictures of you: Moving days, candids, portraits of the two of you. But each one was a universe away, framed in halls he hadn’t walked in thirty years. The only photo he had on his person when he slipped through the portal was a silly wallet memento he had slipped in years prior. Not even a ring, because dammit Pines, why didn’t you marry the woman when you had the chance?

The void around him carried a dry wind that mussed his hair as he looked up into the nothingness.

“The bastard should’ve married you.”

You snorted. Your back sunk deep into well loved cushions, a cool glass of liquor held loosely between your fingers. The condensation has dampened your fingers, and the night air cools your face as you look up past the porch roof and into the night sky.

“You’re telling me, Stanley,” you smile ruefully. “Although I’m sure he would’ve put a ring on that damned portal if he hadn’t been sucked into it.”

You both laugh dryly, the conversation stilling as you drink. You’ve found a peace in these comfortable silences over the years, the sort two people working back-to-back for thirty years has created. Partners in crime; your not-quite brother-in-law. You held no resentment for Stan, never blamed him for losing Ford to the multiverse. Your partner was losing grip himself, his mind scattered amongst the stars long before his body was. It shamed you to think it, but it was only a matter of time before Ford stepped through that portal. It just hurt you that Stan had to blame himself for it.

You stand up, pulling a blanket around your shoulders. You tip the last of your glass into Stan’s, and press a chaste kiss to his cheek.

“I’m off to bed. Goodnight, Stanley.”

“‘Night, ____,” he replies fondly, the old beast settling further into the couch. You couldn’t help but call Stan his real name when the twins were in bed. You suppose it helps you remind yourself about what's real; slip back into your past when you're not under the light of day protecting Stan’s identity. Giving yourself a relief from calling another man your lover’s name.

You pad through the creaky shack, detouring to poke your head quietly into the attic. Tonight, both Dipper and Mabel’s sidelights were off. A rare occurrence, but a welcome break from the night of pen clicks and excited page-turning. You smile softly at their faces, the children who carry no blood of your own. But this summer, they are yours to protect, and you love them like the children you never got to share with Ford.

Down the hall, key in the door. You slip into your room, locking it precautiously behind you.

It’s not that this room holds anything dangerous. Nor did you believe the twins would sneak in here if you asked them not to. But just in case, you seal this sanctuary to protect Stanley, as you would rather be obliterated by Bill Cipher himself than take down the pictures of Ford tattooing your walls.

You hold the blanket tighter around your shoulders, heavy eyes studying a portrait of you and Ford on your first week in the house now dubbed the ‘Mystery Shack’. His eyes are trained on you, arms forever frozen in time wrapped around your waist as you reach up to cup his face with one hand and take the photo with the other.

Your damp eyes take one last sweep of the walls, each space adorned by frames and glass-shielded memories. As you slip into bed, running a hand through your silvering hair, you whisper a goodnight to your star-strewn lover.

“Come back to me, Stanford Pines.”

“He’s lying! Shut it down, now!” Dipper yells, the hum of the portal pounding through your head painfully.

“Mabel please!” Stan pleads, the little girl you love so dearly so strickenly clutching that fateful red button

Ten seconds to go.

Mabel’s hand trembles above it, something inside you snapping and pinging against your heart. “Please Mabel!” You cry. “Please don’t press it. I hate to agree with Stan but you cannot press that button!”

Her brown eyes lock with yours, and her face relaxes minutely. The moment you stepped into the basement with Stan to find the kids and Soos, fear paralysed you. Despair froze your limbs as you watched Stan hopelessly try to reason with them.

But he’s five seconds away. And you're breaking. 

Mabel looks once more between you and Stan. You wish your great-niece wasn’t in this position— you never, never wanted either of them wrapped up in this. You’d spent the whole summer trying, and failing, to keep them away from the dangers lurking in this town.

But you would sacrifice more than five seconds of discomfort to get Ford back. You have sacrificed much, much more than that.

Her eyes on you, “Great Aunt ____,” she whispers, “I trust you.”

The light is so intense it drowns out all other senses. A sensation you can only describe as your entire body being harshly bleached, skin raw and retinas stinging. You scream, but you can’t tell if you're actually injured or not. The entire experience is just so… incomprehensible.

And then it's quiet, so silent minus the ringing in your ears and the pound… …pound… …pound of your head. You vaguely feel your cheek pressed against something coarse. Dirt? Or grime? Your skin is tingling, you can’t really tell. You blearily open your eyes, blurry shapes far across the room moving around harshly. Barked words swim to your ears, but exhaustion clouds your cognition. You think… you might have been propelled when the room lost gravity?

The portal! The world comes into sharp focus, and you breathe in a cloud of dust from the rubble strewn around. Propped up by shaking hands, you scan the room. There! The triangular machine has crumpled, all sizzling sparks and groaning metal supports.

“Ford?” You croak, desperately searching around. “Did Ford come through? Stanley?—”

Two dark-clad figures are grappling with each other. Two… almost identical… figures.

“FORD?” You cry, the yell cutting through the gravel in your throat. The figures still, but you are too far away and too dizzy to really grasp what’s going on. Is he looking? 

“____?” A deep voice calls back after a beat. It’s hesitant, disbelieving.

“Yes, yes, it’s me! It’s me!” You choke back, still shaking from the impact.

“____!” The man yells, and you try to haul yourself up as he runs towards you. Your muscles scream in protest, but you manage to get yourself sat upright just as a flurry of dark fabric scoops you into the air.

It’s disorientating as Ford spins you around, holding you tight, but you just laugh and laugh as the tears begin to fall. You're both talking, but the words are flowing too fast and indistinguishable, a soup of regrets and excitement and “missed you so much”s.

Ford pulls back, your feet now back on the ground, his hands cupping your face.

“May I…?” He barely has time to croak the words out before your fingers are yanking his lapel down and your lips are on his. Your heart aches from the fullness it feels after thirty years half-empty.

“You waited,” he says against your lips. His eyes roam your face between fervent kisses.

You break away, hands evermoving一 through his silver hair, his face, the scarf around his neck. “Of course I did! Did you doubt it?”

“Well… I… hoped,” he murmured, forehead now pressed wearily against yours. 

“I’ve spent every day for the last thirty years trying to get back to you, Stanford,” you say oh so sincerely.

“And I, you, love,” he breathes, barely a whisper above the drone of the dying portal. “But after everything I subjected you to, with the research, and— and the argument we had before it all—”

“It’s in the past. I’d never hold you to that,” you soothe, thumb smoothing the crease between his brow. The two of you have melted into one another, and between your injury and his presence turning your legs to jelly, you're barely holding yourself upright, his arm around the small of your back.

“I’m just glad you're back and haven’t gone mad like poor old Fiddleford,” you hum. “In fact… I’d say you’ve grown even more handsome with age, Pines.” His hair is soft and tousled, eyes bright. He smells like woodsmoke and stars and, you notice with a flush, his jawline is strong and pronounced.

He grins, a soft, infatuated thing you hadn’t seen even months before he had been sucked through the portal. “You look just as beautiful as the day I met you.” 

“Pssh,” you glance away with a shy smile, you must look bright red. Your eyes meet his as a calloused thumb props up your chin, bringing you in for another kiss—

“GREAT AUNT ____ HAS A BOYFRIEND?!”

Your heads both turn, wide eyed. Mabel’s hands are clutched in her hair. Dipper looks like he’s seen a ghost.

“AUTHOR? BROTHER? WHAT IS GOING ON!” She cries.

© sunniskyies 2024, do not repost or translate my work

[reallyrallyauthor]

🔥sex/smut |🌟 new |♾️ gn!reader |🌸 Author favorite

all fics f!reader unless otherwise specified

::My Dear Birdie::

1- My Dear Birdie (~2.8k) 🔥🌸 2- Leave It On (~2.9k) 🔥 3- My Eternal Love, Anselm (an exchange of letters) 🔥 4- A Game of Words (~3.4k) 🔥 5- Gunshot Wedding (~5.6k) 🔥 6- Godzilla & The New Power Structure (~1k) -Why is Birdie called Birdie? ------------ -Wine Drunk (~2k) -Harmless Flirting (~1.5k) -That's It. Period (~1.1k) -Drabble- Dinner Party -HC-Meeting the Parents -Come (an exchange of letters) (~750)🔥 -One-shot- It's Personal (~1.3k) -Blurb- The Hunt -*brief note about music -*brief note about nicknames -*brief note about food -*brief note about periods

🎅 A Christmas Tale (~1.1k) 🔥 and a bit about Christmas cards 🎅 🔥

::Other Anselm Fics::

HC- Shooting w/ the Safety Off Anselm w/ so who has chronic pain Are You Scared of a Virgin? (~1k) Roman Empire (~1.3k) NSFW Anselm Alphabet 🔥 In the Middle (Anselm x reader x Santiago Garcia, ~3k) Blurb- Shady Ex One Shot- My Greatest Asset♾️ One Shot- Romance & Death♾️

[writefightandflightclub]

Don’t mind me I’m just imagining a touch-starved!Marc Spector finally breaking. Wandering into your expedition tent at night with those earnest, wet, puppy-dog eyes of his. Collapsing to his knees at your bed side, his brow tacky with sweat, and his muscles tense - with a problem.

“Please.” His voice breaks. Cracks apart; dry as a desert, rough as sand. He evidently can’t take this - whatever this is - a second longer. “Please. I need. I… Would you… w-would you touch me?”

Your body comes to life, his question bristling all the way across your hot skin like it was your own, so deeply craving sensation yourself. “Touch you where, Marc?”

His eyes are huge and glassy, almost tearful. A tight gulp trails down his corded neck before his eyes fall -ashamed- to the fat bulge at his shadowed crotch, the soft yellowed light illuminating the torment gathered in the sharp planes of his face. “Where I need you. Please. I can’t…”

Your mouth drops open in understanding, and with it Marc becomes increasingly desperate, his last ditch attempt spilling out of him before he can stop it - before you can ruin him even further with a no. His palms flatten then fist into the rumpled, curled edges of your covers.

Stars - his hands are shaking. His pulse trembling -quickened- in his throat. “Please,” he croaks. “I need you. Your hands… Anything. Let me work myself up in my pants just pushing up against you. I just… I…” He mouths the word without breath now, without sound - please - and he buries his face in your covers, deathly ashamed of himself.

Oh gods. But he doesn’t need to feel ashamed, though. Not at all.

And so, with molten heat throbbing through your core, you peel the covers back, and you softly beckon him towards you.

“Marc.”

He looks up at you from beneath those long, fanning lashes. Surprised it’s not a “no”. Surprised it’s not a rejection, because that’s all he has ever known.

He looks… relieved. Relieved, when the welcome in your voice touches him more deeply than any sensation he’s felt in far too long; but you can’t wait to deliver him so much more.

So much more touch. So much more relief.

Marc. Sweet Marc.

He never needed to beg for you.

You will show him just how willing you are to fulfil his wants and needs - again and again, in fact; until he is wholly quenched.

He crawls into the bed by your side as though he doesn’t belong there - doesn’t know how to be there. But, when your fingertips skim his flesh - even through his clothes - he moans, all broken and breathy, yet with enough feeling that the ancient gods must feel it rock through the depths of the earth.

“P-Please,” he stutters, a tear rolling down his cheek. Across the bridge of his nose. “Don’t stop. Don’t stop touching me.”

[nolita-fairytale]

Pastry Chef Luca of the Bear Masterlist

burn your life down: (pastry chef luca x fem!reader)

leaving your old life behind, you move to copenhagen to follow your dream of opening a restaurant. almost a year after opening, luca's quest for inspiration brings him right to your doorstep. it's a story about learning how to fall in love again, about second chances, finding inspiration, and that sometimes, change can be really, really good. (completed)

one | two | three | four | five | six | seven | eight | nine | ten | eleven | twelve | thirteen

don't you worry there's still time (pastry chef luca oneshot, from the world of 'burn your life down')

headcanon: new year's ever & day with luca

burn your life down bonus content

meeting pastry chef luca headcanon (teaser for 'burn your life down')

pov: you're the main character of 'burn your life down' and this is your instagram grid (moodboard/social media pov)

pov: your the head chef of kokuore - the restaurant in 'burn your life down'

a behind the scenes look at 'burn your life down'

the secondary characters - the kimuras & the mikkelson twins

instagram profiles for the secondary characters by @translatemunson

[thewinchestah]

"PREY" - Alastor x reader fic

Pairing: Alastor x Fem!Reader

Tags: One-Shot, 18+, Smut, NSFW, edging, begging, overstimulation, Alastor does what he wants, there's plot if you squint really hard, alastor in heat, breeding kink, degradation kink, praise kink,

Fandom: Hazbin Hotel

Word Count: i lost count. it's big.

A/N: Helloooooo!!! I write a lot but i never publish it! My lovely friend and also biggest inspiration for this fic @smallershorteranduncut ordered me to post this and i'm nothing but her loyal servent! I hope you guys enjoy the fruits of me writing 10 google docs pages today while i was enraged. Also english isn't my first language, no beta we die like men here yadayayfayada! enjoy <3

-

Everything about the Radio Demon seemed to be designed to make you desire him, want him. Many times in ways you weren’t even ready to admit to yourself. You haven’t been in Hell long, that’s true. But ever since you manifested here you felt like someone had picked your brain open to make Alastor the perfect bait to lure you into even more sinful, sinister paths. 

He had an inexplicable magnetism around him, a piercing presence that made your eyes stuck on him when he worked a room. He had you bewitched and you hadn’t share more than polite pleasantries with each other since you became a guest at the hotel.

Today, again, you were transfixed in his gaze. Sitting in the corner of the hotel lobby, trying to make your embarrassing attraction to him go unnoticed while Alastor waltzed across the room explaining more of his wicked plans to Charlie. God, how you wish he had his wicked way with you. 

He seemed more… on edge today. His red eyes  glowed a little brighter, his nostrils flared a bit more, static filling the room more often, he was smiling with almost barred teeth, and everyone seemed to be avoiding him. Even Charlie was trying to politely dismiss him, the general feeling of uneasiness inside the hotel  just growing larger when Angel stationed himself near your little corner of the room. 

“Don’t go near that creepy motherfucker today, he’s about to lose it.”  Angel alerted, almost whispering, a pair of his hands making the “crazy sign” near his head 

“Isn’t he always creepy and about to lose it?” Husk added, staring at the exchange between the radio demon and Charlie.

“I’m telling you toots, I know that guy definitely isn't normal, but today he is borderline a mass extinction event. I swear, he’s just waiting for someone to give him the excuse” Angel replied, confirming your suspicions. Something was off.

“Uh. Well, about that, I think it’s time we rescue Charlie” 

As if on cue Charlie turned to the corner of the room, gesticulating really hard to be taken away from the small commotion her conversation with Alastor was becoming. 

“Hey Charlie, do you remember that thing with the hotel’s… personalized stationery you asked me to help you today? Let’s do it!” Said angel gently guiding Charlie away from the Radio Demon.

“Guess that’s my cue Alastor! Greaaaaat chat! As always! Have a nice day!! Byeee!” Charlie’s overly chirpy tone giving away her uneasiness. 

Suddenly it felt like all the air was taken out of the room. Alastor’s neck turned into an ungodly angle, his eyes narrowing in suspicion. Static grew around the group, almost suffocating. As your vision went blurry from the sheer power that was being evoked, you contemplated if there was another afterlife. Preferably one where you didn’t inherit a death wish from your previous ones.

And as quick as it started, it was over. 

Alastor just said a creepy “hm” turned on his hell, and walked away. 

It almost felt like it was all in your head, but your friends standing perfectly still and dead silent next to you gave the reality of the situation away: everyone just had a near death-death experience. Maybe it would be a good topic for Charlie’s bonding exercises, who knows with this place. 

“I told ya’ll. Mass. Extinction. Event. Stay out the psycho’s way”

Angel’s voice became background noise in your head, your eyes focusing on the spot where Alastor just threatened everybody’s life without saying a word. As the voices dissipated around you and normalcy slowly returned to the hotel, your mind sank deeper and deeper into the mystery that was the Radio Demon. 

-

They were so oblivious, so naive. Thinking he wasn’t listening what they said about him behind his back. Thinking he was unaware of him being the topic of the discussion when he wasn’t looking. He could bathe in the smell of their fear, and he was relishing it. 

Alastor stared at the new pretty little thing that arrived at the hotel. Oh how pathetically sweet and innocent she was, thinking she was being subtle about her infatuation with him. Thinking she could hide her interest in him, when she was nothing but a doe caught in the headlights of his eyes. Oh, she was just the perfect prey for him, wrapped in this lovely red bow she wore on her hair. 

Angel was right, he was just waiting for an excuse, and she just offered him one on a silver platter. And alastor was everything but a coward. 

-

You cursed a little bit louder than you intended when you saw the blood dripping from your finger. “Stop. making. a. spectacle. of. yourself” you mentally screamed. You still could not figure Charlie’s “special stationary stapler” out, so stapling your finger was bound to happen. 

Even though it was not much, the silly little cut was stinging like a bitch, and your best efforts to stop the bleeding were futile, considering the mess on the hem of your skirt. Still high on the adrenaline from earlier, your shaking hands searched for something, anything to put on your finger so you could continue your work without anyone noticing. Everyone already had enough for one day, it was fine. 

“My dear, did you just hurt yourself?” Alastor’s voice invaded your ears. Oh, fuck. That’s it, he was going to murder you for being so incompetent with the damned stapler.

Turning to face him, you meet his piercing gaze, not sure if you should run and scream for help. “Oh no worries alastor, it’s just a small cut, i can manage!” you give him your most confident smile. 

Alastor’s head tilts, eyes burning red as he watches the small droplets of your blood make their way down your index finger.  

“Nonsense, I can't have my staff running around with injuries and bloodied clothes. We are in hell, but we are not savages, dear” He seems transfixed by the blood, and you are too scared to move, too scared to anything other than hold the weight of his gaze and hope for the best. Your lizard brain is screaming for you to run, ask for help. Maybe Charlie isn’t too far away, could you make a run for it? Somehow your survival instincts override your brain, maybe all those hours watching true crime back on earth weren’t in vain, and you decide against running. Let him initiate first. 

He catches your wrist, trapping it inside his deadly claws. His face, towering over you, comes all the way down to inspect the offending finger. You can feel his breathing on your skin. 

Your breathing stops. You swallow an imaginary lump. He’s gonna bite off your fing-

“Would you be a doll and let me take care of it? Blood being unnecessary wasted truly abhors me” 

You must have said yes at some point, you don’t really remember, now you are holding the red handkerchief he handed  you, answering his request to “please follow him”. Trailing behind the Radio Demon, both of you walk through the large corridors. 

This might be the time to scream for help. the voices inside your head warn. With every step of his feet you hear his microphone going tsk tsk tsk where it touches the ground. You are walking the death row, the paintings on the wall chanting “dead woman walking, dead woman walking”. 

“Keep pressuring the wound darling, we are almost there” he gently commands you, too gently… it feels almost… soft, pleading. The way Alastor goes from 0 to 100 is giving you whiplash. 

He slows down, reaching for the door knob of an unknown room. Ever the gentleman, he gestures for you to enter first.

the door locks behind you.

 if i’m being murdered, at least i’m being murdered with class. 

“Don’t be silly, I’m not going to murder you” Alastor says, almost singing the last part of the sentence. 

“Oh fuck, i said that out loud, didn’t I?” you blurted out 

“Yes you did. And yes, I also noticed your lovely doe eyes on me every time i’m in the room” 

Your brain short circuits. That 's it. You are dead. He’s not going to murder you (apparently), but you are going to die of embarrassment. It will feel like murder. He knows, fuck, he knows. He knows about your crush (?) and he’s going to drag you for it. You are going to be so dragged the angels will pity you and bring you to heaven. A creative way to be redeemed, Charlie should know about this. Your thoughts are going downhill as a big snowball, there are too many of them and you can’t follow a single coherent train of thought. You don’t even want to know how you look in the middle of this. You must look pathetic, truly like a doe caught in headlights. And then you hear your name once.

Twice now, in a sing-song voice.

Your eyes fly open towards the sound, breaking from the anxiety induced spell as you realize the Radio Demon had just called you, by name. He knows your name???

“Ah hahah! You’re back.” Alastor says, as he starts to circle you like a predator. Your eyes, as always, follow his across the room.

 “I don’t like to repeat myself, little doe. You heard what I asked?” 

Again, you don’t really remember answering, your brain is going AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA as you watch him pace around you, eyes burning red, demanding your attention. Teeth slightly barred, voice on the edge of something. Was that “X” on his forehead always there?

“I asked if you know what you are doing to me” static fills the room as he finishes speaking. Alastor’s clawed hand trapped your bloodied finger dangerously close to his grinning lips. Your brain is doing flips as he stares deep into your soul, and when your thoughts land you make the connection. Alastor is horny. Alastor is horny for y-

“You see, little doe, I know what your eyes hide when you desperately lower them everytime I come near you. I know how you feel you can hide in plain sight if you stay quiet enough. But I can taste it. Your fear. Your lust. In the air. In your blood.” He has a white knuckled grip on your wrist now, same with his microphone. You lower your guard, eyes going from startled to lustful. “Good thing right now there’s nothing more i want in this godforsaken pit than your lust, pet”

You want this. There’s no point in lying to yourself. You want Alastor to fuck you. You’ve fantasized about the Radio Demon taking you more times than you can count. More times than you would like to admit to yourself. This feels deeply wrong, but you crave it. 

Fuck it, you are in hell, there’s nothing to lose. Alastor is still watching you, impatiently. For the first time today you realize you actually forgot to say something. He’s waiting. Alastor is waiting for your permission. 

“Take my breath away, Alastor” 

Your permission might have been really loud, it felt like you were screaming the words. But you can’t be sure, it might have been a whisper. Either way he didn’t miss it, what happens next is fast, angry and delicious. 

Alastor pounces and licks the blood on your finger, something clicks inside him as he tastes the red liquid, because he lets go of his microphone instantly and his arms grab your waist aggressively, so forceful you wouldn’t be surprised if it breaks skin. You shouldn’t be so turned on by this, by the sight of a psychopathic demon drinking your blood. But you are, and there’s no going back. 

“Strip” he orders. You want to say to him that you can’t take your clothes off your person with him holding you like this. He must have realized the conundrum: if he wants you naked, he has to let go of you. To Alastor, letting go of you right now is simply unthinkable. So he doesn’t: you feel his claws cut the bodice of your dress open, sending the most delicious shivers down your spine. Another claw rips your skirt apart, and you are almost fully naked in the Radio Demon’s arms, pressing your body hard on his still impeccable dressed body.

It’s humiliating, it’s dangerous, it’s hot, it is delicious, to be at his complete mercy, just how you always wanted.

Somehow both of you made your way close to the enormous bed in the middle of the room. Alastor cornered you, so the only way you could escape was walking backwards towards the bed. The brilliant bastard. 

You feel your calves hitting the edge of the bed, and Alastor breaks away.

 Pity, your mind complains. Get him back to touching you again. right. now,.

“Now now, we should establish some rules for this, pet” Alastor’s hands might have stopped touching you, but his piercing eyes never did. He knocks you on top of the bed, you lay there sprawled open just for him. His hands move up to do a quick work of his bowtie

“Rule one: you will take what I give you. Nothing more, nothing less. What I give you is enough. You might feel like you can’t take anymore, but you can. You will take it, I will make you take it” He takes his tailcoat off, his frame towering over you, even with your body completely flat on the mattress and his in front of it. 

“ Rule two: every ounce of your pleasure is mine and mine only. Mine to give, mine to take. And you will give me everything. I want to hear every sound, to feel every touch, to know every nasty thought that runs inside that pretty little head of yours. You will not suppress anything, I wanna hear your moans when you make a mess of yourself as I take everything I desire from your delicious body. I will relish on your desperate screams of pleasure.Nothing outside these walls matter” He is climbing on the bed now. You hold the weight of his gaze, underneath your demonic lover’s eyes your skin burns.

“Rule tree: don’t you dare cum without my permission, good girls earn their orgasms and you will be a good girl. Or else…” static starts to pick up around the room, you are seeing the blackest black that ever was, his shadows enveloping you both. Nothing outside these walls matter. “Understood?” Alastor says as he pins your hands on top of your head, against the fancy headboard. His hand cups one of your boobs and he is worrying your nipple between his sharp claws. finally finally, your mind sings. You feel a surge of magic binding your wrists in green chains, attached to the headboard. It’s overbearing, it’s ridiculous. His magic feels like him, another part of him for you to take.

He pinches your nipple particularly hard and you moan softly, pleasure and pain consuming any other sensation. You forgot to answer him, you realize. You’ve barely started and you are already being bad. “yes alastor, yes.. but please don’t stop” the soft whimper leaves your lips.

“lovely.” he replies, and with that his mouth is on your nipple, sucking it while he administers his wicked ministrations to your other one. His sharp teeth tetter on the edge of breaking skin, and you already feel like you won’t be able to take all of him. 

His hand trails down to aggressively grip your thighs, his tongue sucking the neglected nipple his fingers left. Your moans become frequent and messy, if he’s already making you go insane with the beginnings of foreplay... You might pass out and die when he starts fucking you, but you don’t care. Let him show you the true meaning of la petite mort.

“My my, what do we have here” his hand leaves your thigh to trace the wetness of your panties. A clawed finger rips it apart, the last barrier between you and total consumption by the Radio Demon. He takes the finger between your glistening lips, not entering, just teasing 

“I don’t think i will get enough of this pretty little body of ours anytime soon, pet” he says as his finger finally enters your sex, He moves his digit with an expertise you didn’t really know he had in him,  making you whimper his name, ooohs and aaaahs, your hips start threshing from the pleasure. If you continue at this pace, you will be  begging for permission to cum too soon. Pathetic. you think to yourself. Because you know how hard this building orgasm will be,you don’t know if he will grant you more than one orgasm. And will you murder you yourself if you don’t feel his cock inside you tonight. You take a deep breath in between your moans and will your hips to stay in place, your nerves to calm down. 

Alastor adds another finger, and it takes all of your willpower not to become a puddle of wetness right there. You bite your lip so hard you taste blood. 

“you do make a mess of yourself, don’t you? you just can’t help it” he says as he curls his digits inside you. Your hips start thrashing hard again, and you sink them deeper into the bed. The chains on your wrists shake with the effort to hold back. As if alastor wasn’t going to notice. “no no no what did I say?” he snaps angrily, he’s eyes flash red at you and he takes his fingers out with a wet “pop”, you feel like crying at the emptiness. “please please alastor, don’t stop” you plead. His hands leave you entirely, you are left with just his piercing gaze, the one that makes your skin burn. “did I say you could hold back? don’t pretend like you aren’t a common whore for me, that you love how pathetic it feels that you are creaming yourself and we haven’t even really started” 

his condescending tone just makes everything even more sublime. It’s so wrong how good being told you are nothing more than a common whore by the Radio Demon feels. But you never felt anything close to this. “please Alastor” you beg again, nothing but a small whisper

“I would love to taste this pussy, so red already for me, but since you broke one of the rules… i’m afraid I will make you understand that are nothing but my pretty cockslut the hard way” 

Punishment? His punishment sounds ever better than his praise right now. You moan at his voice. He laughs. 

His knees cage you, as he lifts his upper body from you and starts undoing his zipper. He is taking his cock out. Oh fuck, he’s gonna fuck you without anymore foreplay. And he’s not going to be gentle about it either. You shiver. 

Alastor pumps himself a few times, his cock is big, thick, and an angry red shade, flush red like that, because of you, just for you. He’s gonna make you pay: pay for holding back from him, pay for making him feel like an animal and almost losing his hard constructed control. 

The look on his face says it all, he’s gonna take it out on you and you can’t do nothing about it.

You don’t have much time to think about the repercussions, in one swift motion his tip is already inside you, stretching you deliciously. Your brain short circuits again, the feeling of his cock inside you is everything you imagine and more. Depraved, heavenly, delicious. You struggle in your binds again, you want desperately to touch him. To feel his skin beneath your finger, to scratch him, mark him. But oh well, he’s the Radio Demon, he’s the one in charge and you are his prey.

Alastor starts to slowly enter you, he’s trying his best to hold back. He knows if he does this too fast it will hurt in a way he doesn’t want you to feel. And by the look on his face going slow is as torturous for him as it is for you. tantalizing inch after tantalizing inch he spreads the walls of your cunt apart. You understand now why this is punishment, it hurts in a perfect way, it hurts even more that he is doing it slowly, and not just thrusting like you imagined  he would, if he had more time to work on you. 

You become a mess of moans and incoherent words. His cock is halfway inside you now “HoLY FUCK ALASTOR” you scream. It’s already too much. 

“There’s nothing holy about this my dear. I’m going to breed you. I’m going to break you” and with that he buries himself to the hilt inside you. Now you truly scream in pleasure and pain “you won’t be able to walk straight for days, you will feel me in every step, and you will thank me for it”. His thrusts pick up at breakneck speed, the bed shakes from the sheer force that Alastor is using to fuck you. Every snap of his hips you moan more and more. 

The sound you make when he takes everything out and enters you at once is so obscene that it would make Angel Dust blush. He’s growling now, his antlers growing bigger as he fucks you like his life dependend on it. As he fucks you like he hates you. 

Alastor pushes your hips higher, and suddenly he’s even deeper. His other hand holding your waist in a bruising grip. The strain on your pinned hands will bruise too. His lips graze the skin of your collarbone, he looks so feral you are scared he will maul, the thrill of not knowing adding to your fucked up sense of pleasure. 

He seems to pick up on your fear, and bites down on your collarbone, hauling as he tastes your blood and buries himself inside you again and again. Moans turned into screams, and the only thing coming out of your lips is his name, spoken like a profane prayer. You would give everything you have to Alastor, and he doesn’t even have to ask.

Your orgasm has been building for a while now, the coil on your belly becoming tighter and tighter, like a supernova about to be born. “Alastor, please please let me come” you beg. His unfocused eyes stare down at you, as he takes a moment from feasting on your sweet blood to address your desperate, sweet pleas.

“Don’t. You. Dare” he says, punctuating every word with a sharp thrust. As much as you want, you are not sure you will be able to hold any longer. “I beg you alastor, please let me cum, i will let you do anything you want. but i need it so badly, please please”

You sounded so desperate when you begged, so beautiful.

“Don’t strike deals you don’t know you can fulfill, pet” his voice is low, a warning. You ignore it. “I promise Alastor, anything”. Alastor laughs.

 his finger touches your clit as he finally allows your sweet relief “you may come now, sweet doe” and that’s it, you are off, you are dead. You see stars, you see the entire universe as you scream out and climax. Walls tightening around Alastor’s monster cock, eyes rowling, his name a scream on your lips. You ride out your wave slowly, but Alastor is not slowing down.

Instead he is picking up his pace, maneuvering your hips even higher, your chains are stretched to the limit. You can feel them start piercing your skin. Thrust after thrust the sensation becomes too much, you are too overstimulated to go through all of this again.

“i can’t take it, i can’t take it!”

Alastor doesn’t care. “I told you not to make deals if you can’t hold them, didn’t I?” You don’t answer, you can’t. you can’t to anything but let him fuck you as hard and as much as he want. “but you are such a little cockslut for me that you can’t help it. What a shame” 

He is gripping your hips so hard it breaks skin, tiny trails of blood on his claws. “you will take it. You better take it, or I will make you take it” static picks up as he threatens the last words. You know you are spent, you know how bad it hurts, you know how bad his words sound, but the lines between pleasure and pain are so blurred that you can’t think coherently. Even this  pain of being broken feels good. 

Still, tears fill your eyes and you start crying, from pleasure, from pain, you don’t know anymore. What Alastor is doing to you has no precedent. No one can do this like he does. He knows torture too well, and he is tortouring you in the most decadent, delicious ways possible. “alastor i want to, i want to so bad but i just can’t” the tears sting your eyes and stain your face. 

Alastor sees it. He slows down just a bit, his voice softening “oh my dear doe, but you can. Just this once more, just for me. One more” his voice is so maddening soft it acts like fuel to your tears. Your skin tingles and you feel giddy, somehow your throbbing hot, wet cunt seems to find the right amount of relief, and you can feel only pleasure again.

Alastor continues to fuck you, your moans returning to normal, you are being so loud now, making a mess of yourself, just like he said, and a big hand comes to cover your mouth. 

“Oh we can’t have you being this loud can we?” his voice goes to that delicious mocking tone. His thrusts are slower now, but as deep as they can go. “what would you friends say if they found out that you moan like a common whore for their feared radio demon.. hum,.?”

You start to feel the pit of your belly tightening again, and alastor doesn’t stop humiliating you. The degradation feels just the right amount of perfection. You are exactly what he says you are. A common whore when it comes to him. “weren’t you ashamed just a few moments ago? trying to hold back the sinful sounds you make when I touch you? I already gave you one orgasm. I’ve been way too generous for my liking. I should stop right now since you feel so conscious about this”  Alator’s breathing is becoming erratic, his thrusts sharp, hard, and out of the breakneck rhythm he was torturing you before.You start moaning even louder through his hand. “ungrateful little pet. You are just so greedy for one more orgasm, you don’t even care that everyone downstairs can hear you hm??”

You can’t think straight. you feel on the edge of glory, this orgasm threatening to be harder than your previous one, as if it is possible. “alastor i’m so sorry, i know i don’t deserve it” you muffle behind his hand, he hears you speaking and takes if off “but can you please let me cum? just this once? just for you. Please Al” his thrusts are truly erratic now. He’s close too, even though you are too wrapped up on your own sensations to notice 

“please” you beg, nothing more than a whisper. Already making peace with the fact that you are going to come without his permission and he will probably never fuck you again

“Good girl, you can come now”

instantly as you are granted his permissions your world explodes, blinding hot pleasure takes over your body, the waves of pleasure making your heart beat so fast you feel like it’s going to stop. The petit moirt is coming, and her sweet embrace envelops you, specially now that you feel Alastor’s cock twitching and spilling his seed inside you. You scream his name. Maybe you hear him screaming yours too. You don’t know anymore, your nerves are singing from pleasure unheard of back  when you were alive. Pleasure so great it could only be found in hell. The most heavily, depraved way of torture. 

You come down from your high, still dizzy, your body going limp. You are not dead, but you are positively spent. You give in into the warm and fuzziness of sleep. 

The last thing you remember being the softness of a blanket, a gentle kiss on your cheek.

“Oh my dear, I knew you had one more on you,spending yourself this way just for me! What a truly precious thing, doe”

You might be dreaming now.

-

You weren’t dreaming. Alastor praises you, knowing his words will be the last thing you hear before a night of peaceful, deep dreamless slumber. He makes sure to put the softest velvet blanket he owns on your body, not to make the damage you gladly allowed your body to take for him an inconvenience. Tomorrow you will wake up to fancy letters of praise and sweet chocolate covered strawberries. And no one will know how Alastor found the perfect doe to breed as he pleases during the height of his mating season.

[dear-ao3]

[reallyrallyauthor]

Anselm Vogelweide- Gunshot Wedding

Summary: A very big day for you and Anselm

Contents: 18+ nsfw, oral sex, temperature play, mention of fisting, guns and shooting, references to the first chapter here. (~5.6k- yes it's long, but it's like.... the culmination of everything. I refuse to edit it down. NOT SORRY)

other Anselm works

-------------

What do you get the criminal who has everything? 

Gifts have been pouring in ever since Anselm announced to his cast of assorted miscreants and debtors that you were getting married.

But you wanted to get him something. He didn’t seem interested when you’d offered to get a tattoo, or get your nipples pierced, or even to play out that completely out of left field scenario Anselm thought up where he was a UPS guy and you were somehow the box he was supposed to deliver. You remind yourself to ask him exactly how that would work.

So, to find the perfect gift, you thought of what he cared for in this world. It boiled down to two things: you and money. Anything he did eventually led back to those two things.

Gambling? Money

A new associate? You (and that man found himself chased out of the mansion by a limping, creaking, semi-automatic-toting Anselm after the guy had ‘made eyes’ at you)

Forcing people into assassinating other people? Probably money, that one you never asked too many questions about

The wedding? Definitely you

You think about it through the day, then through dinner, and after dinner drinks. You briefly stop brainstorming while Anselm teases you with the ice cubes from his post-dinner cocktail. Difficult to think when he’d shoved an ice cube so far up inside of you that he might have frozen your eggs without lab assistance.

You resume thinking in the shower before bed. You dry off and hop under the sheets with Anselm. 

“Birdie, if you think any harder, I’m going to have to fuck you again. Just to get you to stop.”

“We just did that. It’s why I had to shower.” You wrap your arms around him. He lays his head on your shoulder, curly hair tickling your face.

“This is about the wedding present,” he says.

You stroke your hand over his hair. “Yes.”

“If you want to modify your gorgeous body, then do so because you want to, not because of me.” One of his hands wanders up and toys with your breasts.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to get a tramp stamp that says ‘please cum here’ to commemorate the first time we had sex?”

He huffs out a laugh. “Naughty girl.”

His hands grow more insistent on you and he leans his head in to lick your nipple with his tongue, sucking gently.

“You are insatiable,” you say with a smile.

“Very true. But your body begs for me. Look at you, always so ready to be taken and lovingly used.” He starts kissing down your chest and stomach. He runs his tongue along your hip. “Be good and open your legs.”

You cross your ankles. “Maybe I’m tired.”

He laughs, openly and loudly, that slightly high-pitched way he does when something funny catches him off guard.

It is laughable, the idea that you would ever get enough of him. You open your legs and Anselm settles happily between them, lapping at your cunt, tongue toying with your clit, your lips, playing along your slit.

“Thank you for this,” he says as he gently suctions his mouth against you. His beard scrubs against the insides of your thighs, lighting up the sensitive skin and making everything he does feel that much stronger.

You gasp. “No, Anselm, thank you.”

“I had a difficult day,” he says, tongue probing against your walls. Luckily, you have practice understanding Anselm while his mouth is occupied.

Your back arches as he swirls and licks. Your words would come out a breathy, garbled mess so you don’t bother. 

“Your delicious cunt is the most comforting thing there is.” He rubs his nose against your clit, then puts his lips around it to suck gently, his tongue digging in to find the hard, sensitive center, making you squirm and moan.

“Anselm,” you stutter out, hands grabbing his hair to wrench him off of you, “too much,” you say breathlessly.

“Oh, I am sorry.” His warm, brown eyes tease you. “I tend to lose myself down there.”

He licks his lips as you let him go. But he doesn’t go back for seconds. Instead, he props himself up on his forearms.

“Birdie, would you do me a favor?” He asks.

Your eyes widen slightly. Anselm does not use the word ‘favor’ lightly. In fact, he doesn’t like to use it at all. It’s too vague, not monetary, and has no guaranteed return on investment.

Once, a guy had barged into the house, saying that Anselm owed him a favor.

Anselm had sat deadly still while the man finished ranting. “You are very rude,” he’d said shortly. “Bye bye.”

The man had gotten too close to Anselm’s desk. He looked like the kind of guy who would smell like the sandwich he ate for lunch, probably some combination of unrecognizable meat and mayo, no lettuce, extra onions.

“You think you don’t owe me a favor?” He’d said. “After I helped you fix the entire tri-state, high school, women’s basketball tourney? I did all the work on that job. We all know it. You don’t have a leg to stand on here.” The man’s bravado had frozen into the icy-cold realization that he was most definitely going to die. 

No one made an ambulatory metaphor to Anselm and lived to tell about it.

You’d sighed from the cushioned window-bench where you’d sat, reading a book about making impossible sex positions work for you(!), barely paying attention to the whole thing. You’d turned to a fresh page and put your fingers in your ears until the shooting had stopped.

So, for Anselm to use the word ‘favor’ now, and for him to stop eating you out before he’d had a chance to even get so much as a single finger inside of you, was almost alarming.

“What’s the favor?” You held your breath.

“There is a Vogelweide tradition,” he says. “I’m afraid you’re not going to like it.”

Anselm never looks nervous. And he doesn’t, exactly. He looks cautious, which is almost worse. 

“Spit it out. What is it? Do you need to knock me up? Do I need to change my name? Kiss your feet at the ceremony? What is it?”

He shakes his head shortly. “No, no, you won’t have to lift a finger. You will, however, have to refuse my father’s advances.”

It’s your turn to look at him cautiously.

You tilt your head a touch at him. “Who?”

“My father.”

You try to make the pieces fit together in your brain, but his words don’t make sense to you. “I’m sorry, who is going to be hitting on me?”

He frowns. “Stop asking who. You are my Birdie, but you are not an owl. You know my father is flying in from Austria before my mother, and it is the Vogelweide tradition that the bride must resist being lured away by another man.”

“And that man is your father?”

Anselm shrugs. “He enjoys it.”

“Aren’t he and your mother still married?”

Anselm idly runs his finger through the lips of your cunt, which your sure is the driest he’s ever felt it because, as weird as your relationship is, this is downright bizarre.

“Yes, but they live separately. My mother lives in Germany. They do meet once or twice a season. Actually, maybe I should give them a third bedroom when they visit, so they have neutral ground to fuck on.”

He puts his finger in his mouth, wetting it, before touching you again.

“That’s not a favor, Anselm. It’s going to be easy to not have sex with your father. I don’t love him. I don’t know him. And he’s like, ninety.”

“He can still get hard.”

“I didn’t ask.”

“Anyway, that’s not the favor.” Anselm bends his head down and kisses your cunt, as if it were your cheek. “Have I told you how adorable you are down here? I’d like to frame a photo and put it on my desk.”

“No,” you say, “but I can have one made if you promise not to show people like it’s a puppy or a school picture or something.”

“And hold yourself open for me, so I can see your wetness. And maybe you could have your fingers inside of yourself?” He teases you with the tips of his. “Maybe one night, we’ll see how many of mine you can take. I could tease you until you’re limp with desire, and I think that I could pleasure you up to my wrist. Would you like that? To be my pretty little puppet for the night? I’ve heard it produces very strong sensations.”

He pets his fingers along your once-again-wet cunt, looking at you with arousal.

“Consider it,” he says, “as I ask you to consider the true favor I’m going to ask.”

Your mouth is dry from heavy breathing. Hot desire is burning through your veins and you’re not sure you can think about anything else now.

“I need to intimidate someone tomorrow, so I’ll be out of the house for the day. If anything should need attention while I’m gone, my employees will come to you.”

He sticks his tongue out, lowers himself again, but you use the heel of your hand on his forehead to stop him.

“Sorry. What? I don’t know your business.”

His eyes snap up to look into yours. “Business-es. Birdie. They are multitude. All separate from each other. It’s just best practice. Most of what I do day to day is simple, intelligent, decision-making. And that’s something I can trust you with. Hence, if I were ever indisposed, like tomorrow, my employees would come to you.”

“Anselm, I can’t do what you do.”

“Not entirely, no. You haven’t shot anyone yet.”

“Yet?”

The corners of his mouth turn down. “You’re going to shoot someone eventually. I don’t know why you put off the inevitable. The man who came to tune the grand piano dragged his feet and left scuff marks on the tiles. That annoyed you. Would you like to shoot him?”

“No,” you say emphatically.

He shrugs. “Maybe next time.”

You study Anselm, in both of his eyes. He only takes off his glasses to sleep. He didn’t even do that until you’d started sharing his bed. They’d hit your face in the night and or dig into your neck. You’d had to ask him to take them off.

But Anselm never really asked you for anything.

Or rather, nothing non-sexual. 

All he ever did was give.

“Okay, Anselm, I’ll be the temporary head of your empire tomorrow.”

He nods as if that were the answer he expected. His eyes glance down. You nod at him and he ducks down, fingers already spreading you apart for his eager tongue.

It’s one of those nights, you can tell. Anselm is going to be buried deep inside of you until near sunrise. Tongue, fingers, cock. You’ll wake up, full of him everywhere and a smile on your face.

————

“So then, I told him, your third cousin or whoever it is, don’t walk. Just take a car and put it in the passenger seat and it’ll look totally normal. And you’ll be able to take the hov lane.” You say to Anselm.

You’d both just sat down to a late dinner after he’d gotten back from whatever business had taken him away.

“Honestly, I thought you were overreacting, how you call everyone an idiot. But I spent my whole day answering stupid questions.” You shake your head and sigh.

Anselm’s brown eyes sparkle at you, even through the cloudy left lens of his glasses.

“What?” You say, taking a sip of wine. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

Anselm sets down his fork from where it was poised to eat. “I am rock hard right now.”

“What else is new?” You pick through your salad, looking for the croutons.

His hands disappear from the table. “Tell me more about your day.”

You hear the distinct sound of his belt coming undone, followed by his zipper. Your fork freezes in the air and you look at him with narrowed eyes.

He raises a brow ever so slightly, daring you to say something about it.

You eat a mouthful of food, then a swallow of wine to wash it down.

“The jeweler came by with the wedding rings. They were wrong. Again.” You say, annoyed.

“Mmmm?” Anselm says, wetting his lips. You can hear his labored breathing through his nose.

“I had to raise my voice.”

“Oh God,” he whispers, a slight groan escaping him, “what did you say?”

“I said,” you try to recreate the tone you’d used. Stern, and a little louder than usual, but you’d been mad, “this is the third time you’ve brought these and the engraving is wrong every time. It’s very specific. I wrote it down. What do I have to do? Tattoo it on your wife’s ass so you can memorize it?”

Anselm moans low in his throat. You can hear him jerking off under the table, the sound of his hand working up and down the skin of his cock. You can hear how messy it’s getting.

“Keep talking,” he says.

“And one of your bodyguards, the one you just hired, I called him Godzilla and he didn’t like it. But I couldn’t remember his name and Godzilla was close enough.” You think for a minute. “Godrick! That’s his fucking name.” You shake your head.

“He got a little snippy with me so, you know,” you say, swapping out your empty salad plate for the one with potatoes and roast chicken.

“Please,” Anselm licks his lips, panting, “please tell me you shot him straight in the heart.”

You glare at him. “No, I didn’t.”

Anselm looks genuinely disappointed. 

“Anyway,” you cut into your chicken, “I told him that I didn’t mind being corrected, but don’t be all passive aggressive and,” you pause, “did you stop jerking off?”

Anselm’s hands return to the table. He skips his salad and moves to the main course. “Yes,” he sounds almost like he’s pouting.

“You really thought the story was going to end up with me shooting someone?”

He cuts into his chicken thoughtfully. “A man can hope.”

 “Sorry to disappoint you.” You set down your silverware and wipe your mouth. “But this seems a waste of a perfectly good erection.”

You slide your chair back and crawl under the table. Anselm’s pants are still undone, his hard cock curving up to rest against his shirt. You work your way between his legs and get up on your knees, Anselm guiding you so you don’t hit your head on the table. 

He looks down at you, smiling. “Feeling hungry?”

“Like I haven’t eaten all day.” 

You curl your fingers around his shaft, taking the soft head of him between your lips. That first taste of him always sends chills down your spine.

You lick up and down his cock so your hand smoothly takes over where his left off. The only time Anselm can get his entire length down your throat easily is when your head is dangling upside down from the bed. Or the couch. Or his desk. 

Or that one bench in the garden that’s not quite tall enough, but Anselm likes the view of the duck pond while he fucks your face so you do it there when the weather is nice.

You gently suck on his head and you hear his fork clatter as if falls on his plate. You smile and widen your jaw, taking more of him into your mouth, working up and down along with your hand.

Anselm is moaning softly. You work faster, taking him deep enough to touch the back of your throat. You let his cock pop out of your mouth, lick it again, tuck your head down to lick his balls one by one. They’re already tight and close to his body. 

Anselm guides your head back onto him, pushing gently, politely asking for more. You slide your mouth back down on his cock, down, relaxing and feeling him stretch out your throat as you fight your body’s rejection of how long and thick he is inside of you. Your throat muscles flex and Anselm’s hips start to move slightly, his hand holding your head steady as he ruts slowly into your mouth, fingers tightening he comes, depositing thick, hot cum down your throat, an overflow escaping your throat and mouth, dripping down your chin with your spit.

He pulls back so you can breathe easier, out of breath himself. You rest your forehead against his inner thigh. He pets your hair lovingly, handing you a napkin from the table. You clean him off first, gentle on his sensitive skin.

 You bring the napkin to your face, but his thumb catches your chin, gliding through the mess as he tilts your face up to look at him.

“You are too good for me, my dear Birdie,” he says, eyes serious on yours. He brushes your cheek with the skin of his scarred hand.

You wipe your face as you push up and rest on Anselm’s un-braced thigh. You run the cloth over your hands and toss it on the table. 

“After that, you get all maudlin?” You ask him. “It wasn’t my best work, but I didn’t think it was gloom-inducing.”

He smiles joylessly. “Each blowjob you give me is better than the last one, I assure you. Every part of you is absolute heaven. One that I do not deserve.”

Anselm is never anything but confident. Sometimes he’s happy and confident. Sometimes angry and confident. Definitely horny and confident. But as he looks at you now, concern in his eyes, you can see that his confidence has a thin, almost imperceptible crack in it.

“Sexual proclivities aside, you and I are different in almost every way,” he says.

“That’s true,” you say reluctantly. “I’m more qualified to be your maid than your wife.”

A spark of interest flashes across Anselm’s face. “We can do that one day. I would like to see what you could do with a feather duster. But, my dear, there is nothing servile about you.”

“Don’t use that word,” you say, frowning.

“I suppose I shouldn’t demean our staff, yes,” he says. He runs his fingers idly along your thigh. “For the most part, they live up to my high standards.”

“They’d be stupid not to. You have weapons in every room.”

He kisses your forehead as his beard kisses the rest of your face.

“I’m sorry you’re in an off mood tonight,” you say. It hurts you to see him uncomfortable in any way. 

His arms hold you closer. “This helps.”

There is one thing. But, God, you don’t want to. 

Marriage was about compromise, right? And it might not be so bad…

“Let me cheer you up,” you say, smiling at him, running your fingers through his beard. “I know when you asked, I said no. That I would never do it and you couldn’t make me.”

Anselm looks at you cautiously, but there is a glimmer of sharp happiness in his eyes. “You don’t mean…”

You sigh. “Yes, Anselm, you may buy me a gun. But,” you say quickly, “I’m not promising to shoot anyone.”

He hugs you so hard, you squeal in surprise.

“This means so much to me,” he says, guiding you to stand before zipping himself back up. “We can go to my office right now. Forgive me, but I already had one customized for you.”

“What?” You say, outraged.

He smiles at you wickedly, taking your hand and leading you haltingly toward his office. “I actually had it made when we first met. But you were more of a companion at first, tease that you are, and one does not just gift a friend a weapon like this.”

“You thought of me as your friend?” You ask softly, remembering the months that you’d visited him here, reading through his library while he conducted his business, until the day he finally demanded you bend over his desk.

He stops outside of his office door and takes both of your hands. “I don’t want to put undue pressure on you, my dear, but in reality, you are my only friend. The only person who’s bothered to understand me. And the only one who ever could.”

To your surprise, tears spring up in your eyes and spill over immediately. You pat your cheeks, then reach out and grab Anselm’s tie to dry them. He frowns.

“I hate that tie,” you say.

“Would you like to shoot it?” Anselm says dryly.

You laugh. He puts his arm around you, leaning on you slightly as you enter his darkened office. You switch on a table light as Anselm opens the gun safe in the wall with his handprint.

He takes out a gun, looks it over thoroughly. “You know, I had an uncle who lost an eye accidentally when he challenged himself to a duel. He was a drunk. We used to greet him, ‘Servus, Onkel Otto, wie geht es deinem einsamen Auge?’ Und er würde sagen, ‘ja, mein Kind, ich sehe mit meinem-“

“You’re speaking German.”

He frowns. “Ah, sorry, I spoke with my father today.”

“I thought he was getting here tomorrow,” you say.

“He is. But, just as the bride has her tradition, so does the groom. It is my father’s job to speak to me every day, and make me feel unworthy of you.”

You walk the few steps over to him, lay your hand on his arm. “That’s awful. Explains why you were in such a bad mood.”

The look on Anselm’s face says that he agrees. “The men in my family have a tendency toward tyranny on a continental scale. We do, however, believe in humbling ourselves for our wives. You keep me from trying to overthrow the European Union.”

He holds the handgun by the barrel and holds the butt out to you. It’s beautiful, in its own way. Dark silver with an off-white inlay in the grip, a beautiful, feathered bird engraved into each side. You close your hand around the gun. You hear Anselm inhale deeply.

“I’ve never held a gun before,” you say. “You’ve introduced me to a lot of things.”

“And you to me. What was that warm pastry with the crystallized sugar on top?”

“A pop tart.” You seat your hand on the gun, wary to put your finger against the trigger. 

“I’ll keep your gun in the top drawer of my desk. In case you have need of it,” he smiles.

“Give it up, Vogelweide.” You say, examining the handle again. “I’m probably never going to shoot it-“

As you look down the sight, your finger hits the trigger and a huge burst of noise comes out of the gun, pointed at the hallway. It kicks in your hand, jerking upwards. You work your jaw against the ringing in your hear. 

Anselm takes the gun quickly, looking it over again. He sets it aside and pulls you close. “There must have been one in the chamber. It’s my habit to do so. Stupid. My dear Birdie, I will never be able to apologize enough.”

You’re shaking against him. Not upset, just surprised. “I have no idea why you do that so often,” you say against his chest. “It’s kind of terrifying.”

“It’s just business.” He kisses your face, each of your cheeks, your nose, your forehead. “And you never need touch one again. I promise. I’ll do your shooting for you.”

You laugh. He presses a hard kiss to your mouth.

There is a feeling in your gut, though. Something from the adrenaline that simmers along your skin. You run your hands up his chest, under his jacket. Anselm licks along your lips, hands kneading your hips hungrily. You thread your hands through his hair, pulling and making him moan.

The door opens behind you. You move your lips along Anselm’s neck, fingers curling around his belt.

“What the fuck do you want? We are very busy.” Anselm shouts.

“Sir, I, um,” the night bodyguard stutters, “I, well, your father is here.”

You stand upright. Anselm’s face is displeased, surprised even. You glance back to see the outline of a man in a wheelchair in the doorway. His features are shadowed from the bright light behind him, but the sweep of his curly white hair is much like Anselm’s.

“I’ve been shot,” he says in a thick accent, his wheelchair creaking as he rolls into the light of Anselm’s office.

You look at Anselm. “Holy fucking shit,” you whisper. You start to move toward his father, but Anselm holds you firm.

The man makes a disgusted sound. “Look.” 

Anselm’s gaze scrutinizes down his father’s body, and you feel him relax. He kisses your forehead. He turns you by the shoulders to see his father, who is pulling up his pant leg. Where you expect to see gushing blood and mangled flesh, there is only a smooth, wooden cylinder with a neat hole through where his shin would have been.

“Very similar to the bullet that took his leg nearly twenty years ago,” Anselm says, back to his usual self. 

You’re still stunned. Anselm’s father guides his creaky wooden wheelchair close to you and takes your hand. He kisses the back, cold lips lingering slightly too long. His pant leg is still hiked up.

He notices you looking. “Your aim tells me you are a perfect fit for the family. It is a good omen. You know, this leg was fashioned with wood from one of our family’s merchant vessels. 1800s, had to have the material stolen out of a museum.”

“I’m so sorry I shot you,” you say in a rush.

He laughs. “You can make it up to me, yes?” He waggles his silvery gray eyebrows.

You look at Anselm, who has an amused look on his face. In your panic, you’d forgotten all about the stupid tradition.

You pull your hand away from him. “No, thank you.” You look at Anselm. “I know I’m supposed to refuse your father’s sexual advances, but I just shot him in the fucking leg. What am I supposed to do here?”

Anselm chuckles, holds your cheek in the palm of his hand. “Technically, shooting my father makes you the head of our family. But since we’re not legally married yet, the rules may be blurry.”

“Ja,” his father says, “aber ich bin fast einhundert Jahre alt, Anselm. Genug ist genug.”

“He says he’s almost one hundred years old and he’s tired,” Anselm says. He waves the bodyguard over. “Do you happen to be ordained?”

The man points to himself. “Me?”

Anselm all but growls. “Yes, you fucking idiot. I’m not speaking to the plant behind you. Although it probably has the superior intellect.”

“Godrick,” you smile at him. “Hi again.”

The man bows awkwardly. “Hi.”

“See?” You say to Anselm. “He’s really tall. Very Godzilla-like.”

“Yes, Birdie, he is,” Anselm says, mind clearly elsewhere. “Mother will be very upset that she missed it, but you can’t very well pass on anything if we’re not married.”

“What?” You say. “We’re getting married in three days.”

“I would have married you the day we met if you would have accepted,” Anselm says. “And the wedding will still be beautiful.”

“And I can make it up to your mother,” Anselm’s father smiles and pats his wooden leg.

You lean in closer to Anselm. “Does he fuck your mother with his wooden leg?”

Anselm snorts out a delighted laugh.

Godrick clears his throat. “I’m actually a minister. Like, before you hired me to be a criminal, Mr. Vogelweide. Or Misters? Vogelweides?”

Anselm rolls his eyes. “Dimwit. Come here and marry us before I shoot you with Birdie’s gun in your actual leg.”

He gets out the marriage license and Godrick performs a quick ceremony. Nothing like the overly romantic words and dramatic releasing of doves that Anselm has going on for the actual wedding. 

But it feels right, to get married here in Anselm’s office. Where you’d first met. And first fucked. And fallen in love.

You seal the marriage with a kiss that probably should have been saved for not in front of his father, but who cares because Anselm’s hands are grabbing your ass like it’s a life preserver after a shipwreck and with nothing but sea water around, he has to lick the inside of your mouth to stay alive. 

Anselm’s father and Godrick clap politely. 

“Mmmm,” you say against Anselm’s mouth. “Mmmmm”

“Yes?” Anselm says, his lips chasing yours as you lean away.

“We have to sign the license,” you manage to say.

He looks at your lips and smiles softly. “Keeping me in line already.”

Anselm’s father shakes your hand afterward, holding onto it, his grip harder than an old man should be able to accomplish.

You smile politely and as you take your hand away, you realize he’s left something in your palm. A small, gold ring with delicate stones and engravings all the way around.

“Is this the ring I give Anselm?” You say, looking it over. “It’s beautiful.”

“The ring is yours,” Anselm says. “Whichever finger it fits on will suffice.”

He wraps his arm around your shoulders warmly.

“Congratulations.” He kisses your cheek.

“And to you,” you say with a smile. “But shouldn’t you be the one to put it on me?”

Anselm looks confused. “The ring has nothing to do with the marriage. I wasn’t being hyperbolic earlier. When you bested my father, you became head of our family.”

You take a breath and start to speak, but find that no words come out. You close your mouth again.

“I’m content to be the head of this family,” Anselm gestures to the house and Godrick. “But The Family. Well, that’s your barrel of fish now, Birdie. Unless you like that I should shoot my father. Not like twice in one day would be a record for him.”

“Four,” his father says quietly.

Anselm smiles, leans in to kiss you softly. “Your reluctance does you great credit. And as your primary adviser, I advise you first, to put on the ring.”

You slip it on and off a few fingers, finding that it fits on the middle finger of your right hand snugly.

“So, what does the head of the Vogelweide family do?” You ask.

Anselm huffs out a breath, thinking. “Mostly just sit around being enormously wealthy. But you were going to do that anyway, being married to me. And you don’t want to shoot anyone, so that perk is of no use to you.”

He leans down to confer with his father. They hem and haw in German for quite some time. You wander over to the window where you usually read, examining the ring in the moonlight and only catching a word or two of what they’re saying.

“Do you like the zoo?” Anselm asks you.

You shrug. “I guess.”

He shakes his head, speaks more with his father.

“Any particular love for Australia?” He asks you.

“Never been,” you say.

Anselm stands up again and walks over to you. “This is unusual. Someone in charge of our family who has no plans for taking over a country or manipulating the stock market or building an armageddon bunker in Antarctica. That last one was my intended project,” he says to you.

“Oh,” you say, “Anselm, you really should be in charge. You’d be way better at it and you’ve been practicing your whole life.”

He shakes his head, not a trace of anything but happiness on his face. “I’ve built what I have all by myself, which means a great deal to me. And I have you, the only thing that matters. And if I really needed anything, well, I’m sure the head of our family could be persuaded with certain,” he leans in to brush his lips against your ear, “very large enticements.”

You turn your head to kiss his lips lightly. “I heard she’s a pretty hard sell. You’d really have to put in the effort.”

He kisses you softly on the lips, hands settling around your waist. “I’d like to prove my fealty right away. I would never dare cross you. I’ve seen what you can do when armed.”

You almost laugh. It shouldn’t be funny, but a lot of things aren’t how you thought they’d be. They were better.

“I’m ruling this whole family with a velvet touch. And you, especially.”

Anselm smiles, the corner of his beard lifting. “You know, when we first met, you told me you didn’t know a thing about crime. And here you are, the queen of it.”

You blink at him. “Holy shit. I am.” Your eyes narrow at him. “I always knew you were up to no good, Anselm.”

He kisses you on the cheek. “I’ve never pretended otherwise. The only good in my life is you.”

“And I shot your father through his wooden leg in a power-hungry coup.”

Anselm smiles. “So all is right in our world, then.”

“I guess it is.” You kiss him, then run a hand over the front of his curly hair. “How about you take me upstairs and give me a wedding night?”

He takes a short breath, eyes sparkling with anticipation. “As head of our family, I believe it is you who will be taking me.”

You look around his office. “Why don’t we clear out the visitors and you can bend over the desk for me.” You smile. “I happen to know there’s a very satisfying antique dildo in the top drawer. And if you’re good… maybe there’s a snack for you afterward.”

His eyebrows raise, a smile on his face like the devil himself. “A cookie?”

-------

[alwaysmicado]

in control

3.9k | 18+ MDNI | Nathan Bateman x f!reader

Warnings: pwp, fingering, choking, unprotected p in v, rough sex, degradation, spitting, dacryphilia, breeding kink Summary: Nathan degrades you for being his desperate little toy A/N: This is straight up filth. Seriously. I’m so thirsty for this man it’s not even funny anymore. Stay hydrated y’all and enjoy my depravity! -> masterlist

“See, baby? You don’t like it when I treat you so nicely,” he murmurs, his smug tone and intense gaze sending a shiver down your spine.

- - -

The sun hangs low on the horizon, casting long shadows across the expansive deck. The rhythmic thud of bandaged knuckles striking a bag punctuates the quiet air. Nathan, shirtless and drenched in sweat, throws precise punches, his movements a display of calculated power. As you approach, he doesn’t pause, acknowledging your presence only with a brief glance.

“Enjoying the view?” he scoffs breathlessly without looking your way.

“Just needed some fresh air,” you lie as your eyes wander from his shaved head to his glistening shoulders, following the path of his back muscles all the way down to the thin fabric of his gym shorts stretching over his shapely ass.

You involuntarily cross your legs, your fingers fiddling with the hem of your dress. 

Nathan smirks, his dark eyes meeting yours for a fleeting moment before returning to the relentless assault on the punching bag. He sees right through you. He knows why you’re here. 

“Desperate for some attention, are we?” he taunts you, practically smelling the raw need you exude. “Thought you were throwing a hissy fit ‘cause of Kyoko?”

He’s such an asshole. 

Storming off into the night after finding him balls deep inside his android yesterday was not your proudest moment, sure. But fucking her on your desk after ignoring you all day was just unnecessarily cruel.

“It’s not a big deal,” was his annoyed answer when you attempted to confront him a few hours later.

Confronting a man incapable of admitting any wrongdoing proved to be futile, though, as usual. Half a bottle of vodka deep and barely able to keep his eyes open, he was in no mood for company, let alone to entertain your jealousy. 

“Quit your whining and get the fuck outta here if you’re so over me,” he slurred before drifting off to sleep on the couch. You would get out, you really would. If only your craving for Nathan wasn’t an irresistible force that defies reason and prevails over all rationale.

“Fuck you, Nathan,” you spit, the missing bite in your words betraying you. 

His chuckles ripple through the air as he brings the punching bag to a stop.  

“Can’t do that anymore if you keep acting like a jealous brat, baby,” he says, shaking his head while unwrapping his knuckles, his glistening chest heaving with each controlled breath.

“I’m not–” 

“You’re not what, hm?”

Lifting his eyebrows in mock intrigue, Nathan lets the bandages fall to the floor as he closes the distance between you two, his gaze fixed on yours like a tiger stalking its prey — penetrating your soul with an unwavering intensity.

His lips curl into a small, satisfied smile when he notices how dilated your pupils are and how your breathing has quickened. You’re convinced he can hear the pounding of your heart in your chest and feel your panties get wetter with every step he takes towards you. 

Your breath catches in your throat as he cages you in by placing his hands next to your head, pressing your body against the cold glass panel with his. The heat radiating off his naked skin envelops you, his scent a heady combination of musk and sweat that lingers in the air. It’s a raw and masculine aroma, intensified by the heat of the moment, causing you to bite your lip in anticipation.

Nathan’s eyes bore into yours as he gently guides your hand to his cheek, the rough texture of his beard a familiar sensation against your palm. He searches your pleading eyes for a moment longer, the tension of unspoken truths palpable in the air as his fingers trace the soft contours of your thigh. Heat spreads under your skin as he gives the plush meat of your ass a rough squeeze, pulling apart your cheeks, before the tension snaps and his lips crash onto yours in a bruising kiss.

His lips, forceful and insistent, meet yours with an unrestrained urgency that borders on primal. You moan into his mouth as he grabs your ass harder, lifting your leg up to rub his hardening erection against your throbbing clit. You roll your hips in sync with his thrusts, pulling him closer by the back of his neck, your tongue swirling around his with an aggressive fervor that only Nathan brings out of you. His breathless groans spur you on, your fingernails digging into his back so hard you’re leaving marks.

You need him closer, harder — you need to feel him, need him to be yours. 

When you slide your hand between your bodies to rub his cock over the fabric of his pants, impatient for him to fuck you senseless, he immediately grabs both of your wrists, pinning them next to your head against the glass.

“What happened to ‘I don’t wanna do this anymore, Nathan’?” he mockingly throws your own words back at you while sloppily kissing and biting at the delicate skin of your neck, leaving dark bruises behind. You can’t hold back the moans that escape your lips, the alternation between his soft and violent touch sending shockwaves of pleasure through your whole body that pool in your core. Your nails dig into your own palms as the pain of Nathan’s canine teeth breaking your skin is almost too much to bear.

“Ow, fuck!” is the only thing you can get out, too caught up in the overload of sensations assaulting your body to process Nathan’s words.

“You know why it pisses me off when you say shit like that?” He releases your wrists and loses no time waiting for your answer, pressing his lips against yours again, nipping and biting as he pulls aside your panties and pushes three fingers inside your wet heat in one swift motion, the slightly painful intrusion knocking the breath out of your lungs. 

“Because it’s a lie, baby,” Nathan growls as he expertly moves his fingers inside you, fast and rough, the obscene squelching sounds coming from your wet pussy emphasizing his point. “What we do, what we have is exactly what you want.”

“It’s no–,” you start before Nathan’s right hand wraps around your neck within a split second, knocking your head against the glass behind you and squeezing hard enough for you to become light-headed. His hard cock presses against your hip as he ups the pace of his fingers inside you, the heel of his palm putting delicious pressure on your clit. You’re this close to coming already, but you know that Nathan would never let you get off this easily. 

“That’s right, baby,” he purrs with a tilt of his head, pulling away from you just enough to look into your glazed over eyes. “It’s so much nicer when you don’t have to use that dumb little brain of yours, hm?”

You furrow your brow and let out a strangled groan as Nathan brings you closer to your peak with every curl and pump of his fingers. You thrust your hips to meet his movements shamelessly, your carnal need for release more important than your dignity.    

“Goddamn,” he chuckles into your cheek, his hot breath ghosting the shell of your ear. “I can never get the androids to grip me this hard.”

You immediately try to shove him away from you, but it’s useless, he’s too strong for you. He rolls his eyes at your pathetic attempt at defiance, pulls his fingers out of you, grabs your ass with both hands and lifts you up so you can wrap your legs around his waist. He holds you close, petting the back of your head in a deceptively soothing manner.

“If you insist on being a bitch, you can get yourself off on the dinner table again,” he coos into your ear, his cock twitching at the memory of you rubbing yourself on the hard edge for half an hour, whining and shaking, as your juices dripped down onto the floor. Of course he had you lick it all up while jerking off in front of you, adding more fluids for you to clean up with your tongue. 

He did invite you to sleep in his bed with him for the first time that night, so there’s that.

“That what you want, hm?”   

“No, I–I’m sorry,” you whimper into the crook of his neck, feeling tears well up in your eyes. 

Nathan sighs deeply, like he isn’t turned on beyond belief by your whimpering, moves you away from the glass and carries you inside, heading for his bedroom. 

“Aren’t you tired of trying to be in control, baby?” he asks as he fumbles with the key card in his pocket before opening the first door with it. “Of course you are,” he goes on as he carries you down the hallway, the soft thumping sound of his naked feet on the floor echoing in the empty space. “All those big thoughts can’t fit in that little brain of yours. You’re just not made for it.” 

He presses the keycard to the sensor of his bedroom door and steps inside after it opens with a quiet whoosh. “But it’s okay,” he murmurs into your cheek as he lays you down on his bed, “now I’m here to take them all away.”

Nathan chuckles when you avert your gaze from your reflection staring back at you, finding it amusing how embarrassed you get sometimes. It’s genuinely intriguing to him how you can act so innocently when you both know what kind of fucked up shit gets you off.

“Take your clothes off and spread your legs,” he orders without looking at you, turning his back to you as he takes off his own pants, spits in his hand and starts stroking his length. You do as he says, your eyes locked on his fat cock in the mirror, your sopping wet panties clinging uncomfortably to the contours of your puffy folds before you finally pull them down your legs. 

“Such a greedy little thing, aren’t you,” Nathan scoffs as his eyes roam your naked body, imagining how good your warm cunt is gonna feel around his aching cock. He kneels between your spread legs and traces your inner thighs with his warm palm slowly while grabbing one of your breasts with the other. You moan at the feeling of his firm touch and tilt your pelvis to thrust against nothing, the muscles in your thighs and lower belly tensing.

“Stay still,” he grumbles, leaning in to suck your soft flesh into his mouth, pumping his length as he flicks your nipple with his tongue. You put your hands on the back of his head to pull him closer, the feeling of his teeth slightly grazing your nipple eliciting a breathy moan from you. He releases your wet tit with a loud plop, sits back on his heels between your spread legs and jerks off for a bit, a smug smirk playing on his lips as he watches your lip quiver in frustration. 

“Always so dramatic,” he sighs with a roll of his eyes before spitting on your pussy and watching closely how his saliva runs down your wet folds, spreading it around with his fingers. Your eyes widen and your grip on the sheets intensifies in anticipation as Nathan leans over you and guides the tip of his cock to your entrance, swiping it through your combined wetness before pushing into you in one quick thrust. 

“F-Fuuuck,” you moan, arching your back and furrowing your brow as the delicious stretch of his cock takes you by surprise. 

He buries himself deep inside of you with a low groan, his forehead pressed against yours, his forearms planted on the bed next to you while his hands cradle the crown of your head. 

You expect him to hold you down and immediately start rutting into you like he usually does, but instead, Nathan holds you gently, pressing soft kisses on your lips and the bruised skin of your neck while thrusting into you slowly. 

You fucking hate how gentle he is with you, how he enjoys feeling you squirm under him, how he pins your hands next to your head when you try to make him move faster. He delights in the pathetic whines falling from your pretty plush lips, revels in every desperate thrust of your hips and every strained clenching of your walls.

“What’s the matter, hm?” Nathan whispers into your neck, trailing the soft skin with his lips. “Is this not enough for a dirty little slut like you? Look at me.”

You meet his gaze with watery eyes as he continues to fuck you at a pace that is just enough to keep you on the precipice of orgasm, but is not enough to push you over the edge. Every soft kiss he presses on your face and neck burns your skin, his unusually tender touch driving you crazy. But no matter how much you wriggle and writhe, no matter how many desperate pleas fall from your lips, and no matter how much you move your hips, he won’t up his pace or manhandle you in the slightest.

It’s torture. 

“See, baby? You don’t like it when I treat you so nicely,” he murmurs, his smug tone and intense gaze sending a shiver down your spine. 

“You like it when I tie you to the bed and fuck your holes until you’re a drooling, sobbing mess,” he says softly without breaking eye contact, the way your pussy is squeezing his cock in reponse telling him all he needs to know.

He grins and keeps rolling his hips at a slow pace as he goes on, “You like it when I shove my fist up your cunt and fuck you until you piss yourself. You like it when I make you drink my cum out of Kyoko’s pussy and keep your head in place until you’ve licked her clean. You like it when I–fuck–when I tie your hands to a tree and tell you to get yourself off on the rough bark until your pussy’s bleeding.” 

“Please, Nathan, I–”

“You–you like it when I drug your drink and fuck your unconscious body, the cameras filming every sick thing I do to you, making sure I can watch–fuck, your pussy’s gripping me so hard–making sure I can watch it over and over again.” 

He grabs your chin to force you to look at him when you dare to move your head away, hooking his thumb in the corner of your mouth and pulling it down so he can spit right onto the back of your tongue. When he’s sure you’ve swallowed it, he taps your cheek approvingly before cradling the crown of your head with his warm palms, making sure to not change the pace of his hips thrusting in and out of you.

“You like how I keep going when you cry and thrash about, begging me to stop. You like how I make you deepthroat a fat dildo on the wall while I’m fucking your ass, making you struggle to take both. You–oh shit–you like it when I use you like the desperate little toy you are.”

“Goddamnit, Nathan, just–”

He immediately pulls out of you and sits back on his heels, watching in awe how the mix of his precum, spit and your juices pools on his sheets, forming a big wet spot between your thighs. You throw your head back and grip your arms in frustration, pressing your legs together to alleviate some of the unbearable ache that’s causing tears to well up in your eyes. Your clit pulsates painfully and your walls clench around nothing as Nathan smirks and lines his cock up with your hole again. 

“Only a desperate little whore like you would get off to someone doing such awful things to her,” he purrs, nudging your entrance with his fat tip as you lie there, limp yet tense, completely at his mercy. “And now you can’t even get close when I treat you so gently, can you?”

“Nathan,” you whimper, tears now spilling from your eyes, your whole body shaking from straining so hard. “Please.”

“Fuck, I love it when you cry,” he groans, his pupils blown. “Makes my dick so fucking hard.”

He pushes both your legs up and leans over you again, so your calves rest on his shoulders while your thighs are tightly pressed against your torso. You scratch his arms as hard as you can when he sinks his cock back inside your swollen cunt in one smooth thrust, giving you no time to adjust to the new angle as he sets a brutal pace, your pained sobs mixed with moans of pleasure spurring him on. 

“Tell me you need me to fuck you like the whore you are,” Nathan pants breathlessly, his balls slapping against your ass with every harsh snap of his hips, the sounds of smacking flesh and your combined moans echoing in the room. “It’s okay, baby,” he breathes, his brow furrowed, “it’s just how nature programmed you.” 

The dark glint in his eyes returns when you don’t answer and turn your head away from him instead, concentrating every fiber of your being on your imminent orgasm. You’re so close you can taste it.

Nathan doesn’t like that one bit. 

He pulls out of you again, but doesn’t leave you enough time to protest as he’s already maneuvered you onto your hands and knees, fucking you hard from behind, before you even realize what’s happening. 

“Go on, then,” he growls through clenched teeth, his hips slamming against your ass with each powerful thrust. “Pretend you don’t want it.” He grabs your neck and shoves your head down into the mattress, forcing you to face your reflection in the mirror as he pounds into you relentlessly. “Scream for me while I fuck you. Beg me to stop.”

“Nathan, please, I can’t–,” you croak out, but your brain completely shuts off when he deliberately starts hitting your G-spot over and over again.

“What was that, baby?” he pants, letting go of your neck to spank your ass hard, the searing pain causing your walls to involuntarily flutter around his cock. 

“Goddamn, you’re a depraved whore,” he groans before sending another blow to your sensitive, red cheek. Your pained sobs make his cock throb inside you, impatient to finally paint your walls with his cum. 

“Admit what you are and I’ll give you what you want,” he reaches around your front to rub your clit roughly, immediately feeling your muscles tense and your walls constrict around him so tightly he can barely move. Your loud, uninhibited moans are music to his ears.

Nathan knows he’s the only man alive that could ever make you sound like this, and he fucking loves it — loves that he’s ruined you for anyone else. 

“Say it.” 

“I’m your filthy little whore,” you whine, your voice hoarse from all the crying and moaning you’ve done today. “Please let me come on your cock, Nathan, please. I can’t take it anymore.” 

“Wasn’t so hard now, was it,” he rasps, abandoning your clit to grab your neck again, putting his weight on you as he picks up the pace and thrusts into you ruthlessly. “Come on my fucking cock.”

It only takes a few more of his calculated hits to your pleasure spot before you finally tip over the edge and come with a strangled moan, your walls spasming and contracting around his cock uncontrollably. Shockwaves of pleasure grip your body, as your orgasm hits you harder than ever before. Nathan fucks you through it, holding onto your waist with a bruising grip, not letting up until he comes himself, grunting and moaning for you to “take it, take all of it,” as he empties himself deep inside you. His hips jerk a few more times and his moans come out as ragged breaths while his cock pulses inside you, your wet heat eagerly swallowing every last drop.  

“Fucking hell,” he pants breathlessly when he’s getting enough blood to his brain again, planting his hands on the bed behind him and leaning back as he slowly pulls out of you, watching your swollen cunt contract around nothing. 

You collapse on the bed and let your body fall on your back, pulling up one knee and putting your arm over your eyes to have a moment to come down and gather yourself. 

Nathan’s cum burns as it starts leaking out of your sore pussy and onto the mattress, your heart is pounding and your whole body is covered in sweat and bruises. You’re so out of it that you don’t even flinch when Nathan lies down between your legs and starts pushing as much cum as he can back inside you with his fingers.

“Don’t wanna waste that,” he murmurs more to himself than you, mesmerized by the way your puffy, wet pussy swallows the liquid gold that is his cum. 

You’re exhausted. Satisfied, but exhausted — mentally and physically. So you let him be.

“Don’t move,” you hear his calm voice before you feel him get off the bed and hear water running in the bathroom. You wince when the warm washcloth makes contact with your sticky folds and thighs, but Nathan is gentle in his ministrations, making sure to clean you up thoroughly without applying too much pressure.

“Sorry about that,” he mumbles into his beard as he concentrates on your neck next, carefully wiping away the minimal traces of dried blood, inspecting your skin closely to make sure he didn’t bite you too hard. 

You observe him in silent curiosity, as aftercare is usually not something that Nathan is willing to give you. He would sometimes let you sleep in his bed after blowing his load, but that’s about all of the affection he’d grant you.

He sets aside the washcloth and dims the lights with a snap of his fingers before leaning against the headboard of his bed, propped up by a big pillow. “C’mere and drink this,” he says, draping his arm around your shoulder when you sit down next to him, handing you a cold glass of water. 

You eye it suspiciously as the color is a faint pink and you can never know with Nathan. Sensing your thoughts, he shakes his head and lets you know that it’s a special vitamin drink he regularly uses after his workouts. “Good for muscle recovery and, uh, hematomas,” he murmurs, drawing circles on your arm with his fingertips and watching your reflection in the mirror.

You drink the whole glass in one go, only now realizing how dehydrated you are. A small, self-satisfied smile tugs at Nathan’s lips as he sees the bruises on your neck move with each gulp.

Right when you lean over to set the empty glass down on the nightstand, the automatic door to Nathan’s bedroom opens with a soft whoosh. The clicking sound of Kyoko’s high heels follows, sending a chill down your spine. The android places a neatly folded pile of towels on the chair next to the bed, keeping her head low, her movements measured and precise as always.

She’s gone again before you can even think to cover yourself up.

“No need to be jealous, baby,” Nathan murmurs, pulling your frozen body close and pressing a gentle kiss to your wet cheek.

“You’re my favorite toy.”

- - -

[darlingshane]

Salt of the Earth ~ Part 1

Paring: Michael Berzzato x OFC

Summary: She was Carmy's best friend growing up, and Michael never looked at her as anything other than that until years later when she comes back to Chicago to start over. In the process, she turns his sorry excuse of a life upside down.

Content/Warnings: Friends to lovers, Fluff, Angst, Family Drama, Dysfunctional relationships, Implied/referenced drug addiction, Alcohol mention, Divorce, Pets, Pet names, Dialogue heavy. Undisclosed age gap (in my mind Michael is late 30s and OC is late 20s, but it's really up to your interpretation).

Word Count: 6.8k // 4 chapters // AO3 link.

A/N: This is set in the year of the Fishes episode on season 2. It starts in summer and slowly builds up to that Christmas.

— This was an anon request that I got a few months ago, I hope you're still around. I tried to fit all the ideas you sent as best I could. There's a bit of info dump on the first chapter, but I hope it isn't too off-putting.

Chapter 1: Best thing since sliced bread

Seconds stretch into minutes, minutes elongate into long hours on slow days like this at The Beef. Especially in summer when the air conditioner stops working for the second time in the middle of August. Any living soul that crosses that door must have a dying wish or be the devil themselves to adventure themselves to what has become Michael's personal hell.

It's been a testing year, and there's so much he can do to fix this place right now. While he waits for Fak to come check the damn AC unit, Michael tends the front while Ebra takes his lunch break.

Turning the paper's pages on the counter, he comes across an article about the extensive fires eating different parts of the country. A wretched thought crosses his mind as he reads – maybe it'd be better to burn this place to the ground and start over. He entertains the idea for a second until the door swings open, inviting more heat into the boiling pot.

He lifts his eyes from the words to find a familiar face approaching the counter. It's not Fak, but a much better vision of someone he used to know.

“Mayhem Maya.”

“Magic Mikey.”

That former thought of burning down this place disappears somewhere in the midst of that beautiful aura that saunters with her big brown eyes, long raven hair, nervous smile, and firm steps.

“It's been a while, Maybird.” Almost ten years since she set foot in this establishment. “What brings you to this hole in the wall?”

“Came to collect that meatball sub you promised at uncle Teddy's funeral, remember?”

“Oh, right.”

Ever since she moved to a different state, he only had seen her a handful of times when she came back for the holidays. Last time he saw her was at the beginning of spring, when her uncle, Ted Silva, passed away.

“I also had an interview at the new vet clinic on the next block.” She places her cross-body bag on an empty stool while she perches her ass on the one next to it.

“How's that going? Did you get tired of California already?”

“No, I love California. But I needed a change of scenery. It's been rough after… you know…” the divorce. She wasn't married for long, but she still can't bring herself to say the word.

“I’ve heard some of it.” He’s pretty much aware of how everything went down. Well, he’s got grapevine’s juicy version of the story, but he never heard her side directly.

Though Michael and Maya know each other as if they were related, they were never close confidants. She always thought he was the coolest guy in Chicago. And he always thought fondly of her, given their families association, and Maya’s close friendship with his brother.

Michael places an order for her sandwich and grabs a soda for her, while she explains she has two more job interviews later.

“Does your mother know you're back?” He folds the paper and props his elbows on the counter.

“She probably does.”

“Still not talking, huh?”

“It's not my fault she made me the black sheep of the family. She’s like vitriol on steroids.”

“Yeah? What happened at the wake? You left before I could say goodbye.”

Michael recalls the tension at the funeral, particularly at the wake when Angela Silva grabbed Maya by the elbow and took her youngest daughter outside the house as if she was still a child that needed to be scolded.

“Nothing. I barely said a word that day. Guess everything I do feels like a personal attack to her. I can admit that I'm not perfect, and that sometimes I've acted up just to get a reaction out of her, but that day she just went off again…” She pauses without finishing that thought to take a refreshing sip of her coke. “And that wasn't nearly as bad as the day I told her I was getting…”

“Divorced? Why can't you say the word? It's not Voldemort.”

“What the hell do you know about Voldemort?”

“How do I… Who took you and Carmy to buy those damn books? Have you forgotten?” Maya shakes her head. “You even tried many times invoking his name, so I was haunted by eaters or something like that. You two were real potterheads.”

“And you were just a pothead,” she laughs, stirring the ice cubes in her drink with a straw. “I totally blocked that out. We were just a couple of nerds.”

“I’d say!”

“Meatball sub!” Richie calls from the pass-through window and takes a second look when catching Maya in the joint. “Maya Papaya?!”

“Please, don’t call me that.” She scoffs while Richie promptly abandons the kitchen and goes around the counter to give her a welcoming hug.

“Did you know she was coming?” He asks Michael, as he props his ass on the bar.

“Had no idea. She just showed up.”

“Did you tell her about Carmy?”

“What about him?”

“He’s in Copenhagen.”

“Oh, I knew about that.”

“You two talk often?”

“Sometimes, I guess.” Barely more likely. They don't even text anymore. She's tried but there's been nothing but crickets at his end for months.

While Richie grills her about Carmy and what she’s been up to, Michael can’t help but look around the shop to notice, from every corner and wall, memories bouncing all at once in his direction. It takes him back in time to those days when she and Carmy were as thick as thieves.

Their shared history goes back to that same street their families have lived on for over thirty years… It’s still clear in his mind, like it was yesterday, when he was forced to babysit them when they wanted to go to the movies or trick-or-treating or the bookstore. That was a little annoying back then, now he fondly remembers all those times in summer, when they’d go to the convenience store to get ice pops on their bikes. Then they’d ride back and sit in the middle of the swanky rug in their living room and watch TV for hours. More than once they were yelled at by Mama Berzatto when she would come home to find melted colorful stains in the fabric. She would lose her shit. Carmy was used to it. Maya wasn’t, but the girl never flinched once cause Donna and her own mother were cut from the same unstable piece of cloth.

Maya and Carmy were really close up until they went separate ways for college. Their bond was something to admire. They had something so special that inevitably, Carmy fell in love with her. She was his best friend and confident. They kept each other's secrets, and Carmy thought she'd feel the same in return. It wasn't a crazy notion. They spent so much time together, everyone thought it'd lead to something more, but that never happened.

Mikey and Richie used to tease the youngest cub relentlessly. They tried multiple times to encourage him to ask her out, but he never found the guts to do it. Especially if it could potentially end their friendship. Carmy didn't want to lose that. Though he never confessed his feelings, Maya always knew. Even in her teens, call it a woman’s intuition, part of her already knew. Maya wished she'd felt the same toward him, but the heart wants what it wants, and she couldn't change that.

What was really fucked up was that she had the most ridiculous crush on the older Berzatto when she was a teen. While she knew he'd never look at her as anything other than Carmy's annoying little friend, that didn't stop her from daydreaming about it for years. It was a secret that no one ever knew and that was placed in a drawer at the back of her mind after she left Chicago.

After graduating, Maya and Carmy stayed in touch for a long time, until their calls and texts became less frequent. They followed different dreams that required a lot of attention and sadly their friendship got hurt in the process.

While she attended Vet School on the west coast, he became a chef on the east.

Maya thrived at school and work. She really went out on her own, and became the woman she always wanted to be. Unsheltered, confident, outspoken. She outgrew her shell and opened herself to new experiences and people. She loved it all. It wasn’t smooth sailing, but for the most part she was pretty happy with her choices.

And now she's back in Chicago, set on a new path and awaiting to see where it takes her.

She’s living in a house in Oak Park with her dog, Coco; Richie fishes out of her. Apparently, she got some money from uncle Teddy, and she’s invested it in a home for her and her beloved staffy.

“Does Carmy know you’re here?” Richie circles back.

“No, I haven't talked to him in months.”

“Why? Did you two have a fall-out or something?”

“There's no why. We're just busy.”

“Mike, help me out here. Weren’t these two fools supposed to get married?”

“Yeah, everyone thought you'd ended up together.”

“Man, I don't know what to tell you, we just didn't,” her head sinks between her shoulders.

“Just get over yourself and hit him up. The kid has been hung up on you since forever. It looks like things didn’t go so well with your marriage and all. You should take that as a sign, you’d never find anyone better than Carmy. The boy could really use some excitement in his life. And so could you.”

“C’mon, leave her alone. Go back to work, Cousin.”

Michael throws her a lifeline, noticing how miserable she looks every time Richie opens his unfiltered mouth.

“He’s not wrong, you know? You and Carmy… it looked like you two had something special.” Michael offers once Richie is back in the kitchen.

“It’s called friendship. You should look it up.” She points out.

“I have Richie.”

“Exactly. You have Richie. Why don't you two marry the other and leave me alone? If you think about it, you were as close to Richie as I was with Carmy. Even more. Should everyone assume you are in love with him? Cause that's what you're implying.”

“Touché. I'll drop it.”

“Look, as hard as it is to believe, there was nothing else between us. I was aware he felt something for me, but I didn’t feel the same.”

“You should give him a chance sometime. He might surprise you.”

It’s not the first time these two have been trying to play matchmaker between Maya and Carmy, and it’s bizarre to see they still do at any given opportunity.

“Okay, if I give Carmy a chance, you have to give Richie a chance. Those are the rules, Berzatto.”

“Oh, I've tried. He's not into me,” he remarks, amused, and leans closer to confess something in a lower voice. “Do you wanna know a secret?”

“Uh, sure.”

“He and Tiffany are having a baby. He just told me a few days ago.”

“What? You let him reproduce? I'll pray for Tiff.”

Chapter 2: Cool as a cucumber

Everything falls slowly into place as Maya settles back in Chicago. She secures the job at the clinic near The Beef, which is a huge relief after her rushed decision of moving back to her hometown without securing a job first. It was part of the plan all along to practice what she loves but never thought this would be the year. As much as she loved California, once her divorce was finalized she felt like something was trapping her there. And the money she got from her uncle gave her some leeway to improvise, get away from all that, and start over.

Maya is spending her morning going through the stack of unpacked boxes, finding a good place for everything, making it feel more homey. It's not a big house, but spacious enough for the two of them. The big selling point was the backyard for Coco to zoom around and cool down in her wading pool, which she loves. It didn't take long for the five-year-old pup to get used to her new neighborhood. They've even made a couple of friends at the park nearby.

A moment before the doorbell rings, Coco whines from her spot by the window, where she often sits to watch passers in the street.

“Who is it?” Maya playfully asks her dog as she makes her way to the front door.

Through the peephole, she sees Michael's profile as he inspects the porch.

“Hi,” her eyes widen as she opens the door. “Didn't know you were coming.”

“Yeah, I would've called, but I didn't get your number the other day.” But he got her address from Richie's intense questioning when she visited the shop.

“I knocked on two different houses until I got the right one,” he explains as Coco curiously circles around his feet, sniffing his pants, hitting his crotch with her nose in the process.

“No, Coco. Sit. How many times have we talked about no nut-tapping?” Maya glances at her with amusement as the dog sits on her haunches.

“It’s fine,” he snorts. “All dogs do that.”

“Yeah, tell me about it. But she’s not any other dog. I thought I had taught her better. So what brings you here?”

“This.” He offers the paper bag hanging in his hand. “It's just a little house-warming gift.”

“You didn't have to.” As she takes the bag from his hand she ushers him inside before closing the door.

“It's nothing, really.”

He glances around as Maya takes out the box from the bag.

“Wow, a set of knives? That's not nothing.”

“Everyone needs one good set of knives. But you can exchange them for something else if you want.”

“No. I like these. But I gotta warn you that I'm not much of a cook, and I'll probably use the same one for everything.”

“That's fine I can show you sometime though. Is she friendly? ” He points at the dog that keeps staring at him. “Can I pet her?”

“Yeah, she loves everyone. Go ahead.”

Michael cautiously pets the brown coat of her head as her floppy ears lower at the passing of his hand.

“Never pictured you with a pit bull.”

“Me neither. I always thought I'd be a cat lady. But I met her at this adoption drive when she was one, and she stole my heart.”

“I can see why.” Michael crouches down, and pets Coco with both hands. “She's really sweet.”

He lets her lick his chin a couple of times before standing back on his feet. Then they go on a tour around the house.

“It's still a work in progress. I'm thinking of painting a few walls, but we like it so far.”

“Yeah, it has good bones.”

“So you don't have to work today?” Asks Maya.

“No, we've had some trouble with the gas line, and we've been shut down for a couple of days.”

“That sucks. Now where am I going to get my sandwiches and coffee on my way to work?”

“Heard Starbucks is pretty good.”

“Shut up. Don't even joke about that.” She playfully shoves his shoulder as they go back to the living room.

“Are you doing something later?”

She shakes her head. “Why?”

“I don't know, thought you were having a comeback party or something.”

“I don't really have any friends here. And I don't feel like inviting my family yet. As you can see, I still have a lot to unpack.”

“Physically or mentally speaking?”

“Both,” she scoffs.

“Let's do something then? Just you and me. We could grab some pizza, or go out for a drink for old times’ sake?”

“Old times’ sake?” It's amusing, surprising and confusing his sudden interest in her. Maybe he can see how pathetic she thinks she is, and he's taking pity on her. Although, that was never Michael style.

“Yeah, c'mon, Mayhem. You look like you could use some fun.” He picks up a book that's sitting on top from the box opened by the couch that's titled — Dating Again with Courage and Confidence: The Five-Step Plan to Revitalize Your Love Life after Heartbreak, Breakup, or Divorce. “And maybe a rebound or something. You don't need a fucking help book. You only need me to show where to get the best guys, or girls. Whatever you're into.”

“Give me that. I don't need a rebound, a help book, or you for all matter finding me a date.”

“No? Then why do you have that?”

“My friend Paige thought I should give it a try.”

“Maybe she was onto something there.”

“I'm perfectly fine. Just want to finish organizing everything, focus on work and this handful I have right here.” Her hand gestures at Coco. “What are you so interested in my love life anyway? First you try to play matchmaker with Carmy, and now you want me to do what, exactly? Hook up with the first guy I see?”

“No, I'm just asking you to go out and have some fun. I know Carmy was the only friend you had here. And if I was in your shoes, I'd feel pretty lonely.”

“I'm not lonely, Michael. Do I miss my friends in Sacramento? Sure,” she admits. “But I don't wanna force anything. I'm just taking it slow. When the time comes I'll jump right in but for now, this is all I need. Really. Stop pitying me.”

“I'm not pitying you, sweetheart.”

“No? Then what is it? Where is this coming from?”

“I don't know… I've always thought you were the salt of the earth. And though we never really hung out together, I thought you could use… But I can see now that you're different, and that you know what you need right now, so I'll just shut up and back off. Let you do your thing.”

“Thank you. I do know what I'm doing, by the way. You don't have to worry about me. I'll be fine. But I appreciate you coming here anyway.”

“Yeah, of course. And I can help you unpack if you need.”

“Hm, if you don't have anything better to do, be my guest. We could grab a pizza later, if the offer still stands. Or just order some food.”

“Sure.”

Michael helps Maya unpack all the boxes and put everything in place in half the time it'd have taken her alone. They order some food for lunch and spend half the day talking and laughing until late in the afternoon when they decide to go out for some drinks to keep the good vibes going.

At the end of the night, she offers to drive Michael back to his apartment as a thank you for inviting her.

“Did you have fun?” Michael asks from the passenger seat as she pulls up in front of his building.

“Yeah, I did. I'm glad I changed my mind.”

“Me too. I didn't know you were this fun. You're nothing like I remember.”

“Yeah, I was kind of weird growing up. You guys probably thought there was something wrong with me. ”

“Nah, don't be so hard on yourself. We were all weird in our own way.”

“Uh-uh. No Michael Berzatto. You were the coolest guy back in the day, and you still are.”

“I don’t know about that,” he scoffs. “For the record… I never thought there was anything wrong with you.”

“You were probably the only one… Anyway, thank you for today. I know I said I didn't need this, but I guess I did.”

“You're welcome, Maybird. I'm glad you’re back.”

“Yeah, me too.”

“Thanks for bringing me home,” he softly squeezes her arm before reaching for the handle to open the door.

“No problem.”

“You know you can call me if you ever miss your friends, y’know?” he throws casually.

“I uh…sure. I will.”

“Okay.”

“Okay,” she echoes back as he pulls the handle and the door opens.

“Have a good night, Michael,” she says as he gets one foot on the pavement.

“You, too, sweetheart.”

He closes the door and vaguely waves as she sets the car in motion and watches her drive away.

Chapter 3: Don't cry over spilled milk

In the few weeks he's been spending time with Maya, Michael has found himself enjoying her company more than he'd like to admit. Being with her grounds him. She makes him forget for a little while all that's wrong in his life. She's like a beacon in that immerse darkness that his sorry existence has become. Despite having her own set of problems, he's watched her rise above all that with poise. He wonders what it's her secret to her steadfast determination, even when her own family has disavowed her.

After closing shop, he dives into his stash to tame that brewing headache before driving to Oak Park to pay her a visit. She told him earlier via text that she was at Home Depot buying some paint to update the color of her bedroom and asked him to come over to hang out after work.

For some reason, he couldn't say no. Not even the storm in his head is strong enough to deny her request. He has a pull on him, tugging him hard like a dog tied to a leash in her hand, he can’t help but follow her lead.

When he arrives at her house, she's halfway done. Two of the walls shine bright new in a lavender tone as she starts working on the next one.

After having beer and playing a tug of war game with his new friend, Coco, Michael offers his help to finish painting the walls. He uses a brush to paint the corners, while she gracefully uses a roller like a pro with her denim overalls over a tank top, and her raven hair pulled up in a ponytail sprinkled with lavender paint beads. When she lifts one of her arms, he catches a glimpse of a tattoo on the side of her rib cage, leveled to the roundness of her chest that looks like the outline of a dog paw.

“What are you looking at?” She asks after catching him staring.

“You have paint on your chin.”

“Oh.” She wipes it with the back of her hand, but she just spreads the stain along her jaw. “I made it worse, didn't I?”

“Yeah.”

She shrugs it off and continues with the task ahead until the whole wall is covered.

“Is everything okay, Bear?” Maya puts down the paint roller. “You're quieter than usual.”

“Yeah, everything's alright.” It sounds so honest, he almost believes it. “It's just been a long day.”

“I'm sorry that I put you to work.”

“Don't be. This is relaxing.”

“Yeah?” She takes a step back and surveys how much brighter her bedroom looks already after covering most of the former downcast grey. “Is the color right? Do you think it's too girlish?”

Giving the room a once over he says, “it's a good shade. I dig it. It doesn't matter what I think or if it's too girlish, as long as you like it. Do you like it?”

“Yeah. I do.”

She dips the roller on the tray to cover another section of the wall.

“You never told me what happened at the funeral with your mom,” Michael leans on the stepladder, taking a short break.

“Do you really wanna know?” She glances over her shoulder.

“Yeah. Everyone does. I’ve heard some crazy stories about it. Thought I should get it straight from the source.”

“I never pegged you for a gossip girl.”

“I’m not. I’m just making conversation.”

She mockingly narrows her eyes, drawing a lopsided smirk, “liar.”

“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t wanna. But yeah, can’t help being a little curious about it.”

“I don’t mind telling you, but it won’t be as entertaining as those crazy stories people have made up.”

“I’m not here for entertainment. I just wanna hear your side of the story, Maybird.”

Maya lets out a heavy sigh and while keeping her focus on the wall she shares with him what really happened. She’s right to say that is not the best story she’s ever told, though when it comes to her mother, all her stories tend to have a surreal element even she can’t fathom sometimes.

That day at the funeral, she was taken outside during the wake by Angela Silva to get scolded about her imminent divorce. It wasn’t finalized by then, and her mom invoked one last Hail Mary to convince her to stay with her husband, who was also currently dating someone else. It was a messy situation that Maya couldn't wait to get out of, and the fact that her mother never offered an ounce of support wasn’t surprising, but still devastating. Somehow, Angela found that the reason for her separation from her husband was that Maya didn’t want to have kids, and that really vexed Angela. All she wanted for her three kids was to follow the same traditional path Angela was forced into, no matter how miserable she was. Her two older sisters followed her mother’s narrowed traditional values. But Maya, ever-the-nonconformist, swore she would never follow anyone’s drum beat but her own. Her husband thought she’d change her mind eventually. He was wrong. She knew that wasn’t going to happen anytime soon, which led her here, to this moment.

“Is your mom ever happy?” Michael has always wondered.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen her happy, except when she’s drunk. That’s why she has to make everyone else miserable.”

“Yeah, but she’s always had a fixation on making you miserable.”

“Like I said, every family needs a black sheep, and I’m it.”

“Is that why you became a vet?”

“Yeah, probably.”

“So, it's true, you don’t wanna have kids? I’m not judging. I’m just curious.”

“I honestly don't know. I just knew that when he told me he wanted to have a baby right away, it didn’t feel right. I said that maybe in six or seven years I’d be okay with it. Told him I wanted to travel and just be us for a while, and he said that was too long to wait. I don’t know… he stopped talking to me, and it was clear that he wasn’t changing his mind, and I wasn’t changing my mind, so. At some point I got tired of trying… He got a girlfriend as soon as I filed for divorce and I got a text from Paige the other day that said he got her already pregnant, like… that was never me. I guess it served me right… I married him on a whim, an impulse without really talking about what we wanted…”

“Hey, don’t feel sorry for yourself. You dodged a bullet there.”

“You really think that?.”

“Yeah, I do. You stood up for yourself and knew when to step back when it didn’t feel right. Not everyone has the balls to do that. Think how miserable you’d be by now if you had tried to please him or your mom. You seem happy now. That's what matters.” He means that with all his heart, and wishes he had the same drive to follow those same steps. As much as he loved the restaurant, he chose to run it to please people within his family. And that love turned into a nightmare he couldn't escape.

“You know… I liked you better when you were quiet,” she quips.

Michael huffs a soft laugh, picking up his brush to resume painting.

When the room is finished, she plugs a couple of fans and closes the door to keep Coco away.

Maya washes her hands and face in the bathroom sink. When she comes out, she catches the motion of Michael's arm as he shoves what looks like a pill into his mouth before taking a gulp of water from one of her glasses.

“What was that? Are you okay?”

“Yeah, yeah. It's just a headache,” looking down, he runs a palm over his short growing beard.

“Is it the fumes?”

“No, I had it before coming here.”

“Michael,” she sighs softly at his name. “You should've told me. I wouldn't have let you help if I knew.”

“Would you stop that? I wanted to help.”

“Okay, c'mere. Let's sit down.”

“No, I think I should get going.”

“Nonsense. I'm not going to let you drive until you feel better.”

He yields with a long exhale, and follows Maya into the living room, where her bed is settled askew in the middle of the space.

She takes a seat on the edge of the mattress and waits for him to sit next to her.

“Give me your hand,” she shows her palm up, as his eyes narrow. “C'mon, don't be a baby, give me your hand, Berzatto.”

“When did you become so bossy?” He slowly lifts his hand and as he lays it on top of her palm, his fingers tremble upon contact with her skin. Maya then uses her opposite hand to clip the webbing between his thumb and pointer fingers with her own and begins massaging that spot.

“My friend Sierra is really into acupressure. She says this is a pressure point that helps with headaches.” She explains while slowly increasing the force. “Does it hurt?”

“Not one bit. Is that like acupuncture?” His voice comes as a whisper as he focuses on her diligent fingers.

“Kinda. I think. I’m not really sure.”

“You don't have to fix me, you know?”

“I'm not trying to fix you, Bear. I just wanna make you feel better.”

“Admit it. You just love a good wounded animal.”

She smiles softly, placing his hand down on his knee and picking up the other. “Does it feel any different?”

He’s not really sure, it wasn’t truly a headache that led them to take that pill but the annoying rambling of his thoughts. She shouldn’t have seen that. And he shouldn’t have lied. But having her hands on his like this is straight up lovely. Inside of him, it truly feels like something is broken, wounded, and missing, and this is giving him a sliver of relief as he waits for the pill to kick in. If he was a better man, he’d tell her the truth. But he’s too far gone for saving. All he can do is keep that facade up.

“Does it?” She insists after not getting an answer.

“A little.”

“Do you wanna lay down?”

Swallowing, he responds with a nod, and they both lean back on the mattress at the same time. Looking at the ceiling, she keeps kneading that pressure point, unsure if she’s even doing it right.

They stay in comfortable silence for a good five minutes and when she finally places his hand down, Maya glances to the side and sees that his eyes have closed, and his chest gently rising and falling. She calls his name softly, but she can see that behind the sharp edges of his face and the ever-growing shade of his beard, he’s truly exhausted, so she doesn’t insist. She extends her hand to turn off the lamp, and curls on the other side of the bed without disturbing his sleep.

“Good night,” she says softly and closes her eyes.

From a dusty corner of her mind comes crawling that little forgotten part that used to harbor a lot of feelings for Michael. Though a few weeks ago he seemed practically the same Michael she knew, over the past month she’s keenly noticed little changes here and there. His eyes sometimes cast a dark shade tainted in nothing but sadness, it’s barely noticeable for other people. It comes and goes, but it tells her he’s not truly as happy as he pretends to be.

Michael wakes up disoriented at the crack of dawn.

It takes him a few seconds to remember he’s still in Mayas’ bed in the middle of her living room and that the weight that has his arm pinned is her body pressed against his. She’s warmly snuggled on his side, with her arms tucked between his chest and hers, and a peaceful expression on her beautiful face. She’s so awfully close, he can smell the scent of her hair, and feel the heat of her breath every time she exhales.

It's such an odd moment for him to have her that close. He's unsure of whether it would be better to slip out of bed unnoticed before she wakes up, or just stay there and watch her sleep for a bit longer. Either option would make him look like a creep, he thinks. So he opts to gently wake her up. His free hand reaches to his forehead to move a stand of hair away. Her brow scrunches as his light-feather touch grazes her skin. His lips curve up as he traces the shell of her ear to see her stir awake. She blinks slowly a couple of times until her focus shifts onto him.

“Hey, Maybird.”

“Hey.” Her lips move, it's barely audible.

“Sorry, I fell asleep.” His fingers absentmindedly massage her earlobe.

She's so stunned by waking up to that level of intimacy, she simply nods, as her mouth softly draws a smile.

“It's fine. Does your head feel better?”

“Much better. That pressure thing really worked.”

“I'm glad.”

“Listen, I gotta go open. Maybe we could do something later?”

“Okay,” she swallows nervously, hoping that waking up with him like this isn't just a dream. “Can you do me a favor first?”

“Sure.”

“Can you stay five more minutes?”

“I uh… I think I can,” against his better judgment, he decides he can stay for a few minutes more holding her.

The way her lips pull up timidly at the corners, revealing the dimples framing her mouth, completely disarms him. He’s always felt a certain affinity towards her, but being this close to her awakes a longing within that feels dangerous. He can’t bring someone new into his life. Not while everything around him is falling apart. It’s already hard enough having to pretend around other people.

He couldn’t do that to her. He won’t.

Michael will have to fight harder because when her arm tucks around his waist he can’t help but press his lips against her forehead.

Chapter 4: Hard nut to crack

Four months later…

After that initial moment of weakness when he fell asleep on her bed, he fought hard to elude that odd longing that has only grown into a big mass of love toward Maya. To anyone else in the world, a feeling as big as that would be a blessing, especially when it's reciprocated. To Michael, it's a weakness he can't afford right now.

Spending all that time with Maya has been like discovering a whole new planet Michael never thought existed. She's all vast, uncharted territory that fazes him more than it should. Despite his best efforts, he’s fallen into her alluring orbit and can’t find the way out into his own universe.

Far gone is that moody teenager that would mumble a few words here and there. And now there's this tragically stunning woman that looks you directly in the eye, says anything that crosses her mind, and laughs without a care in the world.

Though falling in love with her wouldn’t be completely wrong, it's not quite right either. It fills him with guilt to think about her in that manner. Moreover, it feels like a betrayal to Carmy, who’s far away in a different continent, prospering in his craft.

Michael tries to fool himself into believing that this is just temporary infatuation. He’s even attempted several times to convince her to get in touch with Carmy but hasn’t succeeded. It’d be easier for him if she were to put her focus on someone else instead of him. He has nothing to offer to her and has deemed himself unworthy of her, or anyone for that matter. If she only knew what’s really going on with him, she wouldn’t want Michael nearly as she believes she does.

Layer by layer, she’s tearing all his walls and defenses down. And after all the back and forth, he's absolutely sure she wants more than he can offer her. She’s been giving him the right signals. She doesn't shy away from it. Maya is direct and impulsive, and everything about her is fascinating and intimidating.

It’s time to either cut her loose, or accept that he’s madly in love with her and do something about it.

Amidst coming to terms with a final decision, he's lured into a surprise party she's organized for his birthday.

Michael is left speechless by her determination. And a little annoyed too for reasons he can't explain. To be honest, he’s never been a fan of surprise parties, but the main problem is that this would make things much harder for him to let her down easily. She’s carved herself into his life and the longer he drags this out, the worse this is going to hurt.

He’s aware that it’s selfish and obtuse of him for being that ungrateful that someone who cares that profoundly about him, that they would go all out to prove that. He feels like an asshole, but the train has already left the station.

Using the same tiring self-defense mechanism, he draws his best smile and brings out the Michael everyone seems to love. Not without help. There's always that crutch tucked in his wallet in the form of a pill. Being high numbs him enough to deal with the situation.

The cherry on top comes at the end of the night, when he walks her up to her car and asks if he's had a good time. He lies through his teeth and for the first time, he can tell Maya is not buying it. Perhaps she never did, but he's well-versed on her tells by now, and he can clearly see she's fed up with all the bullshit that comes out of his mouth.

“Look, it's not that I didn't like the party. It's just that I hate surprises, and I was exhausted today. But it was a nice thought, sweetheart. I just… I wasn't in the right mood.” It's seemingly convincing the second time around, but her face shows nothing but regret. “I love the jacket you bought me, though.”

Michael has never been interested in fashion, but he's always loved vintage jackets, and the one she picked it's a perfect addition to his collection. It's a bomber jacket, aviator style, in brown leather with a couple of patches and fur collar.

As they reach Maya's car, they come to a stop. She turns to him, “I know I can be a little too much sometimes. But I promise no more surprises from now on.”

“You and I both know, you won’t be able to keep that promise even if your life depended on it. That's part of what makes you– you, sweetheart. Don’t let my bad mood ruin that.”

“I’ll try.”

After a beat, without hesitation she leans in to leave a goodnight kiss on his bearded cheek and on a whim, she decides to press a second one on his lips.

It takes him completely aback. He wants to dive so badly into her mouth, but he freezes on the spot. And when Maya attempts to deepen the kiss, he finally reacts by placing a placating hand on her shoulder as he pulls his head back.

“I'm… I'm sorry we can't do this, Maya.”

“Wait, I thought… Did I misread something?”

“No, you didn’t misread anything. I just can’t do this.”

“Why?”

“I can't.”

“You can't or don’t want to?”

“Guess I don’t want to.”

“Can you at least tell me why? Did I do something wrong?”

“You did nothing wrong, sweetheart.” He wants to spill out the old – it's not you, it's me – excuse, but he refrains. Every thought and action go against every good instinct he's ever had. He hates himself for making her feel insecure. And yet, he can't backtrack now.

“Stop calling me sweetheart. You see how misleading that is?”

“Sorry. I think I gave you the wrong impression.”

Her eyes narrow, and he can see the gears turning for a long moment before opening her mouth.

“I don't think you gave me the wrong impression, Michael. I think you're too chickenshit to admit that there's something between us and, for whatever reason, you're just taking the coward's way out. You've been weird the whole night, especially with me. I just threw a party just for you, the least you can do is tell me why.”

“I didn't ask you to do that. And I don't owe telling you shit! I was trying to let you go easy, but nothing is ever easy with you. So I'll just say it. This, you and me, is never going to happen.”

It sounds ridiculous as it comes out of his mouth, but he stands firm on that statement as her heart breaks in front of him.

In the end, it'd be better for her, he believes.

[brainrotdotorg]

[brainrotdotorg]

alternate version

[belovedkpop]

Dating Luca (The Bear Headcanon)

Content warnings: kinda smutty 18+ only, explicit language, there's fluff too :)

A/N: Idc how much screen time Luca got, he has a whole personality in my head LMAO 😩 I hope you guys enjoy more Luca content! This is super short, but I had so much fun writing it 😄 My requests are wide open, so let me know what you'd like to see next! <3 If you liked this, please like/reblog! It means a lot! 😘

Summary: A short headcanon of what I imagine it'd be like to date our fav pastry chef 🥰

Let’s start with the fluffffff 😊

I feel like most of the reason we all love Luca (aside from the fact that Will Poulter plays him) is that he’s so gentle (but have you guys heard the term Stern Brunch Daddy?)

Let’s say you’re not very good at baking, doesn’t matter because he’s fully committed to teaching you. He will literally start with something as basic as baking a cookie from scratch and later making more complex desserts. It doesn’t even matter how long it takes because he just enjoys being around you :’)

Speaking of spending time together, Luca’s love language is defffff quality time.

When he spoke about learning from the chef who was much better than him (Carmy??) it made me think about how much he would enjoy just being around the person he loves. Whether you’re baking, watching a movie, or even napping together, the pair of you are like magnets.

He shares his love of food with you every chance he gets (he wants to combine two of his greatest loves 😭)

Going out to dinner with a chef is always a unique experience, but no matter what he’s letting you choose the restaurant (if he has to choose he'll just wind up cooking something for you at home since he can make it better anyways)

Thinking about how he’d definitely bake a birthday cake for you, spending hours on it because it needs to be perfect 😪 (he could bake a cake in his sleep but this isn’t just ANY cake)

He asks you to sample everything whenever he's coming up with a new menu item, he trusts your judgement and knows you'll be honest with him

When he’s working late, he tells you not to wait up for him (much to your displeasure) but every morning, you wake up to a new dessert in the fridge 🥺

He’s been doing it since you moved in together just because he knows it makes you smile (he’ll even leave little notes behind, sometimes silly, sometimes super sappy) you eat it up regardless

Now for the smutty stuff 😈

In the beginning of your relationship, Luca is SUUUPER shy. Like to the point that you have to literally spell it out that you want him to make a move. 

Like Carmy, he doesn’t really have much time for socializing, so he might miss the cues that you throw at him. 

The first time Luca spends the night at your apartment, he’s sure he’s going to pass out on like three different occasions 

1. When you open the door, you’re wearing a satin robe that leaves very little to the imagination (He’s hard before he even sits down)

2. You’re baking together in the kitchen, taking every opportunity to bend over and "grab a mixing bowl", flashing your lacy thong in the process. 

3. When you move into your bedroom because you’re getting “tired”, you ask him to unhook your bra for you, making a show of sliding the robe down your shoulders. And whoops! It just so happens to fall to the floor. 🤗

By that point, you’re done with the subliminals, pushing your ass back, feeling him straining against his jeans. For a moment, he doesn’t know what to do with his hands (it’d be adorable if you weren’t painfully horny rn)

“Luca, you can touch my boobs if you want to, I swear I won’t mind,” you playfully tease him, shifting into a sigh when his hands immediately connect with your sensitive nipples. 

That’s actually how the both of you found out that manhandling is one of the quickest ways to turn you on

Later in your relationship, he makes a show of tapping your ass (when it’s appropriate of course)

He casually shows his strength a lot because he knows it gets you going (thinking of him picking up those packs of flour 😓)

Both of you love the soft moments too. He’s a passionate lover, so slow, gentle sex is always amazing

Back to our regularly scheduled, fluffy programming 😋

Overall, I see Luca as a sweet, loyal boyfriend. The way he spoke about the chef he shadowed (again, do we think it was Carmy??) it seems like he really values the close relationships in his life

Of course, he values his relationship with you the most, always wanting to be the best version of himself for you (and vice versa) 🥰

Taglist (please let me know if you want to be added/removed):

@wakandamama @wakandama2 @blowmymbackout @nolita-fairytale @douceurrrr @mercang @eddiemunsonreader @cryobabyy @superhoeva @kdoxkeic

[greenorangevioletgrass]

give me a minute (2/2) | chef luca

pairing: chef luca x ex-wife!reader word count: 6.6k warnings: established former relationship, discussions of separation and divorce, discussions of moving on, luca and reader has a son, brief mention of blood and minor injury, smut 18+ (fingering, oral (f receiving), unprotected sex, size kink? idk luca's big, dirty talk, creampie) notes: it's finally here! thank you everyone for your patience, i am a slow writer by nature and life gets in the way, but i finally got around to finish it! happy reading, and do comment, reblog, and send me asks to tell me what you think <;3 ✨follow @ficsbygreenorangevioletgrass and turn on the notifications to get alerted for my latest fics ✨

<<< read part 1 here >>>

06.13 PM

Your apartment has never felt so claustrophobic after that little moment you shared with Luca. You try to stay busy in the next hour —tidying up Alfie’s room even after he made it up, checking your email four times, even doing the laundry, for fuck’s sake— as Luca keeps to himself in the kitchen area. Whether Alfie is obliviously enjoying his screen time or purposely ignoring the weird tension between his parents, you’re not entirely sure. Right now, you’re just grateful that he’s not saying anything at the moment.

The boy simply creeps up to the kitchen counter with a shy eagerness about him. “How long ‘til dinner, Dad?”

“3 more minutes, Chef,” Luca answers, focused on the task at hand, so poker-faced that it makes his son giggle.

“I’m not a chef, you’re a chef!”

“Well, where I work, we call everyone in the kitchen ‘chef.’ Out of respect.”

Alfie climbs onto the dining bench in interest, peering up to watch his father set the dish on the plates meticulously. Luca doesn’t miss how the boy deeply inhales the delicious smell in the air.

“Smells yummy.”

“Thank you,” Luca replies, his excitement seems muted although his heart is soaring. He looks up to find Alfie staring at the plate, chin propped up on his little fist. You’ve always said that he looks just like his dad, but in that moment, Luca only sees you. Alfie has the way your mouth tugs ever so slightly into a smile, the way your eyes shine in childlike wonder. In quiet thoughtfulness.

No Michelin star, earned or retained, would ever amount to this.

“Can you go get your mum and tell her dinner’s ready, please?” He softly asks Alfie, as if not wanting to disrupt this peaceful silence. “Thank you, Chef.”

“Yes, chef.” The six-year-old salutes him and pads over to your home office, which doubles as the guest bedroom. The door is open, and he sees you reorganizing the linen closet with your back to him. He hugs you from behind, startling you.

“Oh!” You put your hand on his head, stroking him lightly. “Hey, bub.”

“Daddy told me to come get you and say dinner’s ready.”

“Gotcha. Thank you.” You half-expect him to run off like he usually does, but he lingers, his arms still wrapped around you. “What’s up, bubbie?”

“Nothing.” He buries his face against your side. “Love you, Mommy.”

“I love you too, bubbie.” This makes you smile, pleasantly surprised at this seemingly random admission.

“Love Daddy too, but don’t tell him that,” he whispers as he looks up at you, putting his forefinger in front of his mouth.

“Why not?”

“Sometimes he gets sad when I say that,” he murmurs. “He doesn’t tell me, but I know it.”

Oh. His playful exterior sometimes makes you forget just how emotionally sensitive he is. And it breaks your heart that he can see through the complicated adult emotions with his childlike eyes. 

“Alfie…” you level with him and pull him closer, “Your dad loves you very very much, and I’m sure he’d be happy to hear you say that. He’s just sad because… he’s been away, and he misses you a lot.”

“He should come home, then.”

It’s so simple, the way Alfie puts it. His Dad comes home and reunites with him and you, and his puzzle would piece together perfectly again. And you all live happily ever after. The end.

The truth, of course, is not so simple. But maybe, just for tonight… Maybe you and Luca can sacrifice a few of your own puzzle pieces. For your baby boy.

So you get back on your feet and guide your son out of the room. “Come on, bub. Let’s see what Daddy cooked for us, hm?”

When you and Alfie turn the corner into the kitchen-living area, Luca is wiping the side of the plate neatly. He smiles at you somewhat nervously, like he’s not sure what to do with himself, so you throw him the figurative olive branch.

“Smells amazing,” you compliment him as you and Alfie take your seats. “What are we having, Chef?”

Luca’s eyes light up and your heart stops. You stopped calling him ‘Chef’ long ago, when the moniker became synonymous with workaholism and neglect. But there’s no venom in the way you say it tonight. Call him sentimental, but it reminds him of the early summer days in the tiny apartment you first shared in Chicago.

Of blueberry pies and barely there bumps.

He has to remind himself that this whole ‘happy family’ shtick is just a charade now, it’s all for Alfie, it doesn’t mean anything for the two of us, but he can’t help but miss this.

And little does he know, so do you.

“Well, buckle up, you guys, because we are having…” He carries the plates over and serves it to you and Alfie with a flourish, “Baked sweet potato wedges with Mediterranean dip, and our pièce-de-résistance… Alfie’s Nuggies.”

It looks nothing short of beautiful, with the wedges fanned out like autumn leaves underneath a colorful burst of cherry tomatoes, cucumbers, olives, and feta cheese. The chicken nuggets are rich golden brown against the brilliant white plate. The splatters of sauce (is that Tahini?) is a hint of thoughtful chaos on the dish.

Your six-year-old let out a little noise of awe and amazement next to you, but no sound escapes you—not for the longest time.

“This is…” you look up at Luca as if he would have the word you’re looking for.

But his blue eyes just look a lot like I love you.

“Thank you,” you ultimately say, with absolutely no pretense whatsoever.

And if he does hear an ‘I love you’ hidden somewhere in there… he hopes he’s not imagining things.

*** 

08:37 PM

If you could travel just a few hours back in time and tell yourself that you would spend the whole day stuck at home in a nasty storm with your son and his father that you’re divorcing—and that you’d be okay with it, you would’ve probably scheduled yourself an MRI scan because clearly something is wrong.

But the night is winding down. Luca is tucking Alfie into bed for the first time in months. You are washing dishes in the quiet accompaniment of steady rain and running water, and everything feels just right.

“He’s out like a light,” Luca informs you quietly as he reemerges from Alfie’s bedroom and stops right by the kitchen counter. “Need a hand?”

“Nah, I’m just about done,” you casually wave him off. “You want anything to drink?”

“Uh… what do you got?”

“Scotch, gin…” you pause, not wanting him to get the wrong idea. The sink tap squeaks a little as you shut it off. “...wine.”

His heart skips. Don’t overthink it, he reminds himself. “Red or white?”

“Take your pick,” you shrug nonchalantly. 

Luca reaches up to see the bottles of wine you have in store, and you try not to pay too much attention as his shirt rides up around the waist—or the sleeve, showing off the remnants of Alfie’s crayon work over his inks… you’re just two co-parents hanging out. It’s normal, right?

“What about the Malbec?” he eventually chooses, taking out the bottle.

He’s always loved Malbec—this particular brand of Malbec you brought him when he first invited you for dinner on your third date.

Don’t overthink it, you remind yourself. “Yeah, sure.”

You pick up two wine glasses and set them down on the dining table, shuffling into the corner bench. Luca settles into the other bench, directly against the kitchen counter, pouring the wine onto both glasses.

“How many bedtime stories did Alfie manage to get out of you?” you pipe up, swirling the purplish liquid around.

“Just one…” he sips on his wine thoughtfully. “Although he made me read it three times.”

You smile, bemused. “Which one was it?”

“‘The Bear Who Did.’”

“Ah, yeah. He’s been into that one lately,” you muse. “But… for what it’s worth, I’m glad he asked you to tuck him in tonight.”

The two of you exchange a soft look. A ceasefire. A truce, at least when it comes to your son. Because you really do want Luca to have a good relationship with Alfie.

“Me too.”

“And I’m sorry you had to… make do with spending the day with Alfie here.”

He shakes his head softly. “Nah, don’t be. I had a good time. It’s nice to just hang out… at home.”

At home, the words echo in your head.

With you, they echo in his, loud and unsaid.

“So, uh… how have you been?”

“Ah, you know how it is. Work is kicking my ass—my current client’s only two blocks away, but the house is a total fixer-upper, and Alfie’s… Alfie.” You don’t want to backtalk your own son, although you both know how trying he can be sometimes. “But it’s all good. My mom helps out with Alfie, and Jess insists that I go out and live a little every now and again.”

“And do you? Live a little?”

“I mean, within reason. I can’t go clubbing ‘til 4am anymore. I think I’m getting old…” you stretch your arms, feeling that soreness just from your daily activities.

Luca grins, raising his glass. “I hear you. I don’t even really go out anymore.”

“Seriously?” 

“Mm-hm.”

You make an incredulous face. It would make sense for you not to go out much, with Alfie and everything. But he was alone, abroad… “Why, though?”

He just shrugs lightly. “I’m working. Whenever I’m off, I mostly just… eat or sleep.”

“I somehow find that hard to believe.” You take a dubious sip. You both know how much Luca enjoys grabbing a cheeky pint. He’s British; it’s in his blood, goddammit.

“Oh come on…”

“You don’t even go out drinking or whatever? Meet people?”

His gaze flashes towards you almost playfully. “Do you?”

Your face falls, not expecting to be caught so off-guard with such an innocent question. And upon seeing that, his face falls. Shit. And with that, the air between you shifts so dramatically.

Stupidly, you still try to save the conversation. “Of course my friends and I go out—”

“You know that’s not what I meant.” His voice darkens, his blue eyes piercing through you. 

This conversation is a long time coming. It’s a natural progression of your relationship—or the lack thereof. You separate, you get divorced, and eventually you move on. Two years is a more than acceptable time to start dating again. And still, you phrase out your next words very carefully.

“I’ve been on dates here and there…”

Luca sucks in a slow, calculated breath. “Does Alfie know?”

You shake your head. “It’s nothing serious so far.”

He’s not sure what’s worse, the fact that it’s nothing serious, or that you’re holding out for something serious in the future.

“Look, we both know this is happening sooner or later…”

“I know,” he quickly recovers—or as much as he can recover. He just stares down the stem of his glass.  “It just… It’s a lot to take in, that’s all.”

“I understand.” The wine feels like gravel down your throat, and the words coming out of your mouth feel like throwing up a boulder.

“Because I do miss you.”

Your eyes immediately dart over to his, as if you’re not sure you heard it right. “Luca…”

“I miss you everyday. I miss us. I miss everything we used to have.”

Your heart catches—no, stops altogether at his admission. “Luca, we can’t do this anymo—”

He swallows thickly, his jaw setting as he braces himself. “I’ve been thinking about it everyday—the whole time I’m away, and frankly, I’m kicking myself over not telling you this sooner.”

“That’s probably just the homesickness talking.” You turn away. This can’t be possible. This can’t be happening. What the fuck?! “It got you reminiscing about the good old days. Give it time, you’ll come around.” You try to maintain a neutral, distant, cold approach to this, although the crack in your voice betrays you.

“No. That’s not it.”

“Then what the fuck is it?”

Your words cut through the quiet apartment like a flash bang. Luca stops dead in his tracks in his shock, and honestly, so do you. Awful silence hushes over the room, and both of you are almost too afraid to break it. Neither of you even dare to move.

After what seems like forever, Luca moves first. A tear escapes his eye, and he wipes it away with his knuckle hurriedly. “Noma should’ve been a dream. And it is, in a way. I guess.” He stares blankly ahead, his life in Copenhagen replaying in his head like it’s on fast-forward, and the playback seems to just highlight how lonely he is there. “But that doesn’t change the fact that I’m utterly miserable there. I get up and go to work and I just feel empty. Because what’s the point? You and Alfie are way over here, being a family while I’m… doing what?” He wants to tear his hair out, because this is everything he’s dreamed of, and yet he is living the stuff of nightmares. “It makes no fucking sense.”

It makes even less sense to you. You can’t even begin to process this tangled mess in your head. “Luca… we are almost officially divorced. You’re telling me this now? When everything is—”

“I thought I was doing what was best for you. I thought I should just… let you cut your losses and—”

“The best for me? How the fuck did you think giving up was the best way forward for me?” The thought of it burns your eyes with angry tears. They melt, and you don’t do a thing to stop it from running down your face. “You didn’t think to fight for us while you still could?”

Luca’s heart aches to see that. He is dying to reach out and wipe them away, but he can’t. His voice is quiet and small and almost childlike. “I tried. You were just so… sure about the divorce. You had it all figured out. And I… I thought you had no room for me anymore.”

“I had to keep it together. I had to figure it out—for Alfie’s sake. For mine.” You stare at your little potted sunflower on the windowsill. “I don’t see the point in being vulnerable with you anymore when you’re already set on leaving.”

The words have run out. The whirlwind of emotions has passed. What he feels and what he wants is now very clear.

“I shouldn’t have left.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t have.” You wished he didn’t. Everyday for the last two years. And everyday you set yourself up for disappointment because, the truth of the matter is, he did leave. So you stop wishing. “Because I don’t know how to come back from this. I really don’t.”

Nothing that comes out of your mouth is unexpected. But it doesn’t hurt any less to hear it from the horse’s mouth. “It’s just… seeing you guys today… We were a family again. And I would do anything for us to be a family again. Please.”

You sigh heavily. “What else is there to do, Luca…?”

“We can, I don’t know, figure something out, go to couples counseling—”

You groan in frustration, Jesus Christ not this again, wanting to tear your hair out when— CRASH! You accidentally knock over your wine glass and it shatters as it hits the floor. “Shit…”

“Mommy?” Alfie calls you from inside his room, sleepy but alert.

The two of you freeze just before you can move out of your seat. Afraid the slightest of noises would rattle your son.

“Yes, bubbie?” you try to sound bright and normal. Maybe if you can convince him that everything’s fine, he won’t come running in panic. 

“What was that?”

“I just knocked over a glass, kiddo, everything’s okay. Go back to sleep.”

You and Luca wait a few seconds with bated breath. One, two, three… ten seconds go by, and there’s no movement in the bedroom.

The coast is clear.

You scramble down to pick up the shards of glass. The spilled wine looks like blood in the dim light of the room. It’s a painful reminder of the broken pieces of your former life, the casualties. He quickly follows suit, as if struggling to put it all back together. The irony is not lost on either of you, you’re sure of that.

“It’s fine, Luca. I got it, I—” a sharp piece of glass accidentally cuts your palm as you pick it up in hurry. “Fuck!”

“You okay?” He takes your hand as quick as lightning, wanting to inspect the wound, but you snatch it away.

“I’m fine.” You get up on your feet, teetering over to the sink, away from the crime scene, careful not to step on any piece of glass.

Yet he still follows you, walking over to where you’re standing now. “Come on. Let me just take a look.” He reaches out to your wrist, running little circles with his thumb to ease your grasp.

“It’s not a big deal…” you let him look anyway, you figure it’s easier to just let him do his thing than to argue your way out of it. 

His calluses are brittle against your palm, but he handles you with the gentlest touch. The wound is not too big or too deep, but the sight of blood marring your palm makes his heart drop. There’s no visible piece stuck to it, that’s a good sign, he thinks. He rips off some paper towel and wets it on the sink, and softly dab at the gash, cleaning the wound and wiping the blood off.

You grit your teeth, not wanting to show any sign of pain although it stings. “It’s just a little cut…” your tone bears less and less conviction, as if you have no energy left to argue with him on such a small matter.

There’s a very particular way his eyebrows arch when he’s deep in thought. The left one always sits slightly higher than the right. Blue eyes fixed on the object of his focus. A minute gesture behind the chaos in his head. “You need a Band-Aid,” he points out. 

“It’s in the—”

Luca is already opening the drawer next to the stove, taking out a packet of a Star Wars-themed Band-Aid. He still remembers where everything is, and you can’t tell whether the ache in your chest is a good or bad thing.

He puts the Band-Aid on your cut, then takes your hand close to kiss it better, like he used to do.

“Um.” You freeze in your tracks, taken aback. And it seems he’s just as equally as taken aback by his own action. He is flushed with embarrassment, and you feel your face growing hot as well.

He’s the first to break the awkward silence, quiet and tentative. “I’ll clean up the mess. You just hang tight.”

It seems so mundane, sweeping broken glass and cleaning the floor. His body registers it as a simple muscle memory—he must’ve cleaned up messes on this very spot a million times. But his heart is heavy with the burden of your history, and all the pain that comes with your separation. He might not be able to put the pieces back together, but maybe he can clean up the mess and make it nice again for you.

And all the while, you’re stuck to the kitchen counter, watching him so effortlessly reacquainted with his former home. It’s as if he never left. For a confusing moment, it feels like home again. How did you manage without this view, this presence for so long?

Luca puts away the debris in the trash, hidden away in another kitchen drawer next to you, and hovers in front of you, as if wanting to reach out and touch you… but too afraid you’ll push him away.

“Does it still hurt?”

You can’t tear your eyes off of his. The little cut on your hand is but a dull ache now, but the insides of your chest feels like it’s been mangled beyond repair. You burst into tears, sobs ripping through the seams.

His arms wrap around you, keeping your tattered pieces together. Your face is buried in his chest, surrounded by soft cotton and earthy perfume, and your first thought is you can’t remember the last time you were in his arms like this. You rake your mind through all the memories, all the times you hugged each other hello and goodbye and all the times in between, and you can’t remember the last time you stopped, why would you stop—

“My love…” Luca’s voice soothes you, so quietly murmured against your forehead with a soft kiss, yet rings so clear in your ears. He cups your face with both hands, wiping the tears away with his thumbs. “It’s okay... I got you.”

The palm of his hand grazes your lips, and you kiss it the way he kisses your Band-Aid earlier. You have no energy left to fight whatever is going on inside you. You don’t understand the nagging urge to be away from him, when being close to him feels this good. You miss his touch and his voice and his face, and you’re so overwhelmed with longing that you close the distance between your lips and his.

Luca gasps when you kiss him—and it feels like the first breath he’s drawn in two years. Your lips are just as he remembers, just as warm and inviting and familiar, and he relishes coming home to them tonight. He didn’t think he would be so lucky ever again, but now you’re here, kissing life back into him again.

Against your better judgment, you stumble into the bedroom, careful to make as little sound as possible as you tread down the hallway. Still tangled in each other. Refusing to let go even for a second. His five o’clock shadow scratches your skin, following the trail of his lips down your neck.

You push him into bed and climb on top of him without a single thought. You need him close, closer than the past two years, closer than now, and your clothes feel like they’re in the way. Of his hands, of his mouth, of his warmth…

You tear your dress off and throw it away, and he stops in his tracks. He has every part of you memorized, every curve and every ridge, every notch of your stretch marks, every inch of your C-section scar from Alfie’s birth… and yet he’s looking at you for the first time all over again.

“Beautiful…” it escapes his mouth just like that, and you kiss him senseless in return. You worry that if you stop, the moment will pass and this whole thing turns out to be just an illusion.

Or worse, a mistake.

You tug his t-shirt over his head, trying not to linger on his broad chest too long. He gets the idea—he is dying to say something, but doesn’t—and just unclasps your bra in response. He keeps his mouth busy by kissing and licking and sucking your newly exposed breasts.

It’s not that you haven’t been touched like this in a while; it’s just that you haven’t been touched by him like this for so long.. “Luca…”

He never thought he’d hear that again. His name in a wanton sigh, uttered by the lost love of his life. He’s not one to waste his chance. “It’s okay. I got you, my love. I got you.”

Because for the first time in a long time, it’s true. He’s got you. He’s got your body underneath him, your nipple in his mouth, your sweet sex in his hand.

God.

You’re so soft, so warm, so wet against his fingers. The little stuttered moan you let out sounds absolutely heavenly. He remembers exactly the last time he was here.

Christmas Eve, two years ago. 

Things had been tense long before that, but Luca was home and able to spend some time with his wife and kid at last. You didn’t seem all that chuffed having him around—whether he was here or not brought out that “neutral look of displeasure” from you these days— but at least you didn’t pull away when he rested his head on your shoulder as the three of you watched Jurassic Park (Alfie’s all-time favorite). Didn’t roll your eyes and turn away when he kissed you and wished you happy Christmas before bed.

And he wanted so desperately for you to openly want him again.

So he tentatively deepened the kiss and reiterated his love for you in every inch of your body that he could get his hands on. Trying to convince you that he was still here. Trying to convince himself that with every orgasm he pried out of you, that you still wanted him there.

But you just… laid there and watched. Hands locked in on the sheets, not even touching him. Motionless as he went through the motions of his thrusts. Numb as he touched and kissed and fucked you the way you used to like. He was fighting a losing battle. He might as well have been making love to a ghost. 

“Luca…” Your breathless voice snaps him out of his own intrusive thoughts, more clear and alive and real than any memory of you posing no desire for him.

“I— yeah, sorry. I just…” he shakes off his own thoughts.

“Hurry up, come on…” you needily thrust yourself into his hand.

“You sure?”

No, and neither does he. But at this point, you’re much too stubborn about your decision in the divorce and much too prideful to admit that you want him back and maybe just a tad too eager to make a mistake with him.

So you nod your head yes, and with a searing kiss, he fingerfucks you the way you needed him to. 

“Oh, God… fuck…” you sigh under the undoing of his fingers. It’s like he never forgot how to work your body. His fingers play a pattern on your clit that makes you sing. And when one slides into you, crooking and curling against your silky heat…

“Luca, I— now.”

He unlatches his mouth from your nipple almost begrudgingly, as if too sweet to part with you. “Not yet, baby. We can’t…”

“What, why?”

“Because…” he nips at the smooth flesh of your chest thoughtfully. How can he explain it to you in a way that makes sense? “I want…” to take as much time with you as possible, he adds another finger inside you deliciously slow. “I need…” to feel you in every way first, he chants in his head as he kisses you through your orgasm.

Your resolve is slipping, but the craving is as ravenous as ever. You try to squirm in protest anyway. “But…”

“Please.” His lips press against your forehead, eyes squeezed shut. “I got you, okay?”

His blue eyes meet yours, as familiar as the sky you’ve walked under your whole life. As sure as day. And before you realize it, you find yourself nodding along.

Watching him slither further down your body. Mouth paving the way between the valleys of your breasts, up the diamond-hard tops of your nipples.

Down your torso.

Between your nether lips.

You don’t remember the last time you did this either. Memories of attempts to rekindle the romance flash before your eyes. The nights that he climbed into bed late at night after work, still smelling like chocolate or mint or whatever ingredient he was working with that day. Waking you up with the parting of your legs and hushed kisses saying, “Missed you so much, baby…”

“Right there. Yes…” you pant as he laps you up where you’re dripping, catching every drop and coaxing more at the same time.

His eyes close, and he swallows back a needy groan. “Come for me, baby.”

The words shoot right into your core, and you’re suddenly overcome with the waves of pleasure running through you, grinding your hips into his mouth shamelessly. Has he always been so greedy in the way he ate you out?

Your head is spinning with need and you hope the broken words you string up are comprehensible enough for him. “Luca, come on, I can’t—”

“No, please—” he seems to understand just fine, but still he shakes his head and buries his face deeper into you.

“Luca…”

“Wait, just let me—”

So insistent. So stubborn. So… needy. You grasp a fistful of hair on the back of his head. Both heaving, you breathe out,

“Please.” 

The word stops him in his tracks. But it’s not so much the word as it is the gravity that comes with it. Whatever the two of you are doing, whatever you’re feeling is beyond words at this point.

It’s just you and him and this need.

And as much as he wants—needs— to satisfy his hunger, there’s just no way of stopping you anymore. Truth be told, he’s not even sure why he’s been stalling you in the first place. Not when you’re so eager to tug his clothes off and touch him absolutely everywhere. To stroke him, and taste him…

“No, baby.” He stops you just before you slither down his body, settling you back on the bed and caging you underneath him.

You throw him a look, indignant. If he’s gonna hold it off some more, you swear to God—

“No, I…” he kisses you hard, hoping you’ll get that he wants you too. More than anything. And that he’ll give you what you want. Hell, he would give you anything if he could come back to this again for the rest of his life. “Just trust me, okay?”

You marvel at the sight before you. So tall and broad and sturdy. With dark blond locks tousled in passion and eyes lidded from lust and longing, and it makes your heart stop because… there it is.

Love.

As much as you shut it out and as much as you avoid it, love is permanently etched to his actions. Tattooed onto the smallest of things. In the way he kisses your temple softly, and the way he caresses your skin as he aligns himself against you, and the way he holds you as he pushes in…

“Luca…” you gasp sharply.

He stops halfway into you, his eyes searching your face with compassion. “You okay?”

You’re aching and craving the stretch of him all at once, but you wouldn’t have it any other way, so you ultimately nod your head. I’m okay. 

And he knows that deep down. He feels the same. Soothed and tormented by your very presence, although he can’t help but ask, “Do you want me to stop?” Please don’t ask me to stop…

You shake your head quickly. Neither of you would ever dream of it. You would take everything—the weight and the sting of it all— and he would leave everything behind just to have this again.

Your hips colliding again in a frenzy of a rhythm you haven’t played in so long—still remembering every beat like it’s your own pulse. Your walls gripping him like you wouldn’t let him go.

He shudders a little. “I’m gonna come if you keep doing that…”

“I don’t care,” you murmur into his neck with a kiss, “Come.”

“What…?” He can’t have heard that right… right?

“I want you to.”

“Jesus…” he breathes out. “I wanna make this last, baby—”

You shake your head again and wrap your legs around him almost demandingly. “I want you to come inside me and fill me the fuck up… want you dripping down my legs… please…”

“Fuck!” The images flash before his eyes faster than he can stop his hands from grabbing you by the hips, slamming himself into you. 

Nor can he stop himself from coming deep inside you.

There’s no way to describe the way he feels at that moment. The way tension peaks and snaps into release. How it brings you into your climax as well. Your lips must be swollen from the assault of your own teeth as you hold back the filthy noises coming out of you. You don’t mind the building ache in your thigh muscles, because as soon as that warmth fills you up, your body is overcome by waves of bliss.

“Fuck…” he flops back onto his side of the bed—the right side—and quickly gathers you in his chest. It’s an effortless little maneuver, making sense at last as you lay half on top of him.

Your hand finds his—more puzzle pieces coming together as he fills the spaces between your fingers. You bring it to your lips, pressing a kiss to his knuckles. Surprised to find the gold wedding band still adorning his ring finger.

***

9:56 PM

“Was that really your first time since we… you know?” Your murmured question rings loud in the absence of the rain. The storm has finally passed, but neither of you move—neither even dare to bring it up— afraid to ruin the moment. 

“It was.”

“Not even in a casual, ‘no strings attached’ kind of situation?”

“No.” He looks almost embarrassed to admit it, but there is no hesitation in his answer.

“Wow…” your heart sinks. Is it possible to feel good and bad at the same time?

Luca pauses for a moment. You can see the conflict brewing in his head. “Did you?”

You don’t have to answer. The sheer silence you take is an answer enough.

The confirmation feels like shit, but he tries to stay neutral. His thumb stills on the back of your hand. “Can I ask how many?”

“Gosh, does that even matter?” You sigh. There’s another argument coming—you can feel it.

“No, I just… I wanna know.”

“You don’t really wanna know.”

“Is it a lot?”

“I mean…”

“How many?” 

You take in a sharp breath. There’s no way out of this now. If the truth is what he wants, then the truth is what he shall get. “Twelve.”

He tenses up next to you. The whole world stops, and you can’t help but think, it’s over. There is no way this marriage is salvageable now. “What…?”

“I know that it’s a big number, and I know you might be upset—”

“That is a big number.” He doesn’t say anything about the latter part of her sentence, but it’s obvious that he’s upset, too. “I just… why?”

“I was trying to get over you.” It’s a pathetic answer, but that’s all it is to it. “I couldn’t sleep in this bed for months. I just couldn’t. Slept on the guest bed instead,” you motion at the next room, “and then one day, I couldn’t take it anymore. It’s like a switch flipped inside my brain, and I needed to—”

“What?”

“I needed to… overwrite the memories of you,” you admit feebly. “On this bed. On my body.”

Knife, meet heart. He’s not sure what answer he was expecting, but whatever it was, this hurts so much more. “And did it work?”

“Up to a point…” you pause, a sad smile in realization. “It’s funny. I keep getting bits and pieces of you somehow.”

“What do you mean?”

You close your eyes, your memories flashing, reminding you that every single time reminds you of Luca one way or another. “It’s… somebody’s perfume, or the timbre of their voice, or the way they hold my hand…”

“And you see me in them?” 

“Every single one.”

“Jesus…” Luca finds himself relieved and choked up at the same time. He doesn’t want you to ever get rid of your memories of him, but at the same time, it’s painful to hear that you tried anyway.

And you tried very hard.

“I’m sorry.”

He hums, and you realize… he hasn’t let go of your hand. Not once. Not even after your little confession. It makes the argument easier, knowing he’s there. It’ll be easier to part with him again after tonight, you hope, knowing you both did your best to understand. Why you needed to be apart. Why you did the things you did.

The armor has been shed, and the two of you are now naked, in every sense of the word.

Luca turns to look at you, studying your profile. He remembers the last time he was here.

He had just told you about Denmark. Stupid of him to feel excited, to tell you he’d just been offered his dream job, to ask you and Alfie to move someplace new with him, because it turned into a fight.

Worse than a fight; it was a death sentence.

You turned away and stared at the ceiling, and told him you couldn’t do this anymore.

And in some fucked up way, Luca feels as if he’d been brought back in time, and this is his one chance to make it right. So he asks you,

“Do you still love me?” 

You breathe out, heart clenching because in spite of yourself, “I do.”

“Do you want us to try again?”

“Luca…” you sigh heavily, “How would that even work? Alfie and I are here, and you have Noma–”

“No more Noma. I’m giving that up.” The answer is straightforward, and he surprises himself over how easily it rolls off of his tongue. How right.

“What? You wouldn’t…” Your face falls as you turn to him.

“I would. And I am,” he says firmly. “Look, I’ve thought about this for months now. I can’t do Noma anymore, I need to be home.” His gaze softens, and you feel the pattern running on the back of your hand again.

Slow and steady and certain.

The tear rolls off the corner of your eye and onto the pillow with the tiniest drop. “I wanted you to come home…”

“Then let me come home. Please?”

“I want to. I just…” you reach out and cup his face tentatively. “I just want to make sure that we’re not doing anything rash.”

His eyes light up. The only thing that matters is that you want him home, too. It takes him everything to let his logical part of the brain take control. “How about this, then?” Luca pauses thoughtfully. “We’ll take a minute. For me to sort out everything at Noma, find a replacement… and for us to figure out if this is really what we wanna do.

“If it starts to feel like a bad idea, maybe we should rethink it. But if it feels good… maybe we can give it another shot.

“And in the meantime, we’ll talk. We’ll FaceTime and… figure out what the hell to say to our lawyers.”

That makes you grimace. You were supposed to have another meeting with your divorce lawyers. Tomorrow is going to be awkward. But awkward beats saying goodbye to the man you’ve always loved, right? It’s a small price to pay.

“What do you say, baby?” He looks at you with all the hope that he has. “Just give me a minute to get everything sorted and then I’ll come home.”

You smile tearfully. “A minute is not enough… how about a month, hm?”

“Yeah, that makes more sense, actually.” He chuckles sheepishly. “A month. I can do that.”

“Good.” You sidle up to him and kiss him where his heart is. You’re willing to settle for having him just for the night, but you can’t wait until he comes home to you for good.

You hope he will.

[inklore]

just a taste

premise: meeting luca after work doesn't usually end up with the two of you in an intense lip lock, both of you knowing once you start it's hard to stop. but that's what offices are for, right?

pairing: luca x (f)reader

word count: 3.1k

contents: literally barely any plot here, oral (f rec), unprotected p in v, coming inside, established relationship, doing it at the workplace, teasing, dirty talk, pet names.

note: i know the bare minimum about this man because i’ve never seen the bear but those tattoos, the accent, the hair?? fill me like an eclair is all i have to say ok!

The cool breeze of the night air almost makes you regret not just heading straight home and slipping under the steam of a nice long shower and grabbing the first blanket you see on the sofa and planting yourself there for the rest of the night. Await your boyfriend's arrival under the comfort of cotton and cushion that he’ll surely plop down next to you on after he’s kicked off his shoes. His cold fingers finding you under the blanket to pull you close to his side, a string of kisses pressed along the side of your neck before finding your lips. The smell of yeast and sugar—embedded in his skin at this point—making you bury your nose into his collarbone. 

But this was a ritual for the both of you. 

You finishing your studies and then meeting him after work. 

The two of you walking home together, barely making it through the threshold of your place before lips and clothes were being pressed together and thrown to the floor. Luca’s soft laugh at needing to shower. Thus always leading to your face pressed into the wall of the shower and Luca’s fingers digging into your hips as he thrust inside of you. 

So that nibble of regret doesn’t last long when you come to a stop in front of his work. The makings of anticipation pull at the corner of your mouth as you grab your phone from your bag and start to text him to let him know you’re out front. 

A text that’s barely on the last word when the breeze of the door is hitting you and making you look up, “you can go in. He's in the back.” a co-worker you’ve met a dozen times, but his name slips your mind as you give him an appreciative smile and thank him as you slip through the doors as he walks out. 

You could enter the kitchen a dozen times—a million, a billion—your nose filling with that sweet aroma, Luca bent over a table, a dish, fingers deep in a ball of dough, the monochromatic uniform making his tattoos stand out on his skin like the most beautiful canvas, and you’d never get over the view. 

Over how your insides react when you see him in his element.

See him doing what he loves. 

It’s like the first time every time. 

Just like the first time he dragged you into the kitchen after your tenth date. Showing you his own version of paradise. His love. His joy. The way his face lit up when your eyes brightened when you bit into the scone he had made—saved—for you. The euphoric sweetness a good dessert can do to one's brainstem is still a scientific mystery to you, but you’d gladly leave the research to the experts if you could experience it forever. 

Taste Luca’s creations forever. 

That memory seems like ages ago. Now well into two years of your relationship. 

Nothing seems to fade with Luca. 

Your first times feeling just as tortuous to your fluttering insides as the tenth or twentieth time around. 

It knocks you off kilter in the best way. 

And when you look over at Luca after dropping off your bag and sweater in an open chair, you can not help but laugh when he finally looks up from cleaning off the surfaces of the metal tables and that stone look of him being in chef mode falls from the creases of his face and his features melt into something soft. 

He doesn’t say anything until his arm is around your midsection, drawing you in. “Hi, beautiful.” He smiles as your lips meet in a long kiss. Kissing you as if he hasn’t seen you in days, as if he has spent the entire day waiting for this moment and this moment alone. “How was your day?” 

“Not as good as it is now,” you tease. Hand in the back of his hair, pulling his mouth back to yours. 

The hum that makes your lips buzz and that lands on your tongue as he backs you up so your back is pressed into the doorframe makes anything you could tell him about what happened in your day lackluster. Incomparable. How could you possibly think of anything worthwhile—how could anything be as worthwhile—as his tongue moving along your bottom lip, his hand at the side of your neck, his thumb rubbing a small circle into your skin? 

It couldn’t.

"Let me finish cleaning up," he smirks. Thumb and pointer reaching for your chin, squeezing it, luring you in for one last kiss before returning to cleaning and leaving you dazed in the doorway.  

And if you didn’t know how seriously Luca takes this, from the ritual of making pastries to maintaining a stern, clean kitchen, you would tell him to hurry. Complaining that it is not fair for him to kiss you like that and then make you wait for him to finish, but the payoff was always worth the wait. And you love Luca’s love for his craft. Love him in this element—watching him and seeing him go into that little part of his brain that makes him go into boss mode. 

The stern gentleness of it all. 

It’s breathtaking to watch.

It’s art.

He’s art. 

So that’s what you do. 

You push off the doorframe and enter further into the kitchen just to watch him. 

“How was your day?” You ask while watching him write on the white board in the corner. 

“Good. We got a new guy who came in.” 

“Is he any good?” 

“Better than he thinks he is.” 

“I bet you brought out his best. You always do.” You smile at him when you watch him shrug off the compliment, not missing the twitch of the corner of his mouth. Ever so modest. 

Wordlessly, he puts the cap back on the marker and sets it against the metal of the board, walking over to one of the refrigerators and pulling out a small bowl of something green and white. 

Something that looks too beautifully crafted to eat, let alone eaten by someone who might not fully understand what went into making something so decadent—something that looks like it would be served to someone with a gold card, not someone who eats boxed mac and cheese for dinner twice a week (which Luca always tries to make fancier than Kraft ever could). 

Luca hands you a spoon, “told him the only critic that mattered was sharing a bed with me.” You make a face, the both of you knowing how outlandish that sounds when the food genius himself is standing in front of you. The critic who mattered to a lot of people more than the girl who was sharing his bed. 

But it still brings a smile to your face. 

“Did he think you were utterly insane for such a statement? I think eating greasy takeout two nights in a row is five star dining.”

He chuckles, “you’re the only critic that matters to me.” His palms come down on the edge of the metal table between you as he leans against it. “The only important one at least. Try it.”

The swoop that runs through you from his words, from his eagerness to hear your thoughts on a dessert you do not even know the name of, but know you will appreciate more than anyone else because it came from someone he admires, makes your cheeks heat up. 

And when it touches your tongue, when that euphoric sweetness overcomes your tastebuds, you don’t think the English dictionary could come in handy with describing the taste. The goodness of it. Compliments, which you know Luca and his fellow chefs have heard many times before and then some. But still bring that artist's joy to their chests when your eyes widen and you look at them in something akin to shock. 

The moan you let out makes him grin.

“Good?”

“Is he single?” 

“Oh, that’s how it is, huh?” His arms cross over his chest, a playful brow raised.

You take another bite of the dessert, “I think you might want to start looking for another job.”

“And a girlfriend?”

You nod, “with something that tastes this good, I would give him my social security number easily. Oh my god.” You dramatically moan around the spoon, the action doing little to hide the simpering look on your face.

“Here I thought I was the only one who could make you spill such confidential secrets.” Luca strides across the table, coming to stand at your back. His lips pressing against the back of your neck and the top of your shoulder. 

Finding its home where your collarbone meets the junction of your throat, where he lets his warm breath blow against the known sensitivity there, then presses his lips to it. Making your back push into his front, your body melting against him. 

A soft noise lays dormant at the tail end  of your throat, making a ghost of a smirk etch against your skin from his mouth as he murmurs, “and the only one who can make those noises come out of you.”

Your voice is breathy when you say, “so much for being humble.”

"When it’s the truth, I do not need to be humble." His lips trailing to your ear, fingers running up the back of your exposed thighs, pulling up your skirt until they are at the apex of your hip, skating forward and close to your clothed mound. “Am I wrong? Should we see?” 

The spoon in your hand lucky you don’t have superhuman strength because it would be crushed in your grip right now. 

Luca’s fingers splay themselves across your pelvis, toying with the top of your underwear. “Hmm, awfully quiet now. Where’d my mouthy girl go?” An airy chuckle tickles your ear as he lets it out, “humbled are you?” 

There’s a teasing sneer forming on your mouth before it does a 180 and morphs into an ‘o’ as Luca’s fingers push into your underwear, the pad running through the clear as day arousal that’s been making your thighs clench uncomfortably since your kiss in the doorway. 

When the finger moves against your clit there's no covering up the gasps that fall from your lips. Or the way your ass grinds against the erection that’s pressing up against it. 

“Who’s humble now?” He teases. A cheeky grin on his face when he pulls his hand out from your underwear, bringing his finger to his lips and sucking it into his mouth. Making your cheeks heat even more when you turn to look at him. Your teasing turns needy as you give him that look, the one that always makes him drop whatever he is doing and have his body on yours within seconds. 

You both know that making it home now will feel ten times longer. Ten times more agonizing in the cool air with your warming bodies.

With you soaking your underwear and him hard against his zipper. 

So when he says “office”, all you can do is chew on your bottom lip in eagerness as you make a beeline towards it. Luca closer behind you than you expect when you hear the door shut seconds after you’ve entered and his mouth immediately on yours, your ass hoisted onto the nearest surface. 

Luca’s fingers making quick work to pull down your underwear, your skirt bunched at your hips. You fully expect him to pull himself up from his knees after slipping the lace from your ankle and tossing it to the floor. You expect him to come back up and slide inside of you quick and easy, but instead he’s trailing kisses and bites into your thighs. 

Blue eyes look up into yours, and he must see the need in them—that glint that tells him all you want is for him to be inside of you right now. The heady woes of foreplay just torture at this point. 

His teeth sink harder into your flesh, making you gasp. “I’ve worked hard all day; don’t I deserve a treat? A taste of the best dessert out there.” 

And how could you argue with that?

You can’t.

Not when his tongue runs from the bite mark in your skin to your wetness. Spreading you around him as he licks a stripe up your pussy. Your grip on the metal your ass is under hard and tight enough to leave marks against your palm. 

And as crude as it makes you sound, as obscene and cocky as it comes off your lips, you will never hold back from telling Luca that his talent as a chef will never outweigh how good he is with his mouth and cock. 

He’s multi-talented and it’s a blessing and a curse to your insides. 

“Oh, fuck. Luca,” your head hangs between your shoulders. Your fingers in his hair, the heel of your shoe pressed against his back—his apron long gone, leaving him in that navy blue—his fingers digging into the side of your thighs as he keeps you against his mouth. 

The mouth that’s switching between sucking your clit between his lips and rolling his tongue against it. Eating you like you’re the best dessert his tongue has ever had the pleasure of tasting. 

It never takes him long to get you there. To make your chest heave and your nerve endings light up, as if they are about to make you panic from the overwhelming feeling of pleasure that is completely taking over your body. 

His fingers have created beautiful, mouth watering food, just as they’ve made you completely lose your mind. Your legs shaking around his head. Your back involuntarily bows until it hits the metal surface of the desk you’re perched on. 

It’s when he slips two fingers inside of you that you completely lose it. The sob that pulls itself from your lungs feels red-hot in your throat as your fingers grip the strands of his blonde hair as you come against his mouth. Your hips riding out your high. Rolling against his tongue in a languid way, drawing out the aftershocks of your orgasm. 

Your body still reeling and alight with that desire-train that still has it wanting more. That heavy ache between your legs that wants to be filled. To be fucked by something bigger and thicker than a finger.

Your mouth comes down on the tabasco tattoo below Luca’s wrist in a gentle kiss, one of your favorites of his, when his hand comes to cup the back of your head to pull you up to him. 

His thumb runs from your cheek to your chin, where he pushes it up, so you’re looking up at him and he’s looking down at you as he stands between your legs. Your nails run along the tattoos along his arms, up his bicep, and to the nape of his neck. A fire burning in his eyes when your fingers run between the strands back there. 

“Tell me,” he says close to your lips. He’s checking in. Seeing if you’re too spent for his cock, seeing if there's more you want. If you want to wait until you get home. If you’re ready for him now. 

“It’d be cruel to not fuck me now.” You say it in a half-tease-half-serious tone. 

“Ooh,” he murmurs against your mouth, his tongue clicking against his teeth. “I don’t want to be cruel.” You can feel his other hand move between the two of you, undoing the button of his pants and messing with the zipper until he’s pulling himself out of them, hard and leaking. “What kind of boyfriend would I be if I didn’t give my girl what she so desperately needs?” 

Luca smirks when you laugh into his mouth, “the worst kind.”

With one last kiss, lick, and nip at your lower lip, he’s rubbing the tip of his cock against your clit, making your thighs shake. Nails dig into his skull as he soaks up your oversensitivity to coat himself before going lower and slipping inside of you in one slow, fluid motion. 

Your mouth hung open at the stretch, and your breath caught in your lungs. Your foreheads resting against each other as you let your walls accommodate his girth, both of your breaths heavy. The pounding you can feel between your legs—that you’re not sure is coming from him or you or something more poetic and overwhelming like your conjoined bodies aching as one, like a heartbeat aches for a chest cavity when it’s torn from a body. 

The two of you need this. 

Need each other. 

When Luca starts moving, you know the two of you are both completely fucked. Spent and so full of desire that you know your time in this office is just the start of a long night of tangled limbs and wet mouths. 

The sounds you are making against each other's mouth are breathy and intoxicating. His tongue in your mouth swallows every mewl and moan he coaxes from your body with each stroke of his cock. 

His fingers find the back of your head again, not allowing you to even think about leaving his mouth. 

You think you see stars when his palm finds the back of your thigh and pulls your leg higher on his hips. Think you could let this man completely consume you, and you’d still never be satisfied. Never get over how good it feels to feel his hips drive deeper into you, to feel the head of his cock hit that spot inside of you that makes his name roll off your tongue like a prayer. 

“Who’s pussy is it, baby?” 

"Mm'fuck," you are not sure if he is still playing the game of you leaving him for the new chef or if his filthy mouth is attempting to completely destroy you—which is nothing new when he has you coating and tightening around his cock like this. 

When you say his name, when you whine it into his mouth like a pathetic desperation, the erotic noise that it’s met with makes you cling to him tighter. Makes you press yourself closer to him. The movement makes the outside of his pants grind against your clit. 

“So beautiful,” Luca murmurs. The octave of his voice grows lower and choppy with heavy breaths the closer he gets. Neither of you lasts much longer when his pace picks up. The grip the two of you have on each other is hard and rough, enough to tear and leave marks that you’ll later kiss with gentle lips, unlike the passion that’s coming through with the hard kisses your mouths are giving as you both come. 

“How’d I get so lucky?” He breathes into your mouth, twisting your insides even more. 

[phantasmagorianfantasy]

Freak Next Door: Part 1

Read Part 2

Read Part 3

18+ only! Josh x OFC

Some Jon Bernthal goodness for a character I don't see a lot of fanfiction about. Sharp Stick was quite a movie, and those scenes now live rent free in my mind forever. Even if Josh was a loser.

Warnings: masturbation, voyeurism

@grippingbeskar This is YOUR fault. I am working on two different pieces right now, and you have been a muse. Thanks!

This is the first part I have written for a Sharp Stick fanfiction which will be inspired by this post by @chellestrash. I think Josh is pretty much a fuckboy of a character, but I would love to see someone torture him. In the fun ways. More to come ASAP - just getting my sea legs.

Comments welcome! Thank you!

Updated June 22nd

Josh stared open-mouthed out of the window. He had been doing this for days now - he'd wake up, say goodbye to his wife before she took the kids to daycare and climb back into the guest-room bed, sitting up against the headboard.

This window gave Josh a perfect view into his neighbor's bedroom. A room with a view, he mused.

After his last stunt with the babysitter, he was still in the dog house, and he had been relegated to the extra room on the opposite side of their home. Married, but in the same purgatory he had found himself in previously. Josh felt his heart clench as he thought about how that last affair had ended.

That wasn't his fault, though. There had been a lot of pressure on him, and with Heather the way she was... Still. He really hadn't meant for any of that to happen.

How long had it been? It must have been two years now.

Such a fuck up...he thought to himself, guilt filling every sense. In this moment, he even considered stopping, not going through with his new ritual, saving some sort of semblance of honor and decency for the mother of his children. But the memory of their first meeting always tugged him back into the filth and away from any honorable thought or intention.

Josh had first met her at a community barbecue down the street. He swallowed hard, running a hand lazily along his chest as he remembered her in that checkered blue and white bathing suit top, still wet from the pool. She had a smile that could dazzle, and he loved how her eyes crinkled at the sides when she threw her head back when she laughed. Josh remembered how he had unconsciously eyed the fabric clinging to her body, to every single curve.

Josh closed his eyes, thinking of the sweat that languidly dripped down her neck into the valley of her breasts as the sun shone gold through the wisps of her blond hair. He imagined himself running a tongue through that trail and a shudder ran through him.

Josh groaned, the self-depricating thoughts at war with the growing arousal in his stomach. That day... he remembered that woman's delicate fingers picking up a strawberry from the buffet table and sinking it in between her lips in a way he felt was meant for him. Her eyes were boring into him, this tight 30-year-old shamelessly making eye contact with him as her red lips pursed against the curve of the berry. Her eyes fluttered, rolling back as her teeth sank into the fruit. A small trail of juice had eeked out of the corner of her mouth. He had been halfway through raising a beer to his lips, and Yuri was blabbing away about his current hot piece, but that had stopped him in his tracks too.

'I said goddamn Josh, was she lookin' at you or me?' Yuri had nearly gasped these words out beside him. Josh hadn't known the answer.

His mind flipped back and forth from memory to reality, and Josh licked his lips, the memory of that damn barbecue sending an electric shock through his body. He pulled off his shirt, throwing it unceremoniously into a ball near the hamper. He bit his lip, waiting with trepedation and a little bit of guilt as he looked through the window into her bedroom.

From here, he could see her golden curls splayed on the sheets, her legs twisted in them. Josh dragged his hand from his neck down his own chest, his eyes closed for a moment, imagining her delicate hands following this very trail. His throat was so fucking dry as he tried to create what he imagined she would do...his finger tips barely putting pressure on his skin, alternating from petting to a slow, light draw of fingernails.

Josh felt his phone vibrate as the 10am alarm sounded. His eyes opened lazily as he sent the alarm into oblivion. She'd be waking up any second now. His eyes darted back, praising whatever diety allowed the bedroom a view straight into her bed.

His breath caught in his chest as he saw a pair of legs slide up. She was awake. He was thankful that the curtains allowed this small space where he could see her in bed. That woman always slept naked, and seeing her legs emerge sent a jolt straight to his growing arousal. He could see her hand lazily playing with the inside of her legs, and he imagined the murmurs she might make if his hands replaced hers. Josh stiffened, watching her sit up in bed. They were nearly facing one another, the distance seeming paradoxically close and yet so so far as he watched her fingers squeeze around her breast and then trail down her stomach to the curls below. He wondered if she tasted sweet like that strawberry, wondered how it would feel to have her grinding herself into his mouth as he cleaned the juices from her. He groaned softly, his hips rising slightly at the thought of being in between those legs, gripping her thick thighs.

Another whsipered moan escaped his lips, all thoughts of resistance chased away in a moment. He jerked his sweatpants down just above his knees and streched out his legs. He spat into his hand, pumping his length lazily a few times before turning his eyes back to her, who was mirroring him now, her back against her headboard and fingers slipping in and out of her.

He choked as his length pulsed, seeing her slowly raise her hips to meet her hand. He hoped that her eyes were closed, afraid of the consequences of her realizing his little fantasy. But Josh wanted nothing more than see her gaze cutting into him, burning him, making him squirm. His grip tightened, and he released a breath he had been holding in earnest.

Her lips were curled into a smile though slightly parted, and he watched her hand circling her clit. He moaned softly, watching her alternate between her clit and sliding a finger into her own folds. He could tell she was moaning from the way her chest rose and fell, by how her hips rose off the bed.

He looked down at himself for a moment, considering how it would look to have her fingers wrapped around his length. His grip tightened, and the pleasure was double edged. He continued to slide his hand in time with her motions, and his mouth hung open as he saw her plunge two fingers into herself. He could see everything, and the pressure building within him made his stomach tight. His grip was firm and deliberate. He was not rushing, yet.

God, she was beautiful. He praised her in his mind, his eyes locked on her hands and how her hips rose as she pumped her fingers. He felt his release on the horizon, and moaned softly as she continued her assault.

Josh felt his end approaching, the pre-cum leaking and mixing with his spit as his speed increased. He imagined what those breathy moans would sound like if he were the one sinking his digits into her, the one licking up and down her slit before taking her clit between is lips and sucking gently. He groaned again, his speed increasing as his eyes locked on her face.

He moved away from the headboard, his legs hanging off the side of the bed as he ached to get a closer look at her as he came. He felt a shot of panic run through him as their eyes made contact. He was unsure if she'd actually seen him until she too began to scoot away from her headboard and closer to the window, knees up and legs perched at the edge of the bed as she fucked herself for his eyes only. Her eyes were alternating from her own body to him, and her other hand slipping a pair of fingers into her mouth.

Josh gasped, imagining the filthy sounds he imagined she would make. His minstrations became erratic as the woman next door laid on her back, her hips bucking up as she fucked herself for him. He watched his cock jump, his hands tightening and releasing pressure as he considered how she would feel under him, panting and mewling. When his eyes returned to the window, she was leaning back on her elbows, looking straight back at him. Her fingers were still plunged inside her, and he watched as she pumped them quickly before her other hand joined in order to rub quickly against her bud. The quiet of the morning allowed the muffled sounds of her moans to drift into the room, and Josh groaned again, his insides twisting with pleasure. He watched as she threw her head back, thrusting into herself as her hips jumped forward.

He gasped, an "Oh fuck" escaped his lips before he threw his head back. He moaned as his cock throbbed in his hands, cumming over his own stomach. He felt his cum as it landed on the sweated sheen of his chest. He couldn't stop the grip of his hand, unrelenting as he came hard, even as the orgasm began to abate. He felt a little pathetic, hearing his own breathy moans as he fucked himself life a teenager. As he finished, he did feel the knots in his stomach release just slightly. Josh's eyes were momentarily fixed on the mess on himself, a feeling of slight shame and nervousness as he thought of how his eyes had locked with hers.

He didn't know if he should move, hide the evidence of what he had been doing as he watched her. He bit his lip and chanced a peek back up. She was looking straight at him, her mouth opened with a look of gasping elation.

Josh slowly threw his legs over the side of the guest bed and walked to the window, unable to take his eyes off the quivering mess in that beautiful woman's hands. He swallowed hard seeing the look in her eyes.

She didn't look completely satisfied, and the idea both thrilled and terrified him. He still hoped in the back of his mind that he was imagining her eyes boring into his. Perhaps she was just staring into space, overcome with pleasure like he had been.

However, his breath caught when she slowly slid off the bed and approached her window. The space between the houses couldn't be more than 30 feet, and he groaned as she raised a hand to wave, a playful grin spreading across her face.

Oh fuck.

[ivystoryweaver]

Hi :) if no one has ask, what about 7?

7. Do the Moon Boys take morning showers or night showers? Or baths?

from Moon Knight Asks

These baby boys....

~nsfw below the cut (hello it's bath time) hand job, Marc is needy, whimpering is involved | 1168 words | not beta'd

☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ

Marc was in the military and lived on the go (and then on the run) for years. He's < 5 min. showers, in and out, done. This can be morning or night, depending on what is needed, depending on who else is fronting.

The other two aren't far behind him.

Steven's apartment doesn't have a bathtub. Steven loses track of time constantly anyway. So Marc makes sure they're all clean and tidy. (Marc is the neat one after all).

Marc is unaware of Jake, just as Steven is unaware of them both.

So they each simply take the showers needed.

Then they meet you.

The first time you draw a bath for Marc, he doesn't know what to say. You go all out with bath salts and bubbles and luxurious oil. Candles are lit and soft music fills the bathroom, floating out tauntingly into the night, beckoning him back home to you.

"What is all this?" He skeptically questions, having practically tumbled back in through the balcony doors after serving Khonshu. "Are you taking a bath?"

"No, baby, it's for you." You bounce on your toes, dying to spoil this man of yours. Running your hands over the ancient bandaged fabric covering his delicious but eternally tense muscles, you pull your bottom lip between your teeth.

"Make this disappear."

That, he's happy to do.

It takes a little coaxing but soon enough, Marc sinks beneath the bubbles and rests his head against the tub's edge. His eyes drift closed as he starts to relax.

"You coming in?" He asks you.

"No, it's for you." It bears repeating with Marc.

He pouts for a minute, but as you ease behind him and start massaging his temples, he relents.

You work your nimble fingers down his neck, soothing away the tension he holds there - in his shoulders where emotions are trapped, even in his chest, just below his collar bone.

He’s so locked up, your fingers start to ache before you loosen the muscles much at all. Marc is in heaven, half asleep as you give your hands a quick break and wrap your arms around his neck from behind.

Your sweatshirt is damp but you don’t care. He needs this.

You whisper soothingly on his ear and he does drift to sleep for several minutes. You hold him. Treasure him - until the water cools enough to wake him.

You turn the tap back on, warming him up while you rake your fingers through his hair. He tries to sit up, but it feels too good, so he drops back down to where he started.

“Let me wash your hair,” you breathe on his ear, sending a shiver all over his body and desire pulsing between his legs, making him stir with want.

Your fingers, now rested from earlier, gently scratch his scalp as you massage away the grime of the day.

One hand catches in his dark mess of curls, making you accidentally tug his hair with more force than you intended.

He groans.

“You like that, baby?” You murmur against his neck.

He feels you smiling and a strained, “yeah” slips past his lips before he can stop it.

“Thought so,” you cheekily return, curling your fingers through his waves and tugging with force. This exposes his delicious neck to you. His throat bobs in anticipation. Your tongue tastes his skin, gliding over his throat. Slowly. Tauntingly.

You lick a trail to his mouth. The tip of your tongue traces his lips, which part as you lick your way inside.

He growls and sucks on your tongue and you lose your balance. Water sloshes and his hair gets a delicious tug.

He easily takes over the kiss, his tongue thrusting hotly over yours while your hands go to work - one tugging roughly at his wet curls, while you push the other down his soft middle underneath the bubbles.

He relaxes into the kiss, if that’s possible, thinking you’ll touch him where he craves.

But you don’t.

Your fingernails tease, gently scraping his hip bones, the tops of his thick thighs - anywhere except where he needs you. You explore the ridges and valleys of his muscled chest, the soft skin you love to squish teasingly, but never where wants.

Tearing his mouth from yours, he reaches up with a wet arm, grasping needily at your sleeve.

You resist. He could use force. He’s the avatar of an ancient being and he’s strong. Thoughts of your arms pinned over your head while he fucks you deep and slow make you shiver.

He doesn't show off his strength - he only moans.

You tut condescendingly, using the pad of your thumb to tease the tip of his cock. He whimpers.

You darkly chuckle against his ear, toying with the slit before withdrawing even that bit of relief.

“Wait, please,” he groans, gripping your wrist to push your open palm over his aching cock, there below the bubbles.

“Please what?” You whisper, you lips nibbling hotly at the skin behind his ear.

He growls in frustration, his body jerking and splashing the water. “Fucking - just touch me, please.”

Still you pause.

Marc Spector is begging you. This grumpy, tense, fierce warrior is chanting your name like a song - like a prayer. His voice is broken - his eyes, pleading.

“Baby, please. Please touch me.”

You slip your hand into his hair again and pull hard, the way he likes.

Your knees are weary from the hard bathroom floor, but you don’t care. Your mouth opens over his and your hand wraps around his cock. He's so hard for you, so thick and needy. The thrusting of your tongue past his lips is almost rougher than the way you grip him.

The sudsy, oily bubbles help your hand glide down where you twist your wrist and squeeze, dragging back up - down and up, a little faster with each stroke. He likes it rough. You can't hurt him.

But he would like it if you did.

Marc tears his mouth from yours - he can’t breathe - it’s so damp and humid in the bathroom and he feels so fucking good.

“Faster,” he begs you, gripping your wrist almost threateningly, wrapping his hand over yours and helping you. Water sloshes messily as his hips fuck up into your shared grip.

"Fuck...yes...baby," he pants. You can't remember him being quite this vocal before.

This was not the way you saw relaxing bathtime going, but as his eyes flutter closed in ecstasy and he groans out his release, you realize you’re not disappointed in the least.

His warm spend drifts away in the now cold bath water. His panting finally slows and his lazy eyes blink open. The tension has melted away from him completely.

His tongue darts out to wet his lips as his gaze rakes over your drenched sweatshirt.

"You're soaked."

You wet your lips. "Yeah. I really fucking am. What are you gonna do about it?"

☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ

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