—the Seasons Of Love
—the seasons of love
or: the enemies to lovers situationship fic charles leclerc x female reader summ. winter, the first time. the start of the year, the start of it all. minors dni, nsfw warnings under the cut. 7k words part two
18+ because: brat taming, fingering, oral (f receiving), name calling, spit, unprotected sex, overstimulation, booty call!, masturbation (f receiving), voyeurism, mad sass, fucking porn without plot basically.
There’s nothing special about the club scene in Monte Carlo. If you’ve been to a club in any major city, anywhere in the world, you’ve been to a club in Monaco. It’s all neon lights and kaleidoscope colors and poorly lit dance floors and mid-tier DJs who think they’re the next coming of Jesus.
Tonight is no exception. The air is thick and heavy with the scent of floral perfume and alcohol, the entire room shaking with the pulsating beat of the bass, reverberating off every single corner and shaking the liquor in your glass. Bodies move—yours included—half in sync with the music, half in step with their drunken stupor. Perched in the safety of Charles’s section, away from the swaying forms of laughter and shouting and screaming, your entire body thumps alone to the beat from the DJ booth a couple meters away.
Across the section, Charles sits stoic on a couch, taking up a seat and a half and frozen like some magnetic force. His eyes are stuck on you in a way that pulls goosebumps from your skin, makes you irrational angry at him. You’re feeling particularly bratty today, egged on by the tequila and his visible annoyance.
You’re on your way to interject into his pity party when your sister catches your arm, pulls you by your bicep to dance with her. Her palms are sweaty and cold and you hope that it’s the condensation from her cold glass that’s got her all clammy. The two of you have always been quite a sight after a few drinks. You get your tolerance from your mother, are both disastrous lightweights, feel the need to give any and everyone around you a show.
The two of you twirl to the music with little effort, laughing like you’re seven and the hazard littered floor under your feet is the old brown carpet from the family room you grew up hosting dance parties in. It’s all hair and giggles and hands in the air like you just don’t care. Everytime your glance catches his, he’s staring back, nursing his drink and half participating in a conversation with your brother-in-law and Jo.
“What’s his fucking problem?” you ask, leaning over to shout into your sister’s ear.
“He can’t dance,” she slurs. You snort. He can dance.
You whistle, loud and commanding and cat-call-ish even though he’s already watching you. “Charles! Get out here and dance, you fucking buzzkill!”
Your sister joins in on the fun, playfully swaying her hips to the music, tossing out an imaginary fishing line to her husband and reeling him over, calling along teasingly to Charles. “Yeah, show us what you’ve got, Il Predestinato!”
Charles rolls his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest defiantly. “I don’t dance,” he calls back with a soft chuckle. He tries to play it cool, like always, but everyone in the room knows you’re pushing his buttons. You always are. The reason he keeps you around is the same reason you stay around; your families’ relationship predates any animosity between the two of you. That, and the friend group was founded before you loathed each other and it would be too much work to try and split it up now. You’d probably never see Joris again.
You dance closer to him, putting on a dramatic show and a poor fight against the urge to continue challenging him. “Come on,” you tug on his arm, just out your bottom lip into a pretty little pout. “Live a little.”
He’s never been able to turn down one of your challenges, however thinly veiled they might be. It’s his own personal sore spot, the one that you poke and prod as often as you can. Competition has always been the foundation of your mutual annoyance, it’s not going to suddenly change after some eighteen years of consistency. Finally, he relents, lets you think you’re pulling him to his feet, dragging him to dance with you and your sister.
His moves are stiff and awkward, almost hard to watch. You laugh, because he’s wound up so fucking tight in two weeks you’d have a diamond. “See!?” your sister laughs, the contagion of it spreading to even the brunt of the joke. “I told you!” she continues, slinking her arm around her husband’s neck sloppily. His arm grips her side to hold her steady. It makes you feel sick.
A smirk tugs on his lips, and for a brief moment, there’s a hint of something more in his eyes. Not annoyance or frustration. Something seven, something innocent and childish. It’s fleeting, and you take a deep breath because the music feels quieter now. You down what’s left of your cocktail to clear your head, to calm the sudden flutter of nerves.
The more he drinks and the longer he’s forced to dance, the lighter and more magnetic he becomes. “You know, Charles, I never thought I’d see the day,” you tease. He’s been in a near constant state of pity-party for weeks now, ever since his dumb ass got dumped by another girl wildly out of his league.
He rolls his eyes, but his tone is as amused as it is drunk. “Don’t get too excited. It’s the liquor,” he retorts, a piss poor attempt at downplaying how much fun he’s having. He wouldn’t dare to give you the satisfaction. You lean in closer, brush your body against his, fueled by the noise and the alcohol.
“The liquor doing the touching, too?” you ask.
He’s always been a touchy drunk. Since before you and your friends were allowed to drink, he’s been hands-on. And maybe it’s because this is the first time he’s grabbing your hips, the first time his broad hand is flat over your stomach, but you’d never noticed him as this touchy with his girlfriends or his girls that appear when he’s around. Whatever it is, the more he drinks, the more comfortable he is with his hands on you, and the less you find the nerve to care.
It doesn’t matter how many times he does it, though. Every touch burns your skin. It’s a sick little game you two play. Sick and twisted and so, so unlike the two of you.
Watch yourself—he warns, hand on the small of your back. You play with fire. Well established and well documented, though; you never back down either. No, the thrill of annoying him is enough to dive head-first, to push his buttons until they stick. “Am I?” you ask, as innocently as the tequila can muster, taking hold of his wrist and moving it so his arm is wrapped around your midsection, fighting to settle in the space between your waistband and shirt hem.
You respond to every one of his careful touches, ever lingering finger on your arm and your waist and your back. When you close your eyes, you imagine the nonsense patterns he draws on your skin like it’s on canvas in a museum, hung front and center just for you. Your inhibitions are slipping too, and you let yourself trail wandering fingertips over his body, too.
This isn’t the Charles you’re used to, the one you go head-to-head with every fifteen minutes. This is something entirely new, so far into uncharted territory you’re not even sure which way is north. There’s something particularly intriguing about the nerves bouncing around your gut.
Everything fades away into the dark and crowded club. You don’t know if your sister and brother-in-law are still standing there, if any of your friends are. All you know if the electric charge of this, of every teasing remark and touch that draws you closer, forces you to test the waters of the newfound layer of tension.
Everything is building, it feels like, to some grand crescendo of emotion and desire. Before there’s room to explore it, though, to dive deeper into the unspoken shift, the moment is interrupted by the return of the friends you didn’t notice leaving.
The night drags on, the lines between annoyance and attraction blurring into some chaotic muddle of intoxication. Nothing is clear, nothing except the sobering and unignorable pull. It lingers in the air above you, in the space between like a secret just begging to be unraveled.
You’ve got another drink now, because you can only think of one decision that would be worse than more tequila. In due time, you’re worried you’re a lost cause when it comes to that choice as well. His eyes stay on you, even from a distance, and you revel in the glory of his attention. Embolden by it all, you continue fucking with him. “Having fun yet, Charles?” you ask, knowing smile, voice dripping in subtle suggestion.
He raises a brow, the corners of his lips quirking up. You don’t think you’ve ever spent much time looking at them, the soft shade of pink and the softer skin. “I suppose I can tolerate it,” he replies with teasing eyes. He’s irritated by your laugh, by your proximity, by your lips brushing against his ear when you whisper; you’re not the only one here trying to have fun. His jaw tightens but he doesn’t take your bait. Instead, he pulls you closer, sways in rhythm with you and replies, “I’m here to enjoy myself, not entertain you.”
He sends your brattiness running full-tilt. Forces you to carefully consider every movement, every ounce of playfulness that you allow to seep into your demeanor and the proactive sway of your hips. You grin at him every chance you get, sly and calculated, daring him to resist.
You lean in close, brush against his ear and can blame it on practicality, on the bass and the music and the DJ if anyone were to question your actions. You rest a hand on his chest. “I know you love my attention.”
His breath hitches at your audacity, heart racing so quick you can feel it in your palm. He pulls you closer, dangerously close to your lips and says, “you talk too much. Maybe it’s time someone shuts you up.”
You scoff, low and teasing. “I’d like to see you try.”
[18 minutes later]
You step into the well-lit lobby less than a pace behind him. Your hands are interlocked, have been for every block of the darkened streets—since he grabbed yours and pulled you out of the club. “Admit it,” you giggle. “You love having me push your buttons.”
He remains stoic, jaw set as he pushes the button on the elevator. The tension is at a boiling point. You’re either about to kill each other, to be on the news for some grand double murder, or something so, so much worse is going to unfold.
He leads you to the apartment without a word, but as soon as the door closes behind him, all is lost. Your head is bumping into the drywall before you even realize what’s happening, his lips harsh against yours, the pent up frustration and desire snapping like a dried twig.
It’s fierce and passionate and while you never, not for a single moment in your life, imagined what he would taste like, you somehow knew it would be like this, cool and fresh and drunk. He licks into your mouth, messy and intense, teeth clacking and both of you fighting for some nonexistent upper hand.
