On My Knees, I’m Aphrodite

21 | She/her | MDNi | Bi

[myszie]

Why are your fingers Sticky?

MDNI and additionally all content contains smut, including but not limited to BDSM, Dub!con, corruption kink etc. You are responsible for your media consumption.

Sturniolo Triplets

Switch!Chris P links

Sub!Matt P links

Sub! Mat - I think your tutor being called a good boy

ACOTAR

Rhysand P links - The High Lord’s Concubine

Azriel P links - The Spymaster’s Honey Pot

[allthingswhumpyandangsty]

#know your fandom history

[popepout]

lamb to the slaughter

andrew “pope” cody & f!reader — based around this post.

content <𝟑 .ᐟ 18+, religion, age gap -> use of sir & kid, tension, hyper fem & secretly obsessive!reader, a hint of manipulation.

andrew is about to say the same thing he’s heard his entire life to someone else. while it should be refreshing, he’s actually nervous as he watches you pick up your pink bible. he takes in the way you smooth a hand over the front of your dress. the hem flutters around your thighs, and as he steps closer he picks up on the scent of roses and bubblegum. he shouldn’t be saying anything. you’re too young, too innocent. the words are coming out before he can stop them, however.

“you have a staring problem,” it’s deadpan— it forces you to look up and meet his eyes, which you usually have no problem doing any other day but now it’s different. now he’s confronting you and he isn’t just in the chair across from you reviewing verses and sucking the air out of the room with a single sentence, he’s close.

he’s looking at you like you’re prey.

“i didn’t realize it was that bad,” you lie through your teeth. of course you know how terrible it is. you’ve tried to control yourself but your eyes always find him in the room, wide and wanting. the more you observe him, the more you find yourself daydreaming about him on sundays after service while you complete your chores. you babble, feeling heat rise to your cheeks, “i’m sorry. it won’t happen again, sir.”

sir. andrew knows it’s just you having manners. it’s probably how you’ve addressed older men your entire life, but the title makes something settle in his chest before he manages to grumble, “i’m not offended, kid. it’s just something i’ve noticed— call me andrew.”

you clutch your bible to your chest. andrew can’t help but wonder if that’s another habit of yours or if something in your spirit can sense what he really is when he’s standing right in front of you. a criminal, a bad man, someone you should run from instead of fantasizing about and leaning into. like clockwork, your other hand raises so you can to play with the cross dangling from your neck. it’s covered in diamonds but small. subtle enough to be dainty and match your little dresses.

“let me walk you out.” he offers, both his gaze and voice softening.

the timid nod you give him is expected, but he’s surprised when you don’t shy away from his hand as he places it on your lower back, guiding you out of the bible study room and through the church halls like second nature. he knows he should stay away from you, he knows that he’s going to do nothing but fuck your sheltered life up but something about the idea of you letting him do just that is appealing.

[yars]

[supersexyawesomeness]

[copperbadge]

On Saturday I said to my partner, as I have said for months, "A ten thousand dollar a year raise would solve so many of my problems."

As of this morning I was reluctantly looking for jobs because I love my job and don't want to leave it, but see: $10k raise problem solver.

As of noon today this was no longer an issue, because my boss called me with the news that I was getting a $10K merit raise.

I feel like a huge weight has been lifted off my shoulders. This is roughly $200 extra per paycheck. Enough to pay off debt faster, rebuild my savings, and spend a weekend a month in Milwaukee getting obscenely laid. The sex I'm going to have on $200 extra per paycheck. You can't even.

May all of you get the $10K raise your soul has yearned for. And whatever level of sex you can be satisfied with for $200.

[vergess]

hey bestie i think ur post might be charmed 'cause you aren't gonna fuckin believe what happened today

[eisenkrahe]

Last year JK Rowling personally funded a group called Sex Matters to amend UK law so that trans women *overnight* went from legally women to legally men. This has resulted in mass exclusion of the trans community from numerous organizations, along with ongoing violent assaults on both trans and cis women alike.

With the new Harry Potter series she will be making a reported $20 million per-season renewal + other performance dependent royalties. She has been open across multiple interviews regarding her intentions to use said funds to push forth even more trans targeted legislation in the years to come.

This isn’t a “she gets paid no matter what” situation. The more eyeballs on this show the more money she has to actively harm vulnerable communities. By engaging with it you are directly supporting this and otherwise making a conscious choice to consume HP over doing the literal very least possible to not destroy the lives of trans people across the world.

If my stating the objective facts above upsets you then feel free to unfriend and move along. Your nostalgia-goggles feelings for a tired, problematic franchise mean nothing to me compared to the welfare of my trans friends and loved ones."

If you care more about badly written children's books and imaginary wizards more than you do about real people in the real world do it far the fuck away from me.

Don't try to be in my life.

In fact, you are cordially invited to eat shit and die.

[thykingdoncome]

his best girl

part one | part two | masterlist | ao3

brendon park x reader, michael robinavitch x reader

summary: You’re Robby’s favorite reward. When his staff earns it, he doesn’t hesitate to offer you up. Brendon finds you after you discover a woman on the street with a traumatic injury.

|| smut MDNI 18+ big warning for body gore! sorry! medical gore (not reader, amputation, how else was I gonna get the shark to come down to the ED?), Dr an-ass-to-everyone-else-but-you Park, comfort, pet names, free use kink, cuckholding, kinda phone sex at one little part, come eating, dom!robby, mouth inspections, big dick park, bigggg boyyy park, size difference, size kink, m!recieving oral, dirty talk, throat fucking, reader has no physical descriptions except for having female anatomy and hair long enough to pull into a ponytail. again, I do not condone this sort of dynamic unless spoken about with a respectful consenting partner. READER HAS PTSD / FLASHBACKS, sorry I cant have a horny fic without a tragic story attached whatever sue me || a/n: I know some people arent into bj fics but the way I would suck the soul outta park the shark...mkay yeah goodnight

The walk from the coffee shop to the hospital wasn’t far, just a few blocks down, but you took your time.

The summer sun warmed the tops of your shoulders, the condensation around your iced matcha cooling in your grip. You could hear the last bits of ice sloshing around, already starting to melt only ten feet out into the hot July weather. The girl behind the counter had actually gotten your name right, written in looping marker, a little heart next to it that made you smile.

Pittsburgh bustled on around you, a passing ambulance wailing catching your attention as you walked toward the same destination, the sound rising and falling as it pushed through the intersection ahead. The hospital came into view at the end of the next block, glass doors sliding open and shut, people filtering in and out in small numbers.

Hopefully it was an easy day for them, but you knew better than to say that out loud in fear of jinxing the last half of the shift.

You stepped into the street at the white striped pedestrian crosswalk, adjusting your hold on the cold cup in your hands as you took another sip, the drink cutting through the blazing summer heat. And as you came to step up onto the curb on the other side, you heard the sound of screeching tires.

A truck suddenly pulled up to your right, jumping the curb as the front wheel bumping hard against the concrete when it came to a stop, engine still running. The driver’s side door flew open so fast it bounced once on its hinge.

"Help!!!" a woman screeched, blood on her jeans and across her shirt. Her voice was shrill, panicked: "I need help, please—I don’t know what happened! She was working on my farm, and I—please!"

The cup slipped from your hand, hitting the ground behind you with a hollow plastic crack, liquid spilling out and running toward the curb, green bleeding into the gray. You were already moving, your shoes slapping hard against the pavement as you ran to the passenger side, your hand fumbling on the handle before you yanked it open.

Your brain sort of…stalled for a second as you looked in.

A woman sat slumped in the front seat, her body angled awkwardly against the console, blood soaking through her shirt, her entire right side drenched in it, dark and wet and still spreading. Where her shoulder should have been—

It didn’t register at first. She looked like a realistic mannequin. A costume with fake blood from the Halloween store. It just…it looked… Just wrong. Just—

Your eyes dropped to her lap, and again, your brain was having trouble matching reality to logic. An arm, pale, unmoving, manicured pink fingernails. Not a prop or something from a costume set.

Her arm.

You looked her over, her head tipped back against the seat, her mouth parted, her skin pale and damp.

"Ma'am?" you squeaked, fingers going straight to her carotid, and you felt a very thin, thready pulse. You turned to the driver, "Go get someone from inside!"

You didn’t wait to see if she listened.

Moving without thinking, you set the arm carefully down on the passenger side floor so it wouldn’t fall, hands already going to your own shirt, pulling it up and over your head in one quick motion, leaving you in your bralette and cutoffs, the fabric bunching in your fists as you folded it over itself.

In any situation where someone is bleeding profusely and you don't have a tourniquet, you always apply pressure. Whether its with your hands, with your shirt off your back, doesn't matter. Pressure. Always remember pressure. Memories of Jack Abbott teaching you life saving first aid one day when his shift was less eventful and he had sat with you in the lounge over a cup of coffee. You're gonna want to look and see if it's stopped bleeding—don't. You'll only lose whatever clot you'd created with the pressure. Constant pressure, it could save someone's life one day.

You pressed your shirt hard against what was left of her shoulder, your hands slipping immediately, the blood soaking through the cotton quickly, warm and slick as you leaned your weight into it.

“What's your name?” you asked loudly closer, trying to keep her there, your forearms already starting to shake with the force of it. You brought your hand to her sternum, trying to see if she'd react to pain. She let out a little moan. “You're okay, you're gonna be okay. Open your eyes!”

Your own gaze lifted, distracted by movement on the other side of the car. Instead of the driver doing what you'd asked, she had already slid back into the car on the other side, "I have to go. I can't. I'm sorry." she began to say, as you shifted your arm around the hurt woman’s back and pulled her out of the passenger seat. You felt one of her shoes catch on the lip of the door, readjusting her full weight into you as you stumbled back a step to keep from going down with her.

Once she was out of the car, you leaned in to grab her arm, but suddenly, the car was moving.

“Hey!” you shouted or gasped or screamed, you couldn't remember. You had one arm around the bleeding woman, the other reaching into the vehicle just in time to grab her disconnected limb. And just like that, the car jerked forward, the open door slamming shut as it pulled away from the curb.

“Shit, shit shit—hey! I need help!” you yelled, throat scraping a little at the panic in your voice. You turned toward the hospital doors, people already starting to notice. Thankfully, Ahmad the security guard saw you and he was next to you in seconds.

"What the fuck!?"

"They just—they left her, oh my god—" you panted, the smell of the fresh blood flooding your senses.

Ahmad called into his walkie for help, and soon a gurney was coming around the corner from the ambulance bay, and a group of nurses and— to your surprise, Robby— came to your help.

"Jesus—" Robby cursed under his breath, grabbing you by the arms to pull you upright and out of the way as they took the woman from your hold and placed her on the gurney. His worried eyes scanned over you, squeezing your arms, checking you over as you stood shirtless on the side of the road. His eyes soon snapped to the patient—Jesse had stepped in immediately, his hand replacing yours at the woman’s shoulder, pressing down hard on the blood-soaked shirt.

“Proximal traumatic amputation—left shoulder,” he called out as the team walked together, “Massive bleed—checking her pressure now. Weak carotid, probably going to need blood.”

Robby was leading you inside with everyone, a hand at your back to keep you walking. The cool blast of AC hit you as the doors opened. "Alright, get her in a room, Dana, what's available?!"

"Trauma one!" She shouted from the charge nurse desk, pointing

The entire team turned on the dot.

“Someone grab the arm—careful—don’t lose it,” Robby barked as they cleared the doorway. “Mel’s on EFAST. I want MTP activated—blood in the room now. Get a saline flush going on that leg. Move!”

He turned to you once she disappeared into a trauma room, catching your arm to stop you just outside the doors. "What the hell happened?"

"I—" you swallowed hard, your hands shaking, blood still slick across your fingers, and your vision began to blur. "Oh god—"

His hands covered yours, hiding them from your view, "Are you hurt?"

"No—no," you said quickly, shaking your head hard. "I'm fine, uh—she—she was dropped off. On the curb! I just happened to be there. She—the lady who was driving said it happened at her farm and—and then, Robby, she just drove off!"

"Okay. Okay, thank you, honey. We've got it from here." he said, the edge gone from his voice now, grounding for you even as your ears started to hum and as his attention kept pulling back toward the room. "Do you want to go sit down and—"

You shook your head, eyes widening. "No, no—please, can I stay with you?"

He hesitated for a second, eyes flicking through the trauma room doors again, then back to you, then down at your hands in his.

"You sure?" he asked.

You nodded.

He gave a short nod back and guided you in with him, his hand pressing once at your back as the doors swung open.

Noise hit you all at once—monitors beeping, voices overlapping, orders being called out and answered, someone already on the phone with surgery, the room moving fast around the woman on the bed. You watched on, Robby setting you in the corner, grabbing sterile gloves and beginning to say something—but your ears were ringing louder and louder.

His eyes flickered over to you between his questions and orders once in a while, arms crossed tightly around his chest. Your lungs were beginning to feel shallow, not enough air being pulled in. God, there was too much blood, it was all making you dizzy, the smell and the sticky feeling on your fingers putting you right back in this same room years earlier. Suddenly your vision swam and it wasn't the woman from the road in the bed, but your parents, breathing tubes down their throats as everyone yelled and scrambled to save their lives, leaving you pushed in the corner as you watched on.

The door to your left swung open, a couple heads glancing up before dropping right back to what they were doing. A young man stepped in, clean scrubs, badge swinging against his chest as he moved uncertainly into the room, hovering like he didn’t know where to stand before drifting closer to the bed.

"Ortho consult?" he said loudly over the space so that you could hear him even over the buzzing between your ears.

No one answered him right away, but made room for him to take a look at the woman's shoulder.

“Time of injury?” he asked, glancing around, then back at the shoulder. “Do we have the limb? Was it preserved? I need to get a photo for Park—”

Robby looked up, "He couldn't come down?"

"Busy upstairs with a crush injury—" he said quickly, pulling his phone from his pocket, thumb swiping across the screen, "I only started yesterday as a resident, can't say for myself—." he said, looking closer at the open wound.

Robby let out a breath through his nose, shaking his head as his arms crossed tighter over his chest. "Jesus…"

As the new resident leaned down to snap a photo of the amputation, he smirked up at you.

"Hey, shark bait."

You barely heard him, but you did see Robby's head snap up from across the room.

"What the fuck did you just say?"

He faltered, already shrinking under it. "I just—you know—her and Brendon—"

Robby's lip curled as he jerked his chin toward the door. "Get out."

The resident didn’t move.

"Now," Robby snapped, voice suddenly very sharp and very scary. "Go upstairs, find Dr. Park, and tell him exactly what you just said. Word for word. Then you will tell him to send me a grown up who knows how to keep their mouth shut and actually knows what the fuck to do."

The resident turned, snapping another quick picture before shoving his phone away and getting out.

Robby stood there staring at the closed doors, shoulders tight. Then he let out another long exhale through his nose, and turned back to the room.

"Alright, let’s go people, once we get her stable she can go upstairs," he said, already back in the zone, each instruction coming out with a little less patience as everyone worked to get the woman stable. Whitaker had already taken her arm, setting it into a metal basin, saline sloshing as he flushed through it, hands moving fast but careful as he explained every step to his posse of med students.

Robby was on the move again, circling behind his team. He held his hands up to not brush any residents and nurses as he cut across the room, and then he was in front of you.

The snap of his gloves came first, latex pulling tight before he stripped them off, dropping them into the bin without looking. His hands were warm when they closed around your arms, thumbs pressing in to get your attention.

His face swam in and out of your vision.

"Honey," he said, voice cracking a little as he leaned down to your eye level. "I don't think you should be in here. We got this. Go find Dana, okay?"

You nodded, or, at least, tried to. Your fingers still curled into yourself as you swallowed thickly, the smell of iron flooding your senses.

He pushed the door open with his shoulder, leaning out into the hall. "Princess, where the hell is Dana?"

"Outside for a smoke!" she yelled from the main desk. And once her eyes landed on you, they widened, and she hurried over. "You okay?"

You nodded again, this time a little stronger, your breath coming a little easier with the door open, the smell easing off.

She stepped in close, one arm coming around your shoulders, steadying you. Robby said something low to her and she nodded, already guiding you away from the fray.

"C’mon, let’s wash your hands," she said, her voice softer now as she guided you down the hall, her hand staying at your back, keeping you moving when your steps slowed.

She brought you to the sink in the room, reaching past you to turn the handle, letting the water run until it warmed before pulling your hands gently under the stream. The sensor clicked, soap dispensing into your palms, and she worked it in carefully, her fingers moving over yours, between them, over your wrists, rinsing away what had already started to dry there. The only sounds were the running water and the buzzing in your head, though you were starting to be able to breathe better without all the machines around.

She rinsed your hands clean, then reached for paper towels, patting them dry and then guided you to the plastic chairs in the middle of the room. She filled a small paper cup from the sink and brought it to you.

You realized then she'd brought you to the lounge. It was quieter in here. It didn't smell like blood, but of someone's salty ramen that was heated up in the microwave, the machine beeping its reminder to whoever forgot it.

Princess had brought over a container of baby wipes, and began pulling them out to wipe your face, your neck. Each one came away with so much blood on it you didn't know what to do. She was crouched in front of you, setting the cup down on the round table, her deep, dark eyes on your face. "You’re alright," she said, quieter now. "Just need a minute. Everything’s okay. You’re here. It’s Wednesday, five in the evening, July 30th, 2025. You’re alright. Breathe."

July 30th, not March 4th. Everything was okay. You weren't here to await the prognosis on your parents lives, but here to see Robby. Robby, you're...friend? What was he? He was your rock, your…your…

You breathed in deeply, your tremors starting to settle. Princess nudged the cup closer, and you took it, fingers wrapping around the thin plastic, cool water sliding down your throat.

The door opened abruptly, and though you thought you'd see Robby come back to check on you, but it was another familiar face.

Brendon Park.

He filled the doorway, broad and stoic and intense.

"Leave." he said shortly to Princess. She rolled her eyes and dropped the last wipe she'd been cleaning your shoulder with onto the table. She quickly glanced at you with an eyebrow raised, and you said a small thank you before she walked out the door.

His sharp eyes watched her, towering over her small stature as she slid past him and out the door. He shut it behind her, and finally looked over to you.

He was across the room in two wide steps, closing the space quickly, lowering himself in front of you. One knee hitting the tile, bringing himself level with where you sat.

"Hey," he said, so differently from his razor sharp dismissal of the nurse, his hands coming up to soothe your thighs. "Hey, look at me, bunny."

Bunny. The nickname Brendon had for you, because of how wide your eyes would get the first time he made it clear he wanted you. Intimidating, terrifying, and yet…you’d come to learn that beneath that piercing, narrowed gaze and that massive, unshakable ego, he was soft in the places no one else ever got to see.

"Did you—did you check on the patient yet?" you asked, your voice catching a little as you wiped at your eyes, fingertips coming away damp. You hadn't realized you'd been crying.

He caught your hand before you could drop it, turning it in his, holding it between his palms. His touch was anchoring, and he brought your fingers to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to the top of your knuckles. You caught a flash of the pink spiral bracelet he had on his left wrist.

"Not yet, but she's stable. I wanted to check on you…Heard you found her."

You nodded, chin wobbling.

"You were so brave, bunny." He pressed another kiss to your knuckles, slower this time, his thumb brushing once along the side of your thumb. "My resident, on the other hand, told me he was kicked out of the trauma room. What exactly did he say to you?"

The question pulled you out of wherever your brain had gone in the past twenty minutes, just enough to let a small flicker of amusement break through, like a light in the darkness, as Robby’s face came back to you.

"He called me shark bait," you said, a half smile tugging at your mouth, though it came off as more of a grimace. "You should’ve seen Robby—"

"Robinavitch is going to look like a saint once I get a hold of that fucking kid."

The way his voice dropped predatorily gave you a shiver.

"Brendon—"

He kissed your knuckles again, cutting you off, his grip steadying you where you sat.

"Be a good girl and wait for me, okay?" he said, his eyes holding yours, making sure you were actually listening. "I’ll handle that prick and come find you again later. Gotta save this lady’s arm. Could be in surgery a while."

You nodded. "Thank you…for…" you sighed, shaking your head and looking away, "I don't know."

He stood, letting your hands slip from his, but his touch didn’t leave you. His palm came up to your jaw, tipping your head back to look up at him. You followed the movement, craning your neck and taking him in: broad shoulders, slicked-back hair, his scrubs pulling tight across his chest and arms.

His thumb traced over your bottom lip as he said, "You're welcome, bunny."

Eventually, Princess came into check on you with Dana at her side, as if she had needed back up in case Brendon was still circling the room. They moved you down the hall to a quiet room, handed you a change of clothes and stayed just long enough to make sure you were steady before they went back to their duties. The door clicked shut and the noise felt like it dropped off all at once.

You sat for a little while, hands in your lap, and you could swear there were bits of blood beneath your fingernails even though Princess had scrubbed you clean. It was just the feeling, the memory of it. You flexed your fingers, reminding yourself it was the here and now, that you were okay. You felt silly, a little selfish thinking of your own memories instead of the woman going into surgery. You prayed she'd get her arm back.

You swallowed, shoulders tight, breath evening out slow through your nose. She was here, she was stable, and getting the help she needed. That was all that mattered.

The door opened again before you could sit with it any longer.

Robby came in, his eyes tight and brows thick with threaded worry, striding to the bed quickly and pulling you up into him like he needed to feel you against him. You went easily, arms sliding around his middle, your cheek finding his chest, and let him rock you where you stood, the sway of it doing something quiet to your nerves that hadn’t quite settled since the trauma room.

"How are you?" he sighed into your hair, his hold tightening like he meant it. "I'm so sorry you had to see that."

You pressed your face in a little deeper into the fabric of his hoodie, warm against your skin, familiar in a way that had your throat stinging again. "S'okay, I'm okay," you murmured, your voice still a little frayed at the edges.

You pulled back to look at him, hands bunching the back of his hoodie, holding tightly onto him.

"Honestly I'm…" you sniffled, trying to catch yourself before you really started to cry, "I'm glad I was there when I was. What if that lady just…left her on the side of the road or something?"

Robby was looking at you in that way he got sometimes, something thick behind his eyes that you couldn’t quite pin down, pride and worry and something softer tangled up together, his mouth pulling into a small, tight smile.

"I'm so proud of you, honey," he said, voice gentler now, the edge of it worn down. "You took such good care of her before we got there. And… the fact that you're worried about her and not the memory of... It makes your old man real proud is all."

You gave him a small smile. "You're so sappy today."

"You make me sappy," he said, a soft, breathy laugh slipping out of him, his hand coming up to pinch the bridge of his nose like he needed a second to collect himself. When he looked back at you, it was steadier, more like him again. "If you want to go home, McKay is heading out early, she could take you and—"

"No, it's okay," you cut in gently, shaking your head, the idea of leaving so soon not sitting right with you just yet. You didn't want to be all alone when your nervous system caught up to you, if the memories flooded again and no one was there.

"I told Brendon I'd wait for him."

"Oh, it's Brendon's turn is it?" he smirked, his hands giving your arms a small squeeze. It felt good to fall back into this, it felt like solid ground.

"He came to check on me." you said gently, remembering him in the lounge, "it was really sweet."

"Can't say that's the first word that comes to most people's minds when they think of Dr. Park—"

Your fingers slipped under his hoodie to pinch at his back, earning a quick huff of a laugh out of him.

"He is very sweet, actually. He's just… ya know, shy about it."

You knew it sounded ridiculous the second you said it, but you meant it anyway, thinking of the way he’d looked at you, held you, spoke to you.

"Oh, shy is actually the furthest from what that man is!" Robby laughed, louder now, shaking his head.

You smiled, a little wider this time, and then it softened again on its own, your thoughts circling back, something nudging your mind. There was a flicker of hesitation there, something you couldn’t quite ignore now that you’d brought the conversation back to what you'd come for all along.

"Is…that okay with you?" you asked, the question coming out slowly, your fingers still hooked in his hoodie. "If he comes in to see me?"

You weren’t even sure what you were asking for exactly— permission, reassurance, some kind of line you hadn’t crossed yet?—but there was an uncertainty in your stomach, of needing to make sure.

"Anything you want, honey," he said, and there was no hesitation in it, just that same steadiness he always gave you. "Do I need to check on you?"

Heat rushed up your neck, settling hot in your cheeks, your teeth catching your bottom lip as your gaze dropped. Your body knew what that meant before your brain caught up.

You nodded, almost automatically. "Part of the deal, isn't it?"

"Yes," he said, quieter now, something thick and low threading through his voice as he looked at you, "yes it is. Why don't you tell me your plans for Dr. Park today?"

Your head tipped back a little in surprise. "You really want to know?"

"Of course I do." His voice dropped further, almost a whisper now as he leaned in, his face close enough that you could feel his breath move across your lips. "I like to know what my girl gets up to with my staff."

"Technically Brendon isn't on your staff, Dr. Robinavitch…"

That smile pulled across his face, sharper, more of a leer than genuine joy. "Humor me."

You were a little confused, but when had Robby ever given you a reason not to humor this thing you'd created? He was always so open with sharing his ideas with you, his fantasies, his wants and needs and curiosities. It made the two of you a good match, after all. You were eager to fulfill all of them and he was more and more open each time you did. It was like peeling back layers of a person, under their mask, under their outward-facing humanity, and seeing the deepest, darkest parts, and taking him by the hand, letting him lead you through it to the other side.

"I think…" you murmured, your hands sliding up around his neck, fingers brushing along the sweat at his hairline. "I think I want to make him feel good. I just need…to turn my brain off and just…"

The word stalled somewhere behind your teeth, making you feel suddenly very shy.

His arms were wrapped around your waist, and he pulled you up on your toes so you were flush against him, hips to hips, your chest pressing up into his. "…Yes?"

"I really want to…" your eyes lowered, and your voice was hardly a whisper when you said, "suck his dick…"

"What was that now?" he asked, turning his head as if he couldn't hear you right, so that his ear was right at your lips.

"Robbyyy…" you whined, tipping your head back in half frustration, half nervousness.

He pulled you against him even harder, and you suddenly realized the prodding against your belly was his cock, covered by layers of fabric but still pushing into you, throbbing. Your breath caught in your lungs, belly flipping and sending a rush of heat through your spine.

“C’mon, I know you’ve got it in you. Use your words.”

"I want to suck Brendon's dick." you admitted, holding your breath.

Robby hummed, satisfied, and leaned down to kiss you. "What a good girl," he murmured against your mouth before his tongue pushed in, cutting off anything else you might’ve said. The kiss went deep fast, messy, hungry, pulling a desperate little squeak from you as he bent over your frame. As you tipped back, your leg lifted to balance yourself, and he used it, hiking over his hip and guiding you back until the edge of the hospital bed was at your back and he was lifting you across it.

"You drive me fucking crazy sometimes, you know?" he moaned, his kisses growing sloppier by the second. Your moans were climbing higher in octave as he drove his covered member into the crook of your lap, harder and harder, pushing you deep into the thin mattress.

"Fuck, Robby, please—"

"Let me see your mouth—" he demanded, pulling back just to look at you, "gotta make sure you're ready for Dr. Park, don't I?"

You opened it with a little smile.

"Stick your tongue out."

You did as you were bid.

His expression shifted, something darker settling in as he looked at you like that, stretched out on the hospital bed, compliant, waiting. You could feel the way your body reacted to it, the way your pulse picked up in your chest.

He grabbed a glove from the dispenser, snapping it on quick, and then his fingers were at your mouth, pushing in without hesitation. At the same time, his hips pressed harder into you, making you moan desperately.

"Gooood girl…" he murmured. "Gonna go deeper now, let’s see if you can take it."

You focused on your breathing, slow through your nose, your body adjusting around him, letting him guide you. When you tried to close your mouth, he pulled back fast, tapping your tongue in warning.

"Keep your tongue out." he said roughly.

"Yes, sir," you answered, the words muffled but automatic, your tongue back where he wanted it.

He pushed further this time, testing and watching you closely. You caught the way his throat moved when he swallowed, the way his pupils widened as they locked on you.

"What a good girl, not even gagging when I have my hand down your throat." his beard twitched as a smile pulled from his lips, "what if I—"

He pushed in a third finger, your lips stretching around his gloved digits. Your eyes began rolling back at the feeling of him invading your mouth, his cock begging to be let out to give what you needed. You locked your ankles around his lower back, bringing him even closer.

Suddenly your throat constricted when his fingers pushed a little too hard on your gag reflex, and he let out a wrecked groan, pulling his hand from your mouth in a flash and replacing it with his tongue again.

He couldn't seem to help himself today. Usually he was good about checking you over and going about his business, waiting until he was home to have his fun. But today he couldn't stop kissing you. And he was kissing you hungrily. They were wet and sloppy and all you could do was respond in equal fervor, trying to keep up with his abrupt eagerness.

"Fuck, I love kissing you," he groaned, his mouth still pressing into yours between words. "Such a perfect girl… so good to me. Gonna take such good care of Park, aren’t you, honey?"

"Yes, Robby," you moaned as he dragged his covered cock up into you again and again.

"And tonight, when we get home, I want you to be on my bed, naked, and I'm going to—"

"Robby!" a voice came from the door, following by a few quick, hard knocks.

Dana.

He groaned under his breath, shoulders dropping, and then he was moving, pulling back, helping you sit up like nothing had happened even though your body was still humming with heat and your heart still thrummed in your chest.

"Yeah, come in," he said, already sounding like himself again once he cleared his throat. He didn't face away from you, just waited to hear her come in over his shoulder.

Dana stepped in quick. "Got an incoming trauma at the backdoor." Her eyes flicked to you, apology plain there before she added, "MVC."

MVC. Motorized vehicle collision.

Suddenly all the heat from your body drained out at once.

"Okay," he said, pushing his hands into his face, dragging them down until he sighed and added:. "I'm coming."

She nodded, and shut the door behind him.

Robby looked back down at you, a little sad in his eyes.

"I'm sorry—"

"It's okay, of course," you said quickly, understanding and a little breathless. You plastered on a smile as much as you didn't feel its effects, and added: "Go save lives."

He bent down, kissing you for longer than absolutely necessary, and then pulled away with a whispered, "To be continued. I'll let Dr. Park know you're in here."

You nodded, humming as you licked your lips. "Bye."

Robby looked over his shoulder at you as he got to the door, "Bye, honey."

It didn't take too long for Brendon to find you, to hold you, to talk to you about the day you'd had. He spent a long time just sitting next to you. He'd stayed like that for a while, his hand at your back, massaging in circles while he listened. It was something you wished everyone got to see, though… selfishly, there was another part of you that thought it was sweet that he was only like this with you. Besides, you knew he wasn't always sweet or gentle. He was good about knowing when to give it to you just how you liked it.

And it definitely didn't take long after you told him what you'd wanted to do to him that both of your clothes were discarded into the corner and he was pushing himself down your throat.

"That's it," Brendon sighed, "turn off that pretty little brain of yours and take it."

It was actually working. Your brain felt fuzzy in the most intoxicating way, senses filling with the smell of musk and his cologne—something like evergreen and citrus with expensive clean essence. You couldn't help the way your eyes slipped shut as it settled over you.

The sounds, stacking on top of each other until they were all you could hear, were like a symphony orchestra that lulled you. It was the deep, throaty pull of his breathing, the rough noises he let out without thinking, the wet, obscene suction of your mouth, and rhythmic contact of his balls against your chin.

It began to pull you under, your mind drifting, going quiet.

His hands moved to the back of your head, gentler than anything else about him, and you opened your eyes, looking up.

"I got you," he murmured, voice lower now, closer. "Gonna get this out of your way."

He pulled you down his member, slick with your saliva, to get you closer, your throat contracting around the invasion of the thick, mushroom-shaped tip. He was so thick it had your lips stretching, your jaw feeling like it needed to unhinge just to take him fully. You breathed through your nose, eyes only able to see the beautifully cut V of his hips as he held you in place.

"Stay right there, bunny."

His fingers worked through your hair with a gentleness that didn’t match the rest of him, the most intimidating doctor of the OR, with his sharp gaze on you. He gathered the strands back, keeping it off your face. The pink spiral tie slipped from his wrist, stretched between his fingers before he pulled your hair into place. He'd done it so many times to you before, with the concentration only a surgeon could have while he tied it off without causing any strain to you.

“Aren’t you gonna get made fun of for a pink hair tie on your wrist?”

He’d smirked, snapping the plastic lightly against his skin.

“I’d love to see them try.” There’d been a note of amusement in it when he looked at you knowingly. “Been a while since I’ve had a good fight.”

“People are gonna ask questions,” you’d sang in a knowing-tone, trying to match his playfulness even as you put your clothes back on from the side of the hospital bed. You'd only known him a few weeks then, only seen him in private once before this. He'd decided to carry a tie with him at work after your first encounter where your hair got in both of your faces, and stuck to you in sweaty strands.

He’d stepped in closer then, crowding your space without touching you, tall enough that you had to tilt your head back to keep his eyes, his glower sending shivers down your back.

"Let them, little bunny." he whispered, pushing your hair back behind your ear, "And I'll tell them the truth. That if they'd pay more attention to their own problems, maybe they'd get their cock sucked as good as I do. Only losers can't handle a pink hair tie on their wrist."

You'd laughed it off, but he'd meant it.

“Better,” he soothed, wrapping his hand around the ponytail he’d tied, lifting you back to pull you off him. You were left catching your breath, a thin line of spit still connecting you to him.

“Fuck—yeah,” he muttered, his other hand coming down to himself, fisting the head slowly at the top as he looked at you. His mouth parted, eyes fixed on your face in bliss.

"You're so cute like this, bunny," he moaned, "even cuter when my cock is in your mouth, don't you think?"

“Yes, Brendon,” you answered softly, breath still uneven and your lips parting again as his hand kept you in place, held open for him.

“Why don’t you go ahead and touch yourself,” he went on, a small smile pulling at his mouth. He traced your open lips with the tip of himself, coating your bottom lip in a trail of his precum and your own spit. “I can feel you fidgeting. She’s eager, isn’t she?”

You hesitated for a moment, rubbing your lips together uncertainly.

He leaned down then, pressing a brief kiss to your mouth. His voice quieter when he spoke. “What is it?”

"I—” you swallowed. “I need… permission.”

“To touch yourself?” he asked, a flicker of something amused passing through him. “I’m giving it to you. I want to watch.”

You shook your head, a small wriggle of embarrassment making your stomach flip. “I need it from…Robby.”

That got a laugh out of him, his thumb coming up to wipe at your bottom lip before he stood again. “Jesus… You two are...” he shook his head, not finishing the sentence.

His hand stayed on your hair, but he released himself to reach down into his pocket. He took out his pager, your eyes widening—

"What're you doing—"

“Robby? It’s Park.” His voice shifted back to his usual short-worded, clinical, controlled tone as he brought the device to his ear. “Yeah, she’s fine. She wants to ask you something.”

He held it out to your ear.

“Honey?” Robby’s voice came through, a little distorted. “Everything okay?”

"Hi, Robby, yes," you said, breathlessly, your skin hot with a little bit of shame as you eyed Brendon above you. His eyes had gone dark with arousal, his hand still at the back of your head. He swayed his hips so his cock touched your lips as you spoke. You kissed it gently.

"What do you need?" Robby asked.

"Ummm…" you said, then licked Brendon's tip when it prodded at your face again, then spoke again, "I was…wondering if I could touch myself."

"You—? Oh."

There was a moment of quiet on the line, and then you heard Robby's voice muttering something to someone away from the speaker, and a moment later he was back.

“You’re with him right now?”

Your throat tightened. “Yes.”

"Fuck," he breathed. "Let me hear it. Let me hear how good you take it, and then I give you permission. But honey —I hope you're ready to be up very late tonight."

"Yes, Robby." you said, goosebumps rising over your flesh.

You looked up at Brendon. “He wants to listen.”

He raised an eyebrow, something darkly curious flickering across his expression, but he nodded.

You leaned back in, your mouth finding Brendon's cock again and opening wide, tongue out flat to massage the underside. His breath left him in a long exhale, his hand tightening slightly where it held you, the phone kept close. You pushed yourself up and down onto his length, bobbing until you gagged on an especially rough thrust against your palette.

“That’s my girl—” Robby said, quieter now, like he was trying not to be overheard. “Okay, be good. I need to go. You can have one. Do you hear me?”

Brendon's hand was still around your hair, pushing you down onto him further. "Mhm", you muffled, half a choked moan.

The line went dead.

Brendon pulled the pager away, tossing it aside, his chest rising and falling heavier now, something in him sharpened by it all.

“Jesus fucking Christ," he muttered. He pushed himself back between your lips faster now, “Go on, now. Show me.”

Your hand moved tentatively down your body, until you pushed a finger under your panties and pressed into your center. You were an absolute mess. Sopping, slippery, your hand barely finding any friction where it met your clit. You moaned around his dick, the sound muffled, helpless.

His head flew back, Ah, ah, fuck— chest rising and falling breath catching, spilling out in uneven bursts. It filled your ears, core pulsing in time with it, like your body had locked onto his rhythm, gaining momentum towards the edge with every passing second.

You closed your eyes, letting him take the control he wanted, the control you wanted to give. He pushed his cock so far into your mouth your nose nearly touched the skin of his belly, and your throat began to convulse around him.

“Fuck, I’m gonna come, Bunny—I’m gonna—oh fuck,” his voice broke roughly, choking on a groan as he went on: “you take me so well… such a good girl… that’s it—keep touching that pretty pussy.”

All you could do was moan, your vision blurring, your body tightening as the feeling built. Your fingers moved faster, sloppier. Your throat jerked as your body began to tighten up.

“Yeah,” he breathed, watching you, “I can feel it… you’re getting close, aren’t you?” His grip shifted, steady, insistent. “C’mon—come with me. Let me see what Robby gets to have, huh?”

That sent you over the edge. Your mouth fell open around him and he continued to fuck into your waiting, wet, wanting lips until he was pushing your head down so hard your nose finally did press into his navel, hot spend filling the back of your mouth.

"Swallow." he growled between moans, and you listened—barely tasting the salty tang of his release since he was so far down your throat.

When your hand came up to tap at his thigh, he eased back immediately, grip loosening, pulling away with a quiet breath. He adjusted himself back into his pants quickly, then dropped down in front of you, close again.

His hand came to your face, steadying you, and he kissed you—hard at first, then slower, taking his time as he licked the remnants of himself off your tongue.

Finally, as you caught your breath and he caught his, he pressed gentle, chaste kisses to your lips until your lips felt bruised.

"You—" he kissed you, "are—" another kiss, "—amazing—"

You giggled, sighing dreamily, bringing your hands to his hair. It was a little stiff from where he'd slicked it back, but the nape of it was beginning to soften from sweat. "Thank you for coming to see me. I had fun."

"Glad I could turn it around for you, Bunny." he said. His hand slipped behind your head, undoing the tie he’d put in, careful as he pulled it free and slipped it back onto his wrist. “Don’t wanna forget this—for next time.”

You smiled up at him as he stood above you, hiking his hands under your armpits, and raising you up to your feet.

"You sure you're okay?"

You nodded. “Yeah. I think I’m going home soon anyway. It’s almost eight—Robby’s probably done.”

“Does it ever…” he started, and then stopped, something changing in his expression when he looked at you. It was the most uncertain than you’d seen him before.

“What?”

He shrugged with those expansive shoulders, adjusting himself, buying a second. “If you were my girl, I wouldn’t be sharing. That’s all.” He paused. “You’re too perfect.”

"I'm no one's girlfriend." you replied, maybe a little sharply.

He looked at you for a second longer than he should have, something tightening in his eyes. It was like he was building up that persona he wore around the hospital. The Shark—with his dark, heavy brow and pinched face.

“Robby should be careful,” he said, quieter now.

“Why?” you asked, your mouth pulling into a frown as you watched him.

He sighed, stepping close to you, and bringing his thumb and forefinger to your chin before lifting your face to look up at him. For a second, you remembered how intimidating he could be as he stared down at you with that piercing gaze.

“Because one day someone’s going to slip up,” he said quietly, his voice dropping. “And you’re going to realize it’s a lot less about the sex than you think.”

You couldn’t tell what your face gave away. Your mind stalled, blank, but your stomach dipped, the words slamming heavier than anything else he could have said.

He dropped his hand from your face, eyes staying on you a moment longer before he turned, stopping at the door to look back once more.

"Have a good night, Bunny. It was good to see you."

previous | next | masterlist | ao3

[nightpitt]

Slap Shot (Pope Cody)

𑣲 MDNI - 18+

𑣲 WARNINGS: S3+ ANIMAL KINGDOM SPOILERS, pope cody x f!reader, pope cody x younger f!reader, alcohol mentions (heavily) , angst, suicide (briefly), smut, sub! pope cody, subtle hints to "yes, chef", p in v, oral (m) receiving, oral (f) receiving, minor impact play, edging, craig being wasted, somewhat proofread

𑣲 Word Count: 4.1k+

𑣲 POV: you're hired as the new bartender at deran's bar and you come in during your first shift while pope is working

“Hey man,” Deran put a hand on Pope’s shoulder as he scrubbed tirelessly at the filthy counter. “The new bartender is starting today, okay?”

“M’kay,” Pope mumbled back.

“Listen, dude,” Deran leaned in trying to make eye contact with his brother. Pope continued to scrub. “Just don’t fucking freak her out alright? It’s been fucking hard finding help that won’t get arrested or just won’t show up.”

“Yeah, got it man.”

Pope had been working at the bar for a few weeks now. His brothers were scared for his life. Sure, he may have almost committed once or twice, but it didn’t mean he wanted to work in some dingy bar. At first, Pope wasn’t too keen on the whole thing, scrubbing, mopping, getting his hands dirty with the broken down kitchen appliances. However, he found his mind would slowly start to calm after a few hours and he felt his problems slowly slip away.

“Hey, Pope,” Deran called out. “Need you to work on that ice machine and get it running, only got a couple hours till we open.” 

Pope sighed, grabbing his tools from the back storage room, and made his way to the ice machine. He popped off the front panel, shining his flashlight to assess the problem. Dammit. Bum motor. 

As he laid on his side messing with wires with the dead machine, he heard the door open. 

“Hey! There you are!” Deran greeted. “Thought you might’ve bailed on me.” 

He heard a faint chuckle. A beautiful laugh.

He shook his head, snapping back into work, continuing to fiddle with the motor.

“Pope,” Deran kicked foot into Pope’s leg, getting his attention. “This is our new bartender.”

He pulled his gaze away from the task at hand, moving his eyes towards you. 

He had a great angle of you, looking up at your perfect tits in your tanktop and he was able to see underneath your miniskirt, noticing your lace panties you were wearing. The gleam of sweat glistening and coasting down your neck from the summer Oceanside heat. All he could do was stare. You bent down and extended a hand, giving him access to look at your cleavage.

“...nice to meet you.” You smiled.

Pope came back to reality, sitting up suddenly and pulling off a glove to shake yours.

“Handyman, huh?” You turned towards the broken motor. Pope continued to stare.

“Yeah, far from it,” Deran commented. “Come on, I’ll show you the rest of the place and update you on tonight’s drink specials.”

Pope returned to the motor, his mind daydreaming about all the things you could do to him. 

“You gonna be a good boy for me, Andrew?” Your fingers on his chin as he was on his knees in front of you. He would nod and gaze up at you with those puppy eyes. “All for me, huh? Just for me?”

He blinked his eyes shut, trying to make the thought dissipate. Ice machine. Broken motor. 

Right, yes, he needed to fix this piece of shit machine.

“Listen, sorry about him,” Deran went on nervously. “He’s always had sort of a staring problems, he’s never really been social, not to mention all the shit he’s went through recently–”

You slid in front of Deran, stopping him in his tracks.

“Deran, listen, it’s totally okay,” you stared up at him and smiled. “You know how much I really need this, I don’t care who I have to work with. I’ll make it work.”

Deran sighed, his hands carding through his hair.

“Plus he seems nice! I’m sure he and I will work well together.” 

“Thanks, for being understanding,” Deran and you began marching through the kitchen, making your way to the liquor storage. “Now, about tonight’s drink specials…”

Pope secured the panel back on the machine, plugging in the cable. The ice machine sprung to life as you and Deran navigated to the front of the bar.

“It’s fixed,” Pope stated. “Just a broken motor, pretty simple.”

Deran placed his hand into the machine, feeling the cool air.

“Perfect,” Deran slammed the lid closed to the machine. “Should have enough ice for our early regulars.”

Deran plucked the drink special menu off the bar. “Alright,” he motioned for you to come over. “Time for the real text now, newbie. Let’s make a few of these and see what you’ve got.”

As you grabbed the ingredients for the first cocktail, Deran waved for Pope to come to the dining area.

“Hey,” he leaned in low. “You can’t just do your staring bullshit, remember what I said this morning?”

Pope nodded, not listening to a word of Deran’s lecture. He studied your movements as you poured the liquor into the glasses, how your toned arms moved as you used the shaker, the way you cut and placed the lime at the rim of the glass.

“Did you hear anything I just said?”

“Yeah, I got it,” Pope responded absently. “No staring, don’t be fucking weird. I got it.”

“Okay,” Deran exhaled. “Well, go and at least apologize to her.”

“Done!” you shouted, gesturing to your work. “Come over, boys! Try ‘em out.”

Deran and Pope slid onto the barstools. Deran slithered a drink in front of Pope.

“Take it,” Deran muttered. “You need it.”

Pope downed the drink, almost groaning. Not at it’s taste, but the fact that you made this from your hands, hands he wanted to touch him, to make him a mess of himself.

As Pope placed the empty glass down, Deran tasted the other two drinks, humming in approval.

“These are perfect,” Deran clapped his hands together. “Let’s get ready to open.”

It wasn’t a moment later that Deran stepped out back for a smoke, leaving you at the bar cutting up limes and Pope scrubbing at kitchen walls. His gaze made his way over to you, your back turned to him, working meticulously cutting the fruit.

You could feel his stare burning a hole into you. You quirked a smile.

“You don’t have to stare, y’know,” You turned to meet his eyes.

Pope looked away, returning to the walls, his strong arms moving to wipe the filth away.

“Pope?”

“M’sorry,” he muttered. “For now, and…for earlier.”

“It’s okay, Pope,” you crossed your arms, pushing your breasts up slightly. “I don’t mind the staring.” 

He glanced down briefly at your cleavage before returning his eyes to yours.

“I think we’ll make great colleagues, Pope.”

It was later in the evening, business was booming tonight all due to Smurf busting Craig for having a party without her permission. Safe to say she was pissed, so of course Craig moved the bash over to his brother’s bar without warning.

You were churning out drinks as fast as you could, Deran even took the liberty to call in his backup bartender, Tommy. You were also the talk of the bar, a new girl with a pretty face and an even hotter body. 

“Oh my god, new girl,” Craig started.

“Craig, I have a name,” you said, not taking your eye away from the drink you were making. 

“Okay, well guess what,” he continued. “I heard of this new thing, it’s called a ‘Slap Shot’, have you ever heard of it?”

Being in Florida for college before you dropped out, you were very familiar. Especially with all the partying you did, seeing the guy you would be interested in all night make their way to the bar and order one of those.

“Yes, I have,” you recalled. “Also known as a ‘Hurricane Shot’.”

“Yeah!” Craig enthused. “Say, how much would I have to pay you to do one of those?”

“Well, I don’t run cheap,” you chuckled. “It’ll cost you a pretty penny.”

You and Craig negotiated on a price for a while, all while Pope was finishing up for the night.

Pope had his keys in hand, slithering his way out of the bar when he noticed you standing on the bar in front of Craig, people whooping and hollering in the background. You had a shot glass in one hand and a glass of water in the other. You took the shot in your mouth and Pope swallowed, wondering what your next move was. You bent down to meet Craig’s mouth, gripping your chin, the liquor poured from your lips into Craig’s open mouth. You then took the water and splashed in his face, followed by a hard slap to the face that left a mark. Fuck, that felt good, you thought. Everyone cheered in unison at the sight.

Pope stared in awe. He wanted to be under you so bad, getting punished like that.

Pope turned away from you in embarrassment, this wasn’t like him. Being putty underneath another woman’s touch. Usually, it was him making the moves. You slapped him, “Don’t take your fucking eyes off me.”

Pope shook his head, heading towards the front door. 

“Pope!” Craig called, swiping the dripping water from his face. “You gotta do this man, c’mere!”

Pope paused briefly. Staring at Craig, and then at you on top of the bar in your miniskirt, seeing your lace panties peeking at him.

“N-no,” Pope looked down. “I was just leaving.”

“Oh come on,” Craig made his way over to Pope, gripping his shoulder. “You haven’t had any action in months, dude! Just one time!”

“N-not very professional.” Pope muttered out.

“You’re off the clock!” Craig acclaimed. “Who cares?! You don’t mind, do ya?”

Craig peered up at you. You looked at Pope, noticing at how uncomfortable he looked but yet noticing the flush tone to his skin. You shook your head. “Nope, don’t mind at all. It’s up to you, Popey.”

He hated his nickname, but he loved when it fell off your lips. He peeked up at you, then looked to his brother. “Fine, just this once.”

Craig and the crowd cheered. Craig gripped Pope’s shoulders, placing him on the barstool in front of you.

You squatted down to meet Pope’s gaze.

“What’ll it be, sailor?” you smiled, tilting your head. “Tequilia, vodka, whiskey…?”

“Tequilia, please.” he looked at you with this puppy dog stare.

You beamed. “Of course,” you turned to your colleague. “Hey, Tommy, one shot of our finest tequila, please!”

“On it!” Tommy called out.

Tommy handed you the shot and placed another glass of water in your other hand. You gazed at Pope below you as you stood up. Grinning at how beautiful he looked, his pupils blown, his auburn hair glazed from sweat from the shift today. He was so in awe of you. Pope shook his head in embarrassment, looking down at the bar top.

“Hey,” you cooed. “Eyes on me, okay? It’ll be over within a second.”

The crowd was cheering and repeated Pope’s name over and over with encouragement.

He stared up at you as you poured the liquor down your throat, staring at your stretched neck. God, he wished he could place his lips there, everywhere.

You bent down to meet his lips, gripping his chin and jaw intensely. The liquor poured from your mouth into his, the taste stinging his tongue and throat. You noticed his adam’s apple bob as he swallowed each drop.

You took the glass of water in your other hand, thrusting the liquid onto his face, hair, and neck, soaking it. You wanted to lick every drip.

Then came the slap, mean, and hard like you meant it. You smacked his cheek harshly, noticing the faint welt it was leaving under the dim lighting.

You stood up, basking in the applause, whooping with the crowd. You hopped off the bar, placing the glasses down.

“That’s my brother!” Craig cheered, shaking Pope’s shoulders briefly as he wiped the water off his face.

You returned in front of Pope, taking in the sight of his wet curls and him licking at his lips.

“How was it?” You questioned.

Pope just looked at you, unable to say a word. You noted his puppy gaze, his slack jaw as he heaved. He was totally enamored over you.

“See you next shift?”

“Yeah,” Pope heaved. “Yeah, I-I’ll see you next time.”

Pope finally slid out the bar entrance, making his way to his truck parked on the street. He climbed into the cab, thinking about all that just transpired, taking the hem of his shirt and wiping up the remaining water left dribbling from his chin.

He sat there for a while, picturing what could be. How you would deny him touching you, how you would kiss every inch of him, sucking and biting, all while denying his release. He pressed his head against the cold steering wheel.

Hours passed, people poured out the bar, you even called Deran to pick up Craig, making sure he had a safe ride home.

“Good job, today,” Deran praised. “I heard about that ‘Slap Shot’ thing, might have to make that our new staple.”

You chuckled. “Of course, Deran. Thank you for the opportunity.” You hung up the phone.

As you made your way out the door, you noticed a lonesome truck parked across the street next to your own vehicle. You turned back to the door, twisting the lock. You strided closer to your car, noticing that it was Pope with his head against the steering wheel.

“Hey,” you knocked on the window. “You okay?”

Pope pulled his head away from the wheel, meeting your gaze through the window. He started his truck briefly, and rolled down the window.

“Hey.”

“Hey, you okay?” You repeated.

“Yeah, guess my mind was just wandering and I was drained from today.”

“That’s okay,” you glanced down for a moment before meeting his eyes again. “Um, I’m sorry if you felt pressured into doing that. I didn’t mean–”

“N-No, it’s okay,” Pope stuttered. “I needed that.”

“Yeah?” you responded. “Hey, um, do you want to come back to my place and maybe I can make you a drink?”

Pope stared for a beat before unlocking his passenger door, reaching over and opening it for you. He navigated to your apartment, with subtle directions here and there, even though he knew this town inside and out. You both arrived at your apartment. 

You turned your keys, unlocking the door, and you both slid into the threshold, dropping your purse and shedding your jacket. Pope stood awkwardly, very rarely has he ever had a woman invite him in. 

“You can have a seat,” you motion to the couch in the den. He makes his way to the couch, sitting straight and placing his hands on his knees, stroking his legs trying to ease away his aching hard-on he’s had for his whole shift. 

You pour you and him a shot of tequila on the rocks while he shifts uncomfortably. You hand him the glass, sitting next to him, pulling your knees up. Your legs brushing his. “Here y’go.”

“Thanks.”

“So, what brought you to work in your brother’s bar?” You questioned.

“I dunno,” Pope muttered, taking a sip from the glass. “I guess my brothers were worried for me. I haven’t been doing great recently.”

“Why’s that?”

Pope proceeded to pour his heart out, talking about how he went to prison, about the loss of his brother, how he lost his niece. How he attempted sucicide by cop. He tears pricked his eyes in the process.

“...I guess they could see that I was losing it, and knew I needed something to do to distract me.”

You frowned, placing your hand on his knee. Taking a pull from your own drink, relaxing at the burn slithering down your body. 

“W-What about you?” he stuttered out, calming his breathing, wiping the stray tears that wanted to crawl down his cheeks.

“Well, I went to college in Florida, dropped out a couple years ago,” You paused, pulling the glass to your lips and swallowing the liquor. “I was doing well in college, till I wasn’t.”

“My family didn’t believe in mental health,” You continued. “I was going through a depressive episode, I stopped showing up and my parents stopped paying my tuition after I refused to get help. I started partying a lot, spent my savings.”

“My parents stopped talking to me, I was living out of my car, working dead end jobs,” you carried on. “However, I built myself back up, and eventually moved my way out here.”

“...And Deran was the only one willing to hire without a degree or experience, so here we are.”

Pope sat there, taking in your words, knowing how much more fucked up he was than you. It made him sick to his stomach, but he couldn’t voice that, not now, not ever. Fuck, he was pathetic.

You noticed him lost in thought.

“Sorry if that was a lot,” You finished your drink. “I shouldn’t have asked y-you to come here.” You sat up and moved your way to take your glass to the sink.

He gripped your wrist and pulled you back down, pulling you to straddle his hips. 

“Stay.”

You noticed tears welling into his eyes. You wiped at his eyes, feeling his tears soak into your fingertips.

“Hey, what’s wrong?”

He shook his head, turning away from you.

“Hey, look at me,” you gripped his chin and pulled his eyes to meet yours. “What’s wrong?”

“Hit me.”

“W-What?”

“Hit me,” he repeated. “Just use me however you want.”

“Pope, I-I don’t want to–” you retorted, despite the growing pool between your legs.

He cut you off with a kiss, engulfing your mouth. He brought his hips to meet yours, feeling his hard-on beneath you. You kissed him back, your hands palming through his auburn curls. 

“Pope, just say this is okay and—”

“More than okay,” he whimpered into your mouth. “N-Need you.”

You slid your tongue into his mouth and he groaned. Feeling your tongue slide against his, your saliva connecting the two of you. His dick twitched in his pants. He went to pull your shirt off till you stopped him, gripping his wrists, digging your nails into his flesh.

“No, you first,” you moaned against his lips. “Lemme touch you.”

He shedded his t-shirt, pulling it over his head and revealing his toned body. You dug your nails into his skin, scratching, feeling every inch of his freckled skin. You pulled away from his lips, tugging his hair and pulling his head away from you, stretching the skin across his neck. You bit and nipped the flesh. Leaving marks, claiming him. He slid his hands underneath your skirt, gripping your thighs.

He moaned, feeling the hot air against the skin of your arm holding his head in place, it made your skin prickle. You pried your other hand from his jaw to palm at his hard-on, dragging your nails up and down his shaft that were pushing against his jeans.

“N-Need you,” he moaned. “P-please.”

“Not yet, baby,” you groaned, pulling your lips from his neck, returning to his mouth. “Just a bit longer.”

You stood up between his legs, his eyes grew wide, terrified.

“D-Did I scare you?”

“No, no,” you chuckled. You wagged your finger, drawing him closer. “Follow me to bed like the good boy you are.” 

He followed you like a lost puppy, his chest heaving from the heavy makeout session that just occurred. 

He followed closely and observed you from the bed as you shed your clothes, down to just your panties. He stared at the way your hips curved, the way your breasts hung on your chest. You drag your hips to the edge of the bed, drawing your legs open. “C’here.” you cooed.

He got on his knees, crawling over to you. 

“Place your nose in it.”

He faced your pussy, digging in nose in the folds, smelling every inch of you through the fabric. Pope whimpered at your smell, how good it was. He wanted to taste every inch of you.

You pulled your panties to the side, carding your hand through his curls, digging your fingers in and gripping his head. “Taste.”

He proceeded to kitty lick at your clit, devouring your taste. He got lost into you, licking and tasting your cunt. That was, until he knipped at your clit, getting lost in you. You drug his head back by his hair.

“Ah, ah, ah,” you tormented. “Now you need to get punished, sit back and look at me.”

He sat on his knees and looked up at you like the good boy he was.

“You okay if I slap you?” 

He nodded shyly. You could still see the faint welt you left from earlier. You drew your hand back and thrusted your palm against his cheek. The stinging being massaged away by your hand. He groaned, tears pricking his eyes.

“Now, be a good boy.”

You drew his head back into your cunt, letting him lap and suck between your folds, allowing him to wrap your legs around his shoulders and strong arms. His dick rubbed against his jeans, feeling the friction, wanting to feel every inch of your walls against him.

You moaned at how his tongue coated your insides, how it felt against your clit. You grinded your hips into him. 

You pulled his head away, dragging your nails, wrapping around the nape of his neck, pulling him to stand in front of you. Your fingers combed over his abdomen, feeling the toned muscle beneath them. You slithered your way to his belt buckle, undoing and snaking his legs out the material.

You pulled at his boxers, springing his cock free, the tip dripping with precum. You started pressing kisses along his head and his shaft, soft licks in between every kiss. You took him into your mouth, tasting every inch of him, dragging your tongue along the vein running along the underside of his shaft. He groaned, tangling his fingers in your hair. You gripped his fingers, pulling his hand away as well as your mouth from his shaft.

“I didn’t ask you to do that, did I?” you questioned. He stared back at you, his jaw slacked. “You do as I say, got it?” He nodded.

You continued to swallow his length, swirling your tongue with the head of his cock. He groaned and whimpered, wanting to thrust his hips into your mouth.

You pulled away from his dick, a strand of salvia connecting you both. You peppered kisses on his length, his balls, and his thighs. He whimpered, his dick twitching against your lips.

You stripped yourself of your panties, sliding the lace down the length of your legs. Freeing your folds from the fabric. You reached up and grasped his shoulders, swiftly rolling him to where he was underneath you. 

You drug your hips to where his length rubbed against your hot folds. He moaned at your slickness, wanting you to push him to release. He pushed his hips into your folds hungrily, you dug your nails into the flesh on his hips, pressing his motions down.

“Be a good boy,” you heaved, wanting your own release. “Let’s just wait this out, okay?”

You leaned down, his cock sitting between your folds, pressing hot, wet kisses to his mouth. He moaned into your mouth, once again dragging his tongue between your lips. You drug your hips along his length, feeling his dick between your folds.

“You want it that badly, baby,” you asked.

“Y-Yes,” he whimpered. “Please…please” he whispered.

You took your hand and reached for him, pressing his cock into you. Adjusting to his girth, his length. He whined at the feeling of you around him, his hips instinctively thrusting into you.

You dug your hips into him, feeling every inch of him. Gripping onto his shoulders, propelling yourself even harder onto him. You grasped his curls once again, exposing his neck to you, licking and biting at the skin.

“Oh–, fuck I’m gonna cum,” he moaned. He gripped your hips and drilled deeper into you.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he whispered against your mouth, feeling the hot breath spread against his skin. “Yeah.”

You felt every pull of his length, every thrust, every inch, projecting into you. 

“Cum for me, baby,” you moaned. “Need every bit of you inside of me.”

He thrusted to where his hot threads of cum tossed into your pussy, making you ooze and leak in front of him. You stayed there for a while, feeling him twitch and pulse in your walls, taking in every bit of cum.

You pulled yourself off of him, taking a towel and cleaning yourself and his member. You changed into your pajamas, making sure to pluck his boxers off the floor and dress him while he was in his subspace bliss.

“You work tomorrow, yeah?” you asked.

“Yeah,” he heaved.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” you placed a kiss on his lips.

[lukovsnirvana]

PALM OF HIS HAND ⋆˚࿔ jack abbot smau

my mouth hasn’t shut up about you, since you kissed it. the idea that you might kiss it again is stuck in my brain, which hasn’t stopped thinking about you since well, before any kiss.

summary following your six month leave, you’re back at ptmc ready to continue your residency. you tell yourself you’re fine. the weight is manageable. the rush of the hospital should keep your thoughts from wandering where they shouldn’t. for a while that mindset will work, but there will be times, fleeting, where you remember why you left, and will have trouble remembering why you’re back. he won’t make it any easier, and he’s not going to let you leave again, and maybe you aren’t ready to leave either. he’s already figured you out, and he’s tightening his grasp on you, ready to hold you steady in the palm of his hand.

warnings fem!reader, she/her pronouns used, conservative usage of y/n, suggestive language, slight angst, sexual references, mostly fluff, reader is referred to as gerbil (explained later), the author tries to be funny 😔 age gap (29/50), mentions of grief and loss, estranged parent(s), reader often misses social cues. (will include chapter specific warnings) past emery x reader (if you squint) ambiguous ending

a/n came across this tweet, after a night of binging the pitt, and here we are now.

MASTERLIST

01. day one 12. day fifty-eight

02. day four 13. day sixty-four

03. day eleven 14. day sixty-nine

04. day twenty 15. day seventy-five

05. day thirty 16. day seventy-six

06. day thirty-one 17. day eighty-two

07. day (nth) 18. day eighty-eight

08. day (null) 19. day ninety-three

09. day forty-one 20. day one-hundred

10. day fifty 21. epilogue

11. day fifty-one

EXTRAS

prelude

[fandom-trash-goblin]

we've got a life to love living.

[moniquill]

[beardedmrbean]

[theman]

I GOT A FUCKING RAISE THE POTATO WORKED WTF

[tattooedzombigirl]

This potato works. Every. Fucking. Time.

[secondlina]

Reblogging because it’s a damn potato and I want to encourage people to assume potatoes are magical.

[sinksanksockie2]

w-what if potato is actually lucky

[eubomubo]

| Midnight Noise |

-Chapter One

SYNOPSIS ➺ Y/N is Carmy's worst nightmare of a neighbor and she's not even sorry. He's running on 2 hours of sleep and she's like 'are you gonna cry?' (toxic tbh but we love a mean girl era). They're both ex-fine dining, both fucked up, and they share ONE (1) cigarette and suddenly everything gets complicated. It's gonna be a mess before it gets cute.

WARNINGS ➺ 18+ minors dni, explicit language, mental health themes (bipolar disorder, breakdown mentioned), substance use (smoking, alcohol), toxic behavior, sleep deprivation, mutual antagonism, enemies to lovers, reader is intentionally unlikeable at first, service industry trauma, emotional dysregulation, description of mental health crisis (past), blacklisting/career trauma

DISCLAIMER ➺ This story is fiction, and it does not reflect real life in any way.

WORDS ➺ 4.8k

AUTHOR'S NOTE ➺ Listen, I made the reader genuinely unlikeable for like half this chapter and I'm not apologizing. She's a real bitch here (affectionate). Also yes I gave reader a whole service industry backstory bc if she's gonna match Carmy's freak she needs the credentials. Thanks for reading! Let me know if you want to see more of these two fuck ups🚬 (Also this doesn’t follow the events of the show)

---

The bass from next door thrummed through the thin apartment walls, vibrating through his mattress and right into his skull.

"Fuck's sake," he muttered, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes until he saw stars. His body ached from the dinner rush, they'd done 200 covers, the walk-in's compressor had died halfway through service, and Marcus had burned two batches of croissants.

The music got louder. Was that fucking Tame Impala? At midnight? On a Tuesday?

He rolled over, yanking the pillow over his head, but it was useless. The bass line might as well have been hammering directly into his temporal lobe. His alarm would go off in less than five hours. He needed to prep the short ribs, train the new prep cook, deal with the produce delivery that was definitely going to be fucked up again.

"Jesus Christ, Y/n," he growled into his mattress.

Three months. Three months of this bullshit. Ever since she'd moved in, always coming home at 3 AM reeking of bar smell, heels clicking on the stairs loud enough to wake the dead. Then the music would start. Always when he'd just fallen asleep, always loud enough to make his fucking eyeballs rattle. He'd bang on her door, she'd tell him to fuck off with that look of hers, like his exhaustion was nothing.

The landlord wouldn't do anything because apparently she paid her rent on time and "noise complaints need multiple witnesses."

The song changed. Something with even more bass. His teeth clenched so hard his jaw ached.

That was it. He threw off his covers and stalked to his door in his boxers and a ratty white t-shirt, not even bothering with shoes. His fist connected with her door hard enough to compete with the music.

"Y/n! Turn that shit DOWN!"

Nothing. The music kept pounding.

Carmy's fist hammered against the door again, harder this time. The cheap wood rattling in the frame.

"I KNOW you can fucking hear me!" He slammed his palm flat against the door. "Y/n!"

The music kept pounding. His jaw clenched so tight he could feel it in his temples.

"Are you fucking serious right now?" He kicked the bottom of the door with his bare foot, immediately regretting it as pain shot through his toes. "Shit—"

He hopped back on one foot, grabbing his injured toes, then immediately straightened up and pounded again. This time he used the side of his fist, really laying into it.

"I have to be up in FIVE HOURS! FIVE FUCKING HOURS, Y/n!"

His voice cracked from the yelling. The whole floor probably heard it. He didn't care. His fists stung from the impact.

The music suddenly cut to a different song. Louder. She'd actually turned it up.

"Oh, you've got to be—" He absolutely lost it. Both fists now, a rapid fire assault on the door. "OPEN. THE. FUCKING. DOOR!"

This was insane. He was going insane. She was making him insane.

The door swung open.

Y/n stood there with her brown eyes lined with smudged black eyeliner, looking like some debauched fallen angel. She wore a pair of black boyshorts and a yellow t-shirt that rode up, showing a strip of her torso.

"Can you stop?" she says

Carmy stumbled forward slightly, catching himself on the doorframe. His eyes involuntarily dropped to the strip of skin between her shirt and shorts before snapping back up to her face—

"Stop? STOP?" His voice came out hoarse from yelling. "Are you—are you fucking kidding me right now?"

He ran a hand through his already disheveled hair, making it worse. The music was even louder with her door open, pouring into the hallway. He could feel it under his skin.

"It's midnight. MID-NIGHT, Y/n. Some of us have actual jobs that require us to be functional human beings in the morning." His hands gestured wildly as he spoke, his whole body tense like a wire about to snap. "You've been blasting this shit for two hours. TWO HOURS."

The exhaustion was making him sway slightly on his feet, but rage kept him upright, his blue eyes blazing as he stared her down.

"Every fucking night it's something with you. Every. Fucking. Night." His voice dropped lower, more gravelly. "What is your problem? Seriously, what is your actual fucking damage?"

She stared at him. Feeling close to losing it herself. Who the fuck was he? Banging on her shit?

"I don't give a fuck," she snapped.

Carmy's mouth dropped open for a second, then snapped shut. His hands clenched and unclenched at his sides.

"You don't—" He laughed, but there was nothing funny about it. It was the kind of laugh that came out when you were so far past reasonable that your brain short-circuited.

"You don't give a fuck. Of course you don't."

He stepped closer to her doorway, not quite crossing the threshold but close enough that he had to look down at her. His voice dropped to something dangerous, quiet enough that she had to hear it under the music.

"You know what? I'm done. I'm so fucking done trying to be civil with you." His finger pointed past her into her apartment. "Turn it off. Now."

His chest was heaving slightly, the white t-shirt stretched across it. There were dark circles under his eyes that looked almost bruised in the hallway light. A muscle jumped in his jaw.

"I've got burns up my arms from the grill, my back's fucked from hunching over prep for twelve hours, I haven't eaten since- fuck, I don't even remember- and all I wanted was four hours of sleep. FOUR HOURS, y/n."

He rubbed his eyes with both hands, then dropped them, looking at her with something between exhaustion and murder.

"So yeah, you're gonna give a fuck. Because if you don't turn that music off right now, I swear to God, I'm calling the cops, the landlord, the fucking alderman, whoever I need to call to get one night of peace in my own apartment."

She watched him standing there coming apart, voice cracking, hands shaking. She didn't need this shit. didn't need him whining at midnight like she was supposed to care. Like his desperation was important. Fuck that. She needed to do something- say something

"Are you gonna cry?" she asks, mocking.

Something snapped in Carmy's eyes. His jaw went slack for a moment, genuinely stunned by the cruelty of it, before his face flushed dark red.

"Are you—" He took a step back, running both hands down his face. "Holy shit. Holy fucking shit, you're actually just a terrible person."

He laughed again, that unhinged, exhausted sound. His hands dropped to his sides, and for a second he just stood there in his boxers and dirty t-shirt, looking like he might actually collapse right there in her doorway.

"You know what? Yeah. Yeah, maybe I am gonna cry." His voice cracked slightly, whether from exhaustion or emotion was unclear. "Because I'm running on two hours of sleep, I've got a restaurant hanging on by a fucking thread, and my neighbor's a sadistic bitch who gets off on making my life miserable."

He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes again, hard. When he dropped them, his eyes were bloodshot, wild.

"Is this fun for you? Watching me fall apart? Does it make you feel good?" He gestured at himself. "Look at me. LOOK AT ME, y/n. I'm standing in a hallway in my underwear, begging you for basic human decency, and you're asking if I'm gonna cry?"

His voice got louder again, echoing over the music. "What the fuck happened to you that made you like this?"

Y/N watched him standing there. Hands shaking like he lost control over them. Her own fingers dug into the doorframe, nails biting into the foundation. The music feeling more and more like noise rather than a distraction. that crack in his voice when he'd said "running on two hours of sleep," the way his whole body swayed like staying upright was costing him everything.

Her jaw unclenched and her shoulders loosened.

"Fuck," she muttered under her breath.

The music clicked off, plunging the hallway into silence.

"Don't fucking cry," she said, rolling her eyes.

The sudden silence was almost deafening. Carmy's ears rang from the absence of bass, and he swayed slightly, blinking at her like he couldn't quite process what just happened.

"Don't—" He stared at her, mouth slightly open. The adrenaline that had been keeping him upright suddenly had nowhere to go. "You just... turned it off because I might cry? But not for the past three months when I asked like a normal fucking person?"

He leaned against her doorframe, exhausted, confused, still angry but now also somehow defeated. His voice came out rough, quiet.

"What is wrong with you?" It wasn't even accusatory anymore, just genuinely baffled. "I mean that. Actually. What is your deal?"

He looked at her standing there, all smudged eyeliner and attitude in that yellow shirt, acting like she'd done him some massive favor by showing the bare minimum of human consideration. His knuckles throbbed from pounding on her door. Everything hurt.

"You know what? Forget it." He pushed off from the doorframe, shaking his head. "Just... thanks for turning it off. Whatever."

"Fucking unbelievable," he muttered under his breath as he turned to leave, not even sure if he meant her or his entire life at this point.

She watched him shuffle away, shoulders caved in like he was already back in prep, already cutting short ribs in his head. That defeated mutter - "Fucking unbelievable" wasn't even aimed at her anymore. He'd given up.

Her hand was pulling out the cigarette before she could stop herself.

"Here," she said, lighting a cigarette and holding it out to him.

"Turkish."

Carmy stopped mid-step and turned back, looking at the cigarette in her outstretched hand like it might be a trick. The thin smoke curled up between them in the harsh hallway light.

"Turkish," he repeated flatly. He stood there for a moment, war playing out across his exhausted face – take it and let her win whatever weird game this was, or walk away and try to salvage what was left of his pride.

Fuck it.

He padded back and took the cigarette from her fingers, careful not to touch her hand. The first drag hit his lungs sharp and sweet, different from his usual Marlboros. Better. Of course her cigarettes were better.

"This doesn't make us cool," he said, leaning against the wall opposite her doorway, suddenly aware again that they were both basically in their underwear.

The cigarette dangled from his fingers as he rubbed his eyes with his other hand. "You're still a nightmare."

He took another drag, letting the smoke fill his chest. His body was coming down from the adrenaline spike, leaving him feeling shaky and wrung out. The nicotine helped, a little.

"Why Turkish?" The question came out before he could stop it. He didn't want to have a conversation with her. He wanted to smoke this cigarette, go to bed, and pretend she didn't exist. But apparently his mouth had other plans.

"Cause it's better," she said, reaching for it.

"And it was my last one." She took it back for a drag before handing it back to him. "You work in a restaurant? Chef?"

Carmy watched her take the cigarette back, her lips wrapping around where his had just been. He took it when she offered it again.

"Yeah. Chef." He took another drag, shorter this time. "Well, owner-chef now. The Bear, couple blocks from here."

He shifted against the wall, the cigarette making him feel almost human again. His voice was still rough but had lost some of its edge.

"And you bartend, right? I've seen you coming home at 3 AM covered in..." he gestured vaguely with the cigarette, "bar smell. Lime juice and well…vodka."

He passed the cigarette back to her, their fingers almost brushing this time. The hallway was quiet except for the distant hum of someone's TV a few apartments down. It was surreal, standing here sharing a cigarette with her after three months of mutual warfare.

"That why you're up all night? Internal clock's fucked from service industry hours?" He crossed his arms over his chest, suddenly self-conscious about his ratty t-shirt with the hole near the hem. "Or do you just specifically wait until you hear me come home to start the music?"

She smirked.

"I worked in restaurants - Le Cinq, Eleven Madison Park." She said it casually. Like it was nothing. "I get it."

Carmy's eyebrows shot up. He pushed off from the wall slightly, actually looking at her now instead of through her.

"Bullshit." But even as he said it, he was reassessing. The way she held herself, the casual name drop of two of the most prestigious restaurants in the world. "You worked at Eleven Madison Park?"

He took the cigarette when she passed it back, forgetting to avoid her fingers this time. His exhaustion temporarily took a backseat to professional curiosity.

"Why the fuck are you tending bar?" The question came out more aggressive than he meant it to. "You go from EMP to... what, slinging vodka sodas to finance bros?"

He passed the cigarette back, his mind trying to recalibrate everything he thought he knew about her. This wasn't just his nightmare neighbor who blasted music. This was someone who'd worked the same insane hours, dealt with the same sadistic chefs, understood the same particular brand of exhaustion he was drowning in.

"That why you're trying to make my life hell? Miss the chaos?” He studied her. "What were you, pastry?"

She huffed a laugh and shook her head. "Fuck no. Beverage director, bartender, somm." She shrugged. "Depended on the place. Beverage is my specialty. Too many chefs view it as an afterthought."

Carmy blinked, reassessing her again. Beverage director. That was... that was serious. That meant she'd been running programs, managing wine lists worth more than his entire restaurant.

"Shit." He took the cigarette back, inhaling deeper this time. "Yeah, most chefs are idiots about beverage. They'll spend six hours perfecting a sauce then pair it with whatever wine the distributor's pushing that week."

He slumped back against the wall, some of the fight draining out of him. It made sense now, the weird hours, the attitude, the edge she carried like armor. You didn't survive in those kitchens without growing thorns.

"We don't even have a real beverage program at The Bear. Just... beer and house wine. Richie keeps saying we should do cocktails but he wants to make fucking Long Islands." He laughed humorlessly.

"I can't... I don't have the bandwidth to think about it."

"So what, you burned out? Told them all to fuck off?" There was something almost respectful in his tone now. "Or did one of those sociopath chefs finally break you?"

She averted her eyes as she took the cigarette back for a long drag

The question hung there. She could lie. Make up some story about creative differences or moving for family. But he'd asked so earnestly. not judgmental. Just... understanding. Like maybe he had his own spectacular moments.

Fuck it. What did it even matter?

"I'm bipolar," she said, ashing the cigarette.

"Had an episode at Le Cinq... destroyed the walk-in during service. Blacklisted."

Carmy went completely still. The hallway suddenly felt smaller, quieter. He knew exactly what that meant – to be blacklisted. It was a death sentence in their world. One phone call between chefs and you were done.

"Fuck," he said quietly. It wasn't pity – he knew better than that. It was understanding. "During service?"

He let the smoke sit in his lungs longer than he meant to. The walk-in. Jesus. He'd punched a wall or two in his time, thrown a pan, but the walk-in during service? That was bad. That was the kind of breakdown that became kitchen legend.

"That why you're here?" He gestured vaguely at the shitty hallway, the water-stained ceiling, the carpet that had seen better decades. "Slumming it in Chicago?"

Something shifted in his chest – not quite sympathy, but recognition. They were both walking wounded, just bleeding out in different ways.

"How long ago?" The question came out gentler than anything he'd said to her in three months. "Le Cinq, I mean."

"About a year," she said, shrugging before switching topics. "Long Island iced tea?" She grinned. "I could make one that'd blow your mind."

Carmy snorted, grateful for the subject change. That they both knew how to dodge when things got too real.

"Yeah? You gonna tell me you've got some revolutionary take on a Long Island?" He took the cigarette back, the filter almost done now. "What, you use artisanal cola? Clarified citrus? Some shit you learned from a bartender at EMP who thinks he's a molecular gastronomist?"

But there was a slight smile tugging at the corner of his mouth now, the first one all night. He was imagining Richie's face if someone actually made him a good Long Island.

"Richie, he's my cousin, front of house, he thinks he knows cocktails because he watched Cocktail once in the 90s." He took the last drag and looked around for somewhere to ash it out, finally just pinching it between his fingers. "Keeps telling customers we make 'the best Old Style in Chicago' like that's... like that's a thing anyone wants."

He ran his free hand through his hair again, making it even more disheveled. "You actually could help. If you wanted. Not like—" He gestured vaguely between them, suddenly awkward. "Just consulting or whatever. The Bear needs... something. We're hemorrhaging money and I can't figure out if it's the food or the service or just... everything."

She chewed her lip, watching him stand there with his hair sticking up in five directions, talking about his failing restaurant like it was physically killing him. Which it seemed like it was.

She knew she should just let him go back to his apartment, let him get his sad four hours. Keep things safely distant. But he said Richie wanted to make Long Islands, said it like it was some kind of crime against humanity. And fuck, She loved Long Islands. She wasn't about to just let him shit all over them.

She inclined her head toward her apartment. "Come on."

Carmy hesitated in her doorway. This felt like crossing a line – three months of mutual hostility didn't just evaporate over half a Turkish cigarette. But his feet were already moving, following her into the apartment.

"Nice place," he said, then immediately felt silly. Here he was standing in his boxers in y/n apartment at 12:30 AM, making small talk like this was normal. Like they didn't hate each other.

"So what, you're gonna make me a Long Island at midnight?" He leaned against her counter, trying to look casual despite being acutely aware he was barely dressed. "Prove your point?"

The space was nothing like he'd expected. He'd imagined chaos to match the noise, but it was sparse, almost clinical. A few pieces of good furniture, probably secondhand from better times. A massive speaker system that explained the wall-shaking bass.

His eyes tracked over the bottles she had on a bar cart in the corner, not the usual civilian collection. Campari, Cynar, three different vermouths, bottles he couldn't identify from here but could tell cost money just by the labels.

"You weren't kidding about beverage being your thing."

She felt something flicker in her chest at the recognition in his voice. When was the last time someone had looked at her collection and understood what it meant? Not just pricey liquor, but tools. Instruments of precision.

Her hands were already moving before her mind could catch up, muscle memory taking over. She'd show him. Not to prove anything. Just… whatever.

"Japanese vodka," she said, pulling down the Haku. Her movements were precise. No flourish, no show. She set out five bottles in a clean line. "Pierre Ferrand dry curaçao. The triple sec everyone uses is bullshit."

She twisted a lemon peel over the tin first, expressing oils before anything else. Built each pour at exactly three quarters ounce, no jigger- didn't need it. Just counting under her breath. The shake wasn't theatrical. Quick, hard bursts. Fifteen seconds.

The Collins glass was already chilled from her freezer. Because of course she kept glasses in her freezer. She strained over fresh ice, floated Mexican cola down a bar spoon to preserve its carbonation. Another expressed peel over the top.

"No straw," she says sliding it over. "You need to smell it."

Carmy took the glass, eyeing it skeptically. It looked like a Long Island, that same amber gradient, but when he brought it to his nose, it was completely different.

The lemon oil hit first, then something deeper, more complex from the dry curaçao.

He took a sip.

"Jesus Christ." He set the glass down, stared at it, then took another sip. "That's... fuck, that's not even the same drink."

It was balanced in a way he didn't expect – the Mexican cola added depth without sweetness, the Haku vodka was clean where well vodka would be harsh. The curaçao brought complexity that triple sec could never touch. It was like a Long Island that didn't hate itself.

"Richie would lose his mind." He took another sip, this time catching how the expressed oils changed the nose completely.

He was quiet for a moment, studying the drink, then her. She'd built that drink the way a chef builds a dish. Each component deliberate, technique invisible but perfect.

"You could fix us." The words came out before he could stop them. "I mean, the beverage program. You could actually make it something."

He was still in his boxers, still exhausted, still had to be up in four and a half hours. But something had shifted. She wasn't just the neighbor from hell anymore. She was someone who understood precision, who'd been forged in the same brutal kitchens, who was blacklisted and bartending because the industry she'd given everything to had spit her out.

"Why'd you do this? Show me?" He gestured with the glass. "You could've just let me suffer."

"I like showing off," she smirked, but he couldn't accept that.

Carmy set the glass down harder than necessary, the sound sharp against the counter.

"No" He was too tired to let her bullshit. “You don't blast music at midnight for three months then suddenly give a shit because you 'like showing off.'"

He picked up the bottle of Haku, examining the label without really seeing it. "You worked at Le Cinq. You could show off anywhere. You could be making these at Death & Co or Violet Hour or any place that would actually appreciate it. Instead you're—"

He gestured vaguely at her apartment, at the situation, at everything.

"You turned off the music when I was about to lose it. You gave me your last cigarette. Now you're making me perfect cocktails at midnight." He took another sip of the Long Island, the complexity of it almost making him angrier. "So what is it? You feel bad? You recognize another service industry fuck up drowning in their own shit?"

His hands were flat on the counter now, the exhaustion making him more raw than he'd usually let himself be. The drink was hitting his empty stomach, making everything feel less filtered.

"You know what? Fuck this. I don't have the bandwidth to figure out whatever this is." He pushed back from the counter. "Are we good? Are we not good? Just tell me if I can fucking sleep tonight."

He was looking at her like he could see straight through her, past all the noise and attitude, right to the part of her that remembered what it felt like to care about something. The part that got her blacklisted. The part that destroyed everything.

Her chest tightened.

"It's just a fucking cigarette," she said, her voice taking on that same cruel edge from earlier. "Don't cream your boxers."

The words hung between them in her apartment, so quiet she could hear her ears ring. She watched something shut down behind his eyes, like a door closing in real time. His fingers tightened around the empty glass, knuckles going white.

For a second, she thought he might throw it.

Carmy laughed, sharp and humorless. "There it is. There's the y/n I know."

He pushed back from the counter, the spell broken. The warmth from the whiskey turned cold in his chest. Of course. Of course this was how it went. Every time he thought he saw something real, she slammed another wall up.

"You're right. Just a cigarette." He drained the rest of the Long Island in one pull, setting the empty glass down with deliberate care.

He headed for her door, exhaustion crashing back over him tenfold. He stopped at the threshold and turned back.

"You know what? I don't even care anymore. Blast your shitty music. Burn the building down. Whatever."

He rubbed his eyes, too tired to keep his guard up anymore. He swings the door open but stops.

“You know what? No, fuck you. Now I know why you live alone blasting music at midnight. Even you can't stand the fucking silence."

He shook his head. "Keep the music off tonight. That's all I wanted."

He shut the door hard behind him

"Fuck," he muttered, pressing his palms against his eyes hard enough to see stars again. He wanted to turn back around and pound on her door. Tell her she was a cunt. Tell her that hiding behind cruelty was just as fucking sad as anything he'd done tonight.

But what was the fucking point? She'd just find another way to twist the knife.

The hallway fluorescents hummed overhead, harsh after her apartment's dim lighting. He looked vulnerable again in his boxers and worn shirt, just an exhausted chef who had to prep short ribs in four hours.

The apartment felt too quiet for her. She could hear the refrigerator humming, the neighbors' TV through the walls, her own breathing. All the shit the music usually drowned out.

"Fuck"

She picked up the glass. Set it down. Picked it up again.

She could hear herself fucking blink.

She turned the music back on.

---

-check out the other chapters!

[myszie]

Fucking insane level of yearning for this!

[eubomubo]

MASTERLIST

The Bear

Smut—

Debt (Michael Berzatto x Reader)

Series—

Midnight noise (Carmy Berzatto x Reader)

Midnight noise chapter 2

Midnight noise chapter 3

Midnight noise chapter 4

Midnight noise chapter 5

Midnight noise chapter 6

Midnight noise chapter 7

Bg3

One shots—

Midnight escapades (Halsin and Reader)

[myszie]

Literally best Berzatto fic on this app!

[beardedmrbean]

[theman]

I GOT A FUCKING RAISE THE POTATO WORKED WTF

[tattooedzombigirl]

This potato works. Every. Fucking. Time.

[secondlina]

Reblogging because it’s a damn potato and I want to encourage people to assume potatoes are magical.

[sinksanksockie2]

w-what if potato is actually lucky

[bebx]

reblog if you’ve read fanfictions that are more professional, better written than some actual novels. I’m trying to see something

[thecapricunt1616]

Pink Pony Club (Richie Jerimovich one-shot)

♡ One-Shot Inspo: Pink Pony Club by Chappell Roan "I'm up, and jaws are on the floor. Lovers in the bathroom and a line outside the door. Blacklights, and a mirrored disco ball Every night's another reason why I left it all" ♡ Summary: You're an Exotic Dancer / part time house mom at The Pink Pony, and end up falling for a man that is probably old enough to be your father. ♡ W/C: 2.9k ♡ Poste Date: 06/10/2024 ♡ A/N: Hello all! again, for the asks that are atp starting to mold in my inbox - imma get to you. This specific dirty old man in a suit has been making me feel things lately, so naturally I had to write some porn about it. Asks are still open even though I cant promise it'll be done snappy. Hope everyones week is off to a great start so far!! Tagged those who commented on the post saying this would be a good idea just so you could see how it came out, hope you like :) ♡ Warnings for BTC: Age gap relationships (R is in her mid-to-late 20's, mentions of sex work, Club environments, swearing, smut, rough sex (Richie likes to be slapped around sometimes, kay?) lowkey simp!Richie, no use of Y/N - pet names only, readers stage name is Pixie Polestar , unprotected sex, not edited, we die like men!

♡ 𝐌𝐲 𝐋𝐢𝐧𝐤𝐬 ♡ ➵ 𝐂𝐡𝐞𝐜𝐤 𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐦𝐲 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐭 ♡ ➵ 𝐂𝐚𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐂𝐚𝐫𝐦𝐲 𝐨𝐧𝐞-𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐭 𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐩𝐚𝐠𝐞 ♡ ➵ 𝘊𝘭𝘪𝘤𝘬 𝘮𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘳𝘦𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 / 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘵 ♡ ➵ 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐭 𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐬 ♡

You had met Richie just about a month ago. It was safe to say, life had chewed him up and spit him out lately. 

If he was being honest with himself, the dating pool wasn’t exactly rich at 46 years old. He could count on almost two hands how long it had been since he got his dick up for more than just the binightly pornhub browser. 

That led him into the Pink Pony Club one fateful August night. You were working your usual shift, Pixie Polestar. You - unlike some of the other girls - really enjoyed your job. At least, the aspect of having fun on stage, doing cute, sexy little acrobat-like tricks on the pole while horny men paid you to take more of your clothes off?

Yes please. 

You weren’t a back room kind of girl, usually. That was because the amount of money you made from tricks on the pole was more than a lot of the girls you worked with made in a whole shift while you just worked the 45 minute trick-filled stage set then would give a few $400 lap dances depending on your mood, before skipping on home, taking a hot shower, and slipping in your silk sheets with your air conditioner turning your bedroom something akin to an ice box. 

That was how that night was supposed to go. 

How the night really went, was some loud borderline obnoxious man at least 15 years your senior, had found his way into the Pink Pony. He was wearing a pressed navy blue suit, that complimented his pretty blue eyes. That was the second thing you noticed about him while he loudly whistled for Krystal who was currently doing her set. 

You weren’t really supposed to be here anymore - well- you didn’t have to be here. You had found yourself a solution, a real career path if you will. But you enjoyed your time on the pole because it was art, and dancing was a confidence booster for you. In any regard, you were going to get older, you were going to pass your prime as the house mom was always telling you girls, so you needed another stream of income. 

Of course, being a … *eh-hem* - exotic dancer was the word you preferred, stripper just sounded trashy to you, did come with its negative stereotypes, one of which being no where will rent to you - because you had terrible credit. So, naturally, being the resourceful woman you are - you walked your happy ass to the open house of a for sale by owner showing, and told the nice realtor you’d take it. 

Boom. Done, you had a place to live in 3 weeks, when you closed on it. Then, it dawned on you. The other girls you worked with had the same issue you did. So, you found another house, saved another 25k for the amount to put down, and rented it to your coworkers. 

It was the perfect system, because you knew you’d get your rent. You knew exactly how much money each girl made because you watched them make it, you knew where they lived, and they had to look you in the eye every night. So it’s easy to say no one ever tried you. The only real reason you hung around The Pink Pony anymore was because you wanted to keep an eye on your girls and dancing was fun too. 

When he first laid eyes on you, it was something akin to a cartoon character when their pupils turn into hearts. It wasn’t too abnormal, you were one of the more bombshell-esc dancers at the club, and that isn’t to say that you outdid anyone it was all based on preference. Some men loved plain Jane’s, and the plain Jane’s were just as beautiful as any of the other girls, but the reaction of men basically tripping over their feet to try and come talk to you was more likely going to happen to you then anyone else.  

But he…didn’t come over, that was interesting to you. So, you being the master of customer service you were, took your drink and kept your eyes locked on his as you made your way across the room, and plopped right in his lap. “Never seen you here before sweetheart” your manicured hand found the back of his neck, gently caressing over his skin. 

He tried to play it cool, but your tits we’re basically in his face, he could smell your perfume perfectly, fuck he genuinely can’t believe that a girl so beautiful just sauntered over and sat in his fucking lap. Was he dreaming? He found his mind racing, and for once in his 46 years he was dumbfounded and couldn’t find anything to say. 

“Cat got your tongue honey?” You smirked a bit, gently cupping his stubbly cheek and rubbing your thumb over his bottom lip, pulling it gently before letting it snap back into place. He swallowed thickly, his hand resting on your bare thigh, just below the white glittery mesh coverup you were wearing. 

“I’m Richie.” He blurted out, his cheeks felt like they were on fucking fire, any blood that wasn’t rushing there was rushing to his cock and he found himself wondering when the last time he’d gotten hard so easy was. 

“Well hello Richie. I’m Pixie, what brings a handsome man like you in on a Friday night mm, no big plans?” You absentmindedly played with his chain, pretending to pay no mind to the long length that was hardening in the curve of your ass. All you would have to do is shuffle just a tiny bit and his cock would be nestled between your cheeks and the itty bitty powder pink g string that you wore beneath the tiny mesh piece of fabric that was basically for show and no use to cover anything. 

“I guess I was lookin’ f’some entertainment. Think I found it” he spread his legs more, causing you to sink further into his lap and his hand found the curve of your waist, his thumb rubbing little up and down strokes over the smooth skin. He never believed that the sheer triple x rated porn movie he was creating in his mind would become a reality that night but man did it. 

It was also his first night taking the dreaded viagra prescription his doctor had given him when he got real about his … shortcomings as of late. The man isn’t what he used to be stamina wise, okay? Nonetheless - he still rocked your shit - well, more like you rocked his. 

Who knew this foul mouthed, old school, borderline toxic masculinity-entrenched motherfucker would get so much pleasure from your palm coming across his cheek just hard enough it left a yummy sting and telling him “My eyes are up here you old pervert” as you bounced on his cock with a rhythm he couldn’t bring to the table himself anymore, and that in turn causing your tits to bounce like a fucking hentai film less then a foot from his face. 

Something about a younger girl calling him old and smacking him around all while using his cock to get herself off, babbling about how good he makes her feel made him more confident then he had been in years.

He often would find himself feeling a little pang of sadness after you started seeing eachother, in moments where you two were laughing a way he only ever did with Mikey before you came around, and making him feel like he was in fuckin’ High school again with how giddy he was to see you after every shift. All of it would just remind him how bad he wishes you could have met Mikey, and how bad he wishes he could tell Mikey. 

Richie knows, he would be so jealous, but in a brotherly way - that such a young hot piece of ass, a young smart, hot, funny, piece of ass was calling him daddy, told him he was ‘her mans’ whatever the fuck that meant. He assumed girls today call their boyfriends that, there were a lot of little phrases and lingo you had to explain to him and would always make fun of him for being old after doing so. 

He would tease you too, having some late 80s early 90’s radio station on (because the old head didn’t understand what streaming was) while he drove you around of course since he had learned from you that you were his ‘passenger princess’ and saying something like ‘oh babygirl this is before your time, this is from my day” before cranking up the radio and serenading you with Bad Girl by Madonna, belting it in such a silly, dramatic way between drags of his cigarette you couldn’t help but burst into giggles and kiss him at the next red. 

You had told him that when you used to do private dances that Like a Virgin was one of your favorite to dance to for the ‘older’ gentleman, he spanked you playfully when you said his crowd was older as he usually did, and of course later that night he had you perform for him and you ended up getting your back blown out to material girl since you had been streaming the song from your phone and didn’t care to find it and turn it off. 

When Tina had played it jokingly at family dinner one night, he couldn’t help the smirk that came to his lips at the memory. Funnily enough, she was the first person to find out about you. Of course, he didn’t divulge anything other than he was finally seeing someone consistently, nothing about your age or profession. Based on the way Tina had reacted with clapping and kissing his cheeks, gushing “I’m so proud of you papa! That’s so good, this is so good for you! You need to get out there more” he was reevaluating his social life or lack there of and telling himself he needed to get out more, which lucky for him you were young and bubbly so you could get him out of the house. 

The next person he told, he really told, was Carmy. Well- technically Syd too, but she just happened to overhear. 

“W-wait wait” Carmy pinched the bridge of his nose how he did when he was baffled and confused, brows knitting together as he shook his head. “Lemme- lemme just get this straight - y’datin a…..” 

“Ex-o-tic dancer, cousin. It’s 2024, fuckin hell. Women dance and get paid for it - no big deal.” He repeated, emphasizing each sound as if what he was explaining was the most casual thing in the world, which - you had explained to him it should be so he took that and ran with it. 

“You’re fucking…a stripper- a stripper that’s what they’re called when they dance naked -  and how old did you say she was?” Syd questions. 

“Hey- she leaves her panties on she’s only naked top up, and plus she doesn’t even have to anymore she does it for the art.” He points the spoon he was wiping down at Carmy “this new NOMA bullshit we’re doin’ here isn’t the only art, Cousin. Shes an artist” he dropped the spoon in the bucket with the rest of the pristine ones he’d worked on. 

“Sure- and she’s fuckin younger then me” Carmy replied. “She could be y’fuckin-“

“Yeah yeah she could be my fuckin daughter where’s your girlfriend huh? I don’t see anyone linin’ up to fuck you. She’s nice, and into me - and - and she’s funny and smart. So see already 2 qualities named that I don’t see much of around here so excuse fuckin me f’wantin to be happy when I’m not in this shithole” he teased 

“So- this not even 30 year old, she is gonna be y’date to the thanksgiving friends and family night - the one your daughter and ex wife are attending - and you think that will be a good idea considering tiff’s track record with girls you bring around” Syd questioned. 

“Yup” was all he said before taking the now finished bin of spoons to be put away, glad for the conversation to have finally been over. 

He rehashed the whole conversation with you as you slowly rolled your hips, your skin sticking to his, both of you covered with a thin layer of sweat. You had his hands pinned next to his head, fingers interlaced with yours, practically speaking into your mouth as you kissed him sloppy and open mouthed, obsessed with eachothers taste. You always tasted of bubblegum, a habit you’d carried with you since childhood, he always tasted of cigarettes, a habit he had carried since high school. 

“Baby with my job I’m used to people not understanding me - I didn’t expect your friends to like me. My job - it can make people uncomfortable. But fuck them. You know how we feel huh?” You picked up the speed of your hips, using the curly deep brown patch of hair at the base of his cock to cause the most delicious friction with each thrust on his cock as you chased your orgasm. 

“Ye’ fuck em baby- shit- so fuckin tight- all mine right?” He breathed, mouthing over the bruises he’d left on your breasts a few nights ago. That was one thing about your job he had a bit of difficulty getting past, but you assured him you had no feelings for any clients and that you weren’t doing lap dances anymore only your stage set and otherwise you were just there to be more of a second house mom. But still, he was a man after all. He was possessive, a little jealous sometimes. So he loved to hear that you were only his during moments like this. 

“Yes daddy- all yours. You own this- you own me” you kissed his hand before bringing it to your breast and then using his shoulders as leverage to bounce further up and down, the action causing his head to fall back and jaw to fall slack. 

“Just like that - god- fuck - holy shit baby- shit-shit- y’fuckin close? How fuckin long has it been?” He pinched your nipple lightly, causing your pussy to clench around him and a pornstar like whine to leave your lips 

“It’s been 15 minutes- Christ you’re like a teenager. Can’t even last 30 minutes?” You teased, leaning in and kissing his neck, biting and nibbling the skin as you circle your hips, essentially jutting the tip of his cock into your g spot and that floaty feeling sneaking up on you as you feel him shoot rope after rope of arousal, painting your pretty, gummy walls a milky white and his stomach muscles clenching at the overstimulation. 

The grunts and moans that left his lips when you got him here were some of the hottest noises you’d ever heard a man make before, you were always sure to file them away in a special little folder in your brain for a rainy day he wasn’t able to get you off himself. “Feel good daddy?” You asked sweetly, sitting up and resting your hands on his hips so you could look down and watch as your mixed arousals gush out of you and around him, thick strings breaking with each slow, purposeful roll of your hips 

“So fuckin good baby- Jesus gonna finish soon? Dunno how much more I can do” he said, voice breathy, blissed out, nearly whiny. 

“Mmhmm few more minutes daddy- god we’re so pretty, I bet we taste so good mm?” You swipe the pad your forefinger over your clit, gathering the sweet and bitter white, making a show of rubbing it over the hardened bud of your nipple “feels good, too, wanna tell me how it tastes?” You leaned in and he nearly groaned as he took your breast in his mouth, crystal like eyes seeding into your own gaze as he flicked his tongue gratefully around the sensitive nub. 

You whined hotly, the sight of your tit in his mouth mixed with the feeling of his pants huffing through his nose and fanning over the swollen flesh as his tongue swirled and licked and flicked and drove you over the edge. You cried out, hips stuttering as you rode out your orgasm. His hand found your heat, rubbing with scissored fingers over your clit and meeting around his cock before dragging his fingers back up to repeat the assault. 

The action had you gushing around him, the contractions of your heat getting stronger causing him to groan into your skin and that vibration just added more stimulation. “Fuck yes- god daddy- always make me feel so good, no one understands how good we make eachother feel hm? Nothing else matters, baby, as long as you feel good, right?” 

You pulled him in for a sloppy, hot, passionate kiss. A kiss that made his heart do flips, and his stomach flutter, and made him feel way lighter.

Richie thought to himself in that moment he may be falling in love again, and he was equal parts fucking terrified, and excited to see where things with you went. 

He just had to get over ripping off the very last bandaid, and then you could really be together -

And that bandaid was Tiff.

@aestheticaltcow - @myszie - @wtfsteveharrington

[myszie]

🖐️ they’re not sticky your honour