summary . . . your daughter and her friends always make you the victim of their little trends. this time, it features calling your ex husband and telling him goodnight.
notes. i actually held myself back from writing for vendetta leon. and here i go, claiming my favorite version is death island. anywayz, this is based off that one trend where they get their divorced/separated parents to call and say goodnight 🫶😌 thought it would be cute with leon <3
tags ──────── fluff, very short n sweet. ex husband!leon x ex wife!reader. gave the daughter a name. word count: 942
Three teenage girls running downstairs while giggling was not a good sign. Your daughter, Aliana, had her two friends sleeping over for the weekend. They were sweet girls, and you and your ex husband thought of them as your adopted daughters. But whatever they were plotting was not good for you.
Especially when the sentence started with, “Mom, there’s this trend…” Here we go again. Another trend on her clock app or whatever she called it.
Aliana didn’t post much on social media. She participated on rare occasions and got a good amount of likes on her scattered videos. Probably because of you being a victim each time.
They explained it to you and it seemed harmless. Harmless, as if you didn’t know your daughter’s father.
All you had to do was call your ex and say goodnight to him. It was meant for parents who had been separated for years. They showed you a few videos so you could get the gist of it. You rolled your eyes when you read the comment section with people talking about how the divorced couples wanted each other.
“Fine, fine, I’ll do it.” You gave in which caused the three girls to cheer and giggle even more.
It was a little after 9 PM. If he still had the same routine, Leon was probably unwinding from another day as a government agent. The chance that he would pick up? You hoped he didn’t.
The girls settled on the opposing couch. They were waiting as you clicked on Leon’s contact information. Aliana quickly pressed the record button, focusing the camera on you sitting in a rather worn out oversized shirt and sweatpants.
You mumbled another, ‘This is so stupid’, before finally calling.
The phone rang once, twice—
“Hello?” Leon’s voice came through the speaker. You were definitely caught off guard when he answered earlier than you expected. But you composed yourself when you remembered you were being recorded. “Is everything okay?”
“Hey. Yeah, everything’s fine.” You responded, and then pressed a finger to your lips to keep the girls quiet. The camera was heavily trained on you as you kept on the charade, “Why wouldn’t it be?”
“I don’t know,” He let out a sound between a scoff and a laugh. “Maybe because you don’t call me, and not this late. Something wrong with Aliana, or?”
“I told you, everything’s fine. She’s fine. I was just thinking about you right now,” You were trying to come up with a lie that sounded plausible enough so he wouldn’t suspect anything, “And then I decided to call and see if you were still awake so I could say goodnight.”
Silence. The girls were doing their best to hold in their laughter. One friend got a bit too loud and had to get hushed by the other. Thankfully, he didn’t hear it, solely because he was focused on another part of your little lie, “You were thinking about me?” You expected it should have raised more suspicions to him besides the late phone call.
“That’s what I said. And then I decided to call to say goodnight,” You repeated. You shook your head at the camera, met with the wide grins of the three girls.
“Okay. That’s a little weird. Since when did you start sitting around, thinking about me?” Leon’s chuckle echoed from your phone, still clueless to him being on speakerphone. You didn’t really realize the way your lips formed a smile at his quick laugh. “I mean, I haven’t had a good night in a while.”
The shift in his tone was very clear as he said his next words, choosing to push the boundaries now that you’d started it all.
“… I could have a good night.”
“Oh yeah? How?” You asked. The girls were eating the interaction up because it was going exactly in the direction they were hoping for.
“I don’t know.” He paused briefly, “… I think if you let me come over—” The girls quietly gasped, clamping their hands over their mouths.
“Okay, no. Goodnight, I’m ending the call now.” You were fast to cut him off. Even if you were divorced, Leon enjoyed making a few jokes here and there about your past relationship. In a way, it was sweet and also annoying.
He laughed loudly into his phone at how you turned him down, the same it had been each and every time, “Hold on, hold on, hold on— No, no, no. Don’t go, I’m still talking to you!”
“Well, I’m not. So goodnight.” You were trying to get him to shut up before he said something slightly more vulgar, and the poor girls heard it.
“Why can’t I come over? You used to let me come over all the time!” Leon argued back. Those were the last things they heard him say before you took him off speaker phone and stood up from the couch. You muted yourself, glaring at your daughter who his behind her phone.
“You see what you did? Now, he’s not going to leave me alone!” The video ended and their laughter was loud from the living room as you headed towards the kitchen, still arguing with your ex husband.
“Leon, you are not coming over… No, I don’t care if you bring a bag, you’re not coming over.”
Unfortunately you caved, and he did end up coming over. Not that night, but a couple of days later while Aliana was at her friend’s house. It didn’t go exactly as planned since she found out about it because Leon was caught up in the moment and had forgotten to turn off his location.
He whispers, “Come on, I’ve missed you, you’ve missed me. And look, here we are. Alone in this godforsaken office.”
FemReaderXLeon S Kennedy - RE9 (married - established relationship)
Word Count: 3.8k
Smut - No Minors 🔞
Yeah...a fic was bound to happen. So here we are. Enjoy me being dumb. :)
Other Ao3 Shit
Warnings - Explicit Language, Cheesy One Liners (hopefully...i tried)
“Hmm…” You stand in the doorway, your body resting up against the doorframe.
Leon looks up from his desk, “What are you humming about?” There was a faint smile on his lips before he went back to what was before him.
You take a moment, your eyes taking in his appearance, “I’ve missed seeing you in that chair.”
Leon nods his head, “Is that so? Am I out of the office that often?”
You smile as you push yourself away from the doorframe, your steps taking you over to him, “I mean you always seem to be away when I’m back. And vice versa.”
Leon chuckles, “That’s because they know better than putting us two on a mission together.”
You move yourself behind him, “Is that so? Huh… for whatever reason could that be for…” you gently place your hands on his shoulders, your head moving to come down to his, “It’s not like we’re distractions for each other…right?”
Leon nudges himself into you, “If only they knew how great of a team we make.”
You smile and slowly start wrapping your arms around him. Your head falling to the crook in his neck as your eyes take what was on his desk, “I’m just glad you’re back.”
Leon sets down his pen and moves one hand up to yours. Resting it over your fingers he gives them a light squeeze, “Yeah…I’m happy to be back…”
You nuzzle yourself into him before a soft chuckle escapes your lips, “Alright, well I’ll leave you to it. Are you going to be much longer?”
Leon sighs, “I hope not, but-” he fans the stack of paperwork in front of him, “There’s still a lot of protocol bullshit I have to finish.”
You tighten your grip on him, “Well, have you eaten yet? I can go get us something.”
Leon presses himself into you, “Mmm, you know…Jade Palace does sound good.”
You laugh, “Shocker,” and you feel him turning his head into yours as he continues to take in your hold, “I take it you want the usual?”
Leon nods and you place a tender kiss on his cheek before pulling yourself away.
-
You make your way back into his office, a very heavy bag of Chinese food in your hand.
“I make one mention of you and look!” you open the bag, “we’re going to have leftovers for days.”
Leon laughs, “What can I say, everyone loves me.”
You shake your head as you move to set down the bag on one of the cleaner tables in his office.
“I mean he just kept adding in so much more food-” you start reaching into the bag slowly pulling out box after box, “I mean, Lord, maybe I have some competition on who loves you the most. Oh-” your ears apparently blocked out the sound of his footsteps as he was now behind you. His hands slowly skimming over your waist as he rested his chin on your shoulder.
Leon chuckles softly into your ear, it sending shivers down your spine, “Hmm, well I don’t think that’s true.”
You continue removing even more food from the bag, “You sure, last I checked the easiest way to a man’s heart is through their stomach.”
Leon lets out an amused hum into your ear, “Old wives’ tale if you ask me.” And after those words he moves his head into the crook of your neck. His lips brushing over your skin as he leaves a trail of kisses.
“Leon, food.” You let go of the box you were holding, your back slowly falling into him.
He smiles up against your neck, “He packs that shit so tight there’s no way it will go cold quickly.”
“But, Leon…” you turn your head, your eyes taking in his office door. It wide open for anyone to see.
He hums into you, that vibration bringing you back into the moment, “Last I checked I’m the only one putting in overtime. And anyways-” Leon slowly moves one of his hands down your back. His fingers pressing into you gently as it drew its way down to the plush part of your ass, “Doubt he included any appetizers. Which means-”
“LEON,” You press back into him when you feel his hand moving around to your front. His fingers press down on your center.
He whispers, “Come on, I’ve missed you, you’ve missed me. And look, here we are. Alone in this godforsaken office.”
You grab for his wrist, “And yet we have a perfectly made bed at home.”
Leon hums a bit out of frustration but takes that moment to move his lips to your ear. Your knees buckle quickly under that sensation.
Leon nibbles a bit on the lobe before letting go, “I don’t think I’ll make it that far.”
You were growing warm, and not just in your face, no, your center was building and you also knew that you weren’t going to make it that far either. And hell, you didn’t want too anyways.
“Just- close the door then.”
Leon’s eyes grow wide and out of the corner of your sight you see him nod. And as he pulls himself away from you, a displeased moan leaves your lips as you were already missing his body pressed up against yours.
After your ears take in that comforting click of the lock it was immediate the way his hands were back on you. But this time that gentle grip was changing, shifting, into something more possessive. And you threw your head back into him as you relished everything about this current moment you were in.
Leon laughs, “You always try to act so pure, when yet,-” Leon turns you around his lips taking in yours in such a fit of desperation your fingers grip down on his shirt. Your knuckles going white as you felt as though your nails were going to rip the thin cotton. “You’re the dirtiest woman I know.”
You pull your head back a little, your eyelids already falling, “Only for you I am.”
He lowers his head, another laugh leaving his lips, “You know-” He presses himself into you, his direction pushing you back. Each one of his steps close to yours as you moved backwards, “Those photos you sent me. God, they really got me through it. But also, fuck-” He looks back up to you.
“Oh, Leon-” you could feel your ass up against his desk
He lets out a held back breath, “Well now you’re here. So, I don’t have to imagine any more.”
Your heart skips, for his eyes – those normally soft blue eyes - were so lost in this lust he had for you that you had nothing to say. No words coming to mind. Nothing, just a bit of shock when you feel his hands grip your waist as he pulled you up to the desk. Your ass now flush against the cold surface.
“Now then,” his breath was warm as he kept himself close to you, his eyes focusing on your lips, “about that appetizer.”
You kick off your shoes as his fingers hook around your waistband and – though a bit awkward at first and after a bit of shifting - your pants were now being thrown to the floor. He moves back into you, his arms pulling your center closer to him. He places a tender kiss on your lips before pulling back.
You smile, “You know after all these years, you still haven’t mastered that.” You chuckle softly
Leon hums, “Well maybe if you would stop wearing such tight pants all of this would be easier.” He finds your lips again and you nod as you try to hold back your smile. Unsuccessfully, of course, as he can feel it up against his lips.
“Alright, so now let me redeem myself a bit.” He huffs, “Always gotta go for the ego don’t you.” He shakes his head as he moves his hands to your waist. A gentle push as he guides your back down to the desk.
“Now listen, I have all of this organized.” He moves one hand to tap his fingers on the papers below you, “So do what you can not to mess it up.”
You hum while rolling your eyes.
“Because if you do, I might have to punish you.”
“Oh lord – just” you push him away from you, “do what you do best.”
Leon laughs as his eyes slowly break away from you, “Oh, with pleasure my dear.” His voice trails off, “With pleasure.”
You hear the pop in his knees as he moves to the floor, he grumbles, “Shit, maybe doing this at home would’ve’ been a better idea.”
And the breath that leaves your lungs is loud, “It’s as if I knew…” but then, “Shit Leon…”
He presses his tongue into you with such force that your hands look for anything to grab on. They skim the desk, no- not the papers, they reach down to the edge of the desk, no- not there, but then, yes- perfect. You grip down tightly into his hair, your nails raking over his scalp as your fingers curl down.
He hums into you and that vibrates your core and as you begin to arch your back from pleasure, the sounds of papers shifting catching your ear.
“Stay still gorgeous, I’m not reorganizing that shit tomorrow.” He kisses your clit before diving back in.
You grip down tighter into his hair, your hands pressing him into your folds more – you know, just from a bit of annoyance.
But Leon doesn’t care as he moves himself closer to the desk. His hands skimming up your sides soon finding their usual spot on your waist. Those hums he was letting escape his mouth now forming into moans as he worked over your folds. His tongue methodically making circles around your clit only to sometimes change its pace as he rapidly flicked it in a way that always sent your shoulder blades pressing into whatever surface you were on.
“Gods you taste exquisite this evening.” He moves his head from side to side as he tries to move in even more into you. His nose now having to rest on your plush fatty skin as he dives in deeper.
You begin to cross your legs behind him. Your thighs coming down to rest on his shoulders.
It was almost inaudible, “Leon…please…”
His hands gripped down harder into your waist. His hands grabbing at your supple skin. Your fingers were curling down more, your chest moving at a tempo that was a bit erratic. You were getting close.
Leon notices the way your legs were closing him in, “Already?”
You nod your head on the desk as you were unable to say anything. For your focus was on two things. Your pleasure building and, for some reason, the way his hands were gripping down tightly on your waist. It was as if he was trying to mold his hands into you as each time he took in a breath his hands would mimic that by releasing a bit. Only to turn around and press down again into your supple body when he dove back in.
Your heels began to run over his shoulders as your legs were becoming restless. Leon chuckles as one hand moves farther up. His fingers having to push up your bra so he could get what he wanted. Your warm breast into his hand.
“Come on love, you’re so close.”
Your heels begin to dig into his back more as you could feel yourself ready to unravel.
“More, I need more.” You pressed your head back into the desk. A hand of yours leaving his hair as you move it to lay flush on the desk. Your palm and fingers pressing into the wooden surface.
Leon’s hand leaves your waist and soon his fingers find your entrance.
“Fuck-” you were so lost in the moment that you didn’t even realize that your hand was gripping tightly around some papers on his desk. And it must’ve been because your thighs were now pressed up against Leon’s head, because his ears didn’t pick up on it either.
His fingers curled inside you, and it was when your knees started to turn inwards was when Leon knew. He brought both of his hands back to your waist. Planting them into your soft skin only so he could press you down into him. For he was going to enjoy you. All of you.
You let out a whiny hum as you try to hold on. For Leon was making sure that none of you went to waste as his tongue lapped you up down below. But your body was so overly stimulated from the release you try your best, but the only way to combat the sensation was the squirm in his hold.
“Leon, please, fuck…” you move your hands back down to his hair. “Leon!”
Leon takes in your clit, gently pulling it a bit in his teeth before letting go to come back up. You relax your hands when you finally get a little bit of freedom from his hunger. And as you waited for him to stand you let your legs hang in the air for a bit as your body took this moment to let you ride out your bliss.
Leon moves his way back between your legs as he towers above you. Taking in your body as you lay on his desk.
“Hmm…” your head rolls over to him, your eyes slowly moving up his torso as you took in the wonderful sight before you.
“Hmm?”
He leans over you, “What did I say about the papers on my desk?” He tosses down the couple you ended up balling in your fist.
You smirk, “I don’t remember?” You take this moment to pull at the collar of his shirt, his body slowly becoming flush with yours as he follows you pull. “Remind me.”
Leon chuckles but instead of repeating himself he presses his lips into yours. Your head pressing back into the wooden surface as you take what he was giving you. You crossed your legs behind him and the smile you could feel coming from him was loudly mischievous.
He moves himself down a bit, and with a swift movement you were now plastered up against him. His arm under your ass as he lifted you from the desk.
“See, still got it.”
You move your hands to his cheeks and press your lips into his more. A validating chuckle leaving your lips as you rest your forehead up against his.
“So where to next?”
You raise an eyebrow, “Depends on what you want to do next.”
Leon shifts your weight up higher, your body jolting upwards quickly, “I’ll take that ride you promised. The one from the messages.”
You nod, “Alright, but only if I…” you pull back a bit, your hands lightly moving down his arms. Your fingers taking in his muscles, “get to see the gun show.” You wiggle your eyebrows at him.
Leon shakes his head in a bit of annoyance, but that smile that’s now on his lips says a different story.
He moves you over to the couch, “Fine…”
-
“Fuck woman…” Leon rests his head on the back of the sofa. His eyes closed as he took in the pleasure you were creating for him.
Your thighs were moving to a steady tempo as you rocked yourself lustfully on his length. Letting it fill you in a way that was only best described as drunk.
“Leon…fuck you feel so good…” You rest one of your hands on his shoulder as you lean your head back. Your body enjoying all of him.
Leon hands grip down on your waist, a tight enough grip on them helping you maintain the tempo you’ve put in place.
And after he lets out a deep moan you roll your head back up. Your eyes scanning over his well-aged, chiseled body that rests below you. Your hands slide over his chest, your fingers making sure to touch all of him before moving their way over to his arms. The rise and fall of your fingers as they skim over his muscles.
Leon laughs when he feels you tighten around him, “My muscles do all that for you?”
You hum, your eyes still glued to his body, “Always have,” you lean yourself down to his neck, your lips peppering his skin as you work up to his jawline.
Leon’s grip on your waist gets tighter as your hips pick up their rhythm. He leans his face into yours and you take that moment to find his lips again.
You were enjoying him not only in this drunken state, but now you were starving for him. Your lips pressing into his with a force that you could hear it was causing his breathing to stutter all while you made sure each rise and fall of your hips had him bottoming out into you.
“Fuck…” Leon moves his hands down to your hips, letting you work on your own now. His head hanging low as you filled yourself up on him.
“Come on old man, don’t tap out on me now.” You joke as you feel his grip on your hips loosening.
Leon laughs, “Me? Old?” he huffs, “I would never, but…fuck woman…” Leon presses your hips down into him. His entire length now inside of you and you now unable to move under his strength.
You chuckle, “Mmhmm, now I get to see that gun show I was looking for.” You lean yourself back as you take in the way his arms flex as he pushes your hips into his. Your fingers now running up and down his arms as you let that smile on your lips spread as wide as it could.
Leon looks up to you, his breath steady as he notices yours wavering a bit, “You know sweetheart…”
Your eyes snap back to his and before another word leaves your lips you feel your body shifting as his arm moves up to your waist. It’s grip tight against your skin.
“Leon?”
But he doesn’t say anything as he moves you to your back, his body now above yours. He smiles as he moves one of your legs up to his shoulders, “Thought a change of scenery would be good for you.”
You slap his chest playfully as you shake your head. But then you notice his hand gripping into the arm rest behind your head and how his body was now leaned against yours.
Leon smiles as he adjusts his shoulder, making sure your leg was as close to his ear as possible. And that dull pain in your thigh was a loud reminder of what he had in mind for you next.
His hips begin to thrust into you with a speed you were not expecting. His hips smacking into yours with such a fever you could feel a dull soreness beginning to grow down below. Your one arm shot up to his forearm while your other took in the back of the sofa. Your fingers gripping into the two different surfaces as you braced yourself for him.
The sounds of your wetness against the skin on skin contact was enough to cloud your senses as he fucked you into the couch. Your leg over his shoulder giving him the exact angle he wanted to make sure his length went all the way to your sweet spot.
You squeeze down on his arm, “Fuck Leon…” your breathing was stuttered as each time he rammed himself back into you your breath hitched.
And then that hand that was behind your head moves to your knee, and it was as if at this point Leon was giving you all he could. You moaned his name and after a bit you were so drunk on his thrusts that his name just held on as you let it come out in a long whiney moan. Your voice wavering under his movements into you.
“Yeah that’s it sweetheart, let me know who fucks you this well.”
Your eyes open and you find your stomach flipping when you see how dark his eyes were.
“Leon, please…” you whine as your heart skips
Leon grips down tighter on your knee and let’s go against you. You let out a desperate moan as the angle you were now in had his body ramming into your clit as he was also fucking your sweet spot so well sending you into a euphoric state of stimulation.
That knot was back and you found yourself holding back a moan as you focused on nothing but letting it unravel. And then you find yourself gripping down even more into him, your back lifting from the couch. Your body letting go.
“Mmmm….woman…fuck…” Leon pulls you into him, your body sliding on the couch when he pushes in one more deep thrust into you. Your one leg still in his hold as he catches his breath above you.
You watch as his chest moves quickly above you as you take this moment to ride out your bliss. His length still inside of you as you felt his cum slowly sliding down your leg.
“Leon?” You look at him and soon see a smirk on his lips.
“Yeah…yeah I know. I’ll go find something…” He gently moves you back down to the sofa, and quick hiss leaving his lungs as he pulls out. But before he begins searching around his office he leans over you. His lips placing a tender kiss on your lips.
“Still think I’m an old man?” Leon jokes
You smile and roll your eyes, “Only when you act like one.”
Leon kisses you again and shrugs, “Fair, I mean my back- gosh it hurts. You mind rubbing it maybe-”
“Leon, go find something…” You push him back and laugh as you knew exactly what he was doing.
He nods, “Alright, alright.”
-
You were now seated around the little table in his room, your underwear back on, his shirt now on your body. And as he sat next to you in only his pants you two slowly started digging into the copious amounts of food you brought back from Jade Palace.
“Hey, let me try-” you quickly steal a piece from his box, shoving it into your mouth before he can take it back.
Leon laughs and slowly attempts to steal from you. You lean yourself back, but there was only so much space you could move. And with a quick pluck from your box, a couple of pieces were going into his.
“Just keeping it fair.”
You two laugh about it as you continue to enjoy the – still very warm – food before finally leaving this godforsaken office for the night.
Part 1 | Masterlist | 12 Days of Ficmas Masterlist
Warning: reader has a southern accent bc why not, fluff, SMUT (corruption kink, public sex, cowgirl, piv, dirty talk)
Word Count: 3,100+
Request: “Ik this is for your kinktober lost but I NEEDDD a part two, maybe a series on how he corrupts the reader more? Or some angst where [spoilers]” - @forverlostinspace
Summary: A secret relationship between the Sheriff’s precious daughter and an outlaw? What could go wrong?
A/N: yall can thank @forverlostinspace for this! if it wasn’t for this goddess, there wouldn’t be a part 2… or part 3👀. And yes, I did get on RDR and walk around Valentine for the sole purpose of finding smut scene locations:)
It had been a few weeks since you and Arthur started courting in secret. You felt like a proper sinner for it—slipping out after dark, meeting him on the edge of town, letting him steal you away to do some proper sinning. Nights typically lead to a cozy hotel room where he’d teach you to be a real cowgirl.
Although, he had left a few days ago for a train job up north with the promise he’d be back by today. So, here you were at three in the afternoon, on your way to the barn where he said he’d meet you. You stepped carefully, boots sinking slightly into the mud left behind by the light snowfall earlier in the week. When you reached your spot, you slowed scanned the shadows.
He wasn’t there.
You frowned—then heard a faint but unmistakable voice.
“Awh, come on, old man!”
You followed the sound toward Main Street. A laugh slipped out of you before you could stop it.
Your father already had Arthur pinned against a post, one hand holding him in place while the other tied his wrists. Arthur grimaced, trying and failing to wriggle free.
“You’ve got yourself a real talent for this,” your father said dryly. “Quite the bounty on you. Again.” He gave the rope a final tug. “Best you get your friends to come pay it b’fore I hang ya.”
Arthur bickered with your old man as he was hauled down the street and into the law office.
You followed, calming your grin into a neutral expression. The cell door clanged shut just as you stepped inside.
“Afternoon, Daddy,” you said sweetly.
Arthur’s head snapped up. The look on his face made your chest ache—you could practically see his pupils forming into hearts. Anyone would’ve thought he’d been gone months, not days.
“Oh,” your father sighed, already distracted. “Hey there, sweet pea. What can I do ya for?”
You didn’t miss a beat. “Saw a couple men trading something suspicious between the station and water tower. Thought you oughta know before they scatter.”
That got his attention. “Goddamn it.” He grabbed his hat. “Nice work, deputy.” He squeezed your arm with a playful wink and then he was gone, boots pounding down the boardwalk.
The office fell quiet.
Slowly, you turned back to the cell.
Arthur stood there with his hands tied behind him, leaning just slightly forward, a crooked grin tugging at his mouth like he couldn’t help himself.
You stepped closer to the bars.
“I missed ya,” you murmured.
“Did ya now?” he said, teasing and low. His eyes darkened as he stepped closer to the bars, looming just enough to make your pulse jump.
“Sure did.”
He tilted his head. “There actually any suspicious men out there, darlin’?”
You shook your head, unable to hide your grin. “No.”
A soft huff of laughter left him. “Well, seems I’ve been an awfully poor influence on ya.”
You glanced toward the door. “We got a few minutes, though.”
That was all it took.
Your lips met between the bars—quick at first, then urgent. You cupped his face with your gloved hands, feeling the rough scrape of beard. He pulled against the rope instinctively, frustrated by it, by the metal between you, by how close and yet how far you were. The kiss deepened anyway like neither of you quite knew how to stop once it started.
When you finally pulled back, breathless, your forehead rested against his. “You unharmed?” you asked quietly, eyes scanning him for any sign of injury.
“I’m fine, darlin’.” He leaned forward just enough to press a kiss to your brow, gentle now.
You hesitated. “I could ride out to camp. Get Mr. Van der Linde for ya.”
Arthur had snuck you out there once, before he left. It was a small and fast glimpse into his world—the world you’d started to grow all the more curious about.
His expression sobered. “Nah. Too dangerous.”
“It ain’t far.”
“It also ain’t worth the risk.” There was no teasing in his voice this time. “Charles’ll probably come for me this evenin’. He’s probably hunting nearby. He knows to check the jailhouse before heading back to camp.”
You frowned despite yourself. “And what about our date?”
His smile came back. “Oh, I’ll make it up to ya. Don’t you worry ‘bout that.” He leaned in again, pressing his cheekbone to the cold metal, stealing one last kiss like it might tide him over. “Now go. ‘Fore ya get caught.”
He nipped your lower lip lightly before stepping back, straightening as though none of it had happened.
“See ya later, darlin’.”
After a few hours of wandering the shops and killing time, you spotted Charles riding down Main Street, headed straight for the jail. You drifted toward the gunsmith’s porch and leaned against one of the posts, pretending to people watch while you waited.
It didn’t take long.
The two men stepped out together. Arthur adjusted his gun belt, checking his holster as he muttered complaints of how much he hated your father. Charles only shook his head, patient as ever.
Then he looked up.
The moment his eyes found you, they lit up. Charles followed his gaze, huffed a quiet laugh, and clapped Arthur on the shoulder before heading off.
Arthur crossed the muddy street without a moment of hesitation.
“There’s my girl,” he said, cupping your face like he’d been waiting all day to do just that.
“Arthur,” you hissed, glancing toward the jail window. You tried to tuck yourself closer, half-hidden behind his broad shoulders. “My daddy’s right there.”
“I know, I know,” he said, not letting go. “Just- damn. Been a shit week without my lady.”
You felt it, like you always did—the way a single look from him could undo you. He pulled one hand back, patting at his belt and pockets. “Reminds me. I gotcha somethin’.”
When he pressed the chain into your palm, your breath caught.
“It’s… it’s beautiful. Goodness, this must have cost a fortune. Where’d you get it?”
He scratched the back of his neck, suddenly shy. “I stole it.”
You arched a brow. “The owner ain’t gonna come lookin’?”
“Don’t you worry your pretty little head ’bout that.”
Your eyes narrowed as you inspected it more closely for blood. “Arthur Morgan, this ain’t off a corpse, is it?”
“What? No!” He looked genuinely offended. “Train job, remember? Some rich heiress’s things. When I saw it, though…” His voice softened. “Couldn’t stop thinkin’ about how it’d look on you. Damn near got us caught goin’ back for it. Micah wouldn’t shut up the whole ride, swearin’ I’d get him hung.”
You rose onto your toes and kissed his cheek before you could think better of it. “I love it. Thank you.”
His smile turned helpless. “It- it ain’t nothin’.”
Then his eyes lit again. “Oh. I hope ya don’t mind.” He opened the small heart-shaped pendant. Inside, your initials were carved into the metal—uneven, jagged, unmistakably his.
“I did it late one night,” he added quietly. “I hope that's okay. In hindsight, I probably ruined the damn gift. I- I can get ya a new one- better one. One that ain’t stolen.”
“Don’t you dare get me another necklace.” Your chest tightened as you admired it. It wasn’t perfect. That was the point. “I’m strugglin’ not to kiss ya silly right now.”
His worries melted away as he let himself be proud of his work. “May I?”
You turned, letting him take it. The cold chain brushed your skin as he fastened it, his fingers lingering longer than necessary. When you faced him again, you touched the locket once, reverent.
“How’s it look?”
“Beautiful,” he said, low—eye lids drooping as he took you in. “Just how I imagined.” He stared too long. Like he was memorizing you.
“You losin’ yourself there, lover boy?” you teased.
“I need you.”
“Arthur,” you warned, barely above a whisper. “You can’t just say things like that in public-”
He grabbed your wrist and pulled you down the shaded alley beside the gunsmith, pressing you back against the rough wooden wall before his mouth found yours. The kiss wasn't slow this time, but hungry. His hands slid along your sides, loving the way you shiver at his touch. When you felt the hem of your dress rise up to your calf, you broke away.
“Darlin’,” you scolded softly.
That only made him bury his face into your neck, breathing you in and making you whimper. He kissed and sucked your skin but without leaving a trace—no matter how much he wanted to.
“My daddy’s across the street,” you murmured. “He’ll see.”
He groaned against your throat. “So?”
“You know better.”
With a frustrated sigh, he pulled back just enough to look at you. “He won’t,” he muttered, already guiding you farther back, toward a stack of crates tucked behind the building. And you followed, heart racing, knowing you probably shouldn’t.
He dropped onto one of the crates and pulled you with him, settling you squarely in his lap. Dusk was coming on quick now, the sun slipping low enough that most folks were already drifting home—or toward the saloons—too tired or distracted to pay any mind to what was tucked behind the gunsmith.
“I missed you so damn much,” he said, like it hurt to admit.
His mouth found yours again, harder this time. One hand cradled your cheek, thumb brushing your skin with an almost reverent familiarity, while the other held your hips, drawing you closer without apology. You felt the tension in him—the restraint he’d been holding all day finally fraying now that he had you.
You kissed him back just as fiercely, fingers curling into his coat, heart pounding with the knowledge of where you were and how little room for mistakes there was. Every sound felt louder. Every second sharper.
“Dreamt of your pretty pussy every night.” He growls into your ear, bucking his hips up for you to feel how hard he was through his trousers.
“We can’t do this here.” You said, no matter how much you desperately want to.
“Why not?” He nipped at your ear lobe while his hand snakes up your skirt. A smile curls on his lips. “What’s this?”
Your cheats heat up when you’re quickly reminded of your missing undergarments. On date nights, you and Arthur typically had a limited amount of time, so going without undergarments worked wonders—hence the lack of any today.
“My father gets out of work early today, I didn’t want to risk it.” You say bashfully.
“You’re soaked too, darlin’.” He coos, allowing a finger to brush through your folds before retracting. The metal of his belt clinks as he undoes it. “This pussy’s just beggin’ to be used, huh?” He pulls his cock from his pants. His tip presses against your clit, letting your slick and his precum mix.
You lift your hips, allowing his cock to slide back against your pussy, nudging your entrance. “You sure about this? We ain’t gonna get caught?”
“We’ll be perfectly fine. I wouldn’t let anything happen to ya.” He presses a reassuring kiss to your lips.
With a small surge of confidence, you start to sink down. You’ve only had sex a few times, each time being gentle and in a cozy bed. This felt new—dangerous, even.
Arthur winces as you take each inch. “Ngh. That pussy of yours is grippin’ me darlin’.” He groaned. “Takin’ it all so good.”
It takes a good minute until you’re fully settled, his cock nuzzled deep inside, stretching you full. He knew you were a bit nervous to ride him. You practice a bit on occasion, but he always takes back over.
“You got it.” He kisses your cheek and holds your hips, assuring you, you’re in good hands.
Slowly, you slide up to his tip and back down, carefully coating him in your juices and reacquainting yourself with his girth. After doing this a few times, you’re ready. You get a bit faster, finding a rhythm.
“You’re doin’ it. Look at cha, ridin’ my cock.” He was so proud of you.
“Ohhh, Arthur.” Deep moans escape you.
To keep quiet, you keep your mouth busy, finding the junction between his neck and shoulder and biting and kissing it. While you could be marked, Arthur could, and you took advantage of that.
“Mmmm,” he growled. “What would- ngh- Valentine think of you. The sheriff's precious daughter ridin’ an outlaw in an alley?”
“You’ve ruined me, Arthur.” Your fingers fiddle with his shirt button to get better access to his chest.
The button pops free, allowing you to tug the shirt to the side and litter kisses across the skin above his heart. He moans, loving the way you undeniably need him. You rock against him, his pelvis grinding against your clit the way you need.
A rough hand snakes up your back and to your hair, tugging your head back for him to admire you. “Such a mess for me, ain’t ya?”
You nod as you start bouncing on him. A soft, wet plapping sound could be heard under your skirt.
Arthur groans each time your warm, soaking cunt engulfs him. His arms wrap around your torso, holding you close while he kisses your collar bone. With heavy eyes, he watches the heart shaped locket bounce and jingle against your chest.
“That’s it. Mmm- fuck! That’s my girl.” He growls out between kisses to your skin and locket.
One of his hands cups your breast while his lips kiss any cleavage he could find. Needing more, he hooks his fingers on the material and yanks it down, exposing more of those breasts he adores.
Your head falls back and a desperate whine escapes you. The slam of his cock against your g-spot had you seeing stars. Luckily the piano and chatter of the saloon are loud enough to drown out your noises so that only Arthur could hear you.
Your thighs burn and knees bruise against the wood as you continue to bounce on his cock. Over and over, you take each inch—running on the overwhelming pleasure. You could never get enough of that sweet burn of his thick cock stretching your pussy or the gruff grunts and growls he makes.
Arthur takes a break from worshiping your breasts to admire you—your furrowed brows, parted lips that let out the sweetest of noises. Nothing was more beautiful than this.
“You’re d-doing so good for me.” He reaches up, grabbing his hat and pressing it down on your head. “My cowgirl.”
Both of your highs crept up on you. The knot in your cores tightened more and more. He knew your thighs were tired, so he grabbed your hips, helping bounce you.
“Oh, yes!” You gasped, pleasure making your vision blurry. “Right there!”
His cock ached, swelling with his impending orgasm. “Just like that! Ngh! Shit!”
“A-Arthur- ungh, I’m gonna cum!” You whimpered, desperately humping his cock, feeling it kiss your sweet spot.
“Cum for me.” He managed to say through gritted teeth as he used every muscle to hold his cum back. “Fuck! Cum all over my cock!”
Your release hit you. Your gloved hands dig into his biceps. The walls of your cunt squeeze and throb around Arthur’s aching cock, triggering his. He instantly came, moaning broken curses and your name as he grinded his cock up into you. You could feel the warmth of his cum flood your pussy and dribble down his balls. The aftershocks continue as you slowly rock together, basking in the moment and catching your breaths.
By the time you both come back to reality, you realize the sun is practically gone, left with a pink and purple sky.
“You’re a goddamn treasure, darlin’.” Arthur’s raspy voice says before he gives you a tender and meaningful kiss.
After you both take a minute to pull yourselves together, reluctantly giving him his hat back, and clean up—minus the cum that occasionally drips down your thighs—Arthur walks you home. Once your house comes into view, you notice the lights are on. He stops and steered you toward the old tree where your father can’t see him through the windows. He knows the routine by now.
He takes your delicate gloved hands in his hands. The same ones that had choked a man out just a day ago.
“You gonna be available tomorrow?” he asks, almost shy.
“For you?” You smile. “Always.”
The corner of his mouth lifts. “Good. Got plenty more things I gotta teach ya.”
His fingers toy with the tip of your right glove before tugging it off.
“Arthur, give it back,” you huff, holding your hand out as he tucks it into his gun belt.
“What? Why?”
“You’ve got a whole collection goin’. I’m startin’ to run out.”
He takes your bare hand, lifting it to his mouth. “And when you do,” he says softly, pressing a kiss into your palm, “I’ll buy you more.”
“You’re terrible,” you say, but there’s no real heat in it.
“Won’t be sayin’ that tomorrow.” He murmurs it into your skin before letting go. “Run along now. ’Fore your daddy comes lookin’.” He gives your rear a playful pat, earning a quiet snicker as you step away.
“See ya tomorrow, cowboy.”
You follow the dirt path, climb the porch steps, and step inside. Cigar smoke greets you immediately.
“Is that my precious little girl?” your father calls from the sitting room.
You pause at the mirror by the door, fingers brushing the locket at your throat. The heart rests warm against your skin.
“Yes, Daddy,” you say calmly. “Just me. Don’t you worry.”
You adjust the pendant carefully, making sure it’s centered, then force yourself to move down the hall toward the stairs.
That’s when you catch sight of them.
Too many people. Two men and a woman, seated comfortably in the living room like they belong there. You straighten instinctively.
Your father beams. “Don’t be rude. Come greet our guests.”
You want nothing more than to disappear upstairs—to change, to wash away the faint traces of cigarette smoke, leather, pine. Arthur. The scent no respectable woman should carry. Not to mention the mess between your thighs.
One of the men rises from the couch with a stiff posture. He adjusts his suit jacket and extends his hand.
Your stomach sinks.
Your right glove is gone.
Your father notices at the same moment you do. His eyes flick to your bare hand. You move quickly, offering the gloved one instead. The man takes it and presses a kiss to your knuckles.
You paste on a smile. “What do we owe the pleasure?”
“I’m glad you asked, sweetheart.” Your father stands, clearing his throat. “I figured it was about time you met your future husband. Edward.”
Your heart stopped beating for a moment.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, miss,” Edward says, still holding your hand.
Your pulse roars in your ears. For a brief, foolish moment, you try to convince yourself this is a dream.
“H-husband?”
Part 3 Coming Soon…
A/N: Sorry for the delay, I hope it was worth the wait! If there are any other ways of corruption you wanna see lmk too!🤭
12 Days of Ficmas Tag List: @imdoingitareyou @art3mis989 @plu0725 @opposite-of-risky
Pairing: detective!joel miller x f!reader (one-shot)
Summary: Joel gives into his desires and shows you just how good he could be for you, more than anyone else. Including your husband.
Warnings: no outbreak au, language, infidelity, extreme obsessive/possessive behavior (like, stalkerish), male masturbation, smut (18+ MDNI), angst, reader has long-ish hair (unspecified length), reader wears lingerie, pussy pronouns, unprotected piv sex, oral (f!receiving), Joel Miller worships the ground you walk on, ending implies some dark!joel
WC: 6.7K
A/N: very loosely inspired by season 1 of True Detective because I was bored on bed rest and cooked this up after a rewatch.
Joel Miller considered himself a good man.
He paid his taxes. He called his mother once a week. He took a baby aspirin for his heart every night. He rarely lost his temper — which was a huge feat, considering his profession. He played by the rules. He joined the precinct when they invited him out for drinks. He always laughed, joked, bought a few rounds.
Overall, he was a decent, ordinary man.
Except for one huge, gut-wrenching flaw.
You.
He was hopelessly and devastatingly in love with you.
He realized it for a while, now. Maybe six or eight months ago.
Before that, it was just a harmless crush. One that made his heart flutter whenever he was invited over for dinner. But somewhere along the way, he found himself thinking about you more and more. The way you smell, the way you laugh, the way you got shy every time he complimented your cooking.
After one particular dinner where he had a glass too much to drink, he crossed a line. At least, to him, he crossed a line.
He went home that night and barely stumbled through his front door before pulling out his cock. He had been hard for over an hour and it was making him sick, but the second he wrapped his fist around his aching length, the only thing he could think about was you.
And he couldn't stop.
It felt too fucking good.
Imagining you touching him instead, moaning into his mouth, leaking all over his lap, fucking — begging for him to fill you up and make you feel good.
He made a mess of himself, standing hunched over in his hallway, one hand holding up his weight against the wall, the other furiously stroking his cock until he came all over his own hand. He stared at the floor, gasping for air, watching as a few pearly white drops splashed on the hardwood.
And he swore he would never do it again.
Except, he couldn't stop. And it filled him with guilt every single time, but he couldn't help himself. You were too beautiful and sweet and funny — the perfect woman.
The only problem was, you're his partner's wife.
Anthony. Tony. Joel's closest friend for the last two years.
When he was first paired with your husband, Joel dodged your invitations to dinner, but you were insistent. You wanted to meet the man who was protecting your husband every day. You wanted to put a face to the name. And after a few months, Joel couldn't come up with any more excuses. So, he showed up on your doorstep, clutching some inexpensive bouquet of flowers in his right hand.
The flowers were an afterthought, something he bought in a panic along the way when he remembered his mother scolding him when he was younger about never showing up empty handed to someone's house.
When you saw them, you lit up. You gushed over how much you adored white daisies, took his coat, pushed a bottle of beer into his hand, and made him feel right at home.
Month after month, Joel sat at your dinner table, learning everything about you. He especially loved the way you spoke about Pennsylvania, home, where you and Tony had lived before he got a promotion and uprooted your lives to move to Austin. You spoke about the winters and how you missed those the most.
You mentioned you got married young and didn't ever pursue a degree, so you ended up working odd jobs here and there. You mentioned finding a job as an assistant manager at a local grocery store.
Once Joel's crush became too unmanageable for just a monthly dinner, he sought you out at work. Your store wasn't near his home, but he went out of his way to do his shopping just on the chance he would run into you.
It was the first clue Joel was sinking in too deep, but he couldn't see it.
Some time after that, when Tony would leave for mysterious lunch appointments, Joel would reach across the desk and turn a framed photograph of you in his direction. On those days, he liked to pretend you were his. That you were looking at him behind the camera, smiling and laughing like he was the only man in the world.
He was always careful about putting it back before Tony returned.
When out working a case, he would ask Tony how you liked work, how you were adjusting to life in Austin, if you made any friends. Eventually, Tony laughed and asked why he was asking so many questions. So foolishly, Joel said the only thing he could think of — he wanted to be set up on a date with someone you knew.
It was a stupid idea. Joel hated every second of the date. Nina was nice, but she didn't hold a candle to you. She was too loud, too flirty, and couldn't hold her liquor. And she was oblivious to the fact that Joel's mind was completely fixated on you the entire time.
But one good thing that came from it was the first phone call he had with you.
After he blew Nina off for another date, you called him at home one night, taking him completely by surprise. His damn knees just about gave out from under him when he heard your sweet voice on the other end playfully scolding him for not calling Nina back.
"She's gorgeous, Joel! And she's got a great job."
Joel shrugged, stretching his legs out across his bed, leaning his back up against the headboard.
"No spark, darlin'."
"She's always talking about her dates at book club," you mused, "I figured she was exactly what a guy is looking for."
Joel chuckled.
"Ain't what I'm lookin' for."
"Oh. Well, tell me what you like in a woman and maybe I can find a better match."
He paused when you asked him that, unsure how to answer because the first thing that jumped to the tip of his tongue was you — I'm looking for you.
"Uh, well..." he stammered, "I like girls who are easy to talk to. Girls who don't ask me for the gory details of my job. Girls who don't mind if I gotta work late or break dates last minute if we catch a hot lead."
He heard you scoff on the other end of the phone and he thought he heard sheets rustling. For one blissful moment, he imagined you in bed, in a silky gown with a lace edge, and thinking about him.
"That last one is tough, but it comes with time," you sighed. "Like tonight. Tony told me about that drug bust he had to supervise downtown."
"Drug bust?"
Joel sat up straighter in bed. Tony never mentioned anything to him about a drug bust.
"Yeah. And I get that it's part of the job, but I made his favorite dinner to surprise him..." You trailed off while Joel's mind raced. "But it's fine. It'll heat up tomorrow just fine. It's... fine."
"Darlin'," Joel murmured, "you said fine three times."
You groaned and he found himself smiling at the frustrated little noise.
"Okay, maybe it's not fine now, but it'll be fine."
After that, Joel started to pay attention more. The late nights, the missing hours midday... it was one thing to not be able to have you so long as you were happy and being taken care of, but it was another to discover Tony was cheating on you.
You. Of all people in the world. What could Tony possibly find in someone else that you didn't already have?
After Tony had come into work for the third time that month in the same clothes as the day before, Joel had had enough.
"Late night?"
Tony raked his fingers through his hair as he collapsed into his ancient rolling chair. The brown tie around his neck looked stretched, his tan shirt wrinkled. He looked like a mess.
"Yeah. Workin' that, uh, that Carter case."
Joel nodded, pretending to look impressed. He began to click things on his computer so it looked nonchalant when he asked, "Where'd you end up?"
"Not far. I think we gotta run at the ex again."
Joel hummed, blood boiling when Tony's phone pinged and he picked it up with a loopy smile. But when he asked if it was you texting, Tony shook his head.
"Nah. Just — y'know."
Joel had to force himself to stand and walk away before he punched Tony in the throat.
A few days later, Tony confessed. He was seeing another woman named Melissa, an informant on a closed case. He promised it wasn't serious, that he was being careful, just blowing off some steam, but Joel didn't want to hear it.
You deserved better than that. Tony took you from everything and everyone you loved and he had the audacity to cheat on you?
It wasn't right. But it wasn't his place to get involved, either.
So months went by where Joel sat at your kitchen table, gazing at you adoringly over white daisies while you talked about work or some movie you had just seen or how you were interested in learning how to play piano while Tony texted Melissa under the table.
Around that time, the phone calls became more frequent.
He would call to ask if you made it home okay after work because he heard a radio call for an accident. Joel knew you were fine — he knew your car and knew your schedule, but it was an excuse to hear your voice.
One time he called to tell you a movie you mentioned wanting to see was on cable. That time, he ended up staying on the phone with you for two hours, laughing and gasping together as you watched.
The calls became a regular thing, and so did Tony's absence.
Joel told himself he was calling to distract you, but he knew deep down he was being selfish. He needed those calls more than you did.
It wasn't until much later when he would realize you never bothered to ask why Joel wasn't working late along with Tony. He was too happy to have those evenings with you to question it. He looked forward to them. He could talk to you for hours.
It was why he began showing up a little early to your monthly dinners. The moment he got off work, he would rush home to fix his hair, change into a fresh suit, and stop to examine every petal on every white daisy until he found the perfect bouquet to present you with. And you got along so well, it was no problem if Joel made it to your house before Tony some nights. It was easy to pass the time with you. And if you let him, he'd roll up his sleeves and help you make dinner.
It was never a problem. Joel sucked it up, bit his tongue, admired you from a distance and allowed himself to have his fantasies in private.
Until one night, everything changed.
---
"So what was wrong with this one, Miller?" you asked, biting into a carrot stick with one hand while the other stirred a pot of pasta.
"Nothin' wrong with her," Joel corrected, "Lori's nice 'n all, but..."
He sighed and set his knife down next to your cutting board so he can turn to look at you.
"You ever notice she grinds her teeth when she gets nervous?"
You made a face before bursting out laughing. The sound set his heart on fire.
"Oh, Joel..." you giggled, wiping your hands on your apron as you turned down the burner on the stovetop. "I'm starting to think there isn't a woman on earth who would make you happy."
"Yeah, there is."
The words flew out of his mouth before he could stop them. Before he had a chance to swallow them down and muster up some joke in their place.
Perhaps if anyone else had said those words, someone who hadn't been calling a married woman twice a week to talk about everything and nothing for hours, someone who didn't sit in the parking lot of your grocery store to make sure you made it home okay when you closed down, someone who didn't steal a picture of you from your husband's wallet — a picture he now carried in his own — then the words wouldn't have held as much weight as they did.
But you felt it. You both did. Because your smile faltered when you read the serious expression on his face. Your eyes widened and your perfect lips parted to suck in more air to steady your shaking hands.
With his heart hammering in his chest, Joel took a step forward. And it looked for a second like you might do the same, but then your phone rang, cutting the moment down at the legs.
You blinked, cleared your throat, and hurried over to the counter where your phone was plugged in.
"Hey, h-honey."
Joel dropped his chin to his chest with a sigh. He pulled his phone out of his pocket for something to do.
"Oh, that's a shame. What, uh... what happened?"
He loosened his tie as you spoke, staring blankly down at his phone and idly opening his messages. He blinked when he noticed one from Tony about an hour ago.
"That so?"
Your tone went flat, Joel heard it. At the same time, he read the missed text from your husband:
Sorry for the late notice buddy, but we're gonna have to take a rain check on dinner. Little lady isn't feeling too hot tonight.
It took him a second to catch up to the lie, but unfortunately, you beat him to it.
"Yeah, that's not a problem. I understand."
Then you turned to face him when you added: "Tell Joel I said hello."
You hung up the phone, pinning him with a hard look. He slipped his phone back into his pocket.
"What's—" But you cut him off before he even began.
"Tony said he's spending the night with you, but I think he meant to say Melissa."
Joel's heart jumped into his throat at the same time the pot of water began to boil over. He swiveled around, cursing under his breath to turn off the stove.
"I'm— I'm sorry," was all he could mumble before facing you again. Your eyes watered but you shrugged indifferently and crossed your arms.
"Before her, there was Beth," you said bluntly. Joel leaned against your counter, the edge digging into his spine, watching as you pretended to think. "Oh! And before her there was Annie. There might have been another one, too, but I couldn't prove—"
"Why'd you stay with him, then?"
Your mouth clamped shut. You tilted your head to the side with a sad grin.
"C'mon, Joel," you said softly, taking a step forward. Towards him. "You know as well as anyone how cops make it so damn difficult to leave."
His fingers curled around the edge of the counter, nails digging angrily into the wood.
"Is he—"
Joel exhaled shakily and bit the inside of his cheek before trying again.
"Does he — hurt you?"
You shook your head and his shoulders sagged with relief. You took another step.
"Threaten you?"
You paused and rolled your eyes up to the ceiling in thought.
"Not directly, no," you finally said. "But there's been implications. Certain things said a certain way. You know how it is."
Joel shook his head, jaw pulled tight. "No. I don't."
You gazed up into his stormy eyes, feeling the anger radiating off his body. Watching the way his muscles twitched with restraint underneath his shirt. How white his knuckles appeared as he gripped the counter.
"I guess it's just easier. If all I gotta deal with is some side piece of his now and again, is that so bad?"
Joel's nostrils flared. His pulse kicked faster in his throat.
He wasn't a man who lost his temper. And yet, in that moment, if Tony were to appear, Joel had no doubt in his mind that he would wring that man's neck.
"You don't deserve that," he grit out. "You shouldn't have'ta put up with anythin'. You-you're so fuckin'—"
Joel caught himself that time. He bit his tongue, swallowed down the words, dropped his head between his shoulders and stared at the floor.
You took one more step. Close enough now so he could smell your perfume. The one he spent two hours in a department store months ago trying to find so he could buy a bottle and spray it on his pillow at home.
"Joel?"
He swallowed tightly, took a deep breath, and forced himself to meet your eye.
"Yeah?"
Slowly, you reached out. One of your hands covered his. His breath hitched at the contact, at the way your thumb grazed over his knuckles.
"Why don't you like any of the girls I set you up with?" you asked.
The question took him aback. He tore his eyes off your hand to look at you again. He searched your face, noting the way your chest rose and fell slightly faster and how wide your pupils looked.
You knew.
His gaze softened, and so did his grip on your countertop.
"Don't ask questions you already know the answers to."
You exhaled, sounding relieved. You managed a nervous smile before stretching up onto your tiptoes and slowly, tenderly, brushing your lips against his own.
He couldn't move. Every muscle in his body was rigid. He couldn't even close his eyes. He just stood there, hands planted on the counter behind him, watching you peck feather-light kisses against his lips. He dreamed about that moment for so long and yet, he couldn't react. Not right away.
Then your hands drifted up to press against his chest. Your fingers roamed a little shakily across his shirt, like you were trying to map out what he looked like. His eyes fluttered closed and his stomach tightened, unable to stop himself from swelling up behind his zipper. His clothed cock twitched against your stomach and he heard you gasp before dragging your lips lower, brushing over his prickily jaw until you found a spot you liked on his neck.
He swallowed thickly, his whole body shaking with restraint the bolder you became. Your lips puckered over his skin and you began to suck a little mark there while your hands slowly drifted lower, only pausing when your fingers reached his belt.
"Wh- what're y'doin'?"
His voice sounded nothing like his own. It was deep and filled with need. He was breathing so fast, he felt lightheaded, and he was so fucking hard that it hurt, yet he still couldn't touch you.
You froze and smiled into his skin before leaning back ever so slightly. You made sure he was looking you right in the eye when you replied:
"Don't ask questions you already know the answers to."
Everything snapped. It happened so fast that it made you yelp in surprise.
He scooped you up, wrapped your legs tightly around his waist, and crashed his mouth hungrily over yours. One hand remained firmly planted on your ass, holding you up. The other got lost in your hair, keeping your head still so he could plunge his tongue impatiently past your lips.
Your arms eventually circled around his neck and you whimpered into his mouth, making him think you might have wanted this just as badly as he did. His mind was a blur, every neuron firing off at once now that he knew what it was like to hold you, kiss you, taste you... yet he still somehow managed to successfully carry you down the hall past your kitchen, where he knew your bedroom to be.
When you cracked an eye open, you loosened your grip around him and fell onto your bed. Neither of you realized how starved for oxygen you were until you finally broke the kiss and you each dragged in deep lungfuls of air.
"Y'sure 'bout this?" he asked, ripping off his tie as if it offended him. You grinned and sat up to slide your jeans down your legs.
"Fuck yes. Are you?"
Your mouth watered as he began to unbutton his shirt. The pull between your legs was almost uncomfortable at that point, so you squirmed a bit, pressing your thighs together as Joel shed his dress shirt.
"Oh, darlin'," he cooed, untucking his undershirt from his slacks. His eyes raked up and down your body, still clad in your underwear and blouse. "You got no fuckin' idea how bad I want this."
You exhaled with a smirk before grabbing the hem of your shirt and tugging it over your head. Joel's hands paused on his belt, mouth going dry when he saw the matching set of black lingerie you had chosen to wear. You seemed pleased with his reaction but a little shy. You pressed your lips together, fingers grazing over the lacy edge of your underwear.
"You like it?"
Joel made a pained noise from the back of his throat, blinked, and began working twice as fast to remove the rest of his clothes.
"Love it," he croaked, dropping his belt to the floor and unbuttoning his pants. "You look... Jesus Christ, I— I never th—"
You grinned and pushed yourself up so you were kneeling on the mattress in front of him. Your fingers toyed with the edge of his white shirt, lifting it just a bit while he stepped out of his pants.
"Never thought what?"
"Never thought you'd be wearin' somethin' like this..."
He trailed off again, his eyes still greedily taking you in.
You lifted his shirt up and he raised his arms, letting you pull it over his head.
"Do you want to know a secret, Joel?"
He nodded, jaw slack, staring at you like he were in a trance. You bit your lip coyly and whispered, "I always wear something special whenever you come over. Always."
"Y— you do?"
"Mhm," you hummed, sliding your palms over the softness of his stomach. "And I try to wear loose tops so when I bend over, you might see."
His eyes fluttered closed with a groan. Your fingers travelled higher, over the broad planes of his chest.
"You're such a good man, Joel," you purred, hands curling around his shoulders.
"I try," he whispered, tipping his head back so you could suckle on the flushed skin of his throat.
"But can you do me a favor tonight?" you asked, your voice sounding so soft and needy in his ear. He nodded, biting back a curse when your tongue peeked out to taste him.
You tore yourself away and slipped both hands through the loose curls on the back of his head. His eyelids opened, only halfway, still heavy with lust.
"Can you show me how bad you want me?"
"Yes," he rasped without hesitation. "Yes. Christ, honey, I think 'bout it all the time—"
He brought his hands to your hips, marveling at the softness of your bare skin.
"Think about what?" you urged, nails gently scraping against his scalp. He licked his lips, watching his rough hands glide across your sides, your ass, your back.
"Think 'bout... what I would do if y'were mine. 'N not just this," he clarified quickly, eyes snapping up to yours before looking back down at your body. "I think 'bout it all. Think 'bout takin' you to run errands, takin' trips together, celebratin' birthdays and holidays..."
His hand drfited up your arm and he gently pulled one of your hands free from his hair so you could lace your fingers together. He stared at the way your hands looked interlocked before pressing a kiss against each one of your fingers.
"Oh, Joel," you sighed, "I think about that, too. When I close my eyes at night, I pretend it's you sleeping next to me instead of—"
You stopped yourself from saying your husband's name out loud, but it wouldn't have mattered to Joel if you did. Tony stopped mattering to him twenty minutes ago. Now, his entire focus was firmly on you and you alone.
Nothing else mattered. Nothing.
"Don't worry," he murmured, then pressed a firm kiss to your lips while gently pushing you backwards. Your spine softened and you let him lower you carefully onto the mattress, his lips never leaving yours the entire time.
When you were laying flat, all sprawled out underneath him, hand still locked with his, he broke the kiss and looked down at you.
"You don't gotta pretend for long. I'll make it happen, baby. We'll be together, okay?"
Confusion flickered across your face for a moment, like you wanted to ask how, but you didn't. You trusted him. So you nodded obediently with a sweet smile.
"Make me yours, Joel."
Fuck, it felt like a dream to hear those words come from your mouth. He knew in that moment that he would do anything he had to — anything — to follow through with his promise.
He smiled, kissed the tip of your nose, then ventured lower. His lips grazed your chest, traced his tongue over the swell of your breasts spilling over the cups of your bra, and continued downward. Soft kisses were peppered down your stomach until he reached the band of your panties. His eyes flickered up to yours once, briefly, before releasing your hand. His fingers curled around the lace, tugging them down slowly until they slid down to your ankles. You wiggled your feet and let them fall to the floor with your other discarded clothes.
His palms slid over your thighs, gently prying them apart and pressing them into the mattress. He heard your breath stutter when your pussy was finally exposed to him.
"Oh, fuck," he moaned, fixated on the way you glistened, just for him. "You're so pretty. So, so pretty." His chest heaved as he stared between your legs, mania slowly curling around his brain with each passing second. "Can I— can I kiss her, baby? Can I taste her?"
"Yes," you breathed, squirming a little under his intense gaze. "Yes, please Joel, please—"
He didn't need to be told twice. He dropped his shoulders between your thighs, settling in, and suctioned his mouth around your pussy. You gasped at the contact and your back arched off the bed for a moment until you relaxed with a sigh. His kisses were messy. Loud. His tongue licked at you, diving between your folds and lapping up your arousal.
It was easy to sense his eagerness through his actions. Like he longed for you, longed for all of you. Like his only purpose on earth was to take care of you. Every lick and kiss and moan drove the point home — his, his, his.
He didn't tease you. Not that time. He wanted you too badly, and he had waited for so long. He was so patient and good, but he reached his limit.
Once he felt your muscles tense and your back arch off the bed, he didn't stop. He kept going, kept devouring, tongue merciless against your clit until you cried out his name, coming so hard that your vision blurred and you broke out into a light sweat.
"Good," he gasped, pressing a breathless kiss to the inside of your thigh. You trembled like a leaf under him. His eyes closed for a moment as he caught his breath. "Good girl. Did so good f'me. Feel good?"
"God, Joel," you moaned, voice cracking as you raked a hand through your own hair and took a deep breath. He grinned when you said, "You're fucking amazing at that. Holy shit..."
That's all he wanted. He wanted to make you happy, make you feel loved the way you deserved.
He was going to give you a break. You looked spent and loose, all spread out over your bed. He didn't want to rush, but the dark spot in his boxers was spreading, and his stomach ached from how hard he was.
As if you read his mind, your eyes fluttered open with a lazy smile. You reached behind you, unclasped your bra, and tossed it with a giggle over your head. Joel laughed, then brought a hand up to cup your bare breast. You bit your bottom lip and arched into his touch, moaning softly when his thumb toyed with your nipple.
"Fuck me, Joel," you whispered, sighing when the warmth of his mouth enveloped your breast. The tip of his tongue flicked teasingly over your nipple before paying the same attention to the other one.
"Yeah? You want it?" he asked, grinning like a fool when your fingers plucked hastily at the band of his boxers.
"Please," you begged. The sound made his knees weak.
"Okay," he breathed, pushing his boxers down his legs. "Okay, darlin'. I'll give you anythin' you want."
As he was dragging the head of his cock through your slit, in the back of his mind he knew he should ask if he should use protection. It would have been the right thing to do.
But he was sick of always doing the right thing.
And he was desperate to feel you. Really feel all of you.
So he pressed inside, parting your walls with a groan. He was still in disbelief that it was actually happening, and you felt so much better than he ever imagined. You were so warm and wet, your cunt fluttered perfectly around him, welcoming every inch of him inside while you babbled a slew of curses and gasps until his hips grew flush with yours.
He felt delirious, like he was losing all semblance of control. All of his wildest dreams suddenly came true and it was overwhelming. You wrapped your arms and legs around him, pulling him close so you could pepper kisses along his jaw while he struggled to collect himself.
He was utterly drowning in you. In your scent, in your warmth — he could still taste you on his tongue.
And you were perfect.
"Are you okay?" you asked.
You looked so sweet lying underneath him like that, stuffed full of his cock with your eyes wide and lips parted, looking at him like he was the answer to all your prayers.
"Yeah," he breathed, the corner of his mouth turning up into a little smile. He brushed a piece of hair off your cheek. "Just — can't believe how lucky I am."
You grinned and combed your fingers through his curls. His eyelids fluttered for a moment, the drag of your nails against his scalp sending a shiver down his spine.
"Thought you might be having second thoughts."
His eyes flew open and his smile fell.
"No," he said seriously. "Never. I would —"
Joel pulled back his hips until just the tip of his cock remained inside you. When he pushed back in, slowly, he watched with pride as your mouth fell open.
"— never have second thoughts. Y'hear me?"
You nodded with a whimper, the stretch of him splitting you open taking your breath away.
Second thoughts. How absurd.
"Now that I know what you feel like," he murmured, soft lips grazing lazily over yours as he began to move, pumping in and out of you just a little faster and finding a rhythm. "I ain't ever gonna let you go, baby. Never gonna get rid of me. Fuck — too fuckin' sweet for your own good, y'know that?"
You clawed at his back, nails leaving red trails in their wake. His cock felt so heavy and full inside of you, every thrust took you apart just to make you whole again a moment later. The way you fit together so perfectly had you thinking crazy thoughts, like maybe, just maybe, Joel would find a way to make this work.
"Feel how good that is? Huh?" he groaned, skin slapping steadily now that he found a pace he liked.
"Yes," you gasped, tilting your head back into the mattress. You hooked your ankles over the backs of his thighs for leverage so you could bring your hips up to match his rhythm. "Oh, god, Joel — just like that. Right there."
His lips suctioned to a spot on your neck, pulling at the skin to leave a bruise. He didn't care if Tony saw and neither did you.
"Can't get enough of you," he panted into your skin. Then he unhooked one of your legs from his waist so he could press it into the mattress, spreading your hips wider. You cried out at the angle — he was impossibly deep, and the way he rolled his hips to make sure he reached the spot that caused your eyes to roll to the back of your head had your stomach muscles pulling tight.
"J-Joel, I'm— I'm gonna—"
"Wait," he gasped, pulling out of you with a groan. You whined pathetically at the loss and tears welled up in your eyes. For a second, he thought his heart might break. He never, ever wanted to be the reason for your tears.
"'M sorry," he murmured, leaning back to sit on his knees. His cock twitched angrily when he saw your stretched out pussy clenching around nothing, beckoning him back in. He swallowed, took a deep breath, and pushed a hand through his messy hair.
"Turn around for me?" he asked with a tremble to his voice. Your eyes widened and you nodded, eagerly jumping to your hands and knees. He moaned at the sight of your ass in the air and at the arousal dripping down your inner thigh. He crawled forward and caressed your hip, admiring you for just a moment longer before notching himself at your entrance and easing back inside.
You inhaled sharply and curved your spine, taking him beautifully and giving him exactly what he wanted — what he needed.
"Shit," he growled, "look so good like this." His hips started to snap against your ass, picking up right where he left off. Your whines got more high pitched the faster he moved and it was making him insane. He tilted his chin towards the ceiling and closed his eyes. You felt so fucking good all wrapped around him, so tight and needy. There was nothing in the world that would make him stop loving you.
He hadn't realized how hard he was fucking you until you fell forward onto your elbows, shaking him out of his haze. He peeled his eyes open just to be met with his own reflection: across the bed was a dresser with a mirror, something he hadn't noticed at first.
And what he saw changed something within him.
He looked crazed. His eyes were heavy and dark, hair disheveled, chest and neck flushed. He could see the muscles in his arms twitching every time he slammed into you.
You.
Fuck... you looked — wrecked. Your eyes were squeezed shut, brows pinched and mouth agape as he pounded into you from behind. Your body jolted with each thrust, your hands curled into fists, and it was absolutely beautiful.
Before he had a chance to think, Joel reached down and gently took you by the chin. Your eyes flew open in surprise, instantly finding his in the mirror. He grinned, never slowing down.
"Don't we look good, baby?"
You moaned and nodded, mouth still hanging open to drag in more air. And it was fucking perfect until Joel's gaze dropped to the framed photo of your wedding day sitting on top of your dresser.
He frowned slightly for a moment, then shook it off.
Joel was a good man. Mild mannered. Polite. He always tried to do the right thing. But in that moment, something changed.
"You're mine," he growled, the possessiveness in his own voice giving him the chills. You nodded obediently and he released your jaw. "After this," he panted, "he doesn't get to touch you. Kiss you. Fuck you. Understand?"
"Yes," you gasped, then your head fell to hang between your shoulders. You were holding on by a thread and it filled him with a sick sense of pride. It had the heat rising to his cheeks and his hips stuttering with the need to let go, but you needed to come first.
You would always come first with him, in every way.
His hand slid between your legs, two fingers locating your clit with precision. He began to rub firm, quick circles, making you gasp and buck wildly underneath him.
"Don't stop," you begged, rolling your hips back to match his pace. Between your shaky thighs and ragged breaths, he could tell you were close — right on the edge. You threw your head back and moaned while pleading with him to keep going, keep going.
"I gotcha," he said through clenched teeth. His wrist kept snapping between your legs, playing with your clit while simultaneously slamming into you from behind, splitting you open and carving a spot within you forever.
"Joel..." you whimpered, upper body going lax. "O-Oh fuck— Joel—"
"Let go," he urged, fighting back his own desperation to come. He blinked away the sweat that dripped down from his forehead. "C'mon, baby, I'll catch you."
Finally, with a soft cry, you came. Your pussy clenched around him over and over, each tight squeeze making him see stars. He murmured quiet praises in your ear the whole time. He told you how good you felt, how beautiful you were, how he had been dreaming about that moment for almost a year — he repeated sweet words over and over until he couldn't hold back any longer.
With one final thrust, he grabbed hold of your hips and came with a rough groan ripping from his chest. He knew he should have asked or pulled out, but the rabid urge to mark you, to have a part of him leaking out of you for the next day or so was too strong to ignore.
Fortunately, you didn't seem to mind. In fact, you welcomed it with a lazy smile as he pumped you full of his seed until he collapsed on the bed, pulling you with him. He held you close, your back pressed to his chest, while you quietly caught your breath together. When your skin cooled and you shivered a bit in his arms, he tugged a blanket over you both, all while still plugging you with his cock.
"Joel?"
He hummed and with his eyes closed, pressed a kiss to the back of your shoulder.
"Thank you," you whispered softly.
"F'what?" he mumbled.
"For... making me feel wanted again."
"Oh, darlin'," he cooed with another kiss, "I more than just want you."
Your silence in return had him cracking open one eye. He lovingly traced a circle into your arm with his thumb when he asked, "You alright?"
"Yeah," you breathed, then shifted a bit against him, pressing yourself deeper into his hold. But it wasn't enough.
"Did you—"
Joel swallowed nervously and took a deep breath before trying again.
"Did you do this just to get back at him?"
"No," you said quickly. You twisted around in his arms and he hissed when his softening cock slipped out of you. Then you cupped his cheek with a sweet smile. "No. I meant what I said."
He grinned with relief as you stifled a yawn.
"Good."
You closed your eyes and pushed your face into his chest, seeking out his warmth.
"How are we gonna make this work, Joel?"
You sounded so sleepy but so hopeful at the same time. He sighed and patted down your hair, then tenderly kissed your forehead.
"I told you," he said, "I'll do whatever I gotta do."
He sensed your curiosity but once again, you didn't ask him to elaborate. It was for the best that way. You shouldn't know what lengths he was willing to go to in order to have you all to himself. It might scare you. Hell, oftentimes it scared him. But as you drifted off to sleep, Joel told himself people do crazy things for love, and this would be no exception.
After all, he was a good man. Nobody would ever suspect a thing.
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𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: a daunting realisation leads you and max to an emotional discovery. or in which you decide to take matters into your own hands.
𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: skeletons of fluff, angstttt, lots of crying and emotions, lily, arthur, victoria being real ones, potential to hate the reader (ik im srry), also like a fake depiction of charles and max's karting history bc i fucked up with the times and ages at the start so...
𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: max verstappen x fem!reader, charles leclerc x fem!reader
𝐀/𝐍: okay so please don't kill me... enjoy ♡︎ // second to last chapter AHHHHHHH
You were seasick. Not lovesick. Seasick. That’s what you had said when Charles, Lily, and Max had found you – leaning on the railing, trying to catch your breath. Because that’s what it was.
This wasn’t love. You knew what love was. Love was you and Charles. Years and years of it. This wasn’t even an inch of anything more than the both of you had kissed on.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” Lily queried, brows bent in concern while she rubbed your back gently. She was too sweet. A mere acquaintance since today and here she was taking care of you as you wiped your face with some water in the bathroom.
You smiled weakly and nodded. “Yeah, I’m fine. Sorry you had to see me like this,” you murmured, lips pressed tightly together as you dried your face, faint taste of bile still ruminating in your mouth.
Lily’s face softened at your words, embarrassment and regret written all over your face. “Oh, this is nothing. You should see me after a few cups of wine,” she laughed with a mission. And it worked. Your shoulders eased while colour made its way back to your face.
You sucked in a sharp breath, trying to feel fresh again. “Should we go back up? I’ve probably ruined the lunch,” you mumbled with a small groan as you said it. Fuck. Your skin burned, fingertips pressed into your forehead while you grovelled. You hadn’t thought of that. Everything had happened so suddenly.
You could feel Lily’s hand wrap around your arm, giving you a reassuring squeeze. “You haven’t. It’s been amazing. These things happen,” she shrugged.
You turned to her in disbelief. Things like almost having a panic attack over something entirely idiotic? “Dude...” you started, “Where have you been all my life?” You asked, admiring her kindness.
Lily laughed quietly. “In England,” she replied.
You sighed, shaking your head. “Should’ve been born here to be friends with me.”
“Well, I’m here now, aren’t I?” She gave you a light nudge, making the both of you grin as you returned back to the deck.
━━━━━━━━━━━
The walk back to the deck filled you with dread.
You could still remember how Max wrapped his hand around your shoulder, holding you up to him, asking if you were okay, concern heavily running through his voice. And instead of recoiling, you found yourself breathing easier. Or was that when Charles had pushed him to the side and frantically checked you for any other signs of being sick.
You slowly blinked, internally sighing. You wished the earth would swallow you whole right now.
You could capture a quick glimpse of everyone before they had seen you and Lily. Carlos and Rebecca were quietly talking to Charles. Lando laughing with that mysterious girl, laying on the loungers. And then finally, Max sitting across Oscar at the table. It was only a few seconds, but you thought he looked tense. With the way his chin rested on his hand, jaw taut, blue eyes slightly blank, attention occasionally drifting to Charles.
Did he always look that? So... rugged? So firm?
He always just seemed to piss you off with every chance he got. But when he wasn’t, he didn’t look so awful.
It was Oscar who first noticed the both of you, abruptly standing up, capturing Max’s attention to swing his eyes in your direction, the same concern still ever present in his gaze.
You sucked in a sharp breath. Christ...
It’ll be fine. You were seasick. That’s all.
You braved an awkward smile, feeling Lily peer at you with encouragement from the corner of your eye. “Hello,” you slowly greeted, laughing softly as though to ease out the anxiety in your bidy. God forbid you threw up again.
Oscar pressed his lips together, gently smiling in return. “Everything okay?”
You swallowed, nodding, eyes falling to the cracks in the deck as the weight of everyone’s worry seem to become unbearable. “Yeah, yeah, um... I don’t know. I don’t normally get seasick,” you said sheepishly, scratching the back of your neck.
“Maybe it was something you ate,” Lando called out.
You looked over to him and his friend. She seemed nice and sweet. She hadn't even done anything really. Yet for some reason she was bothering you. Like an itch at the back of your head that you couldn't really scratch. You cleared our throat, smiling tightly, nodding once again. “Yeah, maybe,” you murmured. “Sorry if I made lunch weird. That was... pretty dramatic,” you laughed out, fingers haphazardly tightening and loosening.
“You didn’t,” Max finally spoke, voice quick, reassuring, and firm.
Pressing your lips together, you nodded silently. The weight of his eyes was the worse. Heavy and intense. Like he wanted to scream. Shout. God knows what. But it was the way they stared at you. As if he knew you were lying. That you weren’t okay. Reading you like an open book. It was unsettling.
You shuddered when you felt a hand on your back. Head turning, you found Charles next to you. He smiled at you gently before looking at everyone else. “We should probably all head back,” he said as your eyes fell back to Max’s face. He wasn’t pissed off. He looked purely annoyed.
“Thanks for coming. I really enjoyed it,” Charles smiled, tilting his head as he looked at Max and then back to you. He stared, blue eyes boring into yours, making his presence known. “Ready to go?”
You blinked, nodding after some time, a bit too exhausted to try and decode why the man in front of you displayed the same signs of anger as he did when a race went wrong. “Sure.”
━━━━━━━━━━━
It had been almost a week since your debacle on the boat. You hadn't talked to Max. You couldn't. In fact, you were trying to stay away from all things Max.
You could’ve sworn you were going crazy. Or maybe it was making you crazy.
Because here you were, staring at your phone, on a zoomed in picture Max had posted of himself during the summer break. He was in Portugal now. And while the idea of him being so far away let you breathe in peace, you were still keeping tabs on him like some weirdo.
Your head tilted, brows furrowed, teeth sinking into your bottom lip. Your eyes ran over the photo. Wet body in the water, muscles taut. Scatters of red on his face. That wide boxy smile. Perfectly swooped brown hair. You groaned, throwing away your phone on the couch and rubbing your face harshly.
What is wrong with you?
This was Max. The guy who had been pissing you off since you saw him race in go-karts. To you, he was always absolutely infuriating because he thrived off knowing your biggest secret. Vexing because he used it against you. A few months ago, you couldn’t stand to be in the same room as him. He used to make you want to peel off your skin. That’s how much you hated him.
But then again... you made that deal with him.
You leaned up, blinking quickly as a strange cog in your head finally turned in place. The deal. That was your problem. That stupid goddamn deal. It was the only thing that had united the both of you in the first place. The whole reason you were in the same room as him to begin with.
If that went away... then this would go away, right? There would be no doubt. No Max. No nothing. There only be you and Charles. Like it was supposed to be. How you always wanted it.
━━━━━━━━━━━
Max wasn’t expecting you. You hadn’t called him or texted him. And to be honest, he was trying to fulfil the suggestion to stay away from you. Not because Charles told him – never. Because he couldn’t trust himself around you.
He couldn’t trust himself to keep quiet and tell you everything he knew. Because what was he going to say? Charles was actually one of the most selfish people he had ever met and he’s just using you? Like you'd believe him.
And where was the evidence?
“Yeah, he just told me that. So just believe me. I’m telling the truth.”
The part that haunted him the most was your reaction if he did tell you. He couldn’t bear the thought of the light in your eyes fading away as he told you. Or your smile dropping. Nor your eyes glossing over because you’d be crying of Charles in front of him again.
And there he would stand, again. Angry and annoyed, laughing, having to pretend like your tears didn't make his heart ache. Because that 'logical' response would be better than telling you why the mere sight of you in pain made his breath catch.
But here you were. Awkwardly perched on the couch of the lobby, clearly full of anxiety as your foot tapped away, eyes flickering between the vapid paintings on the walls and the questionable art sculptures in the room.
You could feel your body freeze when your eyes fell to him. You swallowed thickly, chewing your lips seconds later. Fuck, why was he making you so nervous? Your fingers clasped around each other tightly as he walked over to you, casual and hands to the side.
That familiar boxy smile slowly graced his face. “Hey,” he greeted, scratching his brow. “You know you can call me, right?” He joked.
You knew. But if you did, you probably would’ve hung up. At least here, you couldn’t run away. Because the idea of that was far more mortifying than anything else at the moment.
You observed him carefully. Portugal had kissed him and left a small glow on him.
Even if he didn't seem particularly relaxed after a much needed vacation... it looked– it was nice.
You shook your head lightly before breathing in. “Um, yeah,” you murmured, rubbing your knees with your hands. Honestly, you hadn’t even planned what to say. All you knew was that you needed to end it.
This. It. Whatever it was.
But Christ, the words were fizzling out on your tongue every time you tried. Your stomach churned, bubbling with an unfamiliar uneasiness.
Max knitted his brows together, easily spotting the look on your face. It was the same one you sported at the lunch before you had thrown up. He had seen it as he was talking to Lando’s friend. It was why he was the first standing up after you left. Only to be pushed aside by that absolute cretin.
“Is everything okay?” He asked gently.
You winced at his softness. He didn’t make this any easier for you. Because this wasn’t Max. Since when was he this forbearing? This… mushy?
“Do you mind if we head up?”
Max blinked, pausing for a moment before nodding. “Okay. Yeah, sure,” he murmured. Something was very clearly wrong. Especially if you couldn’t say it out in the open.
The ride up to his penthouse was like your first. Quiet. Tense. Standing like you were on the verge of breaking. The only difference was he wasn’t holding he wasn’t holding you up. You stood near him but at a maintained distance. Like you were scared he was going to infect you. Every other time you had been in this elevator, you were laughing... joking... teasing...
God, this was even worse than you ignoring him. To acknowledge him and render him invisible at the same time was a damning prowess.
Opening the door to his penthouse, Max watched you enter first, taking note of how familiar you looked in the setting as you took your shoes off. He followed suit, heading to the kitchen to grab some you a cup of water. He returned, finding you seated on his couch, leg still jolting with nerves. He placed the glass on the coffee table in front of you and sat across you. “So,” he breathed, lips pressed tightly together. “What’s going on?”
You stayed silent. You weren’t trying to muster up the courage. No. You had no idea exactly what it was that you were trying to build so you could finish this off. Your hands had been clammy for ten minutes now, a physical manifestation of how you felt. Dread was pouring into you like a broken dam.
You sucked in another sharp breath.
Remember why you were doing this.
Why are you doing this? A small voice queried in the back of your head. What are you? Afraid?
You blinked, internally shrugging off the sound. “I...” you started, blowing air into your cheeks, unable to look him in the eye. God, why was this so hard? “I think... I think we should stop this,” you carefully said.
Max pursed his lips. “This?” He repeated, confused.
You nodded. “Uh, you know,” you pointed between the both of you. “This. The deal,” you clarified with a slight shrug.
Max blinked, leaning back into the couch, hard blue eyes staring at you. He had expected this. That lunch had proven something was bound to happen. He didn’t, however, expect it to be so early. After some time pondering, he cautiously spoke, “Is this because of Charles?”
Your lips parted. How did he...? You cleared your throat, nodding. “I– yeah. He said he loves me.”
You couldn’t explain what you expected from Max when you had said that. Perhaps some sort of overjoyed reaction that left him saying he was really happy for you. Or even a silent nod. But you watched as he laughed softly and whatever guards he had down with you were suddenly back up – eyes firm, jaw taut, teeth grinding against one another.
“What?” You queried, slightly flustered, unable to pick apart his reaction like you normally did.
Max shrugged, hands turning outwards in his lap. “Nothing. It’s just funny,” he huffed. “How you come back to him so easily?”
You blinked, skin beginning to itch. So easily? You narrowed your eyes, jaw clenched as you folded your arms. “Max, I’ve been in love with him for years. Of course it’s easy.”
He snorted, bow laughing to himself while he shook his head. Only you would say something so naive. He licked his lips, leaning forward to hold your gaze. “He’s treating you like you’re his second choice,” he stated.
“Excuse me?” Your voice was sharp, offence screaming on the surface. Your shoulders lifted, tense and propped up like the way a shield. Were you dreaming? Was this some sort of nightmare reality and really you were still stuck in your apartment, debating on how to do this?
Max swallowed, instantly regretting the way he had said it. He sighed with frustration, standing up to take a seat next to you. He slowly started speaking with the utter most wariness, unaware of how the hairs on your body stood straight. “Can’t you see how fast he's moved on? Suddenly looking back at you? Touching you? He hasn't looked at you like that since you were kids. Ever.”
Your eyes grew hot. You could tell he was right. Stating only the same truth you had revisited time and time again over the past few weeks, wondering why the love of your life had just started to reciprocate even a little bit of your feelings.
But your heart ached at those inklings. Brain rerouting that truth when you were reminded how long you had spent pining after Charles. All those years... all that time, it couldn't be for nothing. He was just giving back what you had given him, right?
You chewed your lip, glassy eyes reverting to the glass of water in front of you. You huffed, corners of your mouth turning upwards to block out those alarms. “Are you sure you’re not jealous?” You queried with a tired grin, reaching for the glass before taking a sip to cool the swarming heat in your body.
Your body stilled when Max said nothing, silence echoing in heartbeats. You hesitantly turned towards him, heart racing when you read those eyes. Still tense and stormy as ever. But in that mix were slivers of a softness you had only ever seen in yourself – the very one you gave to Charles.
You shook your head, placing the cup down. “No, no, no,” you began only to be interrupted.
Max laughed quietly, pained at your reaction. He hesitantly put a hand on your own, sending a current down your arm. “I mean come on. Surely, you’ve noticed. Our excuses to meet. Asking you to stay.”
You stood up abruptly, shrugging off his hand. You stared at him hard, heartbeat screaming in your ears. “You said no strings attached, Max,” you slowly murmured, cautious.
It didn't make sense. It couldn't. He hated you.
“Well, I lied.”
He stood up, towering over you as he usually did. He tilted his head, blue eyes looking at you, searching your face for an answer – anything that would soothe the ache in his chest.
“Max,” you groaned, feeling the tears brim in your eyes. Your hands fell to your face, covering those annoying tears. Why was he ruining this? It wasn't supposed to happen like this. He was supposed to agree and be okay with it and you were going to move on. “Fuck,” you muttered under your breath.
“What do you want me to say?” He asked, the exhaustion he had been feeling for the past few weeks over his feelings slowly beginning to creep into his own voice as it cracked.
“You fill my house!” He shrugged defencelessly, running a hand through his hair, dishevelling its kept, guarded exterior. “My house has been empty for years. But everywhere I look, everywhere I walk — you’re there! I have never been able to get you out of my head. No matter how hard I’ve tried. No hard I’ve tried. No matter how hard I’ve tried to hate you.”
You blinked, taken aback, removing your hands from your face, a rush of cold air skimming by. Tried? What does that even mean?
Max looked at you resigned, shoulders slumping. “I mean, shit, ___, why do you think I noticed you at a karting track? One of my favourite things ever? ___, you wore my colours. My colours.”
“Stop,” you sighed out, voice raw and sore as you shook your head. “Stop talking,” you said, taking a step back. If this was what you thought it was... you couldn’t hear it.
Max shook his head, swallowing the lump in his throat. “No, no. You don't get to do that when I've watched you be pathetically in love with him for years,” he gritted out, sucking in a sharp breath.
For some reason, you closed your eyes at the hurt in his voice as if that would block it out. You felt his fingers graze your face as he held your jaw in in his hand. It's soft and gentle, carried with care. You hated that it felt right.
Fuck. Fuck...
“I want you to look at me when I say this,” Max stated.
“Max–”
“Please.”
You sighed, opening your eyes. You almost couldn’t recognise him with those reddened eyes and his flushed skin. In all your life, you had never seen him look so torn. So destroyed.
Max breathed in, gaze focused on you, undeterred by your harsh glare that you tried to build as if you were trying to keep your guards up. “I’ve liked you since we were kids. I tried not to. I tried to move on. But this deal... this reminded me exactly why I’ve failed every time. I like you, okay? And I think you do too– yes,” he interrupted when you shook your head adamantly.
“You just don’t want to admit it. You don't want to admit that at that stupid gala, he had hurt you more than he ever had. He made you question your fucking worth. Made you feel like you aren't beautiful when you're the most precious woman I've ever seen. And here you are wanting to pretend Charles is the one because you want to live in your fucked up fairytale – well guess what? This is reality. Whether you like it or not.”
You clenched your jaw, frowning at him, new tears beginning to drip from your eyes. “Is that it then?" you queried, hands resting at your sides as your shrugged shoulders slumped. "What do you want me to do? Run to you? Choose you because you think I'm beautiful?”
Max blinked, giving you a curt nod. “Yeah,” he softly said, biting down on his lip when he felt the early signs of a tremble.
Choose him. Choose him, a voice echoed.
But all those years... that can't be all for nothing, another chimed. Your love can't be wasted - you didn't deserve that.
You breathed in, tight and long, suffocating, lips pursed tightly before they parted. “Goodbye, Max.”
Max watched as you took a few steps back, leaving his hand falling from your face and down to the side of his body as you retreated to his front door, sniffles loud and clear in the air. He flinched at the sound of his door slamming shut, the echo, reverberating in waves as he was left alone in his empty penthouse.
That’s the thing about En Passant. The capture must be done on the very next move, or the opportunity is lost.
Max had lost.
But Charles hadn’t won either. And for now... that was the only hope he had.
━━━━━━━━━━━
Arthur had never been so startled when you knocked on his door and he found you in tears. Instantly, he brought you into his arms, ushering you to his living room. “Oh chérie,” he mumbled, lips pressed against your hair, hands tightening around him as you cried in his arms. “What happened?”
You hadn’t kept Arthur in the loop. With so much happening, you probably should have. But it was all so quick. Hungary. The breakup. Charles’ apartment. The lunch. Max.
So, you began where you left off, sharing your vulnerable moment with his brother in Hungary. How Charles’ realisation had daunted you and was the whole reason why you had flown to Estonia to begin with.
Then came Charles and Alex’s breakup. Which, by the sounds of it, had happened not too soon after Hungary. That, of course, Arthur knew.
But as you explained Charles’ behaviour at his apartment, dry tears staining your cheeks, Arthur couldn’t help but become bewildered. He knew as much as the next person… his brother had never batted even an eye to you. Ever. At least not like that. Charles saw you the way Arthur saw you – as a sister. It was the most unfortunate to fall in love with him.
Arthur had even suggested it to Charles a couple of times. Not directly of course. But small little nudges your way. How you and Charles would be good a fit because you get each other. How you're able to read his mind. Anything to set him up with you. But Charles had always ignored it, telling Arthur, “Why don’t you just date her instead?”
So, for Charles to be up and about, right after breaking up with Alex, hugging you and clinging on to you… it just didn’t sound right.
Arthur blinked after your last words. “Wait, he told you he loved you?” He queried, even more confusion piling into his face.
“Yeah, at the lunch,” you nodded, sniffling.
Arthur mended his brows, brain beginning to hurt. If you told him this was about literally anyone else, he would be more inclined to believe you. But his own brother? He couldn’t even recognise him.
“Which is when you had the panic attack?” He asked, trying to salvage the pieces of this puzzle he had lost. He felt you nod again, savouring the warmth of his chest in the moment as you curled up to him.
Arthur frowned, tucking your hair behind your ear. “But what’s got you like this?”
This clearly wasn’t the aftermath of Charles. This was something else. And by the hesitation on your face, he was right. It hurt him to see you like this. You normally told him everything. But watching you struggle, watching your defences crumble was devastating.
You stayed silent for a moment, trying to replay the past hour in your head. “I went to Max,” you confessed with a pained sigh after some time. “I thought that if the deal was making it difficult to love Charles back, then maybe it was time to break it off. But then Max said I was Charles’ second choice,” you stated bitterly.
Arthur made a face. Second choice?
You huffed with a sardonic amusement. “Said Charles ‘moved on too fast.’ What the hell does he know?” You grunted, annoyance still dripping through your veins.
“So did you break it off?”
You paused, pulling away from Arthur’s arms. You looked up at him, uncertainty swirling within your eyes. “I guess.”
He raised a brow. “You guess?”
You swallowed, wincing at the taste of salt in your mouth. Clearing your throat, you sighed. “He said... he broke the rule,” you murmured. “No strings attached,” you whispered, more to yourself than to Arthur.
Arthur smiled softly to himself. “I thought that would happen,” he admitted quietly. He tilted his head, spotting the absent look on your face as you chewed your lip. He nudged you lightly. “What?”
“He said he had felt that way since we were kids.”
Arthur’s body stilled. He blinked. One. Twice. Another two times. He was sure he had heard you incorrectly. “K-Kids?” He stuttered; disbelief ever present in his voice. No way... surely he would've noticed.
He raked over his memories. In all those times he had ever spent with Max Verstappen, had there ever been a sign? Snowball fights, stomped sandcastles, broken daisy chains, blown dandelions, your reddened cheeks when he'd beat his own brother in a sprint... Max was a menace as a child. But he couldn't of liked you then. Could he?
You nodded idly, staring at the fabric of the couch as Arthur leaned back, sighing with you, disbelief pouring into the both of you. Why was this getting more complicated with every passing second?
━━━━━━━━━━━
“Max? Oh sweetie,” Victoria gasped as he opened the door for her. She frowned at her red-eyed brother, immediately bringing him in for a hug, soothing hand rubbing his back.
“Sorry for calling you all the way here,” he mumbled, voice sore like he had been shouting or crying – neither of which his sister could tell.
Max usually was pissing her off in the way brothers usually did. Irritable jokes. Teasing. But she could tell, this was real. When he had called her and begged her to come to Monaco, she knew he wasn't joking around. He needed his sister.
“Nonsense,” she mumbled, pulling away gently. She looked m at him, taking in his exhausted expression. He sighed “Have you had anything to eat yet?”
Max shook his head silently, head overrun with dangerous thoughts. What if he had lost you forever? Fuck. Should he have said nothing?
Victoria stared at him. She almost didn’t recognise him. She sighed to herself and walked into his penthouse, opening the fridge before turning to her brother who remained at the door, lost in thought. “Okay. I’m going to make some tomato soup. And then we’ll talk, hmm?”
And so, she did.
Max sat at his dining table, adamantly not wanting to sit on the couch. He could still see you there. The moments of your fight clashing with every good memory he had of you in his house.
“What happened?” Victoria asked after a few minutes of silence and ensuring Max had something to eat.
Max stared at the bowl in front of him, rubbing his face as he sighed, frustrated. “I fucked up, Vic. I fucked up bad,” he confessed, slightly gnawing on his knuckle.
She raised a brow. “With ___?” She gently queried.
Her brother nodded quietly, still in disbelief. Your voice echoed in his brain. The shouting. The hurt. Ringing in his ears like a tinnitus he couldn't get rid of. “I...” he started, breathing in shortly before cutting himself off. “Charles asked me to stay away. So, I did. did. That’s why we did Portugal together.” he murmured like he was still trying to go over every second of this fallout.
“Yeah,” Victoria softly agreed with a nod. She knew about that conversation Max had with Charles on the yacht. Safe to say she was considering throwing the nearest vase at the Monégasque.
“And then she came over here out of nowhere and, fuck, I said nothing right,” he exasperated, reddened eyes finally looking over towards his sister. His hands flailed as the emotion took over him. “I-I told her Charles wasn’t treating her right but not why. I told her I liked her but not why. I didn’t give a fucking explanation about anything!”
His sister winced at his anger, watching his body slowly simmer down with a pained laugh. She could see his eyes well and there he was – her true brother. Not the one in the media. Not the ‘Rarely Emotional Max.’
This was him.
The same guy who spent hours on the plane reading through your blog. Your very first follower actually (his username was iluvc4ts_33 and he always leaves a comment on your posts). Her brother who was distraught when you cried over Charles winning Monaco and hesitantly debated consoling you but chose not to. Max who had named his cat Jimmy after you suggested it randomly when you were kids and less hateful. He who broke your handmade daisy chains and made you even better ones after. Who attacked Charles with endless snowballs just to see you laugh and 'accidentally' ruined both of yours joint-venture into sandcastles, only to make a bigger one with you.
Victoria mended her brows. “Max, do you remember the first time you saw her?”
Max looked at his sister like she had grown two heads. His eye twitched, head leaning in with incredulity. “Vic, I’m sitting here, crying over ___ who I don’t think is ever going to talk to me again and you’re asking me that?”
Victoria rolled her eyes. Ever the flair for dramatics. “Shut up and answer the question.”
“Of course I do,” he mumbled.
Because Max could never forget it even if he tried.
It was in 2005 in Limburg, Belgium at a karting circuit. The first time Max ever competed directly against Charles. He had heard of the Monégasque before, name swirling around through the adults and some other kids. He was curious, naturally. Who was this kid?
Max had come to the circuit with his dad. It was cold that day. He had already been training in the rain beforehand, leaving his hands absolutely freezing to death. Italian winters weren’t exactly the kindest things.
He was sat somewhere in the paddock, trying to remember the turns in his brain while he warmed up his hands by rubbing then when he heard a voice yell.
“Charles! I told you to keep your gloves on.”
The voice was soft and sharp, reprimanding yet with good intentions.
That voice was you.
Max blinked into himself, cheeks all rosy as he watched you run after this famed Charles. He tilted his head, blue eyes picking up your out of breath expression once you finally caught up to your friend. Your hair fell out of the beanie you wore, long and loose. You were bundled in an orange coat. You were young. Only by a couple of years. But you stood firm, grabbing the boy’s hand.
“You’re going to catch a cold,” you huffed, big eyes peering up at Charles.
Charles looked at you like a mere fleck of dust, shrugging off your hand. “I’ll be fine. Go give them to Lorenzo.”
Max could tell. Even as Charles walked away from you, dismissing your entire presence. You loved him. Even then.
It was the way your shoulders shrunk as the hurt splashed across your face. You stepped back unconsciously like you had just been stabbed. You pouted to yourself, shifting on your feet awkwardly, gripping the pair of gloves in your hand tightly.
Max could feel his world stop as you turned around, big eyes meeting his and then falling to his reddened hands. His heart slammed in his chest with every step you took near him. He watched your cheeks bunch up as you smiled gently, your five-year-old self bending down to meet him. He sat silently, skin burning when you grabbed his hands, sliding on each glove with great difficulty, tongue resting on the side of your mouth as you concentrated.
He swallowed when your eyes flickered back to him. He could'e sworn he had just died. He watched the cold air deepen the flush on your cheeks while you smiled again. “Good luck,” you mumbled, looking up at him.
And just like that, you were walking away, still able to see the faint trace of Charles’ red coat.
In that championship, Max had won. Charles wasn’t on the podium. And he caught you again with him, this time consoling the dejected Monégasque – like you would for years to come. You looked at him and smiled. And even then, as Charles looked from you to him, curious or miffed, he couldn’t tell. But Max could feel that ember of annoyance in his chest.
So, he laughed and shook his head. Like you and Charles were beneath him. All while keeping those glove-covered hands close to himself all the way back home, holding into them like they were a last resort as his father critiqued every little thing he had done wrong that week.
"What does this have to do with anything?" Max sighed, chest aching even further, head lightly dipping, the weight heavy on his shoulders.
His sister pursed her lips, hand reaching over to comfort him. "Whatever you feel right now. Remember it. Don't let this brief moment of weakness get in between the both of you."
"I know," he swallowed, gnawing on his lip, sting in his eyes. She was right. As she often was. But it was difficult to see this as just a mere obstacle. All he could replay in his head was the pain in your eyes. The way his confession struck you, creating this glass like denial – fragile, firm, and protective. "It feels like I've lost." His voice strained, fracturing like his heart.
"You haven't lost, Max," Victoria murmured. "You can't expect her to just accept the truth. Charles..." she paused at her brother's breath catching in his throat. "He has been everything to her. And he knows that. He's exposed this careful... facade to her purposefully. You have to recognise that you threaten his control."
Max sighed, leaning back in his chair, sniffling. He listened to his sister's words carefully, arms folded. "She's unlearning," he said, turning to her.
"Yeah," she agreed, smiling gently, patting his arm.
A silence enveloped the both of them for a beat, the realisation slowly settling in. To unlearn what had been embedded into years and years of friendship, it would take time. Even if you accepted it. Because this wasn't just a lie. This was a betrayal to your very love. To who you were.
For a moment, Victoria could feel her heart clench as her older brother looked at her, same blue eyes full of misery and hope. "Everything will be fine... won't it?" His voice echoed into his penthouse, unsure and scared. Similar to that of the same kid who fought to not collapse under his father.
She swallowed thickly, throat tight. She sucked in a deep breath of air, letting the ache curl into her lungs before she released it. "Of course it will."
You wanted to be inspirational. To portray a certain lifestyle. To show off a little, get an experience of a lifestyle. So you chose Monaco for your summer vacation. August, sun, beautiful water. But you were far from shaking ass on a yacht in Monte Carlo. You decided to immerse yourself in the culture. Go to a museum. Coins and stamps were certainly not something you wanted to spend at least an hour on. So you researched. And somewhere on the 7th page of Google, you found it. Something that was practically free. You weren't sure why Monaco had a Sex Museum and what you'd see there, but beggars couldn't be chosers. So you ended up going. Of course, it's in a sketchy alleyway, tucked in bellow a massage parlor. You swear the guy walking out past you looks familiar. There's something about his green eyes and brown hair, face like an angel. He refers to his girlfriend as "cherie" and a girl in the most beautiful flower printed dress dress moves as well. They're probably some monegasque locals curious on a random Friday, you reason. Then you walk in. You don't expect a reception like ticket booth. Maybe something more digital and autonomous. Not a guy in a Mercedes baseball cap with the name plate "Franz Herman." His eyes linger on you for a moment, a deep blue that manages to feel you exposed and bare. He's apraising you almost, trying to memorize every detail about you in seconds. It's working because you let him. You barely notice him asking about "How many tickets will you need?" You're certain that just the one will do.
"You know, I'm also the owner, and I can give you a guided tour. This museum is my pride and joy, and I would love it if more people could experience it in the way I intend to. Shall we?" He asks, already getting up from his seat and moving next to you. You think this is a ploy to get a good Google review. A nice post on social media even. You bit the lure, why not? You wait for someone to replace him, and as soon as a nice-looking Japanese guy shows up and gets some brief memos in hushed tones, you are led by Frank. His touch isn't immediately alarming. It becomes such slowly. One moment, he's gesturing towards the entrance, describing how it's also a geographical thing. How he had traveled the word and gotten himself some things as "souvenirs." It's a haphazardous collection at best. Figurines, dice, cards, books, magazines, old school tapes. There was even a small room where porn played, which he opened and closed at the speed of light. This was when his arm grazed along the small of your back. Somewhere between beckoning you in there and trying to shut you out. You realize how awkward it would be for him to stand there and watch you watch porn.
"So, have you ever been to an erotic museum before?" He asks, trying to gauge what attracted you to this place. He's a little like a marketing survey, you think. Maybe next he'll ask how did you find out about this place. You had an inkling he wasn't the best at SEO and weren't about to rub salt in that wound. So you settled for diverting from any further questions by praising his museum. Flatter the ego.
"I've been in the one in Amsterdam. It's a bit too big for me, slightly disappointing. Plus, there was a machine that told me I was bad at sex, so that's that." You say. You have no idea why you're telling a complete stranger that. Yet it slips out. You expect him not to mention the last part. To have the decency to ignore it. Yet, he only replies, "Must have been faulty that thing. We have an interactive part too, you know."
It should make you curious, not terrify you. But you quiet the alarm bells in your head. He probably has a vibrator race set up or some standee you could take pictures with. Max a chair with shackles or something. That's what you expect. Franz leads you to a gloryhole. Well, a reverse gloryhole, maybe. It's not a small thing where a dick is struck through a hole. No, it's a whole setup for someone to get in, the lower half of their body being left out to be used. You can't help but wonder if it hurts. What would it feel like. Does the sensation of being trapped heighten the whole experience. If you can't see or move, really, does it become too much? You take a step towards it. Go to examine it when you feel a push. When they were inventing the word manhandle, they must have meant that guy. Because that's exactly what Franz was doing to you. Using his strength to shove you in there. To bend you and twist you until you're stuck.
You wanna try and scream, but it's futile. It's not soundproof per se, but close enough. There's nothing you can do. Not kick. If you just stay very still, maybe he'll say it was all a joke. A little exercise to raise your adrenaline. Some quip about levels of oxytocin and fear and arousal. You beg, and you pray mentally. Yet you feel it. A pair of strong hands on your body. They move slowly, as if trying to memorize it all, to make themselves familiar. His fingertips are delicate. Calloused. Precise. You wonder if he's done this before or if he was in tune with your body. Because it was mortifying, humiliating, nerve-wracking. But it also made you wet. You justified it with a lack of action. Your body had been deprived of sight and movement before. And it had been thrilling. But it was discussed before, ironed out, safe words in place. You wondered if Franz would quit if you said "No" or "Stop."
You had seen enough SVU to know what happens next. You thought that, and the Twitter porn links that turn a bit dodgy in the middle of it would be something of a guideline on what would happen next. That he'd pry open your legs, stand between them imposingly, and take. Slide his dick in you and thrust, bruise, shallow and fast and desperate. The whole spiel of how you brought this on yourself, how your skirt was short enough already to show off your panties. How he knew you liked it rough, how it was written on your face. He defies expectations. He's almost gentle but hasty. He drags your panties down to your knees and then trails his fingers back up your legs. Franz feels your ankles. He can see how you're shivering for him. Doesn't miss the chance to drag his nails over your ass, over where the hands of previous partners had left bruises. What he does is spit. Even that is perfectly calculated, landing just where he needs it to. Franz knows saliva is bad, they could get him by that, DNA testing and all. So he has to convince you to keep quiet. To like this. Because he's not like the other creeps out there. He's seen them, and one tried to buy Spanish fly in order to roofie girls. Franz had to pull some lie out of his ass that he only sells that if a couple comes together to buy it and the weirdo leaves (tanking down the museum's rating with him.) Franz was just a professional. Researching how to make this more immersive. Could he make money from this? The original plan was to spook you a little and get you going. Explain the correlation between fear and arousal, making you pay extra for a vibrator from the giftshop. But things got a little out of hand. And now he's smearing his spit on your pussy, not that you need it, honestly. One brush past your clit and he can feel it. Nonetheless Franz moves lower, fingers just shy of your hole. Yep, there it is, you're so fucking wet.
"Look at that, you'll just let me touch you a little bit, won't you, sweetheart. Just play with you a little, get what I want, what I need. After all, I'm a man, it's only natural for me to do this after being stuck here all the time. Constantly surrounded by filth. And then you come in, all interested in my sex collection. How can I resist." He punctuates every sentence with a grope. A squeeze of flesh. Your thighs, your ass, exposing you even more. Finally, he crosses the threshold and touches you properly. No more teasing, just two fingers against your pussy. Testing. Teasing. Probing. Searching for entry or resistance. And then your cunt takes him. Despite the muffled no, the squirming around you let him put his fingers inside of you. Hooked up, past the knuckles, searching. Needing to find that spot that makes you cum. After all, that would make things after easier, right. He doesn't want you to be too tight on his cock, needs you just right. Yet you're not there yet, not by a mile.
"Still a bit scared, aren't you? I'm sorry. I just have to do this, you'd understand if you were a man. God if only you could feel just how perfect your pussy is. Practically made for me, fucking all mine now. You'll see soon, you'll feel it when I'm properly inside of you. Before you know it you'll be begging for my cock." Franz says and doesn't miss how you squeeze against him. How there's a whimper or a poorly concealed moan in between your pleas to be let go. Signs.
He knows he shouldn't rush. That's not the way this gets done. Yet he can't help it. He speeds up his movements to distract you, your slick sounds not letting you hear his zipper going down. Using his left hand he angles his cock against you and it's in. It takes him a few thrusts to get the rhythm right. First, it's too fast, ramming into you like he's got a race to win. And then it's too slow, like he's trying to savor something that doesn't belong to him. A bite from a stolen stroopwaffel, the weight of a nicked golden ring on his finger. Then he stops thinking and just fucks. He didn't learn from porn. Franz had to do it the old fashioned way, by being attentive to everything his partner was doing. And now he was doing exactly that. Few fast, shallow thrusts to tease you, to dangle the carrot in front of you. The the slow, deep ones, the ones where you felt every millimeter of him against yourself, the proverbial stick. They weren't necessarily a punishment, more of a reminder. That he could own you. That you paid 10 euros to look at his collection of gooning material and now you were getting fucked. Feeling him where others couldn't reach.
It's the sense of more danger that makes you come. The telltale slowing of his hips. How he barely pulls out anymore, just pushes in and in and chases something.
"How do you feel about creampies?" He asks, and you're done. It's not like you have a choice either way, mind you. You both know that. He doesn't stop,he just hooks his hands around your hips, trying to bring you closer. As one, entangled like puzzle pieces. With his tip right against your cervix, he falls apart, emptying his balls inside of you.
"We should've done this before Sardinia, I mean, you didn't even see my tan lines." You complain to Max as he helps you out of the thing. With the end of summer break nearing and well the season so far, a repeat trip to the Monaco sex club was much needed. After visiting basically every museum in Sardinia to secretly meet with Toto or Kimi, this fantasy was born.
"I'll see them on the yacht. Now, let's get out of here before Lewis comes moping around. I'm not trying to feed those allegations, either."
summary: All Joel Miller wanted was a cake from you, the town baker. All you wanted in return were a few items and to have a drink with him. Now, you’re naked in your bedroom, sitting on his face, getting eaten out like you’re the first real meal he’s had in years.
“Then ask me for what you really want.”
“You wanna come in and fuck me?”
“Only if you’ll let me take you out on a date tomorrow. I don’t do that casual, fuck buddy shit. You’re either mine, or nothin’ at all.”
pairing: Joel Miller/f!reader
rating: E (18+!!! No y/n, porn with some plot, explicit smut, Possessive Joel Miller, big-juicy-legal age gap, unprotected p in v (wrap it up!), creampie, oral sex (f & m receiving), face sitting, woman on top, rough sex (arms pinned behind back, face shoved against bed), begging, dirty talk (so much), praise (a ton), multiple orgasms, overstimulation, breast worship, aftercare, reader is a lil bratty, feelings, pregnancy mention, Good Parent Joel Miller, sneaking around)
word count: 13.3k+
a/n: Hi! I missed Joel a lot, and as soon as he traded Legos for a cake, my ass was typing out this fic idea. I hope you enjoy my horny fever dream! Note: Halican Drops is a fake band. Sarah wears their band t-shirt in the first episode. I headcanon that they sound like Joan Jett & the Blackhearts. Title from "long story short" by Taylor Swift. Shoutout to @devineconjuring for betaing!
Thank you for reading! Comments and reblogs feed me. I’d love to know what you thought!
Masterlist
It’s a Tuesday in Spring, the sun due to set in the coming hour. The temperatures outside have begun to warm up, melting some of the snow high in the mountains. You’d already completed your shifts for the day in the community kitchen, assisting with making breakfast and preparing for lunch and dinner, which a majority of Jackson ate in the mess hall—you didn’t, instead opting to enjoy your food in the comfort of your apartment. With your evening meal finished and your dishes washed, you’re sitting on the couch in your living room listening to the soft tune of Nirvana playing on your record player—a new addition to your collection, their MTV Unplugged in New York album from ‘94—while darning the holes in all of your socks. There are two piles on the coffee table in front of you, one for the hole-y and the other for the now holeless.
A knock on your front door has you pausing, your eyebrows furrowing. You’re not expecting anyone tonight, as indicated by the oversized David Bowie concert t-shirt, lack of bra, and black leggings you’re wearing. “Coming!” you announce, leaning forward to set the sock and yarn on the tabletop before getting up and walking the short distance to the door. Turning the doorknob, you crack it open enough to see who’s there. To your surprise, it’s that handsome older gentleman who arrived in town a couple of months ago, whom you haven’t had the opportunity to introduce yourself to, but have definitely ogled. How could you not with how his flannels always hugged his broad shoulders and how good his jeans made his ass look. You take in what he’s wearing today—a red flannel shirt with dark denim on his bottom half. Your eyes meet his. “Can I help you?” you ask.
He gives you a sheepish smile that’s honestly adorable on such a rugged face. “I’m sorry for botherin’ you, ma’am. My name is Joel. Joel Miller, Tommy’s brother? I’ve been in Jackson a little while now, and I was told you’re the person to talk to if I’m in need of a cake.”
“Oh!” You open your door wider. “Yes, that’s me!” Quickly, you give him your name and offer your hand for him to shake, noticing immediately how much bigger his is when it practically engulfs your smaller one. It has your mind wandering, wondering what it’d feel like on other parts of your body. That thought heats your skin, and you feel a little disappointed when he lets go. “What kind of cake are you needing?”
“A birthday cake.”
“For your wife, or girlfriend?”
“No.” He shakes his head. “For my dau—kid,” he catches himself.
You lean against the doorframe, crossing your arms over your chest, and you see his split-second glance at your breasts. You smile. “For your kid, who’s not your daughter.”
He sighs, his hands going to his hips. “It’s… complicated.”
“You adopt her?”
“Yeah.”
It was pretty common for people to take in orphaned children, especially here in town. As sad as it was, there have been instances of kids losing their parents or guardians on their way to Jackson who still managed to make it to the town’s walls, or who were found by patrols and brought in. Luckily, there was an abundance of couples and families willing to foster or adopt the children.
“How old is she turning?”
“Fifteen.”
“Got yourself a teen. How long has she been in your care?”
“Seven, eight months.”
“Ah, I understand the not-daughter thing now.” His kid is older, and their relationship is still relatively new. They’ve probably bonded but aren’t comfortable using father-daughter labels yet. “Just you and her?”
“Yeah.”
He’s single. That’s good to know.
“It’s sweet that you want her to have a cake for her birthday.”
He smiles fondly. “It’s her first.”
Handsome, polite, and loves his adopted child as if she were his own? He’s perfect, and it’s surprising no one has taken him off the market yet. Maybe you should shoot your shot. There aren’t a lot of guys like him in Jackson, and it wouldn’t hurt to try.
“That’s even sweeter,” you reply. “What’s her name?”
“Ellie.”
“A great name—simple and lovely. The last cake I made was for this woman’s husband, named Reginald. Do you have any idea how fucking hard it is to spell out, ‘Happy Birthday, Reginald,’ on a cake the size of a small dinner plate?”
He looks amused. “Pretty hard?”
“Pretty fucking hard, Joel. I made it work, though, squishing the letters together. Do you have a preference if it’s chocolate or vanilla?”
“Uh, chocolate, I guess?”
“Okay, and when do you need it done by?”
“The day after tomorrow.”
“Short notice and chocolate—that’s gonna cost you extra.”
“That won’t be a problem. I used to be a smuggler. I can find somethin’ you’d want.” That’s how you’re paid, by bartering, goods, or favors.
“A smuggler, huh? If you don’t mind me asking, where are you from? Aside from Texas, I know Tommy’s a Texan.”
“Boston. The QZ out there.”
“Doing your smuggling, I assume?”
“Yes.”
“You’re not a chatty guy, are you?”
He huffs out a breath, looking down at his boots. “No, ma’am. I don’t have much to chat about.” His eyes land on yours again.
“That’s not true. You came all the way here from fucking Boston. You could tell me about your travels, Ellie, or hell, we could reminisce about the days before the world ended.”
He smiles, his weight shifting to one side. “Were you even alive back then?”
“I was.”
“You had to be young. A kid.”
“Yeah. Doesn’t mean I don’t remember the comic strips in the Sunday newspaper and how good fresh McDonald’s fries were.”
His eyebrows rise almost to his hairline. “Wow, I haven’t thought about McDonald’s in years.”
“What I’d give for some McNuggets and an apple pie.”
“Did you get some of the apple pie at dinner tonight?”
You smile. “I made the apple pie at dinner tonight.”
He matches your expression. “Did you? That tells me the cake is gonna be really fuckin’ good, then.”
The compliment makes you preen. “Thank you. My mom taught me how to bake before, you know.” The outbreak. “We had this old family recipe for peach pie that always won first place at the county fair.”
“If it was anythin’ like the pie tonight, I can see why.”
“Stop that,” you tease, waving away his words. “Flattery will get you everywhere.”
His eyes dart away, clearing his throat. It must have been a while since he was last flirted with. He focuses on you again, changing the subject. “So, what kind of stuff do you want?”
“Ummm, let’s see. It’s her first cake, you’re a sweetheart, and I have all of the ingredients. How about records, movies, and booze?” Easy stuff for him to get. It’s basically the equivalent of a half-off discount. “Oh, and socks!” Yours have seen better days.
“Any records or movies? You’re not lookin’ for anythin’ specific?”
“Nope.” Any duplicates you receive, you’ll trade.
“What about alcohol?”
“I’m not picky. Whatever you have will do.” All that matters is that it’s safe to consume. Liquor is a hot commodity and a valuable bargaining tool.
“Okay.” He nods. “That’s not too bad. I appreciate you for bein’ so kind to me. I’ll have it all to you tomorrow.”
“Great! But there’s something else I want, too.”
His eyes narrow slightly, and he frowns. He thinks you’re trying to pull one over on him. “What else?”
“I’d like to have a drink with you.”
When every day could possibly be your last, there’s no point in playing coy. You’re going to go after what you want, unashamed.
Surprise shows on his face, clearly taken aback. “You want to have a drink with me…?” he says the words slowly, like he almost doesn’t believe them.
“Yes, I want to have a drink with you, Joel.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. Why would a woman want to have a drink with you?”
He frowns. “It can’t be for the reason I’m thinkin’.”
“If you thought it’s to get to know you better because I’m interested in you, that is correct.”
That just makes him look confused. “Me? You know I’m old, right? Shit, I’m probably older than your parents.”
Your eyebrow lifts. “And? You’re an adult. I’m an adult. What does your age have to do with anything?”
His arms cross over his chest. “A lot, sweetheart. I don’t think you know what you’re askin’ for. I’m not a young buck anymore. I don’t have the energy of a boy your age. I’m old and broken. My fuckin’ ear doesn’t even work.” He points at the right one.
“So, you’ve got some wear and tear. I don’t care. I still want to have a drink with you. But hey, if you’re uncomfortable with that, then don’t worry about it. I’ll, of course, still make Ellie her cake for the stuff we agreed on.”
“It’s not that I’m uncomfortable. I’m flattered, really. I’m just havin’ a hard time understandin’ why you’re interested in someone as old as me. There’s gotta be guys closer to your age around here that’d love to have a drink with you. What I mean is you’re beautiful, and I know you can do a lot better than me.”
You smile. “You think I’m beautiful?”
“Yes.” He nods. “But that’s beside the point.”
“Have you thought that maybe I like that you’re so much older than me?”
He stands up straighter, his interest piqued. “You got a thing for older men?”
“Now you’re getting it. I do have standards, so it depends on the man in question. In your case, you check all my boxes.”
His expression shows his curiosity. “What are you lookin’ for?”
“Someone caring, pleasant to talk to, not creepy, easy on the eyes, can hold their own, and fifties preferred; I’m willing to dip into the late forties if I have to.”
“Why is fifties preferred?”
“You really wanna know?”
“Yeah, I do.”
“Okay. Men your age are great in bed, it’s as simple as that.”
“What makes them great?”
“You wanna know for later?”
You’re rewarded with a flirty little smirk. “Maybe.”
His answer thrills you. “Maybe, huh? I’ve found them to be very generous, and they seem to care that I’m having a good time, too, which is fantastic. They’re also the only ones who’ve ever gone down on me. The guys my age are always in a rush and generally care more about themselves than me. It sucks. So, men in their fifties are my preference.”
The explanation has his dark eyes getting even darker. Now that he’s aware of the extent of your interest in him, there’s a palpable shift between you, and it becomes clear that the attraction is mutual.
“And you’re not seein’ anyone currently…?”
“No. I’m single and very available, especially to you. Now do you wanna come in for a drink?” you ask, the door squealing as you push it open even more.
There’s no hiding that he’s contemplating your offer; it’s there on his face, probably warring with himself over the morality of the situation, and you get it. Given the significant age difference, there are many things he could be worrying about, which he needs to weigh the pros and cons of. At least it’s reassuring that he seems to have a conscience. You’re just hoping he chooses to give in to his desires.
It’s seconds later that he’s made his decision.
“No use in fightin’ it,” he says under his breath.
Joel sends the butterflies in your stomach into a frenzy when he takes a step toward you, his hand going up onto the doorframe above your head. He leans in close, your faces only an inch apart, and you gulp at the proximity. “Only a drink?” he rasps. “Is that really all you want, sweetheart?” His eyes keep jumping from your eyeline to your mouth like it’s taking a lot for him not to kiss you.
“No,” you breathe.
“No, it’s not. Tell the truth. What do you want?”
“You.”
Excitement burns low in your belly. You can’t believe this is actually happening. You figured he might be okay with having a drink with you, but this? This is definitely better.
“Then ask me for what you really want.”
“You wanna come in and fuck me?”
“Only if you’ll let me take you out on a date tomorrow. I don’t do that casual, fuck buddy shit. You’re either mine, or nothin’ at all.”
A shiver moves down your spine, your heart pounding so hard you think it might beat right out of your chest. From that declaration, and his confidence, you know he’s got a big dick. Better yet, you’re almost positive he knows how to use it, too.
“Yes, I’ll go out with you, but I’m not yours until you show me why I should be.”
He smirks. “Is that right?”
“Yep,” you answer. Your palm presses to the front of his jeans, over his hardening cock, which you’re happy to find is rather sizeable.
It delights you how his eyes close, and he groans, “Fuck.” When they open again, there’s only the tiniest sliver of brown circling his blown pupils. “You’re gonna be the fuckin’ death of me.”
“Not up for the challenge?”
Joel growls, his lips suddenly on yours, kissing you hard. A surprised sound leaves your throat, but you’re quick to kiss him back, matching his fervor as you grab fistfuls of his shirt, tugging him into your house. His large hand is on your ass, the other shoving your front door closed before its cupping your cheek. Neither of you wants the kiss to end, your mouths staying fused as you walk backward until you bump into the arm of your couch. This is when you spin him, getting him around to the front of the sofa. You break apart as you push him, Joel falling back onto the cushions with a heavy, breathless thump.
Dust floats in a patch of evening light behind him as you stand there, your pulse hammering in your rib cage, your lips tingling. This man with lines etched into his face, carving out the years of grit, survival, and untold grief—no one is lucky enough to make it as far as he has without losses—he’s looking up at you like you’re the first beautiful thing he’s seen in a long, long time.
It’s electric and heavy all at once, like standing on the edge of something dangerous and good. What are you to do but jump headfirst into the abyss that has the potential to ruin you for anyone else?
“You’re gorgeous,” he says, ending the silence. “C’mere, baby.” He holds out his arms to you, and you’re like a moth to a flame—drawn to him, crawling into his lap without another word. Straddling his thighs, you take his stubbled cheeks into your palms and kiss him once more. He moans into your mouth, his big hands grabbing onto your ass, encouraging you to grind against the straining length in his jeans, the friction to your clit stoking the arousal in your center.
It shouldn’t be a surprise that he’s not in a hurry to get you naked. He’s more interested in kissing you, delving his tongue between your lips to tangle with your own. It makes you assume he hasn’t been with a woman in quite a while, and he’s taking his time, luxuriating in your affections.
It goes on and on, until you hit a point where you need to come up for air, your mouth coming off of his to draw in a deep breath. He pants, kissing your chin and the underside of your jaw.
His hands go still. “Can I take your shirt off?” he asks, pulling back to look at your face. His lips are reddened and shiny from spit, his cheeks tinted in a pink flush.
You smile, your fingertips sliding through the hair above his ears. “Only if you take off yours, too.”
“Okay.”
He doesn’t waste time. Joel grips the hem of your t-shirt, tugging it up and off your raised arms, letting it fall onto the floor. Your fingers start unbuttoning his flannel, while his attention is on your bared breasts that he caresses, his thumbs sweeping across the soft skin, your nipples tightening.
The last button is undone. “Off,” you order, pushing open his shirt. He sighs at being interrupted, but he does as you say, sitting up in his seat, jostling you as he shrugs off his flannel, the garment meeting the same fate as your t-shirt.
There’s no time for you to admire the newly revealed skin; he’s zeroed in on your tits again, his hands squeezing them gently, weighing them in his palms. It’s hard not to laugh when he shoves his prickly face into the pillowy mounds and happily sighs. You’re not sure if he’s enjoying your softness again or if he’s a boob guy. Maybe it’s both. You are, however, pretty sure he’s in heaven, and good for him. He can have this moment. Your arms are around his neck, with your fingers pressed into the brown waves on his head.
He kisses along the side of your breast, and you’re gasping at him sucking your pebbled nipple into the warmth of his mouth. It sends a shock of pleasure straight to your clit, making you squirm in his lap. “Yes,” you moan as he swirls his tongue around the hard bud. He moves to give your other breast the same treatment, a shiver rolling through you when cold air hits the saliva left behind on your skin.
Wetness pools between your thighs, your cunt aching, pulsing with need. Joel pulls off your stiff nipple with an audible pop, lifting his head to meet your eyes, his gaze heavy, pupils blown. His voice dips into something rough and hungry. “If I’m not mistaken, you like your pussy eaten?”
“I love it.”
“Thank Christ, ‘cause I fuckin’ love eatin’ it, and it’s been too damn long since I’ve gotten a taste.”
His eagerness has heat sizzling in your veins. “Well, how about we change that?” You get up to stand in front of him. “Lose the boots.”
He smiles. “Yes, ma’am.” He grunts as he leans forward, quickly untying and taking off the worn leather boots that he puts neatly paired on the floor next to him. His socks look a lot better than yours—one of the perks of being a smuggler and knowing where to find things.
You stick out your hand to him. “Let’s go, handsome. We’re taking this to the bedroom.”
“I like the sound of that.” He accepts your palm, and you pull as he rises up onto his feet with a pained groan. “Will be better for my back.”
With Joel hot on your heels, you lead him out of the living room and through the kitchen to the hallway, down to the end where your bedroom is. Crawling onto your queen-size bed, he follows and has you squeaking in surprise when he roughly tugs your leggings off your lower half, causing you to fall onto your stomach. He easily manhandles you onto your back, giving you a glimpse of his strength. You find yourself lying there with your head cushioned on a pillow, Joel kneeling between your legs.
It catches you off guard how he looks down at you, as if he’s seeing something sacred. There’s awe there that he barely hides. Reverence. It takes your breath away that, once again, it’s written on his face that he thinks you’re the most beautiful thing he’s seen in a very, very long time.
His hands smooth up your thighs. “Today is my lucky day,” he murmurs, voice thick with want. “Just look at you.” He hooks his fingers into the waistband of your panties, dragging them down and off, tossing them to the floor. “Fuckin’ perfection laid out for me. Look at that pretty little pussy.” With two fingers, he spreads open your slick folds, his hot gaze locked on your cunt. “You’re gonna taste so fuckin’ good.” His tongue wets his lips like he’s imagining it. “I wanna fuckin’ drown in it.”
A sharp jolt of excitement shoots through your core, clenching hard with anticipation. You’re expecting him to dive in, tongue first. What you are not anticipating is Joel leaning up, wrapping an arm around your waist, and rolling you on top of him to have you straddle his stomach.
Your eyebrows pull together, blinking down at him with your hands on his chest. “I thought you were eating me out…?”
He smiles. “I am. Maybe not the way you’re expectin’, though. You ever ride someone’s face?”
Your stomach flips. “No?”
“Well, looks like today is your lucky day, too.” His biceps flex as he guides your hips up toward his head. “Get up here, baby.”
You grab the wooden headboard to steady yourself, your heart racing, nerves twisting in your gut. You want it—you want it so fucking bad, but your brain won’t stop worrying about the logistics. Or the potential body count of one extremely hot older man.
He gets you to settle over his face, your thighs bracketing his ears. “How do I do this without, you know, killing you?” you ask.
His voice is muffled beneath you. “Just sit on my face. All of your weight. I wanna feel it.”
He wants you to smother him with your pussy?
“Joel, babe, I like you, and I want to see where this goes, but that can’t happen if I suffocate you.”
“Suffocatin’ between your thighs would be the best way to leave this world.”
Considering the alternatives of getting bitten by infected or murdered by fellow humans, he isn’t wrong that dying while doing something you love is the best way to go out.
“That doesn’t reassure me.”
“It’d take more than your pussy to kill me. I can move you off if I have to, or I’ll tap your thigh twice.” He demonstrates. “So, quit your worryin’ and sit.”
“Bossy.”
He smacks your ass, the sharp sting making your cunt clench. He loses patience, gripping your thighs, yanking you down against his face. That worry you had about accidentally murdering Joel? It flies out the window, your brain short-circuiting at the heat of his mouth and the wet messy sound of his tongue plunging into your pussy. It’s instant, the pleasure cutting through you sharp as a knife, your head falling back, your knees buckling.
“Oh, fuck,” you moan, already starting to tremble.
It’s filthy and almost too much, but not enough all at once. His stubble scrapes your inner thighs, adding a bite to every glide of his wicked tongue, his groans vibrating against your sensitive skin. You’re floating, your heartbeat thumping in your ears. He licks up every drop you’re dripping like a man possessed, his nose bumping your swollen clit.
He’s going to make you come—arousal burns hot at the base of your spine, the knot in your belly winding tighter and tighter. You’re so lost in how fucking good it feels you don’t even realize you’re grinding down until Joel’s fingers grab your ass and rock you against his mouth, helping you move.
“That’s it,” he groans into your cunt. “Use me. Fuck my face, baby.”
And you do, your hips moving greedily now, chasing every lick of his tongue, unashamed. Your whole body burns, your pussy soaked, every nerve in your body lit up like the Fourth of July. Sweat drips down your spine and between your breasts.
You thought Joel was in heaven earlier with his face buried in your tits, but from the way he’s eating you out like it’s his last meal on earth and how he can’t seem to stop groaning against your cunt, this is his real heaven. He drags the flat of his tongue through your folds to wrap his lips around your throbbing clit, and when he sucks, he has to hold you still as you writhe, chanting his name over and over again, spiraling out of your mind in pleasure.
God, he really is going to ruin you for anyone else, isn’t he? It’s not like this is the first time you’ve been eaten out, either. But no one’s devoured you like this. He’s truly hungry for it—relentless. Slurping at your pussy like it’s his favorite meal.
“Don’t stop,” you whimper. “Don’t fucking stop. Your mouth—fuck—I love your mouth. It’s so good.” You don’t even know if he can hear you with your thighs clamped over his only good ear.
Maybe it was a mistake challenging him to show you why you should be his. He’s pulling out all the stops to convince you. You’re already unraveling, and this man has the audacity to snake his hand up to your breast and tweak your nipple. It forces a choked sound from your throat, and your vision blurs for a second.
He works you up, higher and higher, until you’re trembling over him, your thighs quaking, belly tight, heart hammering like it's trying to break free. You’re drenched, dripping onto his face, as he feasts on you like he’s starving.
“Fuck, Joel—” you gasp, but can’t even finish the thought.
You reach for his hand on your thigh, desperate for something to hold onto. He squeezes it, grounding you.
Joel moans into your cunt as if it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted, dragging his tongue in slow, deliberate strokes that push you right to the edge. Then he sucks your clit deep into his mouth, and the world drops out from under you.
You scream. There’s no other word for it. You cry out like you’re shattering, hips jerking, cunt clenching so hard around nothing it aches. Your orgasm rips through you, hot and brutal, pleasure crashing over you in waves that leave you gasping and twitching.
Joel doesn’t stop; he doubles down.
He groans like he’s getting off on it, rutting his tongue against your pulsing clit and shoving it inside you to lick up your release. His stubble scratches your swollen lips, his fingers digging into your ass to keep you right where he wants you.
“That’s it,” he growls into your pussy between licks. “Give it to me. Fuckin’ soak my face, baby. I want it all.”
Sounds are spilling from you of their own accord—moans, cries, possible declarations of love for this guy you’ve known for less than two hours. You don’t know what you’re saying, you just know he’s wrecking you, and you never want it to end.
“Joel, Joel—oh fuck—I can’t—” He has you coming again. It builds until it spills over, dizzying and all-consuming. Your body goes taut for a heartbeat, and then you’re melting, euphoria searing through your veins, your thighs shaking uncontrollably around his head. This one isn’t as explosive as the last, but it’s deep, stealing your breath and making you feel like your soul just drifts out of you.
“Good girl,” his voice half-muffled by your cunt.
His tongue continues lapping lazily at your oversensitive clit until you’re flinching, overstimulated. Finally, he eases up, making a satisfied hum.
“You did so fuckin’ good for me,” he murmurs.
You’re numb with pleasure—boneless, floating. Joel’s strong hands slide up to your waist, carefully lifting you off his face. He settles you onto his chest for barely a moment before your legs give out, collapsing onto your back beside him in a spent, panting heap. Your arms and legs feel heavy, your body buzzing like a live wire.
Well, it still rings true that guys his age know what they’re doing in the bedroom. You have a theory on why that is, and it has to do with them being in their thirties before everything went to hell. They remember what it’s like to fuck in a time void of the uncertainty and fear of today. They remember what it’s like to be carefree and able to take their time in bed, unlike these days, where it’s hard to find somewhere safe enough to feel that relaxed.
Luckily, Jackson is one of those places. So here, in the safety of the town, they get to relive those years, and you’re more than happy to go down memory lane with them.
And somehow, with hardly any effort, Joel wants you to be his.
It’s embarrassing how giddy that makes you.
He can’t know he’s already sold you on a relationship with him. You want him to work for it, so you don’t come off as too easy.
The old springs in the mattress squeak as Joel shifts onto his side. His rough, calloused fingers stroke along your cheek. “You okay, sweetheart?” he softly asks. “Need a second?”
You nod slowly. “My arms are noodles, and my legs aren’t any better. I’m pretty sure I couldn’t walk if I tried.
“Yeah?” You can hear the smile in his voice. “It’s a good thing you don’t have anywhere to be.” There’s a pause. Without looking at him, you know he’s frowning now. “You don’t have plans, right? Tonight?”
Your eyes blink open, your head turning his way, smiling. The bottom half of his face is shiny with your juices, and he looks adorably worried with a crinkle between his eyebrows that you reach up to smooth with your thumb. “No plans. I was going to fix all the holes in my socks. Maybe patch up some other clothes. I’d much rather spend my evening with you, though.”
He smiles, grabbing your hand, kissing your knuckles. “Good. I’ve got nothin’ goin’ on, either. I just need to be home by midnight.”
“Because you, what? Turn back into a pumpkin after midnight?”
He gives you a flat look. “No, I don’t turn into a damn pumpkin. I’ve got a kid. I need to be home for her.”
“You have no idea how much it turns me on that you’re a good dad.”
Joel huffs in amusement, his eyes leaving yours. “I don’t know about bein’ a good dad, but she doesn’t seem to hate me, so I must be doin’ somethin’ right.”
“I mean, you’re getting her a birthday cake—her first birthday cake, might I add—and you were willing to pay whatever price it’d cost. Sounds very ‘good dad’ to me. That actually reminds me. Don’t worry about the shit we agreed on. We’re good. I’ll make the cake tomorrow. You could even come over and help me, if you wanted to.” That’d be such a cute date.
His gaze comes back to yours, his lips downturned. “I don’t want you doin’ it for free. I know that ingredients aren’t easy to come by, and you’re takin’ time out of your busy day.”
“Who said anything about free? Just so we’re clear, I normally do not make cakes in exchange for sexual favors, but this will be the only exception because you were that good—don’t let it go to your head.”
It’s too late, the smugness is already showing on his face, his dark eyes sparkling with a crooked grin. “I was that good, huh?” His head dips to place a soft kiss on your naked shoulder. “You gonna be mine now?”
“I don’t know. I think I need some more convincing.”
“More convincin’?” He lets go of your hand to rest his palm, warm and firm, on your thigh. “What will it take?”
“You know what I want.”
“Be a good girl and ask me for it.”
You suck in a breath, your cunt throbbing in beat with your heart. Oh, you like that.
Quickly, you compose yourself. “Ask for it? Or do you want me to beg for it?” Your tone shifts to something sultry. “Please, Joel. I need your cock. I’m aching for it. Fuck me. Fill me up. Ruin me—whatever you want. Just please, will you fuck me now?”
His fingers tighten on your leg, his voice deepening. “How do you want it?”
You smile. “How do you want me?”
“Flip over.”
“Take off your pants.” You glance down at the denim to see the impressive bulge at the front. “I’m not going to be the only one who’s naked.” Your gaze returns to his. “Go on. Get up and strip.”
He’s frowning. “And you were callin’ me bossy…” he mumbles.
“You got a problem with that, big guy?”
“No, ma’am.”
He moves to get off the bed and walks around to the end of it. You sit up on your elbows to watch with interest as he undoes his belt and unbuttons his jeans. He doesn’t drag it out, shoving both his pants and boxer briefs down his legs and peeling off his socks, before standing to his full height for you to take him in, his hands on his hips.
The first thing that catches your attention is his dick bobbing between his legs. He’s mouth-wateringly thick, with a decent length that, at the thought of how it’d feel inside you, has you rubbing your thighs together to quell the sudden ache. The tip is flushed an angry red, with beads of precum smeared to make it shine in the light of your bedside lamp.
“Keep starin’ at it like that, and you’re gonna start droolin’.”
Your eyes rise to his amused ones. “Who says I’m not already?”
He’s smirking. “That mouth’s gonna get you in trouble.”
You smile. “Is that a threat, handsome?”
“It’s a fact.”
“I love this foreplay. You’re cute.”
His eyebrow lifts. “I’m cute?”
“Yes, you’re cute, and so fucking hot.” Your attention returns to his body. Naked, the broadness of his shoulders and the tininess of his waist are more pronounced. “You’re in amazing shape.”
“You think so?”
“I’d fuck you, even with the wear and tear.” You wink at him.
Speaking of wear and tear, his body is littered with scars, some old, having silvered long ago, and others newer. There’s one low on his abdomen that catches your eye, and you need to get a closer look at it, scrambling onto your hands and knees, crawling over on shaky limbs to kneel in front of him. It’s relatively big, jagged—a quick patch job by someone inexperienced or in a hurry—and red, which means he’s only had it a handful of months. The injury must’ve happened on his trek to Jackson from Boston.
What’s fascinating about it is that a wound of its caliber should’ve killed him while traveling across the country. If it weren’t the blood loss that got him, the risk for infection in those conditions would’ve been insane. Your hand moves of its own volition, pressing your fingertips to the warm, raised skin—you gasp when he abruptly snatches your palm, your chin lifting to meet his eyes.
“Sorry,” you apologize immediately.
“Shit.” He lets go, looking startled by what he’d done out of instinct. “No, I’m sorry.” His eyes dart away, sighing. “I haven’t been touched like this in a long fuckin’ time.”
“Let’s change that.”
He meets your gaze as you grab his waist for support and lean in to kiss the scar softly. He swears under his breath, his thighs tensing. “Jesus,” he rasps. You keep your eyes on his, kissing down through his happy trail to your destination between his legs. “You’re gonna fuckin’ ruin me.”
He must’ve showered earlier after working his assigned job for the day. The scent of crushed thyme clings to his skin, sharp and earthy with just a hint of mint that’s grounding and fresh.
When your fingers wrap around his cock, Joel’s head falls back as he groans loudly. He’s hot in your palm, his shaft hard as steel and velvety smooth as you slowly pump him.
“God, you have a pretty dick,” you tell him.
He stares down at you again, and you love how he looks at you, as if you’re a reward and not just a good time, how he looks at you like you mean something. “Yeah?” he says the word in question. His big hand caresses your face, stroking his thumb over the apple of your cheek. “You want it to ruin that perfect little pussy?”
“Yes, after this—” Dipping your head, you take his cock into your mouth, engulfing as much as you can until he’s hitting the back of your throat. There’s only a second for you to enjoy the heaviness of him on your tongue before he’s pulling you off of him.
“No,” he hisses. “None of that, sweetheart.” He grips the base of his shaft, giving it a squeeze to calm himself.
Frowning, you look up at him. “Why not?”
“Because if you keep goin’, I’m gonna blow before I even get inside you. I told you, it’s been a long fuckin’ time since I’ve been with someone.”
His reason makes you smile. “And you want to fuck me instead of coming down my throat.”
“And I want to fuck you instead of comin’ down your throat.”
Why is that romantic to you? Maybe because there aren’t a lot of guys who’d turn down a blow job so you can get off together.
“Hands and knees?” you ask, “Or on my stomach?”
A grin tugs at the corner of his lips. “That’s my girl. Hands and knees, baby.”
You don’t have to be told twice—turning in place, you shuffle up the mattress, settling on your hands and knees in the center of the bed. It’s instinctive how you arch your back, your ass lifted, and thighs parted. It’s a pose that feels both vulnerable and powerful, knowing exactly what kind of view you’re giving him.
You glance back over your shoulder. “You coming, big guy?” It makes you grin, finding him distracted by the display you’re putting on. You wiggle your ass to get his attention. “You gonna get up here?”
That snaps him from his reverie. His tone lowers, rough with desire, “Yes.” The mattress dips behind you as he climbs on, getting close enough that you can feel the heat of his body. Your head falls forward as his large, calloused palm slides up your spine, heavy and possessive, to squeeze the back of your neck. “Look at you,” he says, sounding awed. “My good girl with her ass up and her needy little pussy drippin’ for me. I’ve never felt so fuckin’ lucky.” His hands move to smooth over the curves of your backside before he grabs handfuls of the meaty globes hard enough that it borders on painful. “You’re perfect—you’re so fuckin’ perfect. But you know what else you are?”
You hear him spit onto his fingers, slicking up his cock before he slides it through your wet folds to get it even wetter. Then he’s pressing the fat tip against your aching entrance, teasing it, your breath catching in your throat.
“What?” you whisper.
“Mine.”
He drives into you, sheathing himself in one hard thrust that knocks the air from your lungs, your body jerking forward from the impact.
A guttural groan rumbles from Joel’s chest, his hands gripping your hips even tighter, holding you in place. He’s stretching you to your limit, filling you so completely that it’s hard to think, your fingers curling into the blankets.
You’ve never been more thankful for foreplay, that he took the time to get you ready to take him. He feels massive inside you, and so fucking good, pressing against all of the right spots. At the thought of how it’s going to feel when he’s pounding into you, your cunt clenches around him.
“Don’t,” he says through gritted teeth. “Don’t move.”
It’s clear he wasn’t lying when he said he hadn’t been with anyone in quite some time. With his breaths turning ragged and his hips twitching from holding himself back, the man is fighting for his life not to come. Enough time passes that you’ve grown used to his dick, or as used to it as you can get with how big it is. What matters is that it’s not as overwhelming as it initially seemed.
You look back at Joel, catching him with his eyes squeezed shut, jaw tight, and sweat glistening on his brow.
“Need a minute?” you ask.
He cracks his eyes open. “You’re so fuckin’ tight and warm.”
“You’re just big.”
“Am I?” He smirks.
You roll your eyes. “I’ve stroked your ego enough today. And hey, if you finish early, no shame. My pussy has that effect on some men.”
From your previous dalliances with older men, if they hadn’t fucked in a while, the first round usually went fast, something they expected so they’d get you off beforehand. After that, they could go for as long as you wanted.
His eyes narrow. “Are you callin’ me old?”
You grin. “All I’m saying is you might not have the stamina you once had, and that’s totally cool.”
He moves faster than you expect, gasping when he shoves your shoulders down, forcing your chest to the mattress, with your spine arched and ass up. In the blink of an eye, he’s got your arms pinned behind your back, his large hand easily wrapped around both of your wrists, holding them there in one rough fist.
“I told you that mouth of yours was gonna get you in trouble,” he mutters, angling his hips.
He pulls out of you halfway and slams back in, the force stuttering your breath.
One thing you’ve learned about Joel is you shouldn’t challenge him unless you want to be fucked within an inch of your life, as was happening right now. There’s no teasing, no slow buildup—he sets up a punishing pace from the start, the new angle absolutely devastating with his cock hitting something so divine inside you you’re seeing stars.
“Joel, fuck—” you cry out. “Oh, fuck.”
It feels like he’s taking you apart piece by piece, coming undone by how he’s filling and fucking you, how he owns you. He wasn’t wrong when he said you were his. He could have you any way he wants, and right now, he’s proving why he gets that honor.
“You’re gonna feel me tomorrow,” he grits out between thrusts. “Every time you move, you’ll remember who this pussy belongs to.”
His grip tightens on your wrists, using your arms as leverage, dragging you back onto his cock with every thrust. Each stroke is deeper than the last, your cunt greedy for every inch of him. You can’t think, you can’t breathe, you’re completely at his mercy as another orgasm starts to take shape in your core.
Finding out that not only is he handsome, polite, and a good father but that he also fucks, has made you determined to lock him down and make him yours.
He has you gasping now, your knees shaking hard enough you’re worried they’ll give out. Joel’s rhythm is brutal and unforgiving, his cock hitting so deep you swear you can feel him in your guts. Every push and pull of his hips is working you higher and higher. You’re so fucked out of your mind that all you can focus on are the sensations: his thick cock hammering into you, the burn in your thighs, the strain in your arms, the sweat coating your face and back, your heartbeat pounding in your ears.
The pressure in your belly builds, your body trembling.
He says something above you that you don’t make out, smacking your ass to get your attention. The sting has you sucking in a breath, your pussy clamping down on him.
“Answer me,” he orders. “Is this what you wanted? You wanted to be fucked like this?”
“Y-yes,” you choke out. “Don’t stop. Please, don’t stop.”
“I’m not stoppin’ until you beg me to, and you say you’re mine.”
Noise echoes off your bedroom walls. The old bedframe creaks under you, the worn bedsprings squealing with each thrust, skin slapping skin, the wet suck of your used cunt, moans, and ragged breaths—a symphony of debauchery.
All you can do is take it, your back bowed, arms pinned, getting shoved forward into the sheets every time he fucks into you. He’s worked you up to the point that the coil in your belly is close to snapping, you just need—
Joel gives you another taste of his strength, pulling you up against his chest with little effort. His pace doesn’t wane, his cock working in and out of you, holding you close with an arm over your chest and another across your stomach.
His lips press to the shell of your ear, feeling his hot, panting breath. “I know you’re close,” he rasps. “Can feel you squeezin’ me. Say it. Tell me you’re mine and I’ll let you come.”
You grab onto his arm that’s locked against your breasts, nodding your head frantically. “I’m yours, Joel,” you gasp. “I’m fucking yours. I’ll always be yours. Please, let me come. Please.”
His hand on your stomach goes to the apex of your thighs, pinching your clit. You mewl, jerking in his hold.
“This pussy is mine, too, isn’t it?” he asks.
“Yes, it’s yours. Your pussy, your girl, I’m all yours, only yours. Please, Joel. Please, let me come.”
“Good girl.” He kisses behind your ear. “Come for me. Let me have it.”
A cry rips from your throat as he circles your clit, his other hand on your breast rolling your nipple between his fingers, his cock still pounding into you. It’s everything you need, setting you off and over the edge. The coil snaps, pleasure crashing through your body, sobbing his name over and over again, your nails digging into the skin of his forearm to tether you to earth. Your cunt spasms around him, clenching down on him hard enough it slows him to a stop.
He groans in your ear. “That’s it.” His grip tightens around you. “That’s my fuckin’ girl. Come for me, baby.”
You collapse against him, boneless. It’s Joel’s arm wrapped around your middle that holds you steady through the aftershocks when all you want to do is fall forward onto the mattress and rest your eyes. Your breaths are coming out ragged, your heart hammering so hard it feels like you’ve outrun a horde of infected.
“Good girl,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your shoulder, then another to the side of your neck. His free hand rubbing comforting circles on your hip.
You don’t speak. You’re not even sure you could if you wanted to.
You’re still clutching his arm, and he doesn’t pull out; he stays nestled inside you, keeping you full after ruining you in the best way. Having him so close and surrounding you is the only thing that grounds you, the room quieting as you catch your breath.
He waits a beat for you to come down before he asks, “Still with me, sweetheart?”
You reach up behind you to thread your fingers into his sweat-damp hair, letting out a shaky exhale. “Yes.”
He nuzzles the crook of your neck. “I didn’t go too hard?”
The softness is wholly unexpected. He’s holding you like you’re something precious, pressing reverent kisses to your skin and quietly checking in. It makes you like him even more and evokes a certain feeling that tightens your chest with emotion. Is it tenderness? Or is it that he’s treating you like more than a warm body to fuck? Maybe it’s both. Whatever it is, the ache you feel behind your ribs is almost as overwhelming as the orgasms he’s coaxed from you.
“No. I can take it,” you answer.
He hums in agreement and kisses a spot below your ear. “You took it really fuckin’ well.”
You smile. “You dished it out really fuckin’ well.”
“You got anythin’ to say about my stamina?”
The question makes you snort. “I apologize for doubting your stamina. To be honest, I’m a little shocked that you haven’t come yet.”
“Almost did, when you came. Took a whole helluva lot not to.”
“Well, color me impressed, old man.”
He pinches your hip, and you giggle. “Call me that again, and I’ll make sure you can’t walk for a week.”
“Is that a promise?”
“That fuckin’ mouth of yours.”
“You love it.”
He sighs. “Do you wanna stop or keep goin’?”
His arm is wrapped around your middle. He’s still hot and hard inside you, keeping you deliciously stretched. Obviously, you want to keep going, but there’s something you want to do for him.
“Oh, I’m gonna get you off.”
You untangle his arms from your body and crawl forward, his cock slipping out of you with an obscene wet sound that has you sucking in a breath and Joel groaning. You get up onto your knees and shuffle in place to look at him.
“Sit down,” you order, and point at the spot beside you on the bed. He raises an eyebrow, and you roll your eyes. “Do you want to come with my tits in your face or not?”
That gets his cute little ass moving up the bed. He pauses when he’s next to you, his hands framing your face as he gives you a kiss that leaves you a little dizzy when he breaks away. He snags your four pillows, using them to cushion his back against the headboard, his legs sprawled out, arms folded behind his head, watching you with hungry eyes.
He looks at home in your bed as if he’s been here hundreds of times and not only once.
And god, is he a sight to behold. A rosy pink flush rising from his chest to his cheeks, his hair tousled, skin gleaming from perspiration, and between his legs, his thick cock slick with your come and still rock hard.
You straddle his hips. “Boob guy?”
The second they’re within reach, he’s cupping them in his large palms.
He huffs, amused, crookedly smiling. “What makes you think that?”
“Hmmm, let’s see. You checked them out at the door, buried your face in them on the couch, and you couldn’t keep your hands off them while you were literally being smothered by my pussy, and fucking me six ways to Sunday.”
Joel’s chuckle turns into a choked ‘fuck’ when you guide his cock back inside you, slowly sinking down his shaft inch by inch. He shuts his eyes for a moment, his jaw flexing. You loop your arms around his neck, bottoming out, and fuck, he feels even deeper like this.
“You got me,” his voice sounds strained. “Fuckin’ love them.” His head dips to flick your nipple with his tongue, then kisses the curve, giving the other the same treatment. He sits back to meet your gaze. “Fuckin’ love how pretty you look sittin’ on my dick, too. You gonna ride me, baby?”
Leaning forward, you kiss the line of his stubbled jaw to whisper in his left ear. “I’m gonna ride you into the sunset, handsome—and you get free rein of my tits.”
He grabs your chin, moving your face in front of his to crush his lips against yours, kissing you needily. His tongue plunders your mouth as you start moving on his lap, slow circles at first, savoring how his cock drags along your walls. Joel lets out the tiniest whimper, his palms skimming down to grip your ass. He kisses the underside of your jaw and down your neck, sucking hard on your pulse point—you gasp, your fingers pushing into the mess of waves at the back of his head.
“You’re too fuckin’ good to me,” he says with his lips on your throat.
“You deserve it,” you breathe.
He isn’t going to last very long with how he’s throbbing inside you, so thick and desperate. You’re pretty sure that if you bounce on his dick with your breasts in his face and talk dirty to him, you can get him off in under two minutes. Hell, maybe you could do it in one. You decide to make it a challenge for yourself.
Planting your knees into the mattress, you grip his shoulders for leverage and start moving with purpose. You rise until only the tip of him remains, then slam back down, in quick succession, again and again and again. It’s hard and fast, clenching around him on the upstroke to make it even better.
He groans under you, fingers clawing into your ass like he’s hanging on for dear life. You pry them off as you continue working yourself up and down, putting his big hands on your tits.
“Fuck, baby,” his words come out ragged, his eyes glued to your chest.
“You like that?” you pant. “Your cock buried so fucking deep inside me while you play with my tits?”
“Yes.”
He teases your stiff nipples with calloused thumbs, and he can’t help himself, leaning in to seal his mouth over one pebbled peak. He greedily sucks, the pleasure sparking through you, stuttering your rhythm for a moment. You keep going and are ready for it when he moves to your other breast, his tongue swirling around the hard bud.
You sound breathless. “You’re close, aren’t you?”
He doesn’t want to let your nipple go, so he hums his affirmative that vibrates against your skin.
It’s slippery between your legs, his dick sliding easily in and out of your pussy. You speed up, becoming just as ruthless as he was, using him like he used you, fucking him at the same punishing pace. Your thighs collide with his in a sharp, wet smack that echoes off the walls, the bed creaking loudly. Your nipple pops out of his mouth, and he grabs your ass again for something to hold onto. “Gonna fuckin’ kill me,” he groans. He looks up at you, his eyes wild and glazed over. There’s no mistaking he’s absolutely wrecked and barely holding it together.
It makes you smile seeing him so undone. “Can’t take it, baby?”
“I can—fuck,” he gasps, his eyes squeezing closed for a split second. He swallows hard. “Fuckin’ ruin me.”
“With pleasure.” You ignore how your thighs burn and the bedframe squeaks. He’s your focus, he’s all that matters. You watch his face as you ride him, how it contorts when you bear down on him. You memorize every detail, every sound, every little thing that makes him tick and fall apart. His attention is back on your heaving breasts. “I want you to come inside me,” you tell him through panted breaths. “I want you to fill me up, make me drip. I wanna feel every last drop inside me. Can you do that for me, handsome? Can I have your come? Please, Joel?”
His glassy eyes snap to yours, and that’s all it takes.
It’s game over.
He surprises you when he sits up just enough to grab you with one arm around your back, the other cradling your head, dragging you down into a kiss as he comes. It’s desperate and messy, his lips crashing into yours, a groan rumbling from his chest, swallowing the whimper you make as you feel his cock thicken and jerk, the pulsing heat flooding your depths. Each spurt makes your cunt clamp down around him on reflex. He holds you there, locked in the kiss as if he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go, his whole body beneath you trembling. You roll your hips, slower than before, grinding, drawing out every last wave for him to give you everything he’s got.
Then—
CRACK.
The ancient bedframe finally gives out.
With a deafening groan of protest and a sharp snap, the entire mattress drops six inches on one side, sending you both lurching sideways with surprised gasps. You’re straddling him, leaning a little to the left, Joel breathless and stunned under you. You look at the current state of your bed, then at him, somehow still balls-deep inside you, his hair a mess, his pretty face dazed, and cheeks flushed.
“You broke my fucking bed.”
His expression switches from shocked to offended, his eyebrows cinching together. “Excuse me, I broke your bed? Baby, you were ridin’ me like a fuckin’ mechanical bull.”
“After you fucked me into the mattress. Either way, it’s your fault. No one has ever broken my bed before.”
“No one has ever fucked you like me before.” He looks smug about it, too.
“Touché.” Your attention turns to the bed again, frowning. “Fuck, I’m gonna have to sleep with my mattress on the floor. With making the cake and working, I won’t be able to fix this for a few days.”
“I’ll fix it tomorrow.”
You look at him. “You don’t have to. It’s fine. I can probably get one of the handymen to do it when I’m free.” There are a handful of knowledgeable men who help fix things around town—Tommy is one of them.
“I said, I’ll fix it tomorrow. You don’t need a handyman when I used to be a fuckin’ contractor.”
That has you perking up. “A contractor?”
“Yeah.” He takes a moment to get comfortable, keeping you atop him while he scoots down the lopsided bed and arranges your pillows to prop up his head and shoulders. “C’mere,” he says, pulling you down to lie half on top of him, his softened cock slipping out of you. Your ear is pressed over his heart, hearing the steady beat, his arm around you with his hand on your hip.
“It’s sexy that you used to be a contractor,” you say. Your palm is resting on his stomach, and he covers it with his free hand. “I’m just going to make the assumption that was back when you were in Texas, and since it gets pretty hot there, did you work with your shirt off often…?”
He’s amused. “Yes. Especially in the summer.” He’s drawing imaginary shapes on your hip.
“What I’d pay to see that.”
“Well, you’re makin’ the cake for free—”
“Not free,” you interrupt, lifting your head to look at him, resting your chin on his pec. “I’m making the cake in exchange for you eating my pussy like a champ.”
He huffs, meeting your gaze. “Now you are, but before, the shit we agreed on for you to make the cake was nothin’. It would’ve taken me no time at all to get, so you were makin’ it for free.”
“More like half-off to non-smugglers.”
“Then you need to re-evaluate what your skills are worth ‘cause you’re sellin’ yourself short.”
“You are very sweet, but I promise the deal I made you was only for you. A chocolate cake with basically a day’s notice? Come on, I’d want some good shit for that. Coffee, painkillers, antibiotics, ammunition, a firearm—what I asked you to get wouldn’t even pay for the chocolate, let alone a whole cake.”
He’s frowning, his finger pausing on your skin. “Then why would you agree to so little from me?”
You smile. “A weakness for single older dads.”
“You got a lot of those around here?”
“Nope,” you pop the ‘p.’ “You’re a rare breed, and the reason why, if I’m yours, then you are mine. I do not share.”
“I don’t either.”
“Perfect.”
“Glad we got that out of the way. Can we go back to talkin’ about me bein’ a contractor?”
“A sexy, shirtless contractor?”
“Yes. What I was goin’ to say before you interrupted me is that you were so kind about the cake, that if you wanted, I can fix your bed without a shirt on.”
“Can that be standard when you fix anything around my apartment?”
He smiles. “If that’s what you want.”
“Oh, I want it. Also, may I make the request that the bed be extra-reinforced? We will be testing it out when you’re done.”
“Is that right?”
“Yep.”
“You’re gonna fuckin’ wear me out with how much you want my cock.”
“Your mouth, too. I’d also like to see what your fingers are like.”
“Jesus Christ.” His fingertip starts making shapes on your hip again. “I wanna know more about you than just what you like in bed. How long have you lived in Jackson?”
“Seven years.”
“You got any family?”
“Biological? No. Lost my parents and little sisters when I was about twelve. Typical tragic backstory where I was the lone survivor. You know the bartender, Seth?”
“Yeah.”
“He and his wife found me and raised me with their kids. I was an adult by the time they decided to come out this way, and they told me I was old enough to make my own choice on whether I’d follow them or not. Obviously, I did. They may not be my blood relatives, but they’re still my aunt and uncle, which took me some years to label them as such. It’s hard when you remember your family, and they could never replace my parents. Was Ellie close with her mom and dad?”
He frowns. “She didn’t have parents, or at least ones she knew. She was raised by FEDRA in Boston. I don’t think that girl knows what it’s like to be loved by a parent, or anyone, for that matter.”
“From what you’ve told me, I think you’re doing a great job of showing her what it’s like to have a loving father, or a loving parent in general. The cake was a great idea. It’s so sweet and thoughtful. Do you have a present for her?”
“Before I come over here tomorrow night to take care of your bed and have that drink with you, I’ll be spendin’ my day fixin’ up a guitar for her.” He’s fondly smiling. “I finished gettin’ all the parts I needed today—even traded your uncle for a piece of bone I’ll use for the saddle—”
“I know nothing about guitars. What’s the saddle?”
“But you know what one looks like, right? An acoustic guitar?”
You picture one in your head. “Yes.”
“Okay, so you know the part near the bottom of the body where the strings are anchored? Where they’re pinned in?”
“Yes.”
“That’s the bridge. The saddle sits on the bridge. It’s usually made of bone or plastic and holds the strings up at the right height and helps them stay in tune when you play.”
“I think I know what you’re talking about.”
“Good. So, got the bone, new strings, and I’ll clean and shine the rest of the metal parts. She has a thing for moths, and I’m gonna try my damndest to carve one into the fretboard—that’s the guitar neck with all the metal frets and dots to guide your fingers when you’re playin’? I’m gonna put it right at the top below the headstock, where the turning pegs are.”
“I can’t believe you don’t think you’re a good dad. The lengths you go to for this child. She’s really lucky to have you.”
“Maybe.”
“She is. Do you play?”
“Since I was about half her age.”
“You’ll have to play me something sometime.”
“I will, but don’t ask me to sing. I’m fuckin’ awful at it.”
“I have a hard time believing that. Is that your only hobby?”
“No. I also do woodworkin’.”
“Like wooden figurines?”
“Yeah.”
“You gonna make me one?”
“What’s your favorite animal?”
“Ummm—” You have to think about it for a second. “Maybe otters? I think it’s cute when they hold hands while sleeping.”
“I’ll make you a pair of otters then.”
You smile. “Just like that, you’re gonna woodwork me a couple of tchotchkes?”
“Yeah.” He shrugs. “Gives me somethin’ to do when I’m home from work, and Ellie’s out bein’ a kid.”
“If you ever want some company, I’d be happy to hang out with you while you do your thing. I’ll also watch movies with you, go horseback riding, and you could even help me make cakes.” You suddenly feel unsure of yourself. “Unless you’re not interested in any of that and you’re just looking for an exclusive sex partner.”
“I told you I don’t do fuck buddies or casual shit.”
“So, you want to date me?”
“If you’ll have me.” He lifts your hand from his belly to kiss your knuckles. “I’d understand if you didn’t want people knowin’. though.”
Your eyebrows furrow. “Why wouldn’t I want people to know I’m dating you?”
“Because I’m old.”
“Once again, I do not give a fuck that you are—how old are you?”
He takes a deep breath and says on the exhale, “Fifty-six.”
“Once again, I do not give a fuck that you are fifty-six. You’re hot and sweet, and I’d want everyone to know you’re mine.”
He smiles. “Yeah?”
“Yes. There’s just one little thing we need to figure out.”
“What’s that?”
“How long do you wait until you tell Ellie?”
“After her birthday. Maybe in a week or two to see how things go between us.”
“Solid plan.” You lean up and peck him on the lips.
“What about you? You got any hobbies?”
“Mostly baking. I also collect records and love watching movies.”
“When I go out again, I’ll find you more records and movies.”
“That’s sweet of you, but you don’t have to do that.”
“I want to. I do have a question.”
“I’ll hopefully have an answer.”
“I know you like sex—”
“Love,” you correct. “Love sex very much.”
“Yes, I know you love sex very much, and you said you weren’t seein’ anyone. Do I need to worry about any former, uh, paramours?”
“Wanting to fight you for my bed?”
“Yes…”
“No. The few guys in town are all married now, and there are a couple of traders who stop by every once in a while who’ll be disappointed, but they won’t step on your toes.”
“I know it’s none of my business, but why didn’t any of the men here wanna marry you…?”
“Oh. I guess we should probably discuss this now, rather than having me blindside you down the road. I’d like to have a family one day, and they were all done with babies and raising kids. They married women closer to their own age who felt the same way. So, if that’s a dealbreaker, you need to let me know now.”
He’s quiet as he thinks about what you’ve said. Nerves swirl in your belly. You’re hoping and praying this isn’t the end.
“I had a daughter,” he finally tells you. “Sarah. She was my pride and joy, my everythin’. She died in my arms twenty years ago on the night of the outbreak. It broke me. I was a shell of a man from that point on, and then Ellie came into my life. I was hired to transport her across the country, but things, uh, didn’t work out when I got her to her destination. So I brought her here to Jackson, where we’d be close to Tommy, and she’d get to have a somewhat normal life as a kid.
“For twenty years, I swore to myself I’d never bring another child into this godawful world.” At his admission, your heart plummets. “Was really fuckin’ careful when I’d fuck to limit the risk as much as possible, too, which meant I never finished inside my partner. I never had the desire to, or would ever humor the idea.”
Now, you’re confused. “If you’re so anti-creampies, why is your come dripping out of me as we speak?”
He smiles and caresses your cheek with a gun-calloused palm. “Because in all of my fifty-six years on this planet, the happiest I’ve ever been is when I’m a dad. I fuckin’ love bein’ a father, and I know I’m too old to even be thinkin’ about babies, but if it happened? I wouldn’t be upset about it. I’d welcome it.”
He’s perfect, and you’ve never wanted a man more.
“I know we’ve only known each other for less than a day, but marry me.” Joel chuckles. “I’m serious. Make me your wife. I will fuck your brains out, have as many babies as you want, bake you delicious things, and treat Ellie like she’s my own kid. You’re everything and more that I want in a partner, and I think we’d be good together.”
His thumb strokes over the apple of your cheek. “I’m flattered by your offer, sweetheart. I truly am, and have half a mind to accept it, but marriage isn’t somethin’ you rush into. I know most everyone does these days with how uncertain everythin’ is, but I’d like to take my time to court you properly before we decide to get married.”
You sigh. “If you insist.” You glance up at the clock on your bedside table; the red numbers show it’s after ten p.m. Your gaze returns to his. “We’ve got less than two hours before you need to head home, Cinderella. Would you be up for another, softer, maybe sensual round—I’m thinking missionary—then we can shower, you can help me get my mattress onto the floor, and take off? Or do you want to shower, help me get my mattress onto the floor, and hang out in the living room, watching a movie or something until you need to leave?”
“Another round, we shower, we leave your bed alone, and you come home with me instead of sleepin’ on the floor.”
“To your house, where Ellie is…?”
“I’ll sneak you in. She spends most of her time in her room anyway. She won’t know you’re there.”
“If you want to hold off on her knowing about me, I don’t think this is a good idea.”
You don’t know how he does it. One minute, you’re lying half on top of him, and the next, he’s got you beneath him on your back, his hips cradled by your thighs. He kisses your clavicle, saying into your skin, “It’ll be fine.” His lips trail up your throat, making you shiver when he sucks on your pulse point, his cock hardening against your core. “Come home with me.” Joel continues his journey, laving kisses along the underside of your jaw to nip at your chin. He hovers his face over yours, searching your eyes. “Will you?”
“Only if you’re sure.”
“Quit your worryin’. I told you, it’ll be fine. She’ll have no idea.”
“Okay, then. I’ll go with you.”
He smiles. “Good girl.”
Joel wasn’t kidding about sneaking you into his house. That’s how you find yourself freshly fucked, showered, and clothed, creeping up a dark staircase behind him and into a hallway, where he signals for you to stay because Ellie’s door is open. He walks over to her doorway, leaning in it like he’s done it a hundred times before, the light shining on his face showing that fond smile he always has when he talks about her.
“Hey, kiddo.”
“Hey, Joel.”
“You have a good day?”
“Scooping horse shit?” You have to hold in your laugh. “Not really, but afterward, Jesse and I went to Dina’s to watch a movie.”
Jesse and Dina are good kids.
“What movie?”
“Star Wars. The first two, but I wasn't really paying attention. We were too busy joking around and trying to throw popcorn into each other’s mouths.”
“What’d you do after that?”
“We went and had dinner. Did you get some of the apple pie? It was really fucking good. I think the peach cobbler is still my favorite, though.”
You also made the peach cobbler. Ellie has good taste. It’s your favorite, too.
“Yeah?” he asks.
“Yeah.”
“Well, hopefully it’ll come ‘round again soon.”
Once traders come through with more peaches, you’ll be able to. It’s adorable watching him interact with her and seeing how much he clearly loves her.
“I sure hope so. How was your day?”
“Good. They had me out patrollin’, and I went through some houses to see if I could find anythin’ good. Did you get the tapes I left on your desk?”
“I did! I listened to the Backstreet Guys, or whatever the fuck they’re called—people used to like that shit?”
Is she talking about the Backstreet Boys?
Joel chuckles. “Sarah loved them.”
“She usually has great taste in music,” Ellie replies, “but I’m not sure about this one.”
“Well, I’ll tell you right now, NSYNC is similar—” She is talking about the Backstreet Boys, and how very ‘good dad’ of Joel to be familiar with the music his child loves. “—but I think you’ll enjoy the Halican Drops albums. That was Sarah’s favorite band. I’ve been lookin’ forever to find you their music, and I hit the jackpot today when I came across a kid’s room that hadn’t been picked clean.”
“Oh, sweet. I’ll listen to them before bed. Thanks, Joel.”
“You’re welcome, kiddo. Don’t stay up too late. You gotta be up early to scoop more horse shit.”
She groans. “God, I fucking hope not. Can you ask Tommy to assign me to anything else? Like anything else.”
His voice softens. “Yeah, I’ll do that in the mornin’. Night, Ellie.”
“Night, Joel.”
He pulls her door closed and waits ten seconds, then motions for you to come to him. He grabs your hand when you’re within reach and leads you further down the hall to his room at the end, where he opens the door and flips on the light. He ushers you in, closing the door and locking it behind you.
The first thing you notice is that it smells like him—crushed thyme, gun oil, and something uniquely Joel, mixed with the scent of freshly cut wood. Then you take in the area, the paintings that depict cowboys, his woodworking workstation, what you assume is Ellie’s future guitar leaning against it, another one hanging on his wall, and further in the room, a third you think is the one he actually plays. The piece of bone he got from your uncle is sitting atop the worktable, along with little metal parts and his tools.
“I like your room,” you tell him. “It’s cozy.” He’s got a comfy-looking accent chair you could imagine him reading in and a desk by the door with a drawing of a moth on top of it—what he plans to carve into Ellie’s guitar.
He spins you to face him. “Thanks.” He grabs the hem of your shirt and pulls it up off your arms, followed by your sports bra. “You’re my first guest.”
He grunts, crouching down in front of you. Joel gets his fingers under the waistband of your leggings and underwear, tugging them down. You hold onto his shoulders for balance as you step out of them, and he removes your socks, leaving you completely nude.
“Is that why you were adamant about me coming over tonight? So you could finally christen your bed?”
He stands back up, one of his knees popping. “No.” Joel kisses you, and you hold his scruffy cheeks as he works open the buttons of his flannel. He shrugs it off and unbuckles his belt, his lips leaving yours to get his jeans undone and shoved down, followed by his boxer briefs.
“When I said ‘christen your bed,’ I meant have sex in it for the first time. Why are we naked if we’re not gonna fuck?”
All of his clothes are on the floor, including his socks, and instead of answering your question, he straightens and captures your lips once more, his hands gripping your waist. He kisses you as he walks you backward toward his neatly made bed, and when you’re beside it, he breaks away to pull back the blankets.
“Get in.” It’s not a suggestion, and you do as he says, getting under the sheets and turning on your side, propping your head up with your arm to watch what he’s doing.
“The lack of clothes and kissing is giving me mixed signals.”
“What do you mean?” he asks on his way to turn off the overhead light.
“When I’m naked with someone and we’re making out, that’s the lead-up to fucking.”
The room goes dark, save for the moonlight slipping through the closed blinds, offering some illumination as he returns, going around the bed and crawling in on the other side. You turn over to look at him as he gets to the middle of the bed. “C’mere.” He reaches toward you, and you scoot like he asks until he’s able to pull you up against the solid warmth of his front. He curls around you, one arm draped over your waist, the other under your head, his large palm resting gently on your spine. “Have you ever slept with someone?” he asks.
You blink up at him in the dark, quietly replying, “We literally just fucked twice.”
“No.” He brushes his thumb lightly over your back. “Not sex. I mean, have you ever just fallen asleep with someone?”
The question has your breath catching a little, but not from arousal. No, this is something completely different. It’s warmer. Sweeter, and it makes your chest ache for some reason.
Your mouth opens to reply, but no words come out immediately.
It has you thinking back, really thinking back. Sure, you had nights where men stayed over. Nights when you were tangled in sweaty sheets with someone who’d be gone by morning. But this? Naked and held? No rush. No expectations. Just simple, quiet skin-on-skin closeness?
“No,” you finally admit. “Never.”
Joel hums a contented sound in his throat. He kisses the top of your head, his facial hair lightly scratching your forehead. “I hope you like it, sweetheart,” he murmurs.
You lie there, stunned. You assumed he asked you here for the same reason men before him invited you into their beds—to fuck, and maybe some post-sex cuddling before your clothes are back on and the mood fades.
But Joel doesn’t just want you. He wants you with him, here like this, in a way that feels much more intimate than sex. He doesn’t just wreck you with his body; it’s the way he chooses you when he doesn’t have to, how he holds you like you matter, like you’re his. With him, you’re not being used, you’re being kept.
That dawning realization sinks in, curling around something tender behind your ribs.
Your voice is small when you whisper, “You didn’t want me here for sex, did you?”
“No,” he answers. “I wanted you here ‘cause I’ll sleep better with you next to me.”
Your throat tightens, staring into the dark, feeling a little overwhelmed because you don’t know what to do with all of this affection settling over you.
“Oh.”
Joel chuckles, pulling you in tighter, tucking your head under his chin. “Yeah. Oh.” The room goes quiet, then he adds, “Also, don’t want you breakin’ my bed.”
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me,” he laughs into your hair. “You ride like a fuckin’ hellcat. That old frame of yours didn’t stand a chance.”
His statement has your mouth dropping open, a mix of offense and flattery.
“That’s rude and slanderous because we both agreed you broke the bed.”
“We agreed on no such thing. Tomorrow, I will even show you proof that you rode me into the sunset and your bed straight into the ground by where it snapped.” He kisses the top of your head again. “Gotta reinforce both our beds before I let you do that again. I think your couch could take the abuse, though, so that’s an option.”
He has you biting back a smile. “I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.”
“No, I don’t.”
“You wanna marry me.”
“I’m not so sure I do now.”
“You do.”
“Maybe.”
“Six months.”
“Six months, what?”
“If we’re still together in six months, I’ll marry you.”
Your heart rate increases. “Really?”
“Yes. Now, get some sleep.”
Masterlist
Thank you for reading! If you’d like to be tagged in my fics, please fill out the form in my bio, on my masterlist, or just let me know!
or just being pedro’s secret controversially young gf . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊
a chance raffle win leads to unexpected texts, slow-burning chemistry, and stolen moments with pedro pascal. she’s younger, balancing school and real life. he’s careful, charming, and maybe a little too into her for his own good. what starts off light turns tender, and one cozy night might just change everything.
masterlist | 9k words | all fiction, pedro is 45-50 and fem!reader is 23 (I don't rlly gaf if you're annoyed with age-gaps if you don't like it fucking scroll), flirting, YEARNING (you’ll never stop me), kissing, celebrity things like that paparazzi, fingering, oral f!recieving, pussy job, unprotected piv sexxx
You hadn’t even meant to enter.
Your best friend, Kelsey, had texted you in the middle of a script revision meltdown with a link and three question marks.
“A Pedro Pascal charity meet & greet raffle. $25 to enter. Winner gets a private lunch.”
It was for some children’s literacy nonprofit, and you’d clicked it half-delirious, half-joking, adding one entry just to say you did.
Two weeks later, you got the email.
You thought it was a scam. Then your phone rang—an actual event coordinator from the organization, confirming details, verifying your ID, telling you a car service would be provided, that Pedro’s team had already cleared the date.
You stared at your phone long after the call ended. You were twenty-three, in college for a degree in screenwriting, juggling a bookstore job and unpaid pitch work. Pedro Pascal had been your comfort actor since your late teens—long before the mainstream hype. You’d watched his indie films, not just the blockbusters. You knew lines of dialogue he probably didn’t even remember.
Now you were going to sit across from him. At lunch. For an hour.
You didn't even have anything to wear that didn't look like it came off a Goodwill clearance rack.
The restaurant was tucked away in Laurel Canyon, low lighting, all exposed brick and polished glass.
You checked your reflection four times in the car window. A blouse that didn't cling too tight. Mascara you applied with shaking hands. You told yourself he probably did dozens of these. He wouldn’t even remember your name.
When you arrived at the restaurant the host said, “Right this way,” and there he was.
Pedro Pascal. In a dark blue button-up, sleeves rolled to the forearms. Sunglasses pushed up in his hair. Beard trimmed. Brown eyes soft.
He stood when you walked up.
“Hey, you must be the donor,” he said warmly. “Thanks for donating.”
You managed a smile. “Thanks for being the prize.”
He laughed. A real one.
You thought it would be awkward. Stilted. But he was funny, sharp, easy to talk to. You ended up rambling about how much his performance in The Bubble meant to you—how you watched it on your laptop in your dark bedroom during a bad depressive episode, how it got you through that awful year.
He looked surprised. Touched.
“I forget anyone actually saw that movie,” he said with a lopsided smile.
“I watched it five times. At least.”
He blinked. “Wait, are you messing with me?”
“Nope.” You grinned. “I even wrote a paper on it for a class on satire. You play a man who's aware he’s a fraud but keeps smiling through it—like, that’s the whole metaphor.”
Pedro blinked again—then gave you a slow, stunned laugh, mouth slightly open.
You weren’t flirting. You were just being honest. And maybe that’s what caught him off guard.
He walked you out after. His hand hovered at the small of your back but never touched.
“Seriously,” he said, “this was the best version of one of these I’ve ever done. I usually feel like a trained monkey. This felt like…” he paused. “A real conversation.”
You tried to play it cool. “That’s the goal. I’m supposed to be a screenwriter, right?”
He smiled, wider this time. “If you ever finish something, I’d love to read it.”
You stared at him, then snorted. “That sounded like a line.”
You were standing on the curb with him now, your rideshare still a few minutes out.
Pedro leaned against the building’s side wall, sunglasses back on, arms folded. The California sun caught the edges of his hair, bringing out the warm gray in his curls. You tried not to stare.
You were failing.
“Do you ever get tired of people telling you they’ve been obsessed with you since they were sixteen?” you asked, mostly teasing.
He laughed under his breath. “Depends on how they say it.”
You glanced up at him. “And how did I say it?”
His mouth curled. “Like someone who isn’t obsessed anymore. Just curious.”
That made you blush, which only made it worse. “Right. I’m too grown for fangirling.”
He tilted his head a little. “How grown are we talking?”
You gave him a look. “Grown enough to know that question is a trap.”
He grinned. “Smart.”
The pause that followed wasn’t awkward—it was warm, almost private. Like something unsaid had passed between you, and he was waiting to see if you’d name it.
You didn’t. You weren’t that bold. But you did say, “So, are you always this charming at these things? Or did I just catch you on a good hair day?”
He chuckled, then looked at you fully, one eyebrow raised. “Can I be honest?”
“Please.”
“I thought this would be fifteen minutes of smiling, nodding, and trying to avoid weird questions about The Mandalorian. I didn’t expect to actually…” He stopped, glanced away for a second, then back at you. “...like someone.”
Your stomach fluttered. “Someone?”
“You,” he said plainly.
Oh.
You blinked. “I—um. Okay. That’s… wow.”
Pedro rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly sheepish. “Sorry. That might’ve been too much.”
“No—no, it’s okay,” you said quickly, too quickly. “Just wasn’t expecting it.”
He smiled again, softer now. “That’s fair.”
Then, casually—almost like it was nothing—he said, “Would it be weird if I asked for your number?”
You stared at him. “Wait—seriously?”
He shrugged, smile tugging at one corner of his mouth. “Yeah. I mean, if you’re comfortable. If not, that’s okay. I just—” he hesitated, then said, “I think I’d like to talk to you again. Not in front of cameras. Or PR people.”
You swallowed. He was looking at you like he meant it. Like he wasn’t in a rush, like he could wait forever.
“…Okay,” you said. “Yeah. I’ll give it to you.”
Pedro handed you his phone. No hesitation.
You typed it in, heart pounding a little harder than it should’ve. Saved ___(from lunch) and handed it back.
He glanced down at it, then nodded. “I’ll text you. So you have mine.”
“Cool.” You tried to act normal. “Cool, cool, cool.”
Pedro smirked. “You’re very cool, yeah.”
Your rideshare pulled up just then. Saved by the bell. He opened the car door for you, gentlemanly as ever.
Before you got in, he said, voice low:
“I’m really glad it was you.”
You didn’t even know what to say to that. So you smiled, and got in the car, and tried not to immediately check your phone.
But when it buzzed two minutes later, your breath caught.
Unknown Number:
Glad I made it through lunch without embarrassing myself.
– Pedro
You didn’t text back right away.
Mostly because you didn’t want to seem eager. But also because you were still staring at your phone like it had just whispered your name out loud.
You waited ten minutes.
Then typed:
You:
I think we both made it out with our dignity intact.
But that’s a pending review once I replay the whole thing in my head at 2am.
The dots appeared instantly.
Pedro:
Damn, you’re already funnier over text. I’m scared.
Should I be worried about my performance?
You smiled, flopping back on your bed.
You:
You were decent. You only said “like” twelve times in that one story about Oscar Isaac.
Pedro:
You counted??
You:
I’m a writer. I observe.
Pedro:
Dangerous.
Pedro:
Remind me never to lie to you.
He kept texting over the next few days. Nothing crazy. Nothing that could get him in trouble.
But his messages were always right there—close enough to be curious. Casual enough to deny.
Sometimes it was jokes about his press schedule. Sometimes questions about your scripts. One night, it was a photo of an old movie on his TV.
Pedro:
I think this director peaked with this one.
Tell me I’m wrong.
[screenshot from Days of Heaven]
You:
You want discourse at midnight?
Pedro:
I want you to talk to me at midnight.
You stared at that one for too long.
Typed. Erased. Typed again.
You:
That sounds dangerously flirty for a man with a whole IMDb page.
Pedro:
That sounds dangerously flirty for a girl who called me “decent.”
Pedro:
…But I’m not taking it back.
By the end of the week, he was sending you voice memos.
Low, rough-voiced ones. Mostly teasing. Sometimes just quiet thoughts he didn’t want to type.
“You know, I reread your screenplay sample. You weren’t kidding when you said it was dark. That final scene? Fuck me. Also, I think I’m obsessed with the way your dialogue sounds.”
Another night:
“Couldn’t sleep. Thought about texting you something sexy but decided on this instead: Do you think people fall for potential, or do they fall for the version of themselves they think the other person sees?”
That one stayed in your phone for days.
You didn’t answer it. Not directly.
But your next message said:
You:
If you’re ever back in L.A. and bored, I know a dive bar that makes the best nachos in the city.
We could talk about your IMDb shame pile.
Pedro:
You tryna seduce me with nachos?
You:
Maybe.
Pedro:
Tell me when.
And don’t wear that blouse again.
Or do…
Four Weeks Later
The texts don’t come every day anymore.
He warned you. Said work was picking up again—press junkets, travel, long days on set. You said it was fine. You meant it. You’d gone in expecting one hour of his time, not a month of flirty messages and midnight voice memos.
But still, you missed it. The tiny buzz of your phone. His name lighting up your screen.
You missed the way he made you feel like he actually saw you—like you weren’t just some girl who lucked into a celebrity lunch but someone with ideas, talent, nerve.
The last message had been five days ago:
Pedro:
Sitting in a hotel bar in Berlin. Bartender looks like he’s judging my wine choice.
You responded. He didn’t reply.
You told yourself he got busy. Maybe he’d fallen asleep. Maybe it didn’t mean anything.
Still, you reread the thread more than once.
He kept opening your chat. Typing. Erasing.
He didn’t know why you stuck in his head. Why you’d gotten under his skin like a song he couldn’t stop humming. You were so much younger, so new, but you had a sharpness he envied. You made him want to say shit he hadn’t thought to say to anyone in years.
And you hadn’t even done anything, really.
You were just... honest. No agenda. No sucking up. You looked him in the eye like he wasn’t on a billboard but sitting across from you at a tiny table, halfway real.
And now you were quiet.
Maybe you’d gotten bored. Moved on. Maybe it was better that way.
But when his plane landed in L.A., jet-lagged and strung out, the first thing he wanted—before coffee, before sleep—was to see if you were still around.
You’re watching a terrible dating show in your apartment, sipping flat wine, wearing the same hoodie three days in a row when your phone buzzes.
Pedro:
Back in town.
That nacho place still open?
You stare at it.
Then:
You:
It closes at 2am.
So yeah. Still time for questionable choices.
Pedro:
Are we talking about food or me?
You:
Don’t make me say it.
Pedro:
Say it in person.
Then:
Pedro:
Tomorrow night?
Your stomach flips.
It’s been weeks. You thought he forgot. You thought maybe you dreamed the whole thing.
You wait ten seconds.
Then:
You:
Tomorrow night.
The bar is dim and humming when you walk in. Wood-paneled walls, strings of yellow bulbs, and that warm, greasy smell that hits just right after 9 p.m.
You spot him instantly.
Pedro’s in the far booth—back against the wall, baseball cap low, beer bottle sweating in front of him. He’s dressed down: jeans and a hoodie, that you recognize from one of his press photos.
He looks up and sees you. Smiles.
Not the friendly kind. The fuck-I-missed-you kind.
“Hey,” you say as you slide into the booth opposite him.
“Hey yourself,” he murmurs, eyes not leaving yours.
You settle your bag beside you. Try to ignore the way your heart’s fluttering like it’s your first date in high school.
He leans forward slightly. “You look…”
You raise an eyebrow. “Tired?”
He laughs. “No. Just better than I remembered.”
You smirk. “You say that to all the raffle girls?”
Pedro grins and takes a sip of his beer. “You think I’m doing a lot of raffle lunches lately?”
You don’t answer. You just meet his eyes—and hold them a second too long.
The first drink goes fast. So does the second.
Conversation’s easy again—teasing, snappy, laced with innuendos but grounded in that same curiosity he showed the first time.
“You’ve got that look again,” you say at one point.
He tips his head. “What look?”
“Like you’re thinking too much.”
Pedro taps his fingers on the table. “I am.”
“About what?”
“You.”
That shuts you up. For a beat.
“Okay,” you say carefully. “You’re officially flirting.”
“Only officially now?”
You glance at him. “Are we pretending we haven’t been doing that for weeks?”
He leans in a little, voice lower. “I haven’t been pretending, cariño.”
That word—cariño—drops right down your spine.
You sip your drink just to buy time.
Half an hour later, the nachos are cold and forgotten.
He’s shifted to your side of the booth. Close enough that his thigh brushes yours when he moves.
You can feel the heat of him—slow and steady, like a stove left on low.
“You’re braver than I thought,” he murmurs, voice near your ear.
You turn your head, pulse thrumming. “Why?”
He’s looking at your mouth when he says, “Because I think you know exactly what this is.”
You swallow.
“You think it’s a game?” you whisper.
“No.” His eyes lift to meet yours again. “I think it’s trouble.”
You let the silence stretch. Then, quietly:
“I think I want it anyway.”
Pedro exhales, almost like relief.
His hand finds your knee under the table, gentle at first—like he’s asking.
You don’t stop him.
Back at your place — 1:07 a.m.
He doesn’t kiss you right away.
He stands just inside your apartment, glancing around like he needs to ground himself. Like he’s cataloging every detail in case it’s the only time he sees it.
“Cute place,” he says.
You shrug. “It’s fine. It has a couch, at least.”
Pedro gives you a look. “So subtle.”
You smirk, toeing off your shoes. “I’m not trying to seduce you. I’m trying to sit down without my feet throbbing.”
“Oh, is that what this is?” he says, trailing behind you into the living room. “Because when you leaned over the jukebox earlier, I swear I saw—”
“—Shut up,” you laugh, swatting his arm. “I was picking a song.”
“You were bending the laws of nature, muneca.”
You plop onto the couch and toss a pillow at him.
He catches it easily, eyes dancing.
And then he sits.
Close. Closer than necessary.
Your knees touch.
And for a moment, neither of you say anything.
His hand brushes yours.
Once.
Twice.
Then it stays.
“I keep telling myself not to do this,” he murmurs, thumb tracing the back of your knuckles.
You tilt your head. “Then don’t.”
Pedro looks at you.
Long. Direct. Hungry.
And then he kisses you.
It starts slow.
His lips soft, searching. No rush. No agenda.
But your hand slides into his hair and his body shifts, just a little, and suddenly—
His other hand is on your thigh, gripping it.
You gasp into his mouth, and it makes him groan. A low, broken sound, like he’s been trying not to make it for weeks.
“Fuck,” he mutters. “You’re gonna kill me.”
“You started it,” you whisper, breathless.
His tongue traces your bottom lip. “Don’t remind me.”
He pushes you back into the couch cushions, one knee slipping between yours, just enough weight to make you feel it.
You arch beneath him. Hips rising—seeking.
He pulls back just enough to look at you.
Your hair’s messy, lips kiss-swollen, pupils blown.
“You’re so goddamn pretty,” he says, voice low. “You know that?”
You blink up at him, dazed. “You’re not bad either, old man.”
He huffed a laugh—and kissed you harder.
You end up straddling him, your hands under his shirt, his teeth grazing your neck. You whisper something shameless into his ear and he freezes, groaning into your shoulder like you just ruined his life.
“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, voice thick. “You’re dangerous.”
“You like it,” you say, biting back a smile.
“Too much.”
It doesn’t go any further.
Not because he doesn’t want to.
Not because you don’t.
But because there’s something delicious about stopping here. Something about the ache. The tease.
1:41 a.m. your apartment
You don’t get off his lap.
Even after the kissing slows. Even after his hand stills on your thigh and his breath evens out against your collarbone.
You just lean into him, cheek resting against the warm curve of his neck, and say:
“So what’s your comfort movie?”
Pedro chuckles, a low, content sound. His hands stay on you—one lightly tracing your waist, the other cradling your knee.
“You want comfort?” he murmurs. “I watched Paddington 2 three times in a row on a flight once. I cried. Full grown man. Tears.”
You sit up just enough to look at him. “You’re joking.”
“I wish I was.”
You grin, brushing your nose against his. “Mine’s Coraline. I know it’s for kids. Don’t care.”
“Oh, I respect that,” he says, nodding solemnly. “Creepy doll button eyes? That’s some formative trauma.”
You laugh into his shoulder. “Exactly.”
The conversation drifts.
From movies to music, then weird dreams, then the worst job he ever had (you make him promise never to do commercials for adult diapers), and the story of your first kiss (in a movie theater during a Marvel sequel, popcorn still in your braces).
You fall asleep like that for a while.
Wrapped around him. The TV is still on. His hoodie swallowing your frame.
It’s not a sleepover. But it’s the kind of night you only have when the flirting has already cracked open into something more dangerous—something real.
5:07 a.m.
He kisses you again on the sidewalk, slow and tired and a little reluctant.
The Uber’s headlights bounce off the curb.
“You sure you don’t want me to stay?” he murmurs, thumb brushing your hip.
You raise your brows. “You’d behave?”
“No.”
“Then go home.”
Pedro grins, teeth sharp in the early morning haze. “I hate that you’re right.”
“You love that I’m right.”
He kisses your forehead. “Text me when you wake up, cariño.”
Then he climbs into the car and disappears into the fading dark.
Later
You
you looked like a mess when you left
was kind of hot
Pedro
don’t start
i walked into my kitchen like a teenager
head against the fridge door. dramatic sigh.
You
“what is she doing to meee…”
Pedro
don’t mock the broken man
You
it’s cute
I kinda like breaking you
Pedro
yeah
i could tell
you were smiling while you ruined me
You
and you didn’t stop me
Pedro
never would
Pedro
(real talk though… i haven’t kissed someone like that in years)
what are we doing?
You
no idea
but i don’t really want to stop
Pedro
good
i’d be pissed if you did
You
also
i’m watching Paddington 2 tonight
thought you should know
Pedro
you’re trying to make me fall in love with you
You
Trying?
A Few days Later
Pedro
okay serious question
what’s your go-to coffee order
i’m at a café and there are too many words on the menu
You
iced oat latte. extra cinnamon. no reason. just vibes.
why?
Pedro
just wondering what i’ll need to remember when i see you again
it’s been a minute
you free soon?
You
maybe. depends.
is this a brunch date disguised as a “casual hang”?
Pedro
yes.
and i might wear a hat and sunglasses like a criminal
You
hot
I’ll see you Sunday then
Two Weeks Later
Outside a café, 2:12 p.m.
You’re holding iced coffees, your oversized hoodie tucked into the waistband of biker shorts, and Pedro’s walking beside you—cap pulled low, hoodie up, sunglasses on.
You look like…friends.
Which is the goal.
Except his hand keeps brushing yours.
And when you laugh too hard at something he says about a failed audition back in ‘99, he looks at you like he feels it. Like he wants to bottle it.
You don’t even notice the guy on the opposite sidewalk.
Phone angled low.
The shutter click barely audible.
Another car slows down. Just a beat.
Pedro notices first.
His body tenses next to yours.
You follow his gaze. A pair of figures across the street. Hoodies. Big lenses. Moving fast.
Click click click.
You suck in a breath. “Shit.”
He doesn’t grab your hand.
He can’t.
Instead, he leans in like he’s just whispering something dumb.
“Just keep walking,” he mutters. “Act like you’re annoyed with me.”
You glance up at him. “That’s not hard.”
He grins, tight-lipped. “Atta girl.”
You duck into a bookstore.He buys a random novel and keeps the receipt.
You pretend to browse while your stomach spins.
He brushes his hand against your back briefly as you walk toward the back exit.
“Your face was covered,” he says quietly. “You’re fine.”
But he doesn’t sound entirely convinced.
You slip your sunglasses on, exhaling.
“I knew this might happen,” you mutter. “Still sucks.”
Pedro looks at you for a second too long. Then, under his breath:
“If anything ever actually comes out…I’ll handle it.”
You nod.
But it hangs there. Heavy.
You’re still you. Still just 23. Still not used to this world he lives in.
But the part that makes your pulse spike isn’t fear.
It’s the way his voice dipped when he said “I’ll handle it.”
Like he already decided he would.
Like you weren’t just a girl from a raffle anymore.
Pedro
they didn’t get anything
you’re safe
You
you sure?
Pedro
i’ve done this a long time
if they had something good it’d be online already
trust me
You
i do
just didn’t expect it to feel that...real
Pedro
it is real
at least for me
You
i know. me too.
Pedro
next time no public sidewalks
just you
my place
pizza
and zero danger
You
and maybe another dramatic sigh against your fridge?
Pedro
oh i’m already practicing
i’ll be thinking about you all week
You
good
maybe i’ll make you wait again
Pedro
maybe i’ll let you
Few More Days Later
You
i just bombed my stats exam
tell my family i died doing what i hated
Pedro
nooooo
not stats
not you :(
You
i’m so tired
i might actually cry in the campus parking lot like a teen drama character
Pedro
you want company or silence?
or pizza?
or a forehead kiss?
You
omg
You
that last one just made my brain short circuit
is that allowed???
Pedro
it is if you want it to be
offer still stands
come over
i’ll put on something dumb and hold you until your brain restarts
You
you’re dangerous
give me an hour
That night — 8:13 p.m.
Pedro’s apartment.
The kitchen smells like garlic and fresh basil.
Pedro’s in front of the stove in a worn tee and joggers, barefoot, stirring pasta like this is just…normal. Like you always do this. Like he wasn’t in a galaxy far, far away a few months ago while you were still writing essays in the library, humming through AirPods.
“You ever cook for girls like this?” you tease lightly, watching from the counter stool.
Pedro smirks without turning around. “Not girls who make me nervous.”
You blink.
He glances back at you. “Just being honest.”
You open your mouth—then close it again.
Your throat’s warm. So is your chest. Your fingertips tingle against the glass of red wine in your hand.
The rest of the night unfurls gently. Like a held breath being let out.
He makes a simple pasta with veggies. You help slice strawberries for a little balsamic-glazed dessert (“This is so extra,” you laugh, and he just shrugs—“You deserve extra”).
You eat on the couch with the coffee table dragged closer, your knees brushing under the bowls.
Music plays low. Something acoustic and nostalgic.
His hand rests on your leg, casual but firm.
Yours finds his thigh a little later.
You’re sitting sideways in his lap again, back to his chest, your cheek against his jaw.
He smells like citrus body wash and red wine and something inherently him.
His hands haven’t left you all night.
Thumb tracing slow lines into the top of your thigh. Fingertips under your hoodie hem.
He kisses your shoulder. Then your jaw.
You hum softly, turning your face toward his. He doesn’t hesitate.
The kiss starts easy. Then deeper.
And deeper.
You straddle him this time, your knees pressing into the couch cushions, your hands in his hair. His grip tightens around your hips—then softens again, like he’s reminding himself to slow down.
There’s heat. So much heat.
You shift against him, just slightly—and feel him underneath you.
He breathes hard into your mouth, breaking the kiss. “Wait—wait.”
Your foreheads press together.
You blink. “Did I do something—?”
Pedro shakes his head fast. “No, no. God, no. You’re perfect.”
You’re quiet. His thumb brushes your cheek.
“I just…” he swallows, “don’t want this to be fast. I want it to be right.”
You exhale, your nose brushing his. “Okay.”
He looks at you—tender, serious. “You trust me?”
“Yeah,” you whisper. “You trust me?”
Pedro leans forward and kisses you again, slower this time. His hands stay on your waist. Yours trail up the back of his neck.
Then he says the most dangerous thing of all:
“Stay tonight.”
You borrow one of his tees and wash your face in his sink with the cleanser he shyly offers you.
The bed’s big and warm. You climb in beside him, and he pulls you close, one arm under your shoulders, the other across your waist.
Neither of you says much.
But when you whisper, “You smell like something familiar,” he smiles into your hair.
And when he murmurs, “I like having you here,” you smile too.
You fall asleep curled up against him. No more nerves. No more pretending this is just for fun.
It’s not the night everything happened.
But it’s the night everything changed.
The Next Morning — 9:12 a.m.
You wake up warm.
Pressed against a solid chest, one of Pedro’s hands heavy over your waist, his breath slow and deep against the back of your neck.
It takes you a second to remember where you are.
The smell of his sheets. The weight of his arm. The stretch of your legs tangled with his.
Then it hits you.
Last night. Dinner. That kiss. Him asking you to stay.
You shift slightly, careful not to wake him.
But you feel him stir behind you.
His voice is a slow, rough murmur in your ear. “Morning.”
You twist in his arms to face him. His hair’s messy. His eyes are sleepy, half-lidded. There’s a small smile on his mouth that makes your heart kick like a rabbit.
“Hi,” you whisper.
He leans in and kisses you—soft at first. Barely there.
But then he kisses you again, firmer this time. Longer.
And it doesn’t feel sleepy anymore.
It feels like wanting.
Pedro’s hand moves under your shirt, smoothing up your back, dragging his fingers up your spine. You sigh into his mouth as you press your chest against his, your body already buzzing.
He rolls gently onto his back, bringing you with him so you’re straddling his hips. His hands settle on your thighs, his thumbs tracing slow circles just beneath the hem of your borrowed sleep shirt.
“You okay?” he murmurs, looking up at you.
You nod. “Yeah.”
His eyes search yours. “We don’t have to—”
“I want to,” you say, clear and certain. “I really want to.”
That’s all he needs.
He sits up, kisses you again—this time with intent. His hands slip under your shirt fully now, dragging it up over your head and off.
Pedro pauses when he sees you.
Like he’s trying to remember every inch.
“God,” he breathes, hands sliding up your waist to cup your chest. “You’re so fucking beautiful.”
You shiver as his thumbs graze your nipples. You shift forward, rolling your hips against his just a little, and feel him hard underneath you.
He groans, dropping his head to your shoulder.
“You’re gonna kill me.”
“Good,” you whisper, tugging his shirt off too.
It’s slow. He treats your body like something worth learning.
Mouth on your neck, teeth grazing your collarbone, tongue dipping below your breasts.
He lays you back and kisses down your stomach, looking up at you the whole time like he’s waiting for you to change your mind.
You don’t.
You arch for him, tug his hand between your thighs.
Pedro groans when he finds you wet.
“So ready for me,” he murmurs, kissing your inner thigh. “Jesus, baby…”
He touches you slowly, gently, working you open with his fingers until you're panting, until you're grabbing at his hair and whispering his name like it's the only word that matters.
Then he comes back up and kisses you again—deep, messy, tongue pushing into your mouth as his fingers stay between your legs, stroking you through every soft sound you make.
“You like that?” he breathes.
You nod, nails digging into his shoulder. “Yeah. God, Pedro—”
He groans, pressing his forehead to yours.
“Tell me if it’s too much, okay?”
You smile shakily. “I’ll tell you if it’s not enough.”
When he finally pushes inside you, it’s slow.
Painfully slow.
Like he wants you to feel every inch of it. Like he wants to feel you—wrapped around him, holding him, trusting him.
You gasp. He kisses your cheek, your jaw, your temple.
“You okay?”
You nod, hand fisting the sheets. “Keep going. Please.”
Pedro groans, deeper this time, and begins to move.
It’s not fast. It’s not rough.
But it’s intense.
Every roll of his hips is deliberate, slow and deep, the kind of rhythm that builds unbearable heat between your legs. He stays close, his chest brushing yours, one hand cradling your head, the other gripping your hip like he needs to anchor himself there.
You moan into his mouth. “Pedro—oh my god—”
“I know,” he pants. “I know, baby. You feel so fucking good.”
You wrap your legs around his waist, tilting your hips to take him deeper. The change makes you gasp—your whole body tightening around him.
He curses, thrusts harder once, then slows again, like he’s fighting to stay in control.
“Not gonna last,” he groans into your neck. “You’re too good—fuck—”
You cling to him, mouth at his ear. “Don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”
And he doesn’t.
He fucks you through it—slow, patient, like he’s memorizing you.
Until you come with a cry, back arching, legs trembling.
And then he lets go.
Buried deep inside you, his arms locked tight around your body, he shudders with a groan that sounds almost broken.
Pedro lies beside you, one hand still tracing circles over your bare back.
You’re tucked into his side, head on his chest, your body boneless and warm and aching in all the right ways.
He kisses the top of your head.
You murmur, “So…”
“So?” he echoes softly.
“I don’t want to leave.”
He smiles. “Then don’t.”
You lift your head, meeting his gaze.
“Okay.”
10:36 a.m.
The bedroom’s quiet, dim with late morning light.
Pedro’s hand is still on your back, fingers idly tracing slow, lazy shapes like he doesn’t want to break the silence. You’re sprawled across his chest with your leg slung over his hip, still tangled in sheets and sleep and warmth.
You murmur, “My thighs hurt.”
Pedro laughs softly under you. “That’s a good sign, right?”
You pinch his side gently, but you’re smiling. “You’re annoying.”
He kisses your hair. “You’re glowing.”
“I’m sweaty.”
“Same thing.”
You hum, turning your face into his neck. “We should get up.”
“We don’t have to.”
“We will eventually.”
He sighs dramatically. “Fine. But I’m making coffee and putting on music and not wearing pants, so. Prepare yourself.”
You brush your teeth side-by-side in front of the mirror, barefoot and rumpled.
He’s wearing plaid pajama pants slung low on his hips. You’re in one of his big, soft shirts that barely covers your ass.
Pedro spits, then wipes his mouth and gestures toward your reflection. “You’re doing the ‘walk of shame’ all wrong.”
“Oh yeah?”
He steps behind you, wraps his arms around your waist, kisses your shoulder. “Yeah. You’re supposed to sneak out. Look flustered. Not stand here looking like a smug little goddess.”
You lean back into him. “I can sneak if you want.”
He brushes your hair over your shoulder, mouth at your ear. “Don’t you dare.”
You perch on the counter while Pedro makes eggs and toasts thick slices of sourdough. Coffee gurgles in the French press. Music hums low from a Bluetooth speaker—Fleetwood Mac, or maybe The Rolling Stones, something vintage and cozy and a little flirtatious.
He hands you a piece of toast like it’s a peace offering.
“You’re spoiling me,” you murmur between bites.
He shrugs. “You stayed the night. That earns you toast rights.”
“What else does it earn me?”
Pedro leans on the counter next to you, pretending to think. “More coffee. Back rubs. The good chocolate from the top shelf. Maybe a foot rub if you beg.”
You laugh.
But he watches you for a second, quiet, eyes soft.
Then, a little more serious, he says, “You’re okay? With last night?”
You nod right away. “Of course I am.”
“You don’t feel—like it was too fast?”
You pause. “No. Do you?”
He looks away for a second. Then back at you.
“No. I just… I don't want to mess this up.”
Your heart thumps.
“You’re not,” you say, and it’s true. “I like being here. With you.”
Pedro steps closer. Kisses you on the forehead.
“You make me feel lucky,” he murmurs. “Like… really lucky.”
You hide your face in his shoulder, smiling into his shirt. “Sappy.”
“You love it.”
“I kinda do.”
You end up back in bed with the window open and your coffee cups half-full on the nightstand.
You scroll through your phone lazily while Pedro reads a book beside you, one hand resting on your thigh like he just needs to be touching you, even when he’s distracted.
Eventually, he sets the book down and watches you instead.
“Next time,” he says quietly, “let me take you out properly. Like a real date.”
You glance up. “Like…in public?”
He nods, hesitating. “If you want. I can be careful. Private table. Back entrance.”
You study him for a beat.
Then smile.
“Okay.”
He exhales, slow and relieved. Pulls you toward him.
And it hits you—how easy this could be. How dangerous. How close you already feel to something you shouldn’t want this badly.
But you let him kiss you again.
Because right now?
You just want more.
Pedro 🍯
Friday night okay for our scandalous outing?
You
depends
will there be food?
and you opening doors for me like a gentleman?
Pedro 🍯
I’d open every door in LA for you
even the ones I’m not supposed to
You
that’s hot
okay I’m in
what’s the dress code? do I need to look famous?
Pedro 🍯
You are famous.
In my phone. In my bed. In my head.
But no—look like yourself. That’s what I like.
You
you’re lucky you’re cute
I’ll give you flirty and effortless
Pedro 🍯
It’s a look that destroys me
every time
Friday Night – 8:04 PM
Private restaurant in West Hollywood
The hostess barely glances at you as she leads you down a narrow hallway to the back, where the lights are low and the table is tucked away in a cozy, dim corner.
Pedro’s already there, standing when he sees you. Black dress shirt, a little open at the collar. Trim beard. That soft smile that’s reserved for you now.
He says, “Wow,” under his breath when he sees you.
You grin. “That’s what you were waiting for?”
“No,” he murmurs, stepping closer. “But it’s a damn good bonus.”
He pulls your chair out for you, brushes his fingers down your arm as you sit. The tension’s quiet but buzzing. This isn’t like being at his apartment in sweats and bare legs. This is real.
The waiter arrives quickly—Pedro’s arranged everything. Wine’s already poured. A cheese plate. You’re grateful, because you’re nervous.
“Not what you expected?” he asks, eyes warm.
“It’s nice,” you say. “Just… kinda crazy. We’re really out.”
He leans in, voice low. “We don’t have to stay long.”
“No,” you say quickly, surprising yourself. “I want to.”
You talk about movies. About food. He asks about your classes. You ask about scripts he’s reading. It’s easy, even with the candlelight and clinking glasses and murmurs behind you.
But at one point, you feel someone glance toward the corner—just a shift, a flick of someone’s head.
You both go still.
Pedro reaches across the table and touches your hand, thumb brushing the back of your fingers.
“Don’t look,” he says gently. “They won’t get anything.”
You nod, swallowing.
“I’m okay,” you whisper.
His grip tightens slightly.
“So am I.”
Outside the restaurant
Pedro’s car pulls around to the back entrance just like he’d asked. You both slip out quietly, sunglasses on—even though it’s dark—and hoods up. The manager gave him a discreet nod on the way out, like this wasn’t his first time protecting someone.
Once you’re in the car, doors shut, windows up, and seat belts clicked… he finally exhales.
You laugh a little, heart still racing. “That was weird.”
“It was,” he agrees, starting the engine. “But not terrible, right?”
You glance at him. “I don’t think I’ve ever been watched while eating cheese.”
Pedro grins. “To be fair, you looked very hot doing it.”
You nudge his arm. “You’re ridiculous.”
“You love it.”
You do.
10:05 PM – His Apartment
He lets you in first. The lights are soft. The space smells like bergamot and whatever cologne still clings to his jacket.
You take your shoes off by the door without thinking. He shrugs out of his coat, throws it on the back of the couch. His shirt’s still half-unbuttoned.
“Wine?” he asks.
You shake your head. “Just water.”
Pedro nods and heads to the kitchen, grabbing a glass and filling it from the fridge. You trail behind him, watching the lines of his back move beneath the dark cotton of his shirt.
When he turns, you’re sitting on top of the counter, arms crossed.
“You’re quiet,” he says gently, handing you the glass.
You take a sip. “Just thinking.”
He nods. Waits.
You hesitate. Then, “Do you worry? About people knowing?”
He pauses. Then crosses to stand in front of you, leaning back on the opposite counter, arms loosely folded.
“I do,” he says honestly. “Not because I’m ashamed. I just… I know how people talk. And I don’t want them to get it wrong.”
You nod slowly. “Yeah.”
He watches you.
“I also don’t want to stop seeing you,” he adds softly. “So I guess I’ll figure it out.”
That makes your stomach flip.
“You don’t think it’s a bad idea?” you ask. “This?”
He tilts his head, thoughtful. Then he shook it.
“No. Not when you look at me like that.”
You blink. “Like what?”
Pedro smiles a little. “Like I’m not just some actor you had a crush on once. Like I’m… real.”
You don’t say anything, but you take a step forward. So does he.
Your hand lands gently on his chest.
“I like the real you,” you say. “Even when you’re dramatic.”
“I’m not dramatic.”
“You literally made an escape plan for dinner.”
He chuckles in a low tone. “Fair.”
Your fingers hook at the collar of his shirt.
“Can I stay again?”
Pedro leans down and presses his forehead to yours.
“Please do.”
Pedro steps between your legs, his palms firm against your thighs, slowly sliding up under the hem of your dress. The fabric bunches at your hips, but neither of you cares. You’ve kissed him before, but not like this—not when everything feels like it might break open if you dare to go a little further.
“You’re killin’ me,” he mutters, lips brushing just below your ear as his hands roam.
Your breath catches. “I haven’t even done anything.”
Pedro pulls back just enough to look at you. “You wore that dress.”
You tilt your head. “You told me to.”
He smirks. “Yeah. My own damn fault.”
His mouth is on yours again—hot, unrelenting. The kiss turns hungrier. You moan into it when he presses closer, the hard line of him slotting between your thighs.
His hands are greedy now, tracing the backs of your thighs, then cupping your ass, pulling you forward against him. Your hips grind instinctively. He groans into your mouth, like he’s trying to hold back but failing.
“Fuck,” he breathes. “You feel—Jesus—”
One of his hands slips around to your front, dragging his fingers between your legs over your panties. He feels how warm you are, how soaked the fabric is. His eyes flick up to yours, dark and full of heat.
“This all for me, baby?”
You nod, lips parted. “Been like that since dinner.”
He lets out a low, guttural sound and presses the heel of his hand right where you’re throbbing. You roll your hips against it, helpless. Your legs tighten around his waist as your back arches into him.
Pedro leans in, his voice ragged. “You want me to touch you?”
You barely manage a breathy, “Yes.”
His fingers hook into your panties, dragging them to the side. And then he touches you—slowly, carefully—like he’s trying to memorize every reaction. The pad of his middle finger slides through your slick folds, circling your clit just once.
You jerk slightly, gasping.
“Fuck,” he murmurs, watching your face. “You’re so wet already.”
You try to kiss him again, but he teases you, keeping his lips just out of reach. His fingers move lower, pressing gently at your entrance. He slips one inside, slow but sure.
Your head falls back. “Pedro—”
“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, adding a second finger, curling them just right. “You feel fuckin’ incredible.”
You rock your hips in time with his rhythm, your moans filling the quiet kitchen. The counter is cool beneath your thighs, but you’re burning everywhere else—chest flushed, heart racing.
Pedro leans in and kisses the underside of your jaw, then your neck, his voice hot and gravelly against your skin. “I wanna see you come like this. Just like this.”
You grip his shoulders, legs trembling slightly as the pressure builds. He keeps his thumb on your clit, circling it in time with every curl of his fingers.
“Fuck—don’t stop—please don’t stop—”
“I won’t, baby. I’ve got you. Let go for me.”
It hits fast. Your hips stutter, mouth falling open in a whimper as you come around his fingers, clenching tight while he keeps working you through it. He watches every second of it, like he’s completely wrecked by the sight of you falling apart in his hands.
When it’s too much, you grab his wrist, panting. “Okay. Okay—”
He kisses you then, deep and messy and full of hunger. You taste yourself on his tongue, and somehow that just makes it hotter.
“Next time,” he murmurs against your lips, voice full of promise, “it’s gonna be in bed. And I’m not gonna stop until you beg.”
You smile, still breathless. “Who says I won’t beg right here?”
He laughs softly, tucks your hair behind your ear, and leans his forehead against yours. “You’re trouble.”
“You like it.”
Pedro hums, pressing one last kiss to your lips. “I really do.”
Pedro kisses you again—more urgently this time, like he’s chasing the taste of your moan. You’re still coming down from your high, but he’s nowhere near finished. His hand strokes down your thigh, then back up slowly, deliberately. His lips drag down your neck to your collarbone, tongue flicking over the skin as he murmurs, “You’re so fuckin’ pretty like this, baby.”
You squirm in his grip, panting softly. “Pedro…”
He groans when you say his name like that, like a plea. His hands slip under your thighs, and in one swift, effortless movement, he lifts you from the counter and carries you into the living room. He lays you out gently on the couch, kneeling between your legs, spreading them with his hands.
Your dress is still bunched around your hips. Your panties are crooked, barely hanging on.
Pedro looks down at you—lips swollen, legs open for him, pupils blown wide. “You want more?”
You nod, voice shaky. “I—I want your mouth.”
“Jesus Christ,” he whispers. “You’re gonna kill me.”
He leans in, dragging your panties down your legs slowly, deliberately. You watch him with wide eyes, chest rising and falling. He kisses the inside of your thigh first—soft, reverent—then bites, just a little, enough to make you whimper.
And then he licks you.
It starts slow—his tongue parting your folds, gentle strokes that make you arch your back. But he doesn’t stay soft for long. He groans into you like he’s starving, hands gripping your thighs as he locks you in place and sucks hard on your clit. Your hips jerk up, and he just tightens his grip, flattening his tongue and dragging it slowly up and down before circling your entrance.
You’re already close again.
“Pedro, fuck—oh my God—”
He looks up at you, mouth shiny, eyes wild. “Come again for me. Just like this.”
You tangle your fingers in his hair, anchoring yourself while he devours you. He slides one finger back inside you, then another, curling them just right as his tongue works your clit. You fall apart again—loud, shaking, hips grinding against his mouth as you come harder than before.
You feel him groan when you clench around his fingers. He fucking likes how wrecked you are.
When he finally pulls away, you’re breathless and trembling. He kisses your inner thigh one more time before leaning over you, lips slick with you, eyes blown wide.
You reach for him, cupping him through his sweats. He’s rock hard and twitching under your palm. “Your turn.”
He swears under his breath, grinding into your hand. “I’ve been dying since you walked in.”
You tug the waistband of his slacks down. He helps, finally freeing himself—and your mouth waters at the sight of him. He’s thick, flushed, already leaking at the tip.
Pedro watches your face as you stroke him slowly, teasing him the way he teased you.
“You gonna let me take care of you?” you ask, sweet and soft.
He groans low. “Not gonna last if you keep looking at me like that.”
But he lets you guide him on top of you, your thighs still slick and spread. You rub his tip against your folds, not letting him in—just grinding, coating him in your arousal. You both moan at the contact.
He leans down, forehead pressed to yours, hips moving in slow, desperate circles.
“Fuck, that feels good,” he mutters.
You wrap your arms around his neck, legs around his waist, your voice a whisper against his jaw. “Next time, you’re gonna fuck me for real.”
Pedro pulls back just enough to meet your eyes. “This isn’t even close to done, sweetheart.”
He ruts against you again, both of you panting now, bodies slick and sticky. He kisses you—deep and messy—as he comes against your stomach with a groan, your name falling from his lips like a prayer.
You lie there together, tangled and panting, the whole room humming with the tension that still lingers.
Pedro finally exhales a breathy laugh. “We’re in trouble, aren’t we?”
You grin, heart racing. “Big, big trouble.”
He kisses your shoulder and smiles into your skin. “Worth it.”
You’re curled up in Pedro’s bed again, half-asleep with your cheek against his chest, his hand absentmindedly tracing lazy circles on your back.
He shifts a little beneath you, reaches over with a yawn to grab his phone from the nightstand, squinting at the screen as it lights up.
Then he goes still.
You feel it before you hear it—his body tensing just enough to draw your attention.
You peek up at him. “Everything okay?”
Pedro doesn’t answer right away. He swipes through something on his phone with a sharp breath through his nose, then hands it to you silently.
Your stomach flips.
It’s Twitter.
A photo. Grainy, long-lens, obviously taken from across the street.
Pedro Pascal on a late-night coffee date?He’s walking beside you on the sidewalk. His hood is up, and yours is too. Your face is angled down, half-covered by your oversized scarf. But it’s undeniably him.
His hand is on the small of your back. Gentle. Familiar.
The photo already has over 80k likes.
“Shit,” you whisper, sitting up a little.
Pedro watches you carefully. “Your face isn’t in it. You’re okay.”
“I mean… yeah, but people are gonna figure it out, aren’t they?” You hand him the phone, heart thudding.
There are already hundreds of quote tweets. Gossip accounts, stan edits, comments like:
“whoever she is… I fear I’m her now”
“idk who she is but I know she smells like vanilla and reads poetry”
“Pedro Pascal out on a date???? Real man hours”
“y’all think this is PR? 😭”
You fall back into the pillows, groaning into the sheets. “I literally had exams yesterday. I was studying in a hoodie like twelve hours ago.”
Pedro chuckles softly. “And now you’re an anonymous femme fatale. Wild.”
You glance over at him. “This doesn’t freak you out?”
“Not really.” He reaches out, brushing your hair back. “I’ve been through worse. You okay, though?”
“I mean…” You sit up, wrapping the sheet around yourself. “I didn’t think this was gonna get real like that. That fast.”
Pedro watches you quietly for a moment. Then he reaches for your hand.
“We don’t have to rush anything. If you want to pull back, stay private, disappear for a bit, we can do that. But I also—” He pauses, thumb brushing your knuckles. “I like this. You and me. I don’t want to pretend it didn’t happen.”
You soften. “I don’t want that either.”
“Then we play it smart.” He smiles a little. “Let them talk. They don’t know anything.”
You squeeze his hand. “Okay. But if I get doxxed by a thirteen-year-old running a fan cam account…”
“I’ll delete the internet for you.”
You laugh, and he leans over to kiss your temple.
Just like that, the tension fades a little. Not gone, not really, but tucked away beside the coffee cups and slow mornings and quiet confessions in bed.
You wake up later to the smell of butter and fresh coffee.
The space in bed beside you is empty, but warm. Sunlight spills through the curtains in long strips, cutting across the crumpled sheets and your bare legs. You stretch slowly, sore in the sweetest way, your body still humming from the night before.
You find Pedro in the kitchen, barefoot in his plaid pajama pants, the ones with a little rip near the pocket. He’s focused on the skillet in front of him, brows furrowed, spatula in hand like he’s trying to win an award for best boyfriend breakfast.
You linger in the doorway, quietly watching him like you’re afraid saying his name will break the spell.
He turns at just the right moment, catching you with a sleepy smile.
“Well, good morning, mystery girl.”
You grin. “Don’t call me that.”
“What? You are a mystery.” He gestures to the open laptop on the kitchen counter. “You’re trending.”
Your stomach dips. “So it wasn’t just a bad dream?”
Pedro nods. “Hashtag 'Pedro Pascal Date Night' has entered the chat.”
You groan and pad into the room, barefoot in his T-shirt, curling your arms around his waist from behind. “This is so surreal.”
He leans back into you just enough to kiss your knuckles. “You’re still you. I’m still me. Nothing changes that.”
You rest your cheek against his back. “I know, it’s just… I wasn’t expecting it to feel this big.”
Pedro turns gently in your arms and cups your face with those warm, capable hands. “Then let’s keep it small. Just you and me in this kitchen. My bad pancakes. Your bedhead. The rest can wait.”
You nod. Let him kiss you. Let him hold you like that.
A few minutes later, you’re sitting at the little dining table while he plates the eggs, toast, and strawberries in a way that’s oddly charming and not very symmetrical. He brings you your coffee just the way you like it—too much cream, not enough sugar.
“God,” you say, taking a sip. “This is dangerously domestic.”
Pedro raises an eyebrow, settling across from you. “Dangerous?”
You smirk. “You’re lucky I’m into it.”
He lets out a low laugh. “You have no idea how into you I am.”
You pause, caught off guard by how easily he says it. How it doesn’t scare you the way you thought it would.
After a beat, you lean across the table and whisper, “So what happens next?”
Pedro reaches for your hand, his thumb brushing the back of it like it’s second nature.
“Whatever you want,” he says. “We will figure it out. Together.”
And there it is again—that quiet thrum of something honest. Something with roots.
Warnings: 18+. BREEDING KINK, unprotected sex, Oral (f!receiving). Age gap (50s,20s), eaten from behind, bent over to the counter, breeding kink, praise, pet names, talking about pregnancy, soft!joel, dom!joel, pinv.
words: 2.391
You carefully slide the tray of cookie dough balls into the warm oven, you lean in to close the door, You smile to yourself, feeling proud of the delicious treats you're about to make.
The comforting sound of the crackling fireplace fills the living room as the cold winter wind howls outside.
You move to the sink, humming softly to yourself as you begin cleaning the mess you left behind.
The warm water feels nice against your hands as you scrub the bowl and utensils clean.
The gruff sound of your husband's voice snaps you out of your thoughts as the front door clicks shut.
You hear the soft thud of his boots being scraped against the doormat, "Babe, I'm home," he calls out, his deep voice carrying through the house. He steps into the kitchen, his eyes immediately drawn to the sight of you in his old, well-worn t shirt.
The faded letters of his business name across your back make him smile, "What's cookin' sweetheart?" A warm smile spreading across his face at the mention of cookies. "You remembered how much I love 'em, huh?"
He steps closer, wrapping his arms around your waist from behind and resting his chin on your shoulder. "You're too good to me, you know that?" You lean back into his embrace, the sponge pausing mid-scrub as you turn your head to press a quick kiss to his cheek.
"Someone's gotta take care of my big bad cookie monster," you tease lightly, your voice warm and affectionate.
He smirks down at you, watching as you continue washing the dishes. His calloused hands, still cold from being outside, slide slowly under the oversized shirt you're wearing - his shirt - feeling your warm, smooth skin.
"Damn," he mutters softly, enjoying your body's warmer h. His rough, calloused hands slowly move up, cupping your breasts possessively. He starts kneading the soft mounds.
A low hum of satisfaction rumbles in his chest as he warms his hands in your gentle curves. "Goddamn, sweetheart," he murmurs, his voice growing huskier. "Your warm little titties are heating up my cold hands real nice."
He presses his face into the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply and groaning as his hands continue to massage your sensitive flesh. You let out a soft giggle, your hands pausing mid-task as his rough hands continue their gentle assault on your breasts.
"Joel..." you warn playfully, trying to sound stern but failing as his warm breath tickles your neck. "I'm trying to do the dishes here..." He smirks against your neck, "And I'm just trying to warm my hands, baby," he says with mock innocence, his hands still gently kneading your breasts.
"You just keep doing those dishes, sweetheart," he says, his voice low and teasing. "I'll just keep warming my hands right here." Unable to resist the temptation of your smooth skin, Joel starts placing soft kisses along your neck.
He works his way up from your shoulder, his lips gently nibbling and sucking on your sensitive flesh. His hands never stop their slow, sensual massage of your breasts, his calloused thumbs brushing over your hardening nipples.
Your cheeks flush pink as his lips and hands work their magic on you. You bite down harder on your lip to keep the moan trapped inside you. The sponge in your hand continues to move mechanically over the plates as you try to focus on something other than Joel's touch.
One hand continues kneading your breast while the other slides up to gently grip your throat. His lips move to capture your earlobe, giving it a playful bite as he presses his already rock-hard erection firmly against your backside. "You're driving me crazy, sweetheart," he growls low in your ear. Unable to resist any longer, Joel's hands become more urgent.
He squeezes your breast harder, his thumb rubbing circles around your nipple. With his other hand still on your throat, he starts grinding his hardness against your ass, letting you feel exactly how much he wants you. You bit down on your lip to suppres a moan as he smirked,
"but I'm not doing anything daddy..." You said with mock innconcence earning a groan from Joel as he hears you calling him 'daddy' "Not doin' anything, my ass," he mutters against your neck, a husky chuckle escaping his lips. Your innocent act just makes it hotter as you grind your ass against his cock, making him groan deeply.
"Fuck, sweetheart," he hisses out as you grind against him, the heat and wetness between your legs becoming more apparent through his jeans. His hands tighten on your throat and your sensitive tit, his breathing growing heavier. "You're getting all wet and warm back there, aren't you?"
His hand trails down your soft stomach and beneath the hem of his shirt (that you're wearing as a dress), finding no barriers whatsoever. "Damn, baby..." he whispers, smirking smugly into your neck.
One large hand cups your bare pussy completely, feeling how slick and warm you are. "Already fucking drippin' wet for me," he growls approvingly, his fingers spreading your lips apart to feel just how ready you are for him.
He pulls back slightly to look down at his hand cupping your bare pussy, watching his fingers glisten with your arousal in the warm kitchen light.
You lean back slightly against him, your breath hitching as you whisper in mock innocence again, "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Mmhmm," he hums disbelievingly, "Damn near coating my palm, sweetheart," he murmurs softly, his middle finger sliding back and forth slowly, gathering more of your wetness.
"So fucking tight," he whispers roughly against your ear as his thick finger slowly pushes inside you. You can feel yourself stretching to accommodate him, and he slides in easily thanks to how wet you are.
"Look at how perfectly you're taking my finger, baby," he growls, starting a slow rhythm.
His thumb begins to circle your clit in slow, firm movements as he continues pumping his finger in and out of your tight pussy. "You like that, sweetheart? You like it when I finger your little cunt like this?" he asks in a low, dominant tone, his breath hot against your neck.
You whimper softly, your hips starting to move involuntarily against his hand. He adds a second finger, stretching you more as he curls them inside you, hitting that spot that makes your knees weak.
"Answer me," he demands, his fingers pumping faster and deeper. "Mm-hmm," you moan softly as his fingers nail that sweet spot inside you.
He swallows hard, his jaw tightening as he watches his fingers disappear inside you, making your juices coat his palm. "Damn, baby."
He starts moving his fingers faster, scissoring them inside you to prepare you for his much larger cock. His thumb circles your clit relentlessly while his other hand squeezes your breast hard.
Suddenly, he pulls his fingers out with a wet sound, making you whine at the loss. You look up at him with disappointed eyes, biting your lip as his fingers slip out of your warmth.
Before you can protest though, he brings those fingers dripping with your juices up to his mouth and licks them clean with a satisfied moan. "Jesus," he mutters softly, tasting your sweet pussy juice.
He reaches down with his clean hand and uses his thumb to pull down your lower lip, his eyes locked onto your bare pussy. "You're such a greedy little thing, aren't you? You gotta have some patience if you want somethin' sweetheart."
Without warning, he drops to his knees in front of you, pushing your legs apart roughly. He buries his face between your thighs, his tongue delving deep inside you without any warning. You scream out in pleasure as he eats you out like a starving man, his hands gripping your thighs tightly.
You grab the kitchen counter with both hands, knuckles turning white as Joel's tongue aggressively explores your pussy. Leaning back, you grind desperately against his face, chasing the intense pleasure. His hands move to your ass, holding you firmly against his mouth as he devours you eagerly.
His tongue laps at your clit relentlessly before plunging deep inside you again. You can hear him moaning against your pussy, the vibrations sending shockwaves of pleasure through your body.
You grind harder against him, your hips moving in desperate circles as he eats you out like a man possessed. He pulls back for a moment, his chin and lips glistening with your juices.
"Fuck, baby," he groans, before diving back in. His tongue flicks over your clit rapidly, making your legs tremble as you grind harder against him. He slides a finger inside you again, curling it just right to hit that magical spot.
His tongue continues to assault your clit, and you know you're not going to last much longer. You throw your head back and let out a loud, uninhibited moan as your orgasm crashes over you. "That's it, baby. Fucking come on my face," he growls against your pussy, feeling your walls clench tightly around his finger.
He laps at your clit with long, firm strokes as your orgasm wrecks through you, not letting up until your legs threaten to give out completely. He stands up slowly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Your chest heaves as you try to catch your breath, still leaning heavily against the counter for support as joel watches you come down from your high.
You lean heavily against the counter, your legs weak and trembling. Joel scoops you up effortlessly, his strong arms wrapping around your waist.
Joel carries you to the dining table, gently laying you down on the cold wooden surface he then unbuckles his belt with shaking hands, desperate to be inside you.
"You've fuckin' ruined me," he mutters under his breath, unzipping his jeans and finally freeing his hard cock. It stands thick and proud, leaking pre-cum. He kicks off his jeans completely, stroking himself slowly while looking at you spread out on the table.
You smile seductively, biting down on your lower lip as you lean back on the table and spread your legs wide apart. Your pussy glistens wetly with desire as you stare at Joel with half lidded eyes.
"God, Joel," you whisper breathlessly, watching him stroke himself. "I've been waiting all day for that big, thick cock of yours to be inside of me," you said breathlessly.
"Please, Joel. I need you so fucking bad..." You whined, "Christ," he breathes out roughly, precum beading at the tip of his cock. "You dirty girl, talkin' like that..." His eyes darken with pure desire as he steps closer, lining himself up with your entrance. "You want this he? Want him to fill that tight little pussy?"
"Yes," you moan, Your breasts heave with your shallow breaths, your pussy pulsing with need.
He grabs your hips roughly, pulling you closer to the edge of the table. He wraps one hand around his length and slowly pushes the fat head inside you.
"Jesus fuck," he mutters, watching your pussy stretch around his thickness. He slides in another inch slowly, making you moan loudly.
He continues to slowly feed his massive cock inside you, inch by inch, until he's finally buried to the hilt. You feel stuffed full, stretched impossibly wide around his girth. Joel's fingers dig into your hips as he starts to move, pulling out almost completely before sliding back in deep and slow.
"Fuck, your pussy feels so good," he groans, picking up the pace slightly but still maintaining a slow, deep rhythm. He watches as his cock slides in and out of you, glistening with your wetness. "So tight and wet for me."
He leans over you, one hand gripping your hip while the other reaches around to play with your clit. His thumb circles the sensitive bud as he starts to fuck you harder and faster.
The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room along with your moans and his grunts. "I'm gonna fill you up," he says, his voice low and gravelly as he fucks you harder and deeper.
"Gonna pump my hot cum inside this tight little cunt." His hand on your hip tightens as he starts to lose control, his thrusts becoming erratic and forceful.
"Fuck, I need to breed you," he growls, his hips slamming into yours with brutal force. "Need my seed to spill deep inside you and make this pussy pregnant." He leans down, biting your neck as he fucks you relentlessly, chasing his orgasm. "Gonna fill you up so much..."
"Mmm, you'd look so beautiful with my baby growing in your belly," he murmurs against your neck, sucking and biting the skin, hitting just the right spot inside you. "You'd make such a good mother..."
"mmm yes..." you moan loudly, your body trembling with need. " I want you to breed me and make me carry your child, Joel, please..." Your words send Joel over the edge.
With a final, powerful thrust, he buries himself deep inside you and explodes. He holds himself deep inside you, his thick cock pulsing as he fills your womb with his hot, sticky cum.
"Take it all," he growls, his teeth sinking into your neck as he continues to breed the fuck out of you, ensuring every drop of his seed is planted inside you.
He pants against your neck, his hands gripping your hips tightly as he continues to shoot his load.
"You're gonna be so fucking full of my cum, it's gonna leak out of this tight little pussy for days." You moan softly as your legs tremble beneath him, feeling his massive cock slowly pull out of you.
As he slips free, a thick rope of his cum follows, dripping down your swollen lips and onto the floor below.
He brings his fingers to your dripping pussy, collecting the mixture of his cum and your juices.
He pushes those cum-coated fingers back inside you, knuckles deep. "And we don't waste anything in this household," he murmurs, ensuring every last drop is pushed back into your needy hole.
"Jesus fuck," he mutters appreciatively, watching proudly his handiwork. He rubs your clit gently with his cum-covered thumb before pulling away completely, leaving you messy and well-used.
summary || a lazy morning with your husband quickly devolves into something more
content || **SMUT** breeding kink, housewife kink, praise, p in v sex, Javier "Obsessed with my wife" Peña, he's a little weird and obsessive but we love him
a/n || ...no one look at me LMAO dusting off the blog with a good old fashioned husband!Javi smut fest. looking forward to branching out into a new fandom soon 👀 love you bunches
Main Masterlist | Javier Masterlist | Library Blog
It's the soft press of lips against the back of your neck that pulls you from sleep.
You can't help the displeased groan you give in response. It doesn't deter him. He just chuckles, low and raspy with sleepiness as he trails kisses up the ridges of your spine, along the curve of your shoulder. The pieces come to you slowly, trickling in as sleep finally begins to wane. His chest is pressed firmly against your back, his thigh pressing between your own. His arm locked around your waist, an eager hand tracing along your ribs. There isn’t an inch of your skin that doesn’t feel his presence.
You don’t bother trying to resist when he pulls you onto your back with practiced ease. This is a dance you’ve done too many times to count. He’s early to rise and impatient to wake you every morning without fail. Your eyes flutter open, squinting against the sunrise despite its softness. It’s early - too early. Your fingers tangle in his mess of curls and you let your eyes close, if only to block out the offending light. You’re all too content to lie there basking in the warmth of the sun and the curiosity that follows his wandering touch. His kisses trail aimlessly wherever he pleases; along your cheeks, over your fluttering eyelashes, to the tip of your nose. By the time he finally captures your lips, you’re drifting in that soft space somewhere between sleep and consciousness.
“Good morning,” Javier murmurs. You can hear the smile in his voice.
“Too early,” You sigh in response, not bothering to open your eyes.
“Let me make it up to you.”
Javier moves to settle over you and you make space for him without thought, your thighs spread around his own. You blink up at him with a sleepy smile on your face. You’ve always loved how he looks fresh from sleep. Mussed and messy, his curls sticking up every which way. His touch is slow and meandering, content to simply feel you beneath his palms. He looks at you with such reverence, such intense focus - it feels like you hold the center of his universe in the palm of your hands.
You’ve never been able to resist him. Javier hums a pleased little sound when you pull him closer for another kiss. His hands are hot and insistent, slipping up your shirt - his shirt - until there’s nowhere else for it to go but off. Your underwear is quick to follow under his eager hands, tugged down your thighs and tossed to the floor. He’s just so easy to get lost in. His kisses become more persistent, tinged with a hunger you recognize all too well. Heat blossoms beneath your skin, spreading with every beat of your heart.
Your thighs tighten around his waist, hips arching up to grind against the bulge of his cock still trapped in his briefs. The friction of the soft cotton, the sweet little sound it pulls from your lips, only spurs him on. A low moan leaves him as he dips down to drag his teeth along the column of your throat.
Your nails find purchase in the taut muscle of his shoulders. Javier presses you into the mattress, hips rolling down against you in long, languid strokes. It’s impossible to think straight, impossible to make a decision; part of you wants to beg him to rip through the thin piece of fabric that separates you and fuck you until you can’t breathe. But this feels so good - just two impulsive, eager bodies desperate to feel every inch of one another. You press your head back into the pillows as his lips press against your nipple, his warm mouth engulfing the sensitive bud.
In this moment, the only thing that exists in this world is him - his tongue, his hands, the relentless grinding of his clothed cock against your cunt. It’s only this moment lost in the shimmer of an early morning usually spent stealing kisses before he slips out the door to work. A flicker of clarity breaks through the cloud of desire, some echo of responsibility drawing to the forefront of your mind.
“Wait -” You sigh. Javier doesn’t pause, all too caught up in lavishing your breasts with attention. You tug at the curls at the back of his neck. “Javi, wait! Don’t you have work?”
Javier just shakes his head before flicking his tongue against your nipple. Fucking tease. “Called out.”
“Why?” You ask through a breathless laugh.
“Oh, amor,” He gives you that cocky grin you adore. “We have plans, remember?”
Your eyebrows scrunch together in confusion. There are no appointments today, no huge tasks that demand an entire day away from the office. You tick through the running list of to-dos stuck to the refrigerator - donate old clothes, clean out the eaves, find a contractor for the bathroom renovation, finally tackle the spring cleaning you’ve been putting off for weeks. Nothing important enough to pull him away from work for an entire day.
“Alright, you’ve got me.” You concede. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“My wife wants a baby.” He states matter-of-factly. You blink at him with wide eyes, your lips parted in surprise. Heat flushes up your chest and settles in your cheeks at a low simmer. Your heart feels like it might beat right out of your chest. He grabs your chin and kisses you soft and short before words can find you. His voice is gentle when he continues. “And what my wife wants, she gets.”
All you can muster is a whisper of his name, your tone somewhere between surprise and awe. You’ve known how ready he was since the moment you nervously broached the topic a few months ago. He could barely bite back the grin on his face when he cradled your face in his hands and reminded you of the promise he made on your wedding night. That you would want for nothing, that he would put the world at your fingertips without a second thought. All you had to do was ask.
“Been tracking your cycle.” He confesses. Anticipation curls into a tight knot in your belly at the glint in his dark eyes - bright with hunger but steadfast in his resolve. “Took the whole week off just for this.”
“You’re insane.” The teasing tone falls flat in the face of your desire. His fingertips glide along your sex, humming a pleased sound at how wet you already are.
“Not insane.” There’s no missing the pride that clings to his words. He slips one finger inside of you, quickly followed by another, and curls them upward into that spot he knows so well. You can’t help the whine that leaves you as he slowly rubs your g-spot with that stupid grin playing at his lips. “Just a man who keeps his promises.”
He leans back slightly, just enough to watch your cunt pulse around his fingers with every little movement. There’s no hesitation in his touch - just well-rehearsed thrusts that unravel your very being from the moment he sets his pace. Your hips buck into his hand when his thumb rubs against your clit. You sigh his name, all pitched and breathy, and you swear you can see his pupils dilate at the sound.
“Yeah, that’s right,” He coos, a tinge of pointed self-satisfaction creeping into his voice. It would drive you insane if it were unearned, but the pleasure building low in your belly proves him right. You can’t help but rock down into his touch. “Just achin’ for it, aren’t you?”
It isn’t fair for him to expect an answer when every crook of his fingers drags you further into that abyss of mindless pleasure - but he isn’t exactly known for being fair.
“Gotta use your words,” He tuts at you. “Tell me what you want, baby.”
Your lips part, a plea at the tip of your tongue - and his fingers move faster, zeroing in on that sensitive spot that replaces any conscious words with a sharp cry. Your back arches on instinct as a molten-hot spike of pleasure pulses through your body.
“Don’t tease,” You whine, unashamed of the desperation that drips from every syllable. “I need you, Javi. Please.”
It is unrepentant need that has you pawing at the waistband of his briefs until he helps you tug them down, stretched taut around his muscled thighs. Your teeth sink into your lower lip at the sight of his cock hanging heavy, so close to where you need it. There’s no resisting the temptation; your hand wraps around his cock and you revel in the feeling. The weight, the heat that emanates from him. So thick that your fingertips can’t touch. The first stroke of your fingers draws a low moan from your husband, his resolve already crumbling under your touch. You stroke him slowly, finally meeting his heavy gaze again.
“I want you to put a baby in me.”
His fingers slow to a crawl inside you. His eyes slip closed as he draws in a long breath, only fluttering open again once he exhales. There’s a look that crosses his face, an intensity that you’ve come to know so well. A shiver slips down your spine and settles low in your belly. He usually revels in dragging honeyed pleas from your lips, in toying with you until you really beg. But this morning, with the intention that hangs thick in the air, those words are all it takes to snap the tenuous hold on his self control.
You’re left achingly empty as his fingers slip away. Javier makes quick work of his last scrap of clothing, his briefs disappearing into the abyss with your own clothes. His cock slides along your dripping pussy with a slow, methodical roll of his hips. He lets out a quiet fuck as he feels you clench around nothing, your body enticing him back where he belongs.
Your breath catches in your throat when the blunt head of his cock presses inside you. The stretch always catches you off guard, but this is different, more intense. Maybe you’re too used to an orgasm or three before he finally fucks you. Maybe it’s the knowledge of the claim he’s laying to your body, to your soul. He sinks into you in one slow, devastatingly deep roll of his hips, and you swear you can feel him in your stomach. Your cunt pulses around him, desperately trying to keep him there, to pull him impossibly deeper.
All you can do is squirm beneath him, whimpering his name in a plea for something, anything. The sight he makes only fuels the need burning through your veins. Javier’s eyes are closed, his lips parted to let short, rushed breaths escape him. His hands squeeze at your waist where he pins you to the bed, a pointed attempt to ground himself.
“Fuck, sweetheart,” His voice is rough, rumbling through his chest like a low roll of thunder. He all but collapses into you, one hand haphazardly braced beside your head as he gives in to that obsessive need to be as close to you as possible. The change in angle presses his cock snugly against your cervix and sends that dull ache of pleasure-pain rocking through your body. Your nails bite into his shoulders where you cling to him, drawing him in until his nose brushes yours. “Feels so fuckin’… God, you’re so good for me. My pretty little wife.”
Javier tries to be still above you. He tries to let you catch your breath and adjust to the sudden fullness. He really does. Each breath ghosts across your skin in a staccato beat, followed by the soft melody of unsteady sounds on every exhale. His hips rock forward on their own volition - he’s barely even grinding against you, but it’s enough to have you both drawing in a sharp breath. He curses under his breath as if chastising himself, but he can’t stop. The slightest movement allows him to grind against your clit, coaxing the flames of your desire into a wildfire that burns through your core.
It doesn’t help that you can’t stop touching him; your hands trail up the planes of his back, over his ribs, along his collarbone. Touching, caressing, scoring little marks into his skin with your nails. It’s all too much. Your fingertips trace a line along his jaw before finally curling in his hair and pulling him into a kiss. Javier moans against your lips, his tongue immediately seeking out the heat of your mouth. He pulls out slowly before burying every inch back inside you. Testing, careful. Barely restrained. Your hips roll into his with his next too-slow, too-gentle thrust, and he practically whines. He takes it for the permission that it is, and that first real thrust sends you spiraling.
The kiss breaks with a sound so uninhibited and raw that you barely recognize it coming from your lips. Your grip wrenches tighter in his hair and that sharp pinprick pain only spurs him on. Javier presses his forehead against yours, sharing your breath as he buries his cock as deep as your body will take him. Everything about it is devastating - the pressure against your clit, the unrelenting pace, the overwhelming fullness. And all you can do is take it, caged against the bed you share.
There isn’t anywhere in the world you would rather be.
You press a kiss to his lips before whispering against them, “I love you.”
He chases your lips with an achingly needy sound, high in his throat, like nothing you’ve ever heard from him before. He whispers it back like a plea. I love you. I love you, baby. More than anything. The sincerity pours from him with every word, bleeds into desperation in how he fucks you. It takes every ounce of conscious thought to keep your eyes from rolling into the back of your head. Pleasure hitches in your belly, wavering on that fine line of devastation.
“‘M close,” You barely manage to gasp the words out.
Javier pushes himself up just enough to see the aftermath of all his hard work. And if you thought he looked like a dream before, this must be heaven. He must have finally fucked you into an early grave because - holy fuck. He gazes down at you with wide eyes, the beautiful brown of his irises consumed by his blown-out pupils. The look he gives you is hungry but reverent - as if he can’t believe you’re here, you’re his, and he can never get enough.
“Fuck. Fuck, baby you’re so -” His rambling breaks apart with a wounded sound. “- fuckin’ perfect. Made for me.”
You’re so consumed by the heat threatening to boil over that you don’t realize his hand has slipped between your thighs until the rough pad of his thumb swipes against your clit - and you’re gone. That coil finally snaps and your back arches so violently that his pace falters. You can feel his gaze burning into you, eager to capture every millisecond of your pleasure. Sear each detail into his brain. You can barely make out his raw groan, the low murmuring of his praise. Fuck, that’s it, baby. That’s my girl.
His hand flies to your hip, fingertips indenting your skin so hard you know they’ll bruise. The grip tightens and forces you down, and it's only then that you realize you’re writhing beneath him, begging with barely intelligible pleas. A faltering groan rips through his chest as he stills inside you, and the warmth that spreads through your core feels like nirvana.
Every other sense goes hazy as the heat coursing through you lowers to a simmer. Your eyes feel too heavy to focus. Your ears feel like they’re stuffed with cotton. But you can feel him as Javier melts into you. You can feel his panting breaths where his face is tucked into your neck, cooling the sweat that clings to your skin. You can feel the rise and fall of your chest against his. You can feel the ache in your thighs, still pressed wide around his waist. You can feel his cock slowly softening inside of you, still twitching in a valiant effort to get hard again. All you can do is feel - as if every synapse in your brain can only focus on this while your consciousness slowly reboots.
It isn’t until you shiver that Javier finally moves. The man runs hotter than a furnace, so your air conditioning works overtime to keep the house at a pleasantly cool temperature. But the slide of cold air against your bare skin is almost too much, too stimulating after it all. He shifts off of you with a grunt, shushing your displeased whine at the loss of his heat. Two fingers tap your hip. You crack one eye open to find him kneeling next to you, pillow in hand.
“Lift.” He murmurs.
A teasing smile twitches at the corner of your lips. “You’re ridiculous.”
You do it anyway.
“Well, you’re the one who married me, so I think that says more about you than me.” He teases right back. He shoves the pillow beneath your hips, a slight frown on his face as he adjusts it to his satisfaction. So concentrated, intent to get it right down to the most minute detail. He tugs a blanket over you both and settles in next to you with a heavy arm thrown over your belly to keep you close. His nose nudges your temple and he sighs, sounding so content that you fall for him all over again.
A yawn takes you by surprise. “‘M tired, Javi.”
“Mmm, I bet.” He presses a kiss just below your ear. “Take a nap, baby. Gonna need all the rest you can get.”
You don’t remember falling asleep. There’s nothing in between the hazy memory of Javier burying his face in your neck and the growl of your stomach that wakes you. Every cell in your body thrums with an exhausted kind of satisfaction despite the protest of your empty stomach. Javier is still pressed against you, hasn’t moved an inch aside from the leg he’s hooked with yours. You let yourself savor his weight, his body heat, the steady rhythm of his breathing - until the hunger pangs get too annoying and you have no choice but to extricate yourself from his long limbs. It’s a slow process in your efforts not to wake him.
Your foot has just brushed the floor when Javier’s arms lock around your waist and he drags you back into the sheets.
“Wh- Javi!” You wiggle around in his grasp in a half-hearted attempt to free yourself. You only stop when he nips at your shoulder, his sharp canines digging into your skin. “Ah, stop it!
“I’ll get it,” He grumbles as he kisses over the mark he left. “Whatever you want, I’ll get it. I’m not letting you out of this bed today.”
“Oh?” You tease. “And how long do you plan on holding me hostage, Mr. Peña?”
His hand smooths down your belly, palm pressed low between your hips. “Until it takes.”
In which Max allows the anger he’s been burying to come through, or Mad Max makes his return..
Warnings?; degrading, kind of asshole max, hair pulling, unprotected sex (A NO NO), talks of throwing things at people, slight George Russel hate (it’s for the plot sorry), use of the word cunt, sorry for any errors I missed!
You weren’t surprised when the helmet went flying across the garage, you’d seen it coming over the past few races.
The way his fists would clench when he returned from another race where he hadn’t made podium, the way he’d curse to himself in Dutch when the fia gave him a penalty they didn’t give to other drivers doing the same thing.
Yes the few wins he’d secured were nice and you were positive that if it wasn’t for them he would’ve blown up a long time ago.
You owed George Russel a thank you basket for pushing him over the edge, the way they’d raced each other the past few weeks pushing max closer and closer to the edge. And finally after George’s dirty moves in the Spanish Grand Prix the anticipated return of Mad max happened.
You were cautious as you pushed open the drivers room door, nobody had even attempted to even approach Max since he’d entered the garage with his lion printed helmet flying at a wall.
“Go away” he grumbled from the small couch in the room, arms crossed as his foot tapped against the floor.
“It’s just me” you announced shutting the door behind you, making sure to twist the lock.
He picked his head up slightly blue eyes scanning over your body, the helmet he so gracefully chucked at the wall in your hand.
“What are you going to do with that?”
You sighed at his attitude, “nothing, picked it up along my way”
He scoffed, “should’ve chucked it at the fucking stewards with that bullshit penalty.”
You sighed setting the helmet down before moving to sit next to him, “unfortunately that would be assault and that’s not something we want. You’re already a point away from a race ban.”
Blue eyes were quick to snap towards you filled with a dangerous hue that you hadn’t seen for a long time.
“They gave me points on my license? You’re fucking joking right?” He snapped.
“I wish I was, it was unfair but they felt like it was intentional.” You sighed.
He scoffed moving to his feet now pacing the room as he removed his race suit, profanities and complaints spewing out as he changed.
Just as he was sliding on his pants a knock sounded at the door, “Max mate we need you for media”
It was Christian, at least they hadn’t sent the poor Pr girl to get him.
“Fuck Media, they can all fuck off and so can you.” Max spat.
You winced at his words knowing they were mean but this is what happens when you provoke an already irritated Lion.
You stood to your feet unlocking and opening the door just enough so you could see Christian.
“I’ll get him out, just give me a minute and he’ll be down.”
“We need him now Y/n” the Brit sighed.
You rolled your eyes at his impatience, “Yeah well that’s not going to happen, give me five minutes and he’ll be down.”
You don’t allow him a response before shutting the door and turning towards your Dutchman.
“I’m not going down there” he laughed but it was dry, mocking, like he could give two fucks about anyone or anything and what they had to say.
“Max”
“No, you want me to do it so bad then go do it yourself. Tell them I don’t give a fuck and it was that cunts fault.” He shrugged spitefully eyes locked on yours.
You walked to where he was now standing by his massage bed large hands gripping the edges in irritation.
“Look I know you’re mad but please just give them something so we can pack up and go home.” You pleaded looking up at him.
The triple header had been long and grueling and all you wanted was to climb into bed with your boyfriend and cats and sleep the next few days away before he was due at Redbull headquarters.
You weren’t paying attention to his hands until one was tangled in your hair angling your head back, a whimper escaping your mouth at the sensation.
“You don’t tell me what to do, got it? If I wanted your fucking opinion I would’ve asked for it.” He spoke sinisterly, eyes sharp and voice deep.
He was quick when he spun you around your front pressed against the massage bed while he pressed into you from behind.
You couldn’t help the way your thighs rubbed together at the feeling of his hard cock against you, the grip he had on your hair sending shocks down to your wet core.
“Fucking slut, this is turning you on isn’t it?” He scoffed.
You whimpered at his words, it was sick how his degrading words made you feel. The way the slick was spreading on the insides of your thighs you both knew he’d find a pool when he reached his hand between your thighs.
And he did.
Max growled at the feeling when he slipped his beneath your sundress, his thick fingers not wasting any time as they slid your panties to the side.
He was rough but you didn’t mind especially not when he slid his fingers inside you, a moan breaking out before you could stop it.
“So fucking needy.”
“I had a bad race and you think you can tell me what to do? Must’ve forgotten your place. But don’t worry baby I’ll remind you.” He smirked.
It was dark and sinister not a drop of sympathy behind those blue eyes and curled lip and you felt it in the way he ripped his fingers from your cunt.
You whimpered at the loss but it didn’t last long before he was pulling his pants and boxers down in one swift go.
It wasn’t long before your dress was bunched up around your waist, panties pulled down just enough for his cock to reach your cunt.
He doesn’t prep you like he usually would. There’s no need to.
You’re soaked, his cock pushing through your dripping folds with ease. And there’s nothing nice or slow about the way his cock splits you open.
“Shit.” You breathe the burn from the stretch of his thick cock was to good, the pain mixing with the pleasure causing your brain to short circuit.
He gives you a little of his cock before pulling out half way and then slamming back into you, his pace brutal as his hand twists in your hair yanking you flushed against his chest again.
His voice is steady when he speaks again, “Take it like the slut you are, always willing to take my cock huh?”
You nod cluelessly the pleasure blinding as your nails dig into the table in front of you, you’re positive there will be rips in the material by the time he’s done with you but you couldn’t care less right now.
“Yeah I know baby, I know. Anything for me to fuck my girl.” He cooed mockingly, voice mean.
He fucks you so deep. Bottoming out with each thrust.
He’s grunting in your ear, deep and raspy just the way you like. You can hear his low curses in Dutch his breath hot on your neck.
You can feel him against you, all over you. His toned chest pressed against you, every thrust of his hips makes your ass jolt from the roughness and pace of the thrusts.
His cock hits your g-spot effortlessly with each thrust, brutal, sharp, unrelenting as he chases his high.
This isn’t about you, he’ll make you cum but you’ll be paying for it later on the plane wether that be on your knees for as long as he says or letting him fuck you until he says you can cum.
You gasp when his lips meet your ear tongue teasing before he nips at it the pain sends jolts of pleasure through your body.
Max chuckles when your cunt clenches around him, you were his dirty slut and he basked in the fact nobody but him knew that.
You cry out when he tugs on your hair, it’s hard and the pain is sharp but there’s no denying the fact you’re attracted to the pain. Not when a moan follows behind it.
“You’re such a whore, act so fucking sweet and innocent but all you want is to be fucked dumb.” He growls voice hot with pleasure but you can still hear the anger lingering.
His accent is thick, one you swear he’s losing some days but not when he’s like this. When he’s got nothing but sex and pain on his mind. No that’s when the part of him he worked so hard to control comes through.
He’s got himself buried so deep inside of you that you feel everything, every vein and ridge on his bare cock.
You sob out as the feeling in your lower stomach grows stronger by the second, your body is so fucking hot, sweat making stands of hair stick to your forehead.
“M-max. Fuck-I’m so close.” You whine body trembling against him.
He grunts at the sound of your dazed voice, “yeah I can feel it. Go ahead and cum for me like a good little slut.”
And you do.
It hits you hard, your mouth drops open but nothing comes out. Your vision blurs as that band in your lower stomach snaps.
You can hear max moaning from the way you’re clenching him, convulsing around his cock just the way he likes.
He starts fucking you harder, hips snapping into you at an ungodly pace as he chases a high of his own.
And you can feel all of it when he does, his strong arms wrap around you caging you against his body as his thrusts grow wild.
He cums inside of you with a low grunt, curses spilling free as he fucks you through his high, body shaking as he comes down.
You two stay like that for a while, allowing each other to catch your breath. You’re still panting when he pulls away hands holding your waist to steady you on your shaky legs.
You’re not expecting him to spin you around so quick but he doesn’t give you much time to think about it before his lips are on yours.
His grip on your cheeks is strong, nails digging into your flushed cheeks puckering your lips on his own as he takes what he wants.
He kisses you like a starved man, it’s hot and heavy, his tongue devouring yours.
And finally when he pulls back he gives you a once over pulling your panties off completely he shoves them in his pocket.
He doesn’t speak a word as he grabs the blue and orange cap sitting at the edge of the massage bed sliding it on his damn head.
“I’ll be back in twenty minutes, be packed and ready because we’re leaving.” He states clear as day, not allowing you any room for discussion.
And right before he opens the door he turns back to you, “And don’t put anymore panties on, you won’t need them for the plane ride home.”
The bitter taste of Vodka burning on your throat couldn’t mask the erratic rhythm of the drums pounding in your ears. On a good note, the song was so loud it was impossible for you to focus on anything - you can also blame that for the alcohol running in your bloodstream.
It was Monaco. Glorious, glamorous, the country of clubs and billionaires, where, even if you were poor, you were still filthy rich.
You were sure you would be enjoying yourself, had it not been the unfortunate circumstances on your pathetic private life. It was supposed to be a couple’s trip, fancy, much like a honeymoon. You wanted to surprise your boyfriend - well, ex-boyfriend - with tickets to the Monaco race for his birthday, but before you could even wrap a cute baby blue ribbon around the Paddock Passes, you received a text - or rather a picture - from a random girl on your instagram DM’s. The image was clear, your boyfriend was locking lips with some blonde on a random Thursday night. You didn’t know the girl who sent it, maybe she was your guardian angel, maybe someone who knew you from college. It didn’t matter. What truly mattered was the pain breaking your bones, followed by the anger twisting your upper stomach.
He tried to reach out and explain himself, but there was nothing that could free him from the charges once the proof was so unquestionable.
After that, every time you looked at those stupid Paddock Passes you thought about burning them, alongside a few of his t-shirts. But your rational brain was always something you were proud of. Why burn them if you can just enjoy the perks?
Were you a big Formula 1 fan? No shot. It all started off as a way of pleasing your ex on Sundays, and then it quite became an unspoken tradition. You didn’t know all the drivers names, only the ones that won most of the time, and you still couldn’t figure out if Lewis Hamilton was a Mercedes or a Ferrari driver. And, wait, where was Daniel Ricciardo? The thing is, it was never about the sport, to you, it was only about the quality-time in the relationship.
However, with all your apathetic knowledge of races and Grand Prixs, you knew one important thing, Max Verstappen. Your ex’s favorite driver. God, you even had t-shirts with his number on it. You rooted for him, because your boyfriend did. So, now that there was no boyfriend, you wanted Max Verstappen to actually crash his car on Turn 1. Sure, maybe it was a little bit mean to project your anger on a guy who is just doing his job, but the rage inside of you was so sharp that everything your boyfriend once loved, became what you now hate. So what if Max Verstappen is one of those things? He doesn’t know you.
The arrival to Monaco was chaotic. There was no way of getting to it by plane, so you had to spent an unholy amount of euros on an Uber ride. At least you got a chance to ride on a fancy white Jaguar that only existed on a parallel reality to yours.
You packed your best clothes, fancy satin dresses, short flowy skirts, the ones you’ve been saving most of your life for that special occasion that never really arrived. Now it was the time. Young, single, enjoying the salty air of Monte Carlo. You wanted to make sure no one knew you’ve been through a break up and you thought you were doing a good job, but, God, every corner of that country screamed your ex’s name.
Maybe a night out in a club before Qualifying would do you good. From the outside perspective, you looked stunning. Goddess-like. Everyone could tell you were not from Monaco, because there was something about you that stood out from that dystopian place, something which some might like to call a personality. No designer brands sticking out, no fake anything, no trying too hard, just a simple but effective beauty.
“Would you like another shot?”
The bartender’s loud voice overlapped the electronic beat. You looked down at the empty glass shot between your fingers. The image brought back the unbearable taste of Vodka, which made you involuntarily twist your lips.
“Uh… Sure.”
You nodded, but the hesitation was dripping from your lips.
“Maybe you should make her something she actually enjoys drinking.”
You heard the masculine voice coming from your right side. The sentence was filled with confidence, mixed with a sense of humor that was dry. You didn’t dare to look at the man, you were not looking for one, in fact, you much preferred if they were far away from you.
“And how do you know what I like to drink?”
Your answer just slipped your tongue, it was supposed to stay in your thoughts. But that was the Vodka effect. Maybe the stranger was right, you should stop.
“Feisty.” You rolled your eyes. “But no one actually likes the taste of that shit.”
“Well, I’m not drinking for the taste of anything.”
You looked to your right, over your shoulder, with annoyance tattooed on your face. And then you saw him. Black t-shirt, fitted jeans, black cap backwards. Piercing blue eyes. Looking like a frat boy from a sorority or someone from high school you’d have a crush on from afar.
“You could still get drunk on Gin and Tonics and they taste pretty nice. Trust me.” He gave you a polite smile, lips closed. “I’m Max.”
You had to use your sober side to control any facial expression in that moment. Must the universe play such twisted games with you? Does God actually believe you’re one of his strongest soldiers?
It was unwitting the way you relaxed your posture once you managed to understand what was going on. Blame it on the celebrity halo effect. It was like he pushed all your negativity out of the club, even the songs sounded decent now.
He did not look this hot on tv.
“I’m YN.”
He nodded and you noticed his grin. Wild. Trouble.
“So… Gin and Tonics?” He shook the glass cup on his right hand, the ice cubes making a light sound.
“I think I will actually just stop with the drinking.”
Because you wanted to remember every single aspect of that interaction so you could journal it and send it on a letter to your ex-boyfriend. See? I’m talking with Max Verstappen and you’re just dreaming about getting a glimpse of him.
“You are not from around here.”
He wasn’t asking, it was a statement. You didn’t know if you should take it the wrong way, if you looked so pathetically poor or outcasted, but his tone didn’t seem to imply this. Max was curious. He didn’t ask to offend, he asked with admiration.
“Damn, do I look that poor?”
You joked, getting a silent laugh from him.
“No, not at all! I meant it in the best way.” Max looked at the crowd of people dancing around, instantly making you pay attention to it too. The girls were well dressed, out of this world, like the Met Gala happened everyday here. You noticed, but never really paid that much attention. But, honestly, it’s not like you were self-conscious about it. Who care? In a few days you would leave and they would never see you again. “Everyone here is wearing some designer of some sorts, or glitter, or insanely high heels and expensive watches. You’re wearing flat sandals and you hair is beach wavy.”
You blushed, feeling suddenly overwhelmed with the fact that he analyzed you with caution.
“Don’t get me wrong, I would wear Louboutin’s if I had them.” Truth is, there was a part of you that think you would have fun in this lifestyle. There’s nothing wrong with dressing fancy and wearing designer, as long as you’re doing it for the fun and not to show off. “But, following your logic, you’re wearing a plain black tee and backwards cap.”
He raised his now empty glass. Max was never one to flaunt wealth in his fashion. He wasn’t, actually, a fashion guy. He was the type of guy who enjoyed spending his money on other people, or at least on things to do, things to get him out of boredom.
“Am I supposed to be wearing something else?”
“Maybe some RedBull merch?”
That got a loud laugh out of him. That was it for Max. He was officially invested in this. You knew who he was, yet you were still treating him like he was just some random guy flirting with you in a club. Of course, a guy you were minimally interested in. There was no starry admiration in your eyes, just plain acknowledge of his presence.
“A-ha. So you do know who I am.”
“I think everyone in Monaco this weekend knows who you are.”
You didn’t know your words caused his chest to tighten a bit. But, of course, it wasn’t your fault. You weren’t aware of his issues with his public presence and persona. No one was, actually. Max never really said out loud how he hated being famous, although he thought his private manners spoke it loudly for him.
You noticed, however, his shoulders tensed up a bit and the air between you was slightly heavier.
“Are you here for the race, then?”
“It’s a funny, long, too much information type of story…”
You opened the breach. Were you planning on telling about your disaster of a dating life to Max Verstappen? Never in a million years, but he looked like the guy who needed to hear some common human issues. Max craved normality, you could read that. So you were going to give it to him.
“Hm, now you will have to tell me.” Max looked around, aware of the discomfort coming from the loud, stupid electronic track that he actually would like if the sound of your voice wasn’t ten times more interesting. “Follow me.”
Max had no problem walking through the crowd, people would just simply open the space he needed to pass, like he was the prince of Monaco himself, some authority figure that could go anywhere and get anything. That part of his fame he liked it, there was no denying.
You held his hand firmly, like you’d be dropped at the ocean if you let go. His skin was rough and firm, with a few calluses. Hands that could break you if you allowed. The pressure he was applying on your palm was like a reassurance.
You followed Max to what looked like a private room, with a few booths, away from all the noise. The light was dim and yellow, moody, a typical place for flirting. Not necessarily romantic, though. The energy emanating was too sensual to allow space for any fairytale date.
Around you, you could see a few recognizable faces. Celebrities, models with old men, drivers. Lewis Hamilton particularly caught your eye, sitting in a booth, listening to a blonde girl talking. Unlike everybody else who seemed mesmerized by Max’s presence, Lewis didn’t care, in fact, he didn’t even acknowledged your existence, like he was above you, or Max. Truth is, he probably was.
Max guided you to a place in the corner, far away from the others, isolated. It felt like a calculated move. The dutch waited like a gentleman for you to sit down first, taking his seat right in front of you. The black table separating you with a single candle lit by a lonely flame wasn’t enough distance, it felt unduly intimate.
“So… What is the too much information, funny, story?”
He took a sip of his drink, that by now consisted in mere melted ice cubes with whatever was left of a lemon.
“I bought the tickets a few months ago, as a gift, for my boyfriend.” You saw Max’s lips curling in a smirk once you said the infamous word. “Now ex-boyfriend.” The emphasis on the first half of the word was deliberate.
“Tough breakup?”
“I found out he cheated on me through pictures that were sent on my Instagram Directs.”
Max tilted his head, he was convinced that something similar probably happened to him once.
“Well, first of all, I’m sorry, he’s a douche.” You brushed it off, a shoulder movement that made explicit that you were, somehow, almost over it. “Second, you said it was funny.”
“Well, here’s the funny part. I never liked Formula 1. No offense.”
“Non taken.”
“But Peter was, like, obsessed with it. He knew everything, about everything. He had merch, lego cars, watched countless races in person, and the ones he couldn’t attend, he watched on Tv. Never missed a single one.”
Max laughed. Your description of his behavior wasn’t news to him, it sounded like just the average Formula 1 fan, but maybe that was the view from the public who had no idea how much passionate sports fan can be.
“So you bought him Monaco tickets. That’s sweet.”
“When we broke up I contemplated selling the tickets and getting my money back. But why would I do that when I could live the experience he always dreamt of?”
Your comment sparked something in Max’s chest. You were feisty, he could see you had a fire in you. He recognized, somewhere in your eyes and demeanor, that you had the rage and determination he only truly saw in himself.
“So you flew out here?”
“Hoping I could see his favorite driver crash and send a video to him.”
“And who’s that?”
“You.”
Max tilted his head, narrowed his eyes. The fact that you just admitted you were hoping he would crash didn’t even bother him, because the confidence and malice in how you said it, turned him on. It’s like you were a challenge, unlike any other person he ever met. He wasn’t offended by anything you said, he was, on the other hand, completely captivated.
“I’m sorry to break it to you, sweets, I’m not going to crash just so you could get revenge on your pathetic ex-boyfriend.”
You giggled, feeling a rush of goosebumps with the nickname that escaped his lips so naturally, like it was something easy for him to say.
“No, I know. I guess talking to you is enough revenge already.”
You said the word talking, but both of you knew that wasn’t simply it. The air was denser and filled with dirty thoughts both of you had crossing your mind.
“Yeah, except he’ll never know you are here talking to me.”
You shrugged.
“It’s okay. Sometimes revenge is not about a public act, but an act of self gratification.”
Maybe it was the Vodka hitting, maybe it was how beautiful Max’s eyes looked when they were reflecting eroticism, or maybe it was just the confidence that you packed and brought it out like a hidden gun, but your words were explicit enough for him to understand the double meaning.
“So, since plan A is not going to work, your plan B is fucking your boyfriend’s favorite driver and what? Send him a sextape?”
Max was joking, clearly, but every time he thought back about it, he realized he wasn’t opposed to the idea at all.
You raised an eyebrow, as if daring him to agree to a plan HE was the one who created. You never said anything about a sex tape, or sex, at all. Turns out Max Verstappen had the devil in his mind, especially when confronted with a beautiful girl.
“Look, I can’t give you a crash, or a sextape…” He let the phrase prolong, like he had something to add. “But I can give you something else.”
You narrowed your eyes, tempted.
“And what is that?”
“Come to the RedBull garage this weekend, with me. I’ll make sure he sees you.”
You were out of breath for a moment, nearly choking on air. Your mind racing with ideas and ‘what-ifs’. Being on the spotlight was never your thing. Normal job, normal clothes, normal apartment, you would even call yourself basic. Simple. And there was nothing wrong with that. You liked the shadows, you liked doing your own thing without strangers lurking and noticing. It gave you a sense of freedom. If you were not in the spotlight, no one could judge and you could do what your heart truly desired.
Being in the RedBull garage with Max would change everything, your whole way of living. Because once you are seen in public with a guy like him, people never forget. It would give you a new identity, people would gossip, comment on your appearance, on your manners. It was too much.
Max could see the hesitation emanating from you, which sort of made him like you even more. Any girl would jump onto that opportunity, but you seemed actually worried about the consequences.
“I don’t know, Max. He’s not the only one who’s going to see me. People will talk.”
“So?”
“People will gossip. About me.”
“Who cares about what other people think?” You didn’t answer. Of course Max Verstappen didn’t care about other people, he didn’t have to, he would still be successful and talented regardless of what people would say, and he would still be adored. Because unlike you, he had an army of a fanbase to support him. “Look, YN, you’re not going to show up as my girlfriend or anything, people bring guests to the Paddock all the time. It’s really nothing if you think about it, and it will give you exactly what you need.”
Max promised to himself he wasn’t going to push if you said no. But he legitimately wanted you there, not only for the revenge or the ploy around your love life, but so that he could spend a little bit more time with you.
“I suppose we can try tomorrow and if it goes well, I’ll be there on Sunday too.”
Max smiled, ear to ear, a rare Max Verstappen smile journalist would be fighting over a picture. But it was natural and real, like the ones he had when he held his trophies.
“I have a condition though.”
“Oh, a second ago you were begging for me to agree to this, and now you have conditions?”
“I was not begging.” He kinda was though. “And I am the one doing you a favor, so, yes, I have a condition.”
You smirked.
“Ok, let’s hear it.”
“A date on Sunday night, after the race.”
Max had a dirty smirk hidden on the corner of his lips, which made your stomach twist with a familiar sensation you couldn’t quite name it.
“To celebrate your win?” You teased.
“To celebrate both our wins.”
Licking your lips, you couldn’t help but look at him like you were no better than any man. A date with a cute guy who was actually interesting and had a spark of evilness that matched you? Yeah, no one could refuse that.
“You better not crash then.”
Max laughed, relaxing his posture.
“I’m too good for crashing.”
You gave him your left hand, waiting for a shake, like sealing a deal between two powerful businesses.
˚˖𓍢🌷✧˚.🎀⋆
yourusername added to their story
"won't you guess where i am?"
˚˖𓍢🌷✧˚.🎀⋆Saturday˚˖𓍢🌷✧˚.🎀⋆
As soon as qualifying was done, you heard the whispers, from celebrities on the Paddock, from members of the RedBull team, even drivers and their girlfriends. Everyone was polite, cordially polite, but no one dared to ask your name, that day you were simply “the girl that came with Max.” Little did you know people were dying to unravel the mystery surrounding your persona. Who are you? How do you know Max? Are you and Max dating? It made you nervous.
You felt isolated. It was another reality, the people were so rich you were certain they didn’t know what working 9 to 5 felt like, or how it feels to get recognized for your ideas. At least, you had to admit that watching the whole thing in person was way more fun than on TV. Something, perhaps, you could start enjoying.
You were standing alone next to a window in RedBull’s hospitality, holding a glass of champagne that felt rude to decline. The room suddenly lit up, you heard loud claps all around, whistles buzzing. Between the fancy dresses and expensive t-shirts, you saw Max, walking with confidence, like he was royalty.
Max politely smiled and shook hands with everybody congratulating him. Pole sitter. In Monaco. A big thing, from what you learned. However, the excited strangers and members of the team were not able to stop Max from walking straight to you, like he had a duty, like getting pole position was a purpose.
“Hello there, pretty.”
He smiled and you noticed how his features softened. Max was sweaty, hair messy, racing suit falling over his hips. You cursed. God damn it that man was breathtaking. Everything got even worse when he hugged your shoulders, placing a gentle, shy kiss on your cheeks. The room fell silent as everyone paid close attention to Max Verstappen being tender.
“Congratulations!”
“Did you enjoy it?”
You smiled, big, setting off an involuntary reaction on Max, that mimicked your smile as well.
“Way better than from home.”
“Any news?”
Max asked shamelessly, excited for the answer, excited to know if your boyfriend was cursing his own life for letting you go.
“Not yet. Maybe he didn’t see it.”
“Or maybe he is at the hospital, dead by a heart attack.”
You both laughed. Who knew Max Verstappen had a sense of humor? Even better, he had a dark sense of humor. One that sounded like the things you think, but keep it in your mind, afraid others will judge. Not Max. He will never refrain from speaking his truth, maybe that’s how he got to the top, the best of the best.
Before you could say anything, Max got surrounded by people of his team. He gave you a look, a sorry one.
“It’s fine, I’ll go to the hotel, need some rest.”
“See you tomorrow?”
“Yes, sir.”
Another kiss on your cheek and he was gone. This time, when he walked out of the door, you felt overwhelmed by the looks fallen on you. They weren’t judging, just dying with curiosity. Nobody knew what the two of you had, but it was damn clear that the energy of attraction was so powerful it filled the space and left no place for anything else.
˚˖𓍢🌷✧˚.🎀⋆Sunday˚˖𓍢🌷✧˚.🎀⋆
Race day was chaotic, that was note number one. Note number two was, you were sure there was no way that many boats fit on Monte Carlos’ coast.
Unlike yesterday, you saw Max before he got into his car. You texted him when you arrived and he made his way to you, introducing you to a few people, so you wouldn’t feel isolated. It was uncomfortable having to explain that you weren’t dating, just getting to know each other. What you learned was that Max never really brought any girl over ever since his breakup with his long time ex, or even before her. He was a guy that kept his personal life so private even his family members had no clue if he was still single or not. Which is why people were so curious about you, because Max was treating you like, at the very least, a long time friend.
Your presence during Qualifying alarmed the media. The cameras weren’t shying away from filming you during certain parts of the race, especially when Max won after dominating 78 laps. But nothing prepared the journalists and the fans to when he said it out loud on the radio, proudly, letting everyone know.
If Dylan was already freaking out by one TV appearance, by this time he was for sure throwing a tantrum like a toddler who refused to eat vegetables. He wasn’t the only one. You wanted to crawl into a dark hole and hide from humanity. Or maybe scream and punch Max on his god crafted face. Everyone was speechless from that moment and Max kept going with his duties like he didn’t just create chaos amongst the Formula 1 community.
Thankfully, an angelic, miraculous girl that worked for RedBull managed to take you to Max’s driver’s room, where you could be alone. God, in that moment, if you could kiss her, you would.
You threw your phone in the depths of your purse, where you couldn’t reach to see any messages or take any calls, and especially not open Instagram. Your legs were shaking, like anxiety creeping through every pore on your skin. There was nothing you could do now, the damage was done.
Max opened the door in a brutal movement, like he was rescuing you from a dungeon. The mix of feelings when you saw him was too complicated to point. You were angry, nervous, grateful, amused, all of the above, plus a few more. Max, on the other hand, seemed like he just had another day at the office.
“Hey, told you I’d win, no crashes.”
“Are you fucking insane?”
Max was taken back by the tone of your voice and he replayed in his memories every single second of the day, trying to figure out what he did to get you so worked up.
“What?”
“That fucking radio message!”
And then he laughed. He laughed like he was brushing it off. Like it was nothing, an incident.
“Not a sextape, but it’s the best I could do.” His smile quickly vanished once he saw the seriousness in your semblant. “Are you mad? I thought this is what you wanted.”
You were out of breaths to take. Sure, this was what you wanted, in a way, but maybe it went too far, too public. It was too much. And in that moment you were overwhelmed.
“I… It’s-” You shook your head, sitting back down on the small white couch behind you. Max stood still, watching, studying your movements. “I wasn’t expecting it.”
That was part of it. You weren’t expecting any of this. It took you by surprise and reminded you that you had no control over anything. But to make matters worse, this happened in a situation where you particularly needed to control.
“Would you have preferred if I asked you before?”
“Yes, I very much would, Max.”
He kneeled before you, reaching your height.
“I’m sorry, liefje. You are right, I should’ve asked.”
You softened, not only because he seemed genuine apologetic, but the pet name and sweetness in his voice melted every bad feeling you had, just like magic, he erased every reason you had to be angry in the first place.
Max Verstappen just had that it factor that no matter what he said, people would simply surrender to his ways.
You stood up from the couch, making him turn to you, waiting anxiously for your reaction. The minimal possibility that you would just say no to the date or never see him again was driving him insane.
“So, what time are you picking me up?”
The shape of his lips curved into the most beautiful smile you have ever seen.
“At eight. No need to wear a fancy dress, anything is fine.”
“Thank God I packed my finest sweatpants then.”
Max giggled, playfully.
“Well, actually, that doesn’t sound like a bad idea.”
Of course he wouldn’t mind. You could go to the date dressed in pajamas and he would still think you’re the most beautiful girl in the world.
“See you later, champ.”
˚˖𓍢🌷✧˚.🎀⋆
Later seemed to never come. Your hotel room was a mess when Max texted that he was waiting for you downstairs, much like a reflection from your insides. You were going out, on an official date, with Max Verstappen. How would you simply return to your job on Tuesday and tell your co-workers what happened?
Max was waiting outside his car, dressed casually, not like he was going on a first date, but as in you were in a established relationship and he could dress comfortably, like he always did. Somehow, that made him even more attractive. There were people around, watching, filming. You were worried, Max was annoyed, he wanted to punch anyone who dared to disturb that moment.
Once you were in the car, it was a relief, all the noise was shut, remaining only the sound of your shaky breathing.
“I promise you I will take you far away from this shit.”
He drove no longer than 10 minutes until he reached the coast. You followed him, like a lost child, watching him in his element, talking to the coast guards and some people that were there to help. And, then, it hit you, the big, white yacht, bigger than your childhood house. The type of thing you could work your entire life and still couldn’t afford.
Max got in first, extending his hand, like a gentleman, helping you. You looked around, mesmerized, like you’ve entered heaven. That place was beautiful, unlike anything you’ve seen before. The look on your face was probably pathetic, but Max found it adorable.
“Is this yours?”
You wanted to curse yourself, what a stupid question, of course it was.
“Yes, welcome.”
Max gave you a quick tour around, showing the place with the lack of interest that only a person who’s been there a thousand times could have. Like it was getting old. The Yatch was so peaceful you didn’t even notice it started to move and you were now somewhere in the ocean.
The tour ended with a table set out in the open, under the dark starry sky. White cloth, a burning candle, in the company of a lonely red rose. Max pulled your chair, sitting in front of you. You noticed he was nervous and you noticed he tried hard. Little did he know you didn’t need an expensive yacht to be impressed, he could do it only by being himself.
“This is really nice, Max.”
Your compliment eased his nerves.
“I hope this isn’t too much.”
“Well, it certainly isn’t too little.” You joked, but he seemed still a little tense. “But I think it’s romantic.”
And it was, indeed. Text book romantic. Straight out of a romcom.
“Are you hungry?”
You weren’t. The nerves were eating you alive, you couldn’t think about food, your body showed no signs of hunger at all.
“Starving.”
He grined, ear to ear. “Awesome.” And got up from the table, walking towards the inside.
You took the moment without his presence to breathe, get yourself together, recompose. You would leave tomorrow and never see him again, which was a shame, but at the same time helped you to get comfortable.
Max was back barely a minute later, holding two white plates. You were expecting some fancy seafood dish, maybe a lobster or shrimp, but instead, he held in his hands the delicacy of a homemade burger, garnished with french fries. You smiled. Maybe you were hungry after all.
Max placed the plates on the table, looking proud.
“I made them.”
“Woah! I’m impressed.” You giggled, quickly taking one of the fries, from his plate. “He can drive and cook? What can’t you do?”
“Anyone can cook a burger, it’s not that hard.”
“Don’t put yourself down. You’d be surprised to see how people’s culinary skills are precarious.”
You took a big bite of the burger. Sure, it wasn’t anything elaborated, just a patty with a slice of cheddar cheese and tomatoes, but the simplicity turned it into something special. Plus, the fact that Max took his limited time to make them himself.
He watched you carefully, aching for your opinion, like you tasting his food was somehow validating him as a person, as a man, as a lover.
“So… How is it?”
“Perfect.”
You weren’t talking about the burger at all. You were talking about him, about the weekend, about everything he did for you. It was perfect. Just what you needed. Like God saved Max Verstappen just for you, like all of this was just for you. Suddenly, you felt seen, important, cared about.
The rest of the night flowed like silk. The conversation was stimulating, electrifying. Max learned about your life, your family, your job and you learned about everything that did not involve his career or driving. That night, Max was just a regular guy, with a normal girl, having homemade burgers on a 33 million dollars Yatch.
As the night extended, you both realized how you didn’t want it to end, how you wanted to be there forever. You were laying down on a towel, the chill breeze flowing, standing side by side, stargazing, telling each other childhood stories.
“I really want to keep seeing you.”
Max’s words came out as a fragile whisper, like he was telling a secret, like he never experienced being vulnerable before.
You turned your face, staring right into his blue eyes, that were a little bit darker with the lack of sunlight.
“How are we going to do that?”
“Don’t worry, I’ll make it work.”
And he kissed you. You felt his hand first, barely touching you, almost like he was insecure - as if Max was afraid that instant could break.
The kiss wasn’t rushed. It came with the calmness of someone who knows that time, sometimes, bends before what is real. You sighed slightly, between the kiss, letting the air escape your longs amongst your partial open lips.
The sky fell a bit closer, like all the stars were watching, silently, bearing witnesses to that moment. He moved slowly, shy, like discovering his own name, until he wasn’t. Max leaned in even more, you felt the deepness, not in an urgent kind of way, but in a way in which you were dancing the same song.
And over there, underneath the starry Monaco sky, with his taste invading you, everything stopped moving. Nothing before, nothing after. Just this. The whole world fitted in that kiss, as a promise that would perpetuate for a long time.
˚˖𓍢🌷✧˚.🎀⋆
What followed the weekend was not what you expected. You thought that once you boarded that plane back to your hometown, Max Verstappen would fade into a distant memory, a fairytale, something to tell your kids in the future and make them doubt reality. But that wasn't what happened.
When Max wasn’t flying you to nearby races, he was visiting you in his free time. Showing up at your job, unannounced, holding some white lilies or some plush toy that he bought. You visited his home, got introduced to his family, had dinner with his dad. The infamous Jos Verstappen people talked about, like he was an urban legend. Turns out, he wasn’t as scary as people made it sound, or maybe you were just too good at dealing with that kind of man. At the same spectrum, Max also met your family, your dad nearly crashing out once he saw the Max Verstappen sitting on the dining table, like a normal guy.
Turns out that, even with the constant traveling, media, fans following you down the streets, loving Max was so easy. Much easier than you thought. You even told that to him once. Max didn’t believe you, because he has been told the contrary many times before. In fact, he quite believed that he was an unloving person, although he would never admit that to anyone. However, he felt you were genuine in your acts of tenderness. Every time you brushed his hair or kissed his temples, something in him lit up with warmness, like he was experiencing a real life miracle.
Max never officially asked you to be his girlfriend, he didn’t need to, it just happened. When he wasn’t racing or you weren’t working, you were together, glued like birds of a feather. You were familiar with the drivers now, and their girlfriends. Unlike Monaco, every race you attended now you had someone to talk to, you would even dare to call some of the girls your friends. Everyone seemed to enjoy your company, the team, the drivers, Max’s friends. It’s like you were a breathe of fresh air amongst the chaos of the racing world.
Horner wouldn’t lie, he was a bit worried seeing his driver fall in love with someone, because he had never seen Max race while being distracted, while having another priority. However, Christian quickly noticed there was nothing for him to stress about. Quite the opposite, actually. Max - if it was even possible - improved, ruining McLaren’s dominance. He couldn’t quite explain what the chemicals of love were doing to his Dutch Lion, but he prayed you never left.
On Max’s perspective, yes, he wanted to put on a show, to be his best, to impress you. Not in a pressured way, but in a “I want to make you proud” way. And you were proud regardless of his position. You celebrated Max the same exact way, it didn’t matter if he was P1 or P11. In fact, during Singapore, after a disappointing race, finishing at P8, you waited for Max at the hotel room with champagne and balloons. At first he was frustrated, angry, disappointed at himself and definitely confused at your reaction, but that was mainly because he never had someone who supported him so much, to the point which anything was enough. You taught him that he was enough, and you were proud of him as a person, as a driver, he didn’t need to be the best of the best all the time.
That sort of mentality you brought worked like reverse psychology. It took the weight out of his shoulders. And racing without any worries, made him better.
Needless to say your ex, Dylan, was losing his mind with that whole situation. Which, to Max, was only an incentive. He took the cheating personally, like it happened to him. And even though you never talked to that guy again, he wanted to make sure Dylan regretted what he did to the rest of his life. You told him to forget it, reassured that you were over it, that after Monaco Dylan was dead to you, like a nightmare that you forgot the second you woke up. But Max wasn’t the type to let it go.
So, Abu Dhabi 2025, last race on the calendar, he would give his all. The championship was tied between him and Lando. For the entire season, he raced to win, but that exact race he had entirely different motives.
You weren’t nervous unlike the other girlfriends, you put blind faith in Max. That’s why when the race started, you watched with a steady heartbeat. And Max? Reminded everyone why he was the best of the sport.
When he stepped out of the car, the whole team made a priority that you would be the first to see him, per his request. Helmet on, he rushed to you, like you were the trophy, like you were the championship prize. You kissed the helmet, feeling the coldness hitting your lips. His breath fogged the visor for a second as he leaned closer, hands still trembling with the leftover adrenaline of the race. The roar of celebration around you faded into a muffled hum — the crowd, the champagne, the cameras — all of it dimmed behind the shield of this moment.
Max lifted the visor slowly, revealing eyes that had searched for you since the checkered flag. Eyes that only softened when they found yours.
“Fuck, liefje,” he said, voice rough, edged with emotion. “I can’t believe we did it.”
You smiled, blinking against the tears threatening to fall. “You did it, Max,” you whispered, your fingers brushing the edge of his jaw, “you’re the best.”
He laughed — a breathy, shaking laugh — and pulled you into him, the hard shell of his suit pressing against your body like armor. “Thank you so much for being here,” he murmured into your hair. “For always being here. Love you.”
You closed your eyes, letting the truth of his words wrap around you like warmth. But then he leaned back just enough to meet your gaze again — this time with that glint in his eyes. The one you’d seen when he was most dangerous. Most determined.
“And maybe,” he added, with the ghost of a smirk, “just maybe... I wanted him to see this too.”
Your breath caught.
“I wanted him to watch,” he continued, quieter now. “To watch me win everything he lost the moment he let you go.”
The crowd started chanting Max’s name, and behind you, the team called for photos, for celebrations, but neither of you moved. You stayed there in the quiet bubble of his embrace, the world spinning a little slower just for the two of you.
Finally, Max pulled back, cradling your face in his gloved hands. “It’s you and I, now,” he said, not as a question, but as a promise. “Wherever I go next, we go together.”
And you nodded, heart thudding like an engine ready to race. Because this wasn’t just the end of a season. It was the beginning of forever.
The cheers swelled again as Max took your hand, raising it high like another victory. And when he looked back at you one last time before stepping onto the podium, he didn’t see the crowd, the cameras, or the flashing lights.
He saw you.
Always you.
His greatest win.
liked by redbullracing, f1, yourbff and 6,288,494 others
vogue Evertyhing we know about the romance between Yn Yln and Max Verstappen. From how they met to how she became RedBull's princess and fan's favorite WAG. Link in bio.
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user imagine being such an iconic couple vogue wrote a fucking article about you
user they won best paddock couple 😍😍
user she is so pretty!! 😩😩😩
user can yn teach me her tricks? 🙏
yourbff my baby is a star 🤩
danielricciardo finally some real journalism!
> user you're in a max/yn biggest fan competition but your oponent is daniel ricciardo
> danielricciardo you're immediately losing
yourusername what is my life??
> user girl if you don't want it, can i have it??
user how's dylan??
❤️ liked by maxverstappen1
user bro saw his girl got cheated on and made it everyone's problem
user if they don't get married istg
yourmom my loves 😍
zendaya petition for this to be a movie immediately.
user if petty was high fashion, this man just walked Paris.
florencepugh I need her skincare routine and his PR team.
gigihadid love that for her. love that less for her ex 💅
user he said drive to survive and thrive to flex, and I support it fully.
user this is the energy you have when your love life AND tire strategy are in sync.
user it’s giving “revenge dress” but in the form of an entire Grand Prix.
f1gossip she got cheated on and responded with a WDC boyfriend. this is not a win, this is a legacy.
user he’s not just her man — he’s the man your ex warned you about.
user if Romeo drove a car and Juliet wore a paddock pass.
liked by yourusername, RedBullRacing and 9,293,555 others
maxverstappen1 This one's for your girlfriends.
view all comments
user this is actually insane
user mad!max is back 🥵🥵
user may this love find me! 🙏🙏🙏
redbullracing the dutch lion is still here! 💪🦁
user 5 times world champion, hot girlfriend, rich, talented. will he ever lose?
user i'm so invested in whatever this drama with this dylan guy is
> user i hope he is suffering wherever he is
> user starting a fuck you dylan campaign
user max is in his protective!boyfriend skin
yourusername the best of the best! 💗
> user she is such a queen 😍
lando congratulations mate!! 🍾
charles_leclerc chat we tried, we can't stop him
> maxverstappen1 maybe when I retire 😎
lando blocked by at least 6 exes after this post probably
user championship + main character energy = unstoppable. respect 🫡
georgerussell63 ok but do you offer classes in pettiness? asking for a friend
user imagine being the ex watching this with dry cereal and regret 😭🥄
user no because he didn’t win a championship he won her and THAT’S revenge 🔥
user idc what anyone says, this is peak motorsport content and I love it