Fireworks are going off outside. They shake the windows with explosive gravitas as you’re blindly led by his backwards steps down the hallway. You realize that in an entire lifetime of knowing each other, this is the first time you’ve been in his place. It’s not what you expected, from what you can gather—all clutter and red cars and a boy who never had to drop his dream. “They’re going to look for us,” you say between sloppy, open mouthed kisses.
He mumbles against your skin, strong hands on either side of your jaw. “Let them look.”
You walk through a doorway, into a bedroom clad with clutter and blue sheets. He would have blue sheets. There’s another firework, loud and booming, it makes you jump. You check your watch over his shoulder, pretend your hand doesn’t shake. “It’s almost midnight.”
“Okay.” Your knees bump into his and he sits on the edge of the bed.
You laugh, climb onto his lap, your arms strewn around his shoulders, broad and strong and you laugh again–this time into his mouth. What the fuck is going on. Seriously, what the fuck is this? “Happy New Year.”
He sighs, pulls his mouth from yours long enough to roll his eyes, to speak annoyedly into the hot air between your lips. “Yeah, whatever. Happy New Year.”
“Charles,” you mutter, hand on his chest. You think he’s going to regret this more than you will. People have always told you he’s the best kind of person. You’re not held in the same regard, and you know it. Some people are made to regret and others are made to be the regret.
“Jesus Christ,” he laughs, but it’s curt and passive. Annoyed, as always, even when he palms at your ass, traces his hands along the bottom of your hiked up dress and pulls you down against him with a bruising grip. “Shut the fuck up.” You tug at the hem of his shirt, pull it off over his head in a swift movement.
“You’re doing a piss-poor job at making me.”
He moves you like you’re a fucking doll, like it’s lightwork, tossing you down against the mattress and swapping your positions in a swift movement. The strength and agility of it makes your head spin. He’s not supposed to make your head spin, he’s supposed to make it ache.
But no, no. You do ache for him. All of you aches for him, for his calloused hands and the roughness of his jeans against your thighs and the soft contrast of his lips against everything else. It’s embarrassing. You can’t believe he’s got you like this, hands pinned above your head while he buries his tongue in your mouth, grinds his hips against yours. The coarse denim is almost painful on your sensitive skin, but the growing bulge pulling the fabric tight is more intoxicating than any cocktail.
“You’re such a fucking brat,” he says, bites a bruise against the skin just above your clavicle. “Spoiled little shit.”
He sinks to his knees, big blue or green or whatever fucking color his eyes are today watching you intently, boring into you with blown, hungry pupils. His fingers trail along your underwear, pulling the thin, lacey fabric to the side, and then removes them all together. He gloats when he runs his thumb through your folds. “So fucking wet.”
“It’s not for you,” you goad.
“Oh?” He nods slowly, spreading your slick with the steady digit, watching you carefully for reaction. “For who then?”
Your eyes flutter shut when the pad of his thumb presses against your clit, circles it slowly, teases you. He’s unfocused, his mind lapsing and giving you a much needed in, a clear shot to piss him off. “Your teammate.”
“Fuck off.” You first.
“You’re right, Charles,” you speak slowly, careful to control your breathing, to hide every tell you might have. “Someone should shut me up. Do you know anyone?” Without warning, he thrusts two fingers inside you, curls them like someone had given him a diagram of your body. You gasp at the suddenness of it all. Yeah, he mutters, utterly delighted with himself. Yeah, I think I know someone.
You roll your eyes, push his head down, down, mouth onto your core. There, in the midst of licking a long stripe through your cunt, he fucking laughs, shakes his head with a subtlety you’d never perceive if it wasn’t for the tip of his nose bumping your clit when he does it. At least he can follow basic fucking instructions.
His dick must hurt pretty damn bad, all hard and swollen in his pants, because he’s unbuttoning his jeans and freeing himself from the constraints of the fabric while lapping at you, the other hand still fucking into you with steady pace and hazy curl. You can’t see it, view obstructed by the mattress and limbs and hair, but you can tell by the way his shoulders move that he’s trying to get himself off at the same time he works on you.
You’re not going to make his job that easy. You require all of his attention, pure and undivided and hopefully just as infuriated as you are. You reach down to the apex of your legs, pull his head up by his chin. “Just fuck me, already, you prick.”
He rises to his feet, shakes his head, “you’re a needy little thing,” he remarks. Needy? You haven’t fucking seen needy.
He guides the head of his cock through your folds, spreading slick and spit and smacking himself against your cunt.
Your lips purse into a sharp line. “Don’t tease me.”
“Why not?” He taunts, “you’ve been teasing for hours.”
“It’s different,” you grumble.
“How?” You could strangle him, him and all his questions. What’s a person have to do to get fucked properly around here? You already sacrified your morals by pulling tight against the navy blue sheets. A woman can only make so many sacrifices.
You groan, heavy and exasperated. He’s such a pest. “It just–oh, fuck you–” without warning, he plunges into you, buries himself in your cunt until he bottoms out, skin on skin and the sore sting of him stretching you. Your fingers bruise into his arms, nails scraping over his shoulder blades with a gasp. He gives you no time to adjust to him, rutting into you with deep, measured thrusts. What was that, he prodes. Somehow, you find the poise to stabilize yourself, to reply smugly. “it just is.”
His objective isn’t your pleasure, no. That would be his prerogative, a side privilege, a requirement in his quest to get you to close your mouth and stop pestering for once. Making you come is just another box to check.
You don’t fuck someone if you’re not going to finish, though. Sleeping with Charles might be a lapse in judgment, but being someone’s play toy, letting him reap without sowing, that’s a complete disregard of your dignity
Your fingers find your clit, circle it in just the right sequence, combining with the curve of his cock to push you closer, closer, closer to the edge of the fucking world. Your entire body burns, everywhere, all over, all at once you sweat. Tell me–he insists, voice short and breathy. Tell me when you’re going to come. “I thought you were trying to shut me up?”
“Just, fuck, just tell me.” He palms over your breasts, still covered by your bra and the fabric of your dress, however thin. “So many fucking clothes,” he grumbled, stalling inside you, hands slipping under your back, between you at the mattress to pull you off the bed. You hastily pull the dress over your head, toss it somewhere onto the clothing cluttered floor. Better? You ask. “Better,” he nods, bites your bottom lip roughly, licking against your teeth. One of the hands that explore the skin of your back make quick work of the clasp on your bra, dropping the straps from your shoulders and your back is against the sheets again, his hands groping at you, pinching your nipple between his middle and ring finger, working over it until you’re humming profanities and huffing into his mouth.
Hate and desire is such a fine, blurry line. Anyone who tells you differently is a liar.
“M’gonna,” you choke on your words. “I’m–shit–I’m coming.”
“Yeah,” He picks up his pace, maintains a steady, toe-curling rhythm. “Come for me,” his voice heavy and growled. “Come on my dick.”
You do. You come for him, hard and long, wrapping a leg around his hip in a failed attempt to still him, to just be full of him and nothing more. He’s stronger, though, and fucks you through the whole thing, faster, harder, big hands braced on your hips for leverage. You explore the idea that a person really could be fucked in half, forced right open.
“Good try,” you sputter, shaky and broken words leaving your lips before you’ve found a gravity that isn’t him. You lean up to kiss him, wrap your hand around the back of his neck and pull him to meet you halfway. Your fingers tickle the short hair at the nape of his neck, raise goosebumps to his skin. “Maybe next time,” you hum into his open mouth.
He spits a long string of saliva into your mouth when you move to close the gap. You laugh around it, down it in a single gulp and lick your lips, sticking out your tongue to showcase your empty mouth, big innocent doe-eyes watching his reaction, his eye roll and devilish smirk.
“Like I said–” you start, but he’s flipping you over, tossing you around like a ragdoll. You giggle, high on the teasing and the taunting and then he’s fucking your face into the mattress. He’s got your hair gathered up into a ratty ponytail, uses it like a handle, forcing your back into an arch, your ass to perk up into the air.
God, he’s so fucking deep, turning you into a mess of bruises and sweat stricken skin. Your hips bounce back against him, angle in any imaginable way in an attempt to feel him deeper, to feel him in your stomach and your chest and your head. To feel him everywhere that counts.
“Putain, taking me so good, baby” he groans, lets the praise and the pet name slipping past his lips in a moment that goes unnoticed by neither of you. He smacks your ass with a firm hand, trying to mask his words after they’ve already been spoken. Your eyes roll back into your head and you come again, without warning. You decide before you get to think about it that it was the stinging imprint of his hand that pushed you tumbling over the edge. Whatever the real reason, you’re up two-nothing, or, depending how you look at it, he’s the one winning.
That’s all any of this is, one big game. A power struggle. You’re always fighting to win, and this is not different. If there’s a way to lose at a game where everyone is supposed to win, one of you is going to fucking find it and force it on the other.
You’re the one doing the flipping, now. The pushing and the shoving so he’s on his back. You straddle him and he gives you this look like he’s fully pussy-drunk, sick and euphoric and floating somewhere far from here. You’re so winning at this. “Jesus Christ,” you poke, “wipe your fucking drool.”
His entire face contorts when you sink down onto him. Everytime you think you’ve reached a limit, he finds a way to hit a spot impossibly deeper than the last. His hips lift up off the bed to meet you halfway, rutting into pleasure spots you didn’t even know you had, hand moving to your cunt, thumbing lazily at your clit, leaving you fuzzy and drunk in a mess of mumbled moans above him.
When you come for the third time, messy and sweaty, nothing that leaves your lips is distinguishable, a mess of French and English and curses and nonsensical mewls. “Fuck you,” he moans, breath shaky when he pulls himself out of you. Your body clenches around air, aches for him to return.
He does, after he moves you back into the position it all started in. “So close,” he tells you, sinking slowly into you, his sigh hot and alcoholic on your shoulder. His pace is slow, then fast, then slow again. He’s as rapid as his breath is irregular. You better pull out–you groan, every muscle in your body strung out and exhausted and you’re coming again. It’s blinding white behind your closed lids, ears ringing and muscles flexing involuntarily. He’s wrecked you, finally, left you a mumbling mess.
He pulls out almost in sync with your orgasm, jerks himself no more than twice between your legs before he’s coating your stomach in hot stripes of cum, loud, guttural moans leaving his lips in a way that looks and sounds practically pained. “Christ,” he heaves, watches on as your fingers dance through his orgasm, spreading it over your skin and coating your fingers. You don’t break eye contact when you stick two of them into your mouth, swirl your tongue around them tauntingly, sucking them clean and pulling them from your mouth with a pop. You hold the clean hand up for him to see, palm facing him. When you turn it, you pull down all but your middle finger, flip him off cockily.
He swats you hand away, “Never fucking again,” he tells you.
“Oh, you don’t have to worry about me,” you scoff. “I never want to see the inside of this apartment again.”
“Why are you here, then?” He remarks, turning the corner into what you assume is the bathroom, tossing a towel to you from across the room. You clean yourself up before anything dries, before coming up with a quick rebuttal.
You don’t come up with one, mind as tired as the rest of you. This game has been exhausting. “We’re never talking about this,” you say, pulling your dress over your head, stuffing your bra into your handbag because you aren’t sure you have the strength to clasp it closed. “Ever.”
“No shit,” he says, tosses your underwear in the general direction of you.
You bend over to pick them up, step into them with the snap of the elastic. “Promise me.” You have no idea where your shoes are, but he’s already ushering you out of the room, herding you down the long hall with wide, swooping waves of his arms.
“I promise.”
“Pinky,” you say, spot your shoes haphazardly stepped out of in the entryway. You don’t have any memory of them ever being on.
“Absolutely not.”
“Charles,” you lean against the wall to slip your heels on, hook up at him with a sober glare. He closes his eyes like you won’t be able to see them roll behind his lids, pinches the bridge of his nose and squints before dropping a heavy breath, holding out a pinky to you. You interlock it with yours. “Thank you.”
He pulls his hand from yours, turns the lock on his front door and swings it open, fingers wrapped around the edge, other hand gesturing out into the hallway. “Get the fuck out of my house.”
“With pleasure,” you say, stepping past him and into the well-lit hallway of sprawling marble floors. You stop in front of the elevator, press the button and wait for his inevitable comment.
“The whole brat-schtick you’ve got going on isn’t as believable when your leg shakes underneath you,” he calls down the hall. You don’t turn your head to face him, just extend your arm in his direction and flip him off. You hear his chuckle as he latches the door shut behind you.
Everything about today has been dreary–from the near constant mist that falls over the city, to the chilly temperatures, to the poor excuses for men that grace the screen of your dating app. This is not how Fridays in your twenties are meant to be spent, sulking in the dark of your bedroom after a miserable day at work.
You’re supposed to be out, partying with friends and making drunken decisions that have you waking up in a stranger’s bed after a good night you hardly remember.
God, you need to get fucked. It’s been months. Two months and ten days–not that you’re counting. Because you’re not. Counting. You aren’t.
You’re just restless, basking in the loneliness of the night, unable to shake the weight of your thoughts, of two months and ten days ago. Of Charles and how infuriatingly good he’d made you feel. The complexities of your relationship, the shift in the very DNA of what you know, it makes your heart race–a messy muddle of annoyance and desire that yearns to be untangled.
You give up on the dating apps, know that even if you do match with someone, there’s nothing that can be done to solve your problem tonight. You opt instead to scroll through social media aimlessly, searching for any distraction from the ache in your gut. Your hand unconsciously slips under the hem of your shirt, cups your breast while you scroll and scroll and scroll. It does little to quell your struggles. In fact, the game is over the moment you become conscious of your hand’s placement, the moment you start to massage your breast, to run your fingers over your nipple until it’s hard and perky.
You switch to the other breast, fingers gently tracing over the skin, sending chills up your arms, pinpointing the ache in your core. Your hand slides down your stomach, dips below the waistband of your shorts, into your underwear. You’re so worked up–pent up, reaching a boiling point.
Your middle finger glides through your folds, grazes over your clit, teases the slick at your entrance before dipping in, collecting enough to spread it around. Your clit is swollen, needy like the rest of you, and the pad of your fingers do little to relieve the pressure. Your fingers move clockwise, then counter. Vertical and horizontal and every combination of every direction and even though you can’t remember the last time you were this horny, this desperate to come, you can’t.
You slip in a finger, and then another, try to find the right curl and the right spot–to no avail. Now, you’re thinking about his fingers, about how much bigger his hands are, how his nimble fingers pumped in and out of you with sheet-gripping, whimper-inducing pace.
Your phone taunts you, his contact behind the locked screen just waiting to be messaged.
You try to resist. You hate him. He hates you. God, he knows how to fuck you, though; veiny hands and thick cock leaving you a writhing mess. Fuck. Fuck, why can’t your fingers move the way his did?
You cave, reaching over to grab your phone and text him. Hey. What are you up to tonight? It’s a mistake, you know that it is. He’s so damn annoying, there’s nothing about him that doesn’t drive you up a wall. Frustration makes the heart go fonder, you suppose, or maybe the cunt ache harder.
Within moments, your phone is buzzing against your palm with his reply. Chilling at home. You coming over?
You roll your eyes. No.
Ok.
You bite your bottom lip so hard you think you might accidentally draw blood. It’s phantom, almost, the way you can so perfectly imagine the sting of him stretching you out, the soreness of his bruising kisses, the swollen, wet head of his dick slapping against your clit. Come over.
You couldn’t pay me.
Door’s unlocked.
Give me 20.
You’re in the bedroom when he knocks. Three times, you wonder why he isn’t just walking in. You ignore the banging, let the universe decide for you if he’s meant to turn back and walk his happy ass out of your building. The universe decides he won’t be doing that, though, because he knocks again. Louder this time.
You pull yourself out of bed, feet creaking on the hardwood floors as you move to pull the door open. “I told you it was unlocked,” you grumble.
“Eh,” he shrugs, dumb fucking grin on his face. “Wasn’t up for your games.”
You internally debate just how bad you need him here, if it’s worth all the trouble that is him. It’s not, almost certainly it isn’t. You invite him in anyway.
“So, what’s the deal? Can’t get yourself off, so you call me?” He teases. Your frustrated blush gives you away before a witty comeback can slap the smirk off his face. “Oh my god,” he chuckles. “I was fucking around, but really?”
There’s no point in trying to lie now, not when your face has already betrayed your trust and revealed the truth. “Calm down,” you groused. “The last thing this world needs if your head to get any fucking bigger.”
He continues laughing like this is the funniest thing that’s ever happened to him. You want to smack the smile off his face, dimples and all. “The last thing this world needs is for this–” he gestures between the two of you, “–to become a thing.”
You mock his movements, the dumb look on his face. “This is not a thing. It’s just two friends–”
“–We aren’t friends.”
You sigh through gritted teeth. “Two not friends helping each other out.”
He crosses his arms over his chest, chews on the inside of his cheek while his eyes trace your finger, head to toe and back to head again. “You do know how ridiculous you sound, right?”
You breathe out in resignation, heading down the hall towards your room. “Can we just get on with it?”
“No.”
You stop in your tracks, turn on your heels. What the fuck is he here for, then? “No?” You close the gap between the two of you, plant your hands firmly on either side of his jaw and kiss him, all tongue and spit and rough lips. You knock him off balance, falling out of step when he kisses you back with a matching intensity, hands hovering over your hips. He doesn’t rest them there, you can feel the warmth in the space between your skin and his, the force that pulls you together.
When he does settle his hands, it’s not to deepen the kiss, to swallow any more frustration. It’s to put distance between your mouths. “I want you to–”
You nibble on his earlobe, cut him off with your hushed words. “I don’t give a fuck what you want, I want–”
“Show me how you touch yourself,” he commands, voice failing to waiver to your hushed level, an air of snugness to him.
“Charles,” your voice cracks with his name, a hint of your under the surface insecurity peeking through, putting themselves on display for him. Here! Here! Look at me!
“Show me, or I’m leaving,” he says, and it’s all throaty and husky.
(Eleven minutes later)
Legs spread for him, two fingers moving busily against your core, circling your clit, teasing your hole.
He stares at you like he can see your fucking soul, watches from his spot across the room, leant against the old wooden dresser, arms folded and ankles crossed. You stare back–harder, maybe–like if you win the little contest your cheeks won’t burn so bright, you won’t feel so exposed, so vulnerable, so embarrassed.
Those feelings fade, they do, with each flick of your wrist. With every glance of his hungry eyes to your fingers, to your cunt, tracing their way up and down your body, you feel calmer and calmer. And when he runs his hand over his mouth, along the stubble of his jaw and off his chin, you’re closer and closer.
It pulls whimpers, soft and slow and sweet, from your lips. There’s a sick thrill to it, to him seeing her like this, all needy and open and sensitive. It’s empowering, almost.
He breaks no more than twice, watches every brow quirk, lid flutter, and lip twitch with raw, intimate eyes. He’s less interested in what you do to yourself, the curve of your fingers or the noises they create, than he is in the way you react to the movements.
“You’re not even fucking watching,” you say, the letter sounds falling to your breath, hitching as your fingers angle just right.
“Watching what matters.”
“Oh? And, uh–” you huff. “What’s that?”
He laughs, dimples digging deep into his cheeks. You’ve always thought they made his smile so childish, like you can’t take anything seriously when it comes from someone with primary-school dimples and giddy eyes. You don’t struggle to take it seriously, now. “You’re thinking about me.”
Your eyes flutter shut, a soft sigh parting your lips. “Says who?”
He pushes himself off the dresser, saunters over with heavy feet, stopping at the foot of the bed. “What are you thinking about?” He humors.
Your eyes roll. You’re thinking about a lot of things. Half a dozen, atleast. About your fingers, the way they move against your swollen cunt, sticky with creamy slick, and how his fingers are that much longer than yours. About how loud he walks, how his heavy feet stand at the end of your bed, crossed arms that pull his t-shirt tight across his chest. About the fact that you’re not sure you locked the door behind him because you were so distracted by the way his sweatpants hung from his waist. About how he doesn’t bother to adjust or hide the protruding bulge under the fabric right now. About the curve of his cock, about how pathetic and full it makes you, utterly unable to spend time thinking about anything but how well he stretches you out. About his hair, flat and straight and wholly unstyled, how your hands would mess it up so nicely, tug and twist until he has something smart to say. Beyond frustratingly, he’s right. As you quickly approach a high, breath quickened and movements desperate, all you’re thinking about is him. “Things.”
“Mmhmm,” he hums, ever the rake, unsatisfied with your response.
You add a third finger, steady pace and a held stare. The muscles in your leg twitch. You’re so fucking close. “What are you thinking about?”
He sways, rocks his weight from his left foot to the right, runs his tongue over his teeth. “Things.”
A coy smile upturns the corner of your lips. “Mmhmm,” you mock.
He moves around the bed, trails his fingers over your skin; from your ankle, along the bone of your shin, a bruise on your knee. They stall on your thigh, trace small, soft circles on the inside of your leg. “You really want to know?”
He’s such a tease, keeps moving up, up, up, over your stomach and through the valley of your breast. “I–ah– I,” you stutter through your words, fingers working tirelessly to push you over the edge. Restless, further irritated by his delicate touch, his fingers up to your jaw now, slotting themselves there, you nod. “Yes.”
He leans over you, your lips inches apart, open and hot breathed. “Too bad,” he whispers into the space between, closing the gap and kissing you with an insatiable kind of fervor. Your fingers still, your other hand reaching to grip the back of his neck, to pull him deeper into the kiss. It’s a kiss that’s half as good as the sex, the breaking of the unbearable tension that’s filled the room while he’s watched, the promise of what’s to come. A lustful implication. His hand leaves your jaw when you pull apart for air, moving over your stilled hand. “Let me?” He asks, and it doesn’t feel like much of a question, the way he’s already slipping his fingers under yours before you can even squeak out an answer.
There’s something entirely different about his fingers, like the way that you can’t tickle yourself. You can’t predict his moves, every movement of every ridge of his fingerprints is something entirely surprising. “Yeah, fuck, you make, ah, make yourself…” You give up on the sentence, your body failing your mind in its ability to spit out a comeback. Yeah, you wish you could tell him. Yeah, make yourself fucking useful.
He laughs, slides his long middle finger inside you, pumps it twice and slips in another. You gasp at his sudden movement. “You’re embarrassing yourself, baby.”
Your back arches off the sheets. “Don’t call me that,” you seethe.
“But,” he curls his fingers against the spot you’ve been trying to reach all night. A moan tumbles from your mouth and he smirks. “It makes my job so easy.”
“Fuck you.”
“I was going to let you come first, but,” he chuckles. He’s so proud of himself it makes you ill. “If you insist.”
His hand stills, threatens to pull out of you entirely, but you’re covering it with your own, holding him there when you look up, hips instinctively grinding against him. “I’ll kill you. I will.”
You’re pushing him out of your apartment by the end of night, locking the door behind him. Your leg shakes when you slide down the door onto the floor. This is the last time, it has to be. Once is an accident, twice is a coincidence. Thrice. Thrice would be a pattern. You won’t let it become a pattern.
You wake up at seven-thirty and your hair is still in knots, your body still aching from him. You find a new bruise every time you look in the mirror. You can’t shake the image of his messy hair, of the feeling of the brown locks between your fingers and the sound he’d make when you’d tug on them.
It won’t be happening again.
More Posts from Potter-barnes-rowaelin and Others
birthday masterlist <3
i don't know about you, but i'm feeling 22 !!
for my birthday i wanted to put together a mini masterlist of my favourite works xx
we don't play about halloween
max verstappen
max doesn’t play about three things: formula one, his cats and his girlfriend’s love for halloween
friendship bracelets
charles leclerc
charles' gf is beloved in the fandom for her love for frienship bracelets
cherry lip balm
oscar piastri
the verstappen siblings run motorsport, but the youngest's f1 allegiances may belong elsewhere
ultimate wing man
daniel ricciardo
y/n is notoriously single, and her dad decides to take it into his own hands.
big time rush
lando norris
so how is alex albon and sorority rush connected? how is lando involved? and will the grid ever understand the greek system?
nine lives
alex albon
one of the many albon pets has to take a quick trip to the vet and maybe, just maybe, it comes with love at first sight
tight knit
charles leclerc
spa 2021, where a knitting hobby comes in handy
into the arms of another
one / two / three / four
max verstappen
after charles leaves her out in the cold, y/n falls into the arms of another.
peas in a pod
oscar piastri
y/n and george russell may be twins, but they’re hardly two peas in a pod and oscar is just there for the ride
head in the clouds
lando norris
there's no one more attractive than the stranger at the same gate as you at the airport and sometimes that stranger works on your best friend's private jet.
signed up for life
lewis hamilton
f1 finally introduces a sign language interpretor to their media team
kiss it better
oscar piastri
when oscar crashes into the barrier at monza, he thinks he sees his guardian angel, in reality he's just got a concussion and that's a first responder, but it's the thought that counts.
you and me got a whole lotta history
charles leclerc
y/n is a historian and it’s not her fault her bf’s job takes him all around the world…
mamma mia
mamma mia / no more ace to play / honey, honey / age of no regret / a wonderful thing
sebastian vettel, jenson button & fernando alonso
what the hell is in the water in greece? why are pregnancy tests so expensive and why does seb name his vehicles like that?
also i am still working on requests, i have returned home and am just finishing my freelance work xx
buy me a ko-fi?
ᴠᴇɴᴛᴜʀɪɴɢ ɪꜱ ɪɴᴇᴠɪᴛᴀʙʟᴇ
: ̗̀➛ dom!wandanat x sub!fem!reader
summary: desperate times call for desperate measures. after you lose your job and your roommate in the same month, you find yourself scrambling to find a new job to continue paying your bills. you apply for anything—even positions you most definitely are not qualified for. you’re surprised when you get a scheduled interview at the M.R. law. it was easily the most popular, well-known law firm in all of new york city. little did you know that interview would change the course of your life and open up a whole new world you never knew you wanted to experience.
au/background: wandanat who are two pretentious, successful and domineering women in between submissives. you, being the innocent little thing you are, have only heard the term “bdsm” once or twice and never really understood what that world consisted of. however, you’re curious, eager and always open to trying new things. you are somehow, something wandanat have always been looking for…they just didn’t know it.
a/n: i’ve been dying to write a wandanat series for awhile, i just wasn’t sure what i wanted it to be! now i know there are a few very popular wandanat fics out there (which i love), so i hope you all can understand that some themes/attitudes/characterizations may be similar to those other series’s. please note: i’m not purposely trying to copy or replicate anybody else’s work!
! ! parts ! !
☻ ↴
one: mrs. romanoff will see you now
two: a whole new world; a kinky place you never knew
three: is it too much, detka?
four: when life gives you dominants
five: when life gives you dominants pt. 2
six: the world we’ve charted before
seven: a different kind of attitude
eight: happy accidents
! ! one shots ! !
— uncharted territory
! ! au thoughts/reqs ! !
one || two || three || four || five || six || seven || eight || nine || ten
Azriel x Reader | The Beauty of Intimacy
type: smut (& a bit of angst) warning(s): explicit descriptions, curse words, mature language word count: 3.1k words
request: Hi could you write some thing where reader and azriel have been in a relationship for a little bit but whenever azriel tries to like do anything with her she brushed him off and be begins to think she’s not attracted to him but then she tells him that it’s because she’s never really had a positive experience with sex and so azriel shows her how amazing sex with him can be and like just worships her??? Srry this is so specific but I love your writing and would love to read this!!
- all rights reserved -
"Is it because of the scars?" Azriel’s demeanour is solemn, his shadows calm, his eyes empty, sad.
A small crack appears in your heart and you quickly lift your gaze to meet your lover’s. "No," you say. "No, of course not."
Crossing one leg behind the ankle of the other Azriel leans his shoulder against the doorframe. Then his head, and his eyes close for a long moment.
"What is it then? Y/N, please tell me." He is almost begging you to be honest with him, his tone desperate. As desperate as all his attempts for the two of you to be intimate have been. It isn't that you don’t want to sleep with him. It is way more complicated. You have never found pleasure during sex, you have never had one single positive experience and at this point you think it is because of you. Yes, you blame this lack of sensual heights on yourself. Maybe you simply cannot enjoy it? Maybe you do something wrong? Maybe there is something wrong with you?
"I thought you weren’t a virgin. Did you not tell the truth when we talked about our past? Are you scared? Nervous?” Azriel asks and blinks his eyes open. "I don’t care at all, we can go slow. But please, just tell if it has something to do with me. If it is about me. Are you not attracted to me? Not sexually attracted?"
Gods, you are. There is no male who is only half as beautiful as Azriel, and you are more than attracted to him.
"I am no virgin and that is not the problem—"
"Then what is the problem? I don’t want to push you. I don’t want to force you to have sex with me, but I would like to understand. That is all. I just want to understand," Azriel says, his voice turning softer and gentler. He pushes off the wall and slowly makes his way over to the bed you sit on.
His throat burns when his mouth parts to ask one last question. "Did someone hurt you? Did someone touch when you didn’t want it? You can be honest with me. Always."
You love Azriel so much. And especially for that. For how good his heart is, how thoughtful he is, how understanding.
Sliding your hands over his, you draw in a deep breath and give your head a shake. "No. Thank you for asking, but no." Azriel exhales a shuddering breath of relief.
Leaning forward, you let one hand slide up his arm to his neck, you lips meeting his in a soft and quick kiss. "I just don’t like…sex."
"Sex is something beautiful," Azriel says and a sheepish smile blooms on his face.
The corner of your own mouth moves up at how adorable he looks. "Is it?” You raise your brow.
Azriel nods his head frantically and places his thumb under your chin, tipping it up. "One oft the most beautiful things in this world, I might say." His eyes have turned darker, the shadows becoming alive around his figure. The shadowsinger’s posture changes from formerly rather reserved to confident and he rolls back his shoulders, sitting straighter now. Your eyes meet, and warmth fills your body.
Nervousness coats your insides, your skin prickling. "I am not sure if I am…capable of having sex. Good sex, I mean. There is not one positive experience I have made and I am over 500, Azriel. It must have something to do with me."
A low chuckle leaves the shadowsinger and he gives his head a tiny shake, silken strands of onyx hair shifting with movement. "There is nothing wrong with you, I am 100% positive about that."
You love his certainty, but you can’t quite agree with him.
"Why don’t I find it… pleasurable then?"
"Because you may have not yet been with the right male," Azriel says, his brow lifting in an almost cocky way. It is this slight arrogance that changes his demeanour that makes your toes curl and the hair on his body stand.
Your voice becomes a breathy whisper when you feel a shadow dance over your bare thigh and you lean forward. "And now I am?"
His low chuckle reverberates through you, his lips brushing yours and tingling them with the vibrations of his laugh. Azriel pecks you shortly and then says against your lips, "Now you are."
You change your sitting position, stretching your legs. ”And you are going to convince me now that it is something enjoyable?"
The shadowsinger’s scarred hand smoothes up your foot, higher onto your leg and back down again. He lifts his gaze to yours and smirks. "I going to prove to you that sex is one of the most beautiful things in the world," he drawls, his index finger circling your ankle. "Only if you want that, of course."
Wet heat fills your body when you draw in a deep breath and bow your head. "I want that."
You really want to. You want it to be good. You want for yourself to enjoy it. You have faith— Azriel is a phenomenal male, he would do it right, would make you feel right. This is going to be good, Azriel is different to the males before him, he has already proven that many times.
His fingers curl around your ankle and he lifts your leg, carefully sliding closer to you and placing your leg over his lap, your other one behind his back. Azriel regards you, silently assessing you.
"So you’ve never come then?"
"Obviously," you whisper and avert your gaze when heat flushes your cheeks. Azriel’s fingers continue their exploration, dancing over your knee up to your thigh. The spymaster draws idle circles to the sensitive skin of your inner thighs which already makes you want to squeeze them together. "Never made yourself come either?"
You could practically the warmth radiating from your cheeks. "I think…I have."
"Thinking about me?"
Biting down on your lower lip you nod.
"That’s a good girl."
His praise almost has you squirming. Gods, you haven’t known that you would like that. But something about the way he said it, the deep tenor of his voice reverberating through your body, did something to you.
His hand giving your thigh a gentle squeeze, Azriel leans into you, damp lips coasting over your ear. "I should have known you like that. Should have known my lovely lady likes to be praised for the things she does so well." His lips curl when he pecks the pointy end of your ear, chuckling softly.
“Well, “Azriel drawls, his scarred hands slowly sliding over your skin, the calluses rough against it. "Lean back against the head board," the shadowsinger orders, his voice commanding yet soft.
You do as told, nestling between the pillows and behaving like his good girl. But there is still this teeny-tiny kernel of nervousness in you — what if not even Azriel can make you reach your height? What if it truly is something about your body and he just tries to be nice?
The shadowsinger must have noticed your unease, his smile faltering, happiness slowly fading.
Azriel swipes his thumb over your cheek. "I really want you to know that," Azriel says, his eyes piercing into yours, "you not finding pleasure has nothing to do with you. It is generally more difficult for females to reach their height, but if the male does everything right and takes proper care of their lover it most definitely should work. It has nothing to do with you, you can trust me on that."
Relief truly starts blossoms in your chest at that, the corners of your mouth tipping upwards. You slowly dip your chin and smile.
"I trust you on that."
A low but content growl leaves Azriel at that and he hooks his scarred hands under your knee pits, bracing your feet on the bed and easing your thighs apart. Your nightgown pools at your hips, Azriel’s gaze dropping to your centre. He leans closer and pecks your bent knee before his gaze lifts to yours. "Now," he drawls, "let me worship you. Let me show you how beautiful intimacy can be."
The shadowsinger’s damp lips brush down the inside of your thigh, his silken strands toppling over his forehead and tingling your skin. A strangled sound leaves you when a throbbing feeling starts in your core and you desperately want to squeeze your thighs together. Azriel’s grip is tight, holding your legs spread open. He tips his head back, a brow raising when your gazes met. "Uh-oh."
His tongue poking out he gives your inner thigh a soft lick, descending, savouring your sweet skin. Damp heat pools in your core, soft, quick pants leaving you when your lids start to feel heavy. Your knuckles turn white from how tightly you hold onto the pillows next to you, watching Azriel dip his head between your thighs. Azriel’s nose brushes against your still in undergarments covered core, adding just a light pressure that has you squirming.
The spymaster’s voice is a soft growl, the deep tenor rumbling through you when he says, "Lift your hips, beautiful." Azriel steadies you, helping you, and curls his fingers around the elastic, slowly peeling the undergarment off.
His desire stretches out, making it impossible for you to breathe when his heated gaze lands on the spot between your thighs. A low groan leaves Azriel, the sound so raw and primal it has you turning even more molten, your legs shaking slightly.
He leans into you and kisses your sex. You shudder, never having felt…anything like that.
The shadowsinger inhales deeply, the scent of your arousal beguiling. The strong tendons of his throat stand out when he clenches his jaw, his pupils dilating even more.
Azriel’s throat works on a swallow, his tongue feeling so thick all of a sudden when he says, "Ever been tasted before?"
The heated honey of his eyes meets yours, his need and desire laced into his features. You give your head a tiny shake, holding his gaze. His want, his need, his desire, it does something to you. To your heart. To your core.
"Good," Azriel purrs and dips his head. He kisses your lower belly, tongue circling your navel, hands skimming over your thighs, before finally lifting them over his shoulders. "Perfect," he breaths, his mouth moving lower. Shadows softly travel up your body when Azriel parts you with his thumbs. It is the first stroke of his tongue, the first broad stroke through your silken folds up to the apex of your thighs, that has you squirming. Your back arches, your hips lift, pressing against his face when a lewd gasp leaves you.
It is the firm grip of his scarred hands that places you back on the bed, that holds you tightly, that limits your movements. Azriel chuckles lowly, sending vibrations and hot air right into your core. You squirm against him and the shadowsinger tips his head back only an inch. “Sshh,” he cooes, grinning, his lips glistening. “Relax and let me worship you probably. Let me devour you, beautiful.” You get no chance to answer, his head dips again, his tongue poking out and he flicks it against your clit. And then he feasts, his tongue driving deep into. He licks and suckles, holding you firmly, the sounds that leave his mouth feeling like a sin in your ears. Azriel is like a starved male, some primal need fully unleashed, his restraints gone. You wreathe underneath him, something in your lower body squeezing, your walls clenching. It feels so good, it feels…nearly overwhelming. Your eyes roll back and then your orgasm comes crashing in on you. Wave after of hot pleasure overflows you, washes you under. You come with a scream that is a mix of curses and his name. Azriel.
He lets you ride out your height, softly guiding you through it, his tongue and lips still sloppily licking and kissing your sex. Proud at his work and your absolutely disheveled state, Azriel flashes you a full toothy grin when he lifts his head, his face wet with your arousal, with your release.
Having made you come one time is obviously not enough for the spymaster. Just seconds later you are fully underneath his tall figure. He has only given you a short glimpse at his marvellous body before climbing onto the bed and caging you beneath him.
Azriel flicks his tongue over the hardened peak of your breast, marvelling at how you shudder underneath him. His lips close around your nipple, licking, suckling.
“More?” Azriel breathes against your breast. Your hips give a little jerk, moving against Azriel who growls in approval, reveling into the feel of your skin against his. You sigh and dip your chin.
“Words, sweetheart. Use your words.”
The shadowsinger takes your nipple back into his mouth, suckling and tugging lightly. It has you squirming and making your unable to form a coherent sentence.
“Yes, more. Please, don’t stop,” you almost whine, burying your hands in his silken strands.
“Good girl,” Azriel drawls, pushing himself up on his hands and looking down at you. With something like a predatory gaze he watches you, marveling at the sight of your ruffled hair, the flushed cheeks, the need and desire in your eyes. All he can think is that you are stunning and fully his.
“Let me make you feel good.” The shadowsinger pushes your thighs apart, settling between them. “I need you to be my good girl again. You want that, don’t you?”
“Yes, yes,” you breathe. His hand reaches down between your bodies and he adjusts himself between your thighs. He lets the tip of his hard cock slide into you. It has you both gasping. Both of you look down at where you are connected. Azriel’s lips part in a silent hiss. “Fucking hell.” He carefully slides further into you, letting you adjust, but at the same time making you feel every glorious inch of his proud length. He leans in, softly brushing his lips against yours. “Tell me if I hurt you. Tell me when you want me to stop.”
Your hands find its place in the hair at the back of his neck the moment your lips close over his. “I will,” you whisper, “but it is perfect.”
Azriel’s lips curl against yours when he moves in to the hilt, stilling inside of you. You angle your hips, gasping at the sudden spark of pleasure when his tip touches one special spot inside of you. “Move, please,” you breathe and Azriel captures your lips, slowly pulling out of you.
He kisses you softly, one hand moving over your lower belly, gently adding pressure. You pull your legs up, curling them around his waist and moan at the feeling of it. Gods, this is perfect. This whole situation is pure satisfaction. And gods, you can enjoy it. It feels good. It is good.
The shadowsinger has you pinned beneath him, his tall body, covered in a thin film of sweat, hovering above you, him moving inside of you, filling you so perfectly.
He lets go of his restraints, his thrusts turning deeper, harder. He pounds into you, always making sure you feel good and that you enjoy what he is doing.
“Tell me how good you feel,” Azriel whispers when his lips close over your ear lob and he gives you a tiny bite. Azriel knows he is good at what he is doing. And this confidence, gods, it turns you on. You love it when he is like that, cocky and confident. “So good,” you breathe through gritted teeth, your head thrown back, your eyes squeezed closed, his hips slapping against yours. The sounds are wet, your high-pitched moans and pants the only things that are louder.
Azriel regards you, your figure, how beautiful you look underneath him, with him inside you. And he feels you getting closer, you clench around him and that feeling, gods! It brings himself closer and closer to edge as well.
The spymaster decreases his pace, slowly, steadily moving in and out of you. His thrusts are long and coordinated now. A lewd sob parts your lips, your eyes only opening for a split second. Calluses scrape over your soft skin when Azriel’s hand slides up your body, cradling your face. He lowers his forehead to yours, exhaling warm air that feels like a summer breeze against your skin.
"You" -thrust- "are" -thrust- "so perfect."
Your back arches, pressing against the solid body of your lover, your mouths meeting in a sloppy brush of tongues, and lips. Azriel’s stomach flexes, cock twitching and balls tightening. He knows he his close, wants you to come with him.
Azriel nips at your jaw, his thumb circling your clit, rubbing, adding extra pleasure that brings you closer to edge. You clench around him, rocking against him when a lewd cry breaks through the noises of your panting and moaning.
"Gods," you pant. "I am close, Azriel."
He doesn’t want to make you beg, does not want to torture you, edge you. He wants you to come, to fully enjoy this moment.
"Let go, angel," Azriel says and angels his hips differently to hit that damnable spot inside of you with each thrust.
Your pants come out quicker, your moans turning a pitch higher. You claw at his shoulders, flecks of white and black sparking in your vision when your eyes roll back.
You come simultaneously, a loud sob leaving you when a tidal wave of satisfaction washes over you. The shadowsinger trembles above you, his warm release spurting against your walls, his forehead dropping to yours. Your hips rock against each other with sloppy thrusts, riding out your heights together.
After easing out of you, Azriel collects a wet cloth for you to clean up. He kisses your forehead, his clothed hand carefully sliding between your thighs and over your lower belly. You are still in a blissful steady, knees feeling wobbly, legs numb. Soft pants leave you while your eyes follow your lover until he disappears into the bathroom. You fold a hand over your forehead, grinning to yourself and exhaling loudly. Gods! Love making was good, was enjoyable, was something you wanted more of. And you were were also a tiny bit relieved—there was nothing wrong about you. It was not your fault that you did not enjoy the times before.
Getting back into bed, Azriel brings you close to his body, wings stretched behind his broad shoulders. You rest your head on his chest, hand placed right above his heart.
Azriel brings your leg over his hips, holding your thigh tightly. “Could I convince you that sex is not so bad?”
You wiggle your head, mischief glinting in your eyes when you met his gaze. “I believe I definitely need some more convincing.” Azriel’s whole-hearted laugh is like balm to your soul. He cradles you to his body, kissing the top of your head, smiling. “I love you and don’t worry,” Azriel mumbles into your hair, giving your rear a soft smack. “You will get a lot more.”
Feedback and critics are always welcome, as I still try to improve my writing. Please let me know what you think 💙
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PLEASE can we get more HOAF ?? Maybe their wedding with absolutely adorable Milo and Olivia OR their wedding night 👀👀👀 ~nurse-sainz
as two of you know, I've been seriously thinking about the hoaf second series. It has a title, but, because I don't want to start ANOTHER series until I finish a current one, it's something I'm going to be working on behind the scenes
1.7K
Warnings: Pregnancy, pregnancy hormones
Series Masterlist
Feel free to buy me a coffee ☕☕
She'd never expected to be pregnant on her wedding day. It was nobody's dream, to be round and swollen while stuffed into a pretty white dress that you just know would look so much better if you weren't pregnant, on your feet all day, unable to partake in any of the drinking.
Her bachelorette party wasn't all that. But she didn't want it to be. The only people she would have invited were the other wags, girls she didn't know all that well. No, her bachelorette party was her and Olivia getting their hair and nails done.
They ended the day getting dinner, just the two of them. They sat there, sharing a too big pizza while Olivia went over her details plans of the wedding.
It was the best bachelorette party ever.
Daniel had two bachelor parties. One that was organised by Max and Lando to be the wildest night of his life, with almost all of the grid accompanying them. And one where he could invite Milo.
The party with Milo was mini golf. Carlos was happy to carry Milo around on his shoulders, teach him all that he knew. The boys had all agreed to let Milo win, but he didn't have to know that. After the golf they had dinner and drinks.
One thing about Milo was he couldn't keep his mouth shut about the baby. Maybe Daniel should have reminded him that Baby Ricciardo was a secret, but he didn't expect Milo to just blurt it out, either.
But none of the drivers were surprised. They couldn't be surprised about baby Ricciardo, not when the couple hadn't exactly been good at hiding it. Daniel's hand on her stomach, the little list of baby names they'd all seen on his phone.
The party without Milo, when Milo was at home with Olivia and his momma, it really was a party. Loud music, drinks, dancing, it had everything. But, the moment Daniel got more than three drinks in his system, he was talking about her.
Arm over Max's shoulder as he slurred out his name and how much he loved her. "I want to have another girl," he said to Max, but it was barely audible. "A little girl that looks just like her."
When she had her first dress fitting, there wasn't a bump. Or, at least, the bump did little to change her frame. Her dream dress fit like a glove and Daniel's mother was crying.
It was naïve to think that the dress would still fit by the time the wedding rolled around. Her bump had gotten exponentially bigger, to the point where she couldn't hit it anymore. Now that the drivers knew, it was only time that the rest of the world knew.
They didn't announce it in any way. No, Daniel's Instagram usually had a picture of her in his photo dumps and this was no exception. Just, this time, her bump was visible in the picture.
If the world of F1 was losing its collective shit, neither of them noticed. The Ricciardo family was wrapped up in their own little bubble, just the way they liked it.
A week before the wedding, her dream dress wasn't fitting. Why the fuck wasn't it fitting? Well, she knew why. It was stupid to think anything would fit over her bump.
"I hate this baby," she said through tears as she rubbed her bump. No, she didn't hate baby Ricciardo, not in the slightest. Actually, she loved baby Ricciardo more than anything. But still, she couldn't help but wish she wasn't pregnant.
The dress she wore on her wedding day wasn't her dream dress. She couldn't wear those cute white heels she wanted to wear, couldn't even see her feet.
As she stared at herself in the mirror, just an hour away from being walked down the aisle, an hour away from marrying the love of her life, she was ready to cry. She held it back, though, couldn't afford to ruin her makeup. "What're we gonna do with you?" She whispered as she cradled her bump.
"Momma?"
She looked at Milo in the mirror before she turned towards him. "C'mere, baby," she said and held her hands out towards him. Fuck, how was he almost seven?
As her son wrapped his arms around her, she wanted time to stop. Just stop, let her live in this moment forever. He was growing up so damn fast, he was going to be a big brother soon. "You look beautiful, momma," he said.
This time, she couldn't help the tears. Stupid pregnancy hormones. "Thank you, Miley," she said through a shaky breath as she stood up and grabbed a tissue. Gently she dabbed at her eyes, trying to save her makeup.
She smoothed her dress over her bump and took Milo's hand. "Let's go become Ricciardos."
Daniel had never been this nervous before. Not in his first race back after McLaren had let him go. He was sweating in his suit as Max stood with him. All of their guests were seated, but the most important people were missing.
The door opened and Olivia and one of her friends, one that had been over a few times, walked in. They tossed the petals out of the little white basket as she walked in behind her.
Daniel knew her relationship with her family was... strenuous, at best. That was why they weren't at the wedding. With her father not there to walk her down the aisle, Milo held her hand.
Daniel's breath caught in his throat. He knew she wasn't in her dream dress, not the dress that matched Olivia's, but she still looked amazing. Holy fuck, it was enough to bring tears to her eyes. But that wasn't what actually did it.
Milo was the one walking her down the aisle. Milo in his little suit that near matched Daniels. He stood tall and proud, head held high as he walked his mother towards his step father.
The kids sat together through the ceremony. Milo couldn’t stop himself from fiddling with the little pieces of petals as his mother got married. They were incredibly well behaved throughout, with Olivia’s grandparents, and Milo’s grandparents now, too, keeping them company.
This close, Daniel could see the faults in her makeup. He didn’t care about the faults, she looked gorgeous with or without it. But still, Daniel could see the smudges under her eyes as he slipped the ring onto her finger.
Mrs Ricciardo. She was Mrs Ricciardo now.
Daniel didn’t say anything about the evidence of her tears as he kissed her. And, once he had his mouth on her, he never wanted to stop kissing her. He couldn’t dip her, like he wanted to, but his hand cradled her bump, cradled baby Ricciardo. His baby. She was his wife and she was carrying his baby.
This was the best day of his life.
Their family and friends were cheering as he walked her out of the church and into the car. Even then, even in the car, he couldn’t keep his lips on her. But he had to make sure she was okay, that took precedent. Even knowing that, Daniel couldn’t pull his lips away from her own. So the words were mumbled against her lips. “Were you crying?”
He tried to sound concerned, by her lips against his had his voice coming out as more of a desperate whine.
But, as soon as he said it, she pulled away. “I’m fine, Danny,” she said and went to rub at her eyes, rub away the evidence of her tears.
Daniel caught her wrists. “You look beautiful,” he whispered and kissed her again. “My wife looks beautiful.”
The way she looked up at him, fuck, he could have kept her in that car forever. “Say it again.”
“My wife.”
When they arrived at the reception venue, their friends and family were there, waiting. As soon as they climbed out of the car, Milo and Olivia were pulling away from their grandparents, racing towards them. Daniel couldn’t help but pick Olivia up and place her on his hip as Milo held his mothers leg.
“Are we a family now?” Olivia asked, her voice coming out almost like a demand.
But nobody could blame her. She’d been waiting for this moment for a year and a half.
Daniel rolled his eyes, but he was grinning. “We always were a family, Badger.”
There was no part of her wedding that the new Mrs Ricciardo didn’t enjoy. She wasn’t in her dream dress, but, now she had that ring on her finger, now she was married to the love of her life, she didn’t much care.
She danced, but she didn’t dance the night away, like she had dreamed. She couldn’t help but be emotional as she sat with Daniel’s parents, her mother and father in law, watching the guests at her wedding. They were dancing more than she was, at her own wedding.
Holding her bump, speaking softly to baby Ricciardo, she watched as her husband and her children danced. Daniel’s grin was so wide as the three of them were the centre of attention on the dance floor. That was the man she loved. That was the man she married.
“Your daddy, your siblings and I can’t wait to meet you,” she whispered to baby Ricciardo as her mother and father in law watched on, hearts melting. “You’ve got the best daddy going.”
And, as Daniel put Olivia down after spinning her around, he looked over to his wife. She smiled at him, a smile he’d never forget. As Olivia went to dance with Lando and Max took Milo to get something to drink, Daniel walked over to her.
“Hi, baby,” he said as his hand met her bump. And then he looked up at his wife, meeting her eyes. “Hi, Mrs Ricciardo.”
“Hi, Mr Ricciardo.”
He kissed her, and she never wanted to let him go.
If you enjoyed this, please feel free to buy me a coffee
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「 take her under your wing AU 」
warnings: innocent!reader x various, stepbro!steve rogers, bucky barnes, professor!peter parker, professor!reed richards, ari levinson, marc spector, ransom drysdale, curtis everett, lloyd hansen, andy barber, thor odinson, scott lang, miguel o'hara, frank castle, billy russo, dark content, essentially everyone is soft!dark, college au, polyamory, idk what to tell you this is just porn
polls for this au
asks about the au
101, an intro to the au | pinterest board
masterlist | join my taglist
FICS:
the many firsts
something in return
locked out
i dare you
what i say goes
too big
the basement
REQUESTS:
gaming + intox kink (headcanons)
billy & frank catch you discovering billy’s toy collection (headcanons)
desperate to help (headcanons)
curtis helps you fall asleep (headcanons)
© 2025 thyme-in-a-bubble
sex on fire | masterlist
ceo!joel miller x f!reader | ao3 | playlist
you've worked for joel miller for three years now, as his personal assistant. answering calls, organizing his schedule, fulfilling every request he could dream of. it pays well, you know you're good at it, and you get along with all of your coworkers. there's just one you get along with...a little too well.
please check out individual chapter content warnings before reading!!! this series features adult content.
series warnings: age gap (reader is late 20s, joel is late 40s), inappropriate work relationship, cursing, alcohol + dr*g use, displays of wealth, daddy kink, sugardaddy!joel, themes of abandonment, mentions of pregnancy & periods, smut, angst, fluff.
main series
chapter 1: you shook me all night long
chapter 2: state-of-the-art
chapter 3: mile high
chapter 4: la petite mort
chapter 5: faire l'amour
chapter 6: ace
chapter 7: 1691 maple
chapter 8: you'll hurt me if you don't trust me
chapter 9: little aphrodite
✨ chapter 10: champagne problems ✨
chapter 11: coming soon!
chapter 12
epilogue
bonus
➵ hanging on the telephone
drabbles
➵ joel taking reader on his sailboat
features ➵ sex on fire wallpapers by @dundienominee
➵ sex on fire moodboard by @5oh5
Little Valkyrie (Azriel x reader)
summary: You’ve wanted Azriel forever. So how do you respond when he accidentally walks in on you in the bath reading a smutty romance novel?
warnings: smut!
After sparring for hours on the roof of the House of Wind with Cassian and Azriel, the only thing in the world I wanted was a melt-your-skin-off steaming bath with a glass of wine and the newest smutty novel Nesta gave me to borrow this morning. Sighing, I stripped my leathers off as quickly as possible. My muscles ached. I lit a few candles and poured some jasmine-scented soap into the bath as the water roared, bubbles creating a plush layer over the borderline boiling water.
Stepping in one foot at a time, I nearly moaned in relief as I sank deeper, bubbles almost to my chin. The water loosened my tense muscles as I leaned back in the huge clawfoot tub, letting my hair drape over the lip of the ceramic basin. I lifted the book, turning to the chapter I left off on. I had started the book today before sparring, stopping before what I knew was a particularly spicy chapter. I didn’t want to go into sparring all riled up, but would much rather read it alone where I could take care of myself when those feelings overwhelmed my senses. Or else I couldn’t promise I wouldn’t jump Azriel’s bones right in the middle of a training session.
My cheeks heated just at the thought of the spymaster. He had no clue I had such a huge crush on him. I hoped. At least I told myself that to ease some of the embarrassment of being so utterly captivated by someone so unattainable. I was one of the Valkyrie, yes, but most certainly not close enough to Azriel to assume he’d ever pay me any mind. He had other more important things to worry about, I was sure.
I hummed as I read the next chapter, the scene heating in a way that made my blood pump faster. My skin felt like it was tightening as I began to squirm, the scene overtly erotic. I pretended not to pay mind to the fact that the male I was picturing in the story just so happened to be a certain towering shadow-ridden Illyrian. I pressed my thighs together at the thought of him, his weight pressing down on me, his mouth exploring my body.
A fierce and quick knock at my door sounded before it was opening and I panicked, sitting up quickly sending a wave of water and bubbles splashing onto the marble flooring as I attempted to keep my book as dry as physically possible, horrified by the idea of ruining the pages. A tall, slender figure walked into my room, head swiveling at the sound of my clamoring. My room in the House of Wind had an open floor plan that had an archway that opened to the grand bathroom, cursed with no bathroom door. Usually, I am delighted by this feature, but right now not so much.
Hazel eyes met mine and I let out a small yelp. Oh so incredibly slowly, the corner of his full mouth curved upwards in a feline smirk. I wanted to disappear. Gods, this couldn’t be happening. No way was this real. I slipped in the tub and hit my head or something, surely.
“Azriel???” I shrieked out, trying to cover myself from his eyes, my cheeks so hot my body felt like it was on fire. But I didn’t tell him to get out.
He paused for a long moment, eyes set aflame with delicious deviance. Then he began to grin. His eyes caught on the smutty novel clutched in my hands.
“What are you reading there, little Valkyrie?” He purrs, taking one step closer to me with languid swiftness. A sudden roiling filled my gut as I realized he could probably smell how turned on I was. And how much more intense it got with his proximity.
“Battle tactics,” I say, tucking the book on the side of the tub opposite him so he couldn’t see the erotic romance cover. But then of course he’d probably already taken note of it much before I had.
“Is that so?” He grinned at me like the devil, poised to strike a dark bargain. And my god, did I want to shake his hand and seal my fate. “I had come to bring you the water bottle you left up at the House, but now I’m invested in these battle tactics. Care to share?”
I swallowed hard, my mouth opening but no sound came out. I scrambled to find the words for a witty response. Azriel prowled closer to me, eyes never leaving mine. Butterflies swarmed in my stomach as my heart pounded. He was at the side of the tub much too quickly and I was so distracted by his nearness that I didn’t anticipate his plan as he quickly swiped the book from my hands.
“HEY-” I yelled out, moving to stand up to grab it back, but quickly noticed just how naked I was. He chuckled, knowing I could only steal the book back from him if I exposed my naked body to him as well. Which I was not ready to do. He made me so nervous. He moved to the vanity, swiftly hopping up to perch on the sink, legs hanging off. He opened to the bookmarked page, his face triumphant.
His eyebrows shot up, eyes flicking over to me as he devoured the words on the page. I chewed my nails, feeling so embarrassed I was close to tears. But I was also thrilled at his closeness and attention.
“Battle tactics, indeed, little Valkyrie.” He purred, continuing to read. And I swear, something shifted about his scent. A thrill ran up my spine at the thought. “Definitely much to take notes on.”
“I’ve found I learn best by demonstration,” I say, unsure of where the sudden burst of confidence came from. But I decided then that I wanted him, and he was so clearly dangling himself in front of me like bait. So I decided I like to bite.
The shock is evident on his face but is quickly replaced with a wicked smile, full of the worst intentions. “As do I.” He sat the book behind himself, slowly lowering his body off the countertop as he surveyed me, waiting for silent permission to pounce, to devour his prey whole.
“I could use the practice,” I whisper, goosebumps racing across the surface of my skin, my senses heightened. A confirmation that I, too, wanted this.
His eyes darkened and his smile dropped as he quickly strode forward, plunging his arms into the bath, wrapping one around my back and the other underneath my bent knees. I screeched as he lifted me out of the water, flooding the floor and soaking himself as he pressed my naked body against his, bridal style.
He walked us to the bed, water and bubbles covering the both of us now. Before I could protest, he laid me back onto my bed, the water seeping into my blankets and sheets. But looking up at his gorgeous face, I couldn’t bring myself to care. He stood a step back, eyes raking and roaming over every inch of my body as if he wanted to memorize me.
“How long have you wanted me, sweet girl?” He asked. I almost scoff until I realize that he’s serious.
“Since I met you,” I admit, deciding not to play games. I was already so vulnerable underneath his erotic visual caresses.
“Was it me you were imagining? Reading in the bath, thinking about me doing all of those… dirty things to you?” He says, voice low and dark.
I nod slightly, blush blooming in my full cheeks. His hand lifts to caress the side of my face. He runs his thumb along my bottom lip, looking at me like I’m his last meal. My body feels like a livewire, skin buzzing and receptive to his touch.
“I’ve thought about it too,” he says breathily. “Though my thoughts may prove even dirtier.”
Before I can ask what he means, he leans forward, hands wrapping around the small of my waist as he lowers his lips to press a gentle kiss above my belly button, looking up at me as his lips touch my skin. My breath hitches, watching him in anticipation. Lifting his head again, he positions himself directly over me, hips pressing against me, my legs parted around his strong frame.
He stares into my eyes for a long moment as if trying to decipher me by looking inside them. His thumb strokes my cheek gently as I resist the urge to push my head into his hand and purr like a kitten. He will be my undoing. Every touch, every word, every look sets my very being on fire. Why did he have such a grip on me?
His hands roamed my body, my skin like clay under his touch, and he was the sculptor. My breathing quickened, my heart becoming a pounding hammer in my chest. His calloused and scarred hands starkly contrasted my soft and feminine surface. But he was much, much too clothed.
“I want to feel your skin against mine,” I whisper, hands running up his chest and down his leathered arms. He bends down to plant a slow and erotic kiss on my neck and moves to stand. My knees bent and legs hanging off the bed, I propped myself up on my elbows as I watched him reveal himself to me, bit by bit.
He shrugs his pants off, briefs going with them as he frees himself. My mouth goes dry. Cauldron boil me alive. He was huge. I wanted him so badly. He lowers himself to his knees, eyes in line with my knees, and gently wraps his hands around the underside of my calf, raising it so my leg was straight. He presses a deeply intimate and soft kiss to the side of my ankle.
“Aphrodite could not even sit at your table, my love,” He murmurs into my skin, slowly dropping my leg and standing between my knees, spread open for him.
I am practically panting with anticipation as his eyes lock with mine. I lift both my hands to reach for him as his hands find mine, both sets intertwining, fingers interlocking. He presses his weight slightly onto our conjoined hands, moving to lay on top of me again, knee pressing between my legs. The pressure makes me writhe, breathing heavier.
He lowers his perfect pink lips to mine, the feeling of them like velvet. He bites my lower lip, slowly dragging his teeth across it. My mouth opens for him and his tongue slides against mine, as he moans softly into my mouth, the sound almost a whimper. My back arches, pushing my chest closer to him, his nearness like a drug.
“What do you want?” He asks me, trying to drag words out of me.
“All of you,” I whine, wrapping my hands around his back to pull him closer to me, still not being near enough despite touching him. He groans in delicious approval.
"Ask me what I want."
"What do you want, Azriel?"
“I want to taste you,” he said, words breathy and needy. That sent a jolt right to the sensitive areas between my thighs.
“Please,” I begged, brows furrowed with want.
His response was to resume his attack on my neck with his mouth, pressing his hips down between mine harder, rocking against me slightly, and creating such wonderful friction had me throwing my head back, eyes rolling and a breathy moan falling from my lips. He hummed in response, the vibrations of his mouth against my skin sending goosebumps crawling across my skin. He continued his kisses, sliding down my body but being damn sure to take his time doing it. The anticipation was killing me, but gods his affection was glorious. He quite literally worshiped my body with his hands, tongue, and mouth. He reached the edge of the bed, planting one last slow kiss on my lower abdomen before he stood.
He gripped my hips and yanked me to the edge of the bed, a helpless yelp coming from me as he moves my body with such ease that it makes me lightheaded. He reaches forward and grips my neck underneath my jaw, gently pulling at me so I would sit up. The pout on my face is evident as his hand falls away from my neck. He chuckles at me, giving me a quick kiss before dropping down to his knees in front of me once more. Gods, the sight of him knelt before me sent a delicious chill up my spine. He was so unreasonably pretty. His hazel eyes dance as he looks up at me from under his thick lashes. He plants a kiss on both of my knees before pushing them apart, baring me to him. He let out a quiet groan at the sight of me, hand finding his painfully hard cock and providing some friction to ease the intense need that filled him. He gripped my throat again, pulling me down to meet his mouth. He kissed me intensely and sensually. Who was this male? Where had he been all my life?
He breaks away from our kiss, head twisting as he pulls one of my nipples into his mouth. He swirled his tongue around them, moaning as he continued to slowly pump himself. The sound had me arching for him, which had him chuckling again. He bites down softly on my nipple and I whimper, my pussy throbbing and desperate for him.
He switches to the other nipple, sucking and biting at it, raking incredibly explicit noises from me. Finally, he pulls back, his hair mussed from me lacing my fingers through it as I ground myself against him as much as I was able to. He pushes my knees apart further, putting a hand on the small of my back to pull me to the very edge of the bed. He lifted my feet one by one, placing them on the rails of the bed and leaving me entirely exposed to him. I moved to lay back but he bit my thigh. I cried out, looking at him incredulously.
“Keep looking at me.” It was a command, not a request. He was such a thrill. I obeyed, propping myself back up on my hands so I had a clear view of him. I gasped as he ran two fingers up my slit, gathering my wetness. And gods, was I wet for him. He lifted his fingers to his mouth, swirling his tongue around them, collecting all of me and letting out a deep moan at the taste of me. I felt myself growing continually wetter, my core aching for him.
“Azriel, please. I need you. Please touch me,” I whimpered, and I swear his eyes rolled back in his head at the sound. He turned his head and kissed my inner thigh before grinning back up at me. He leaned forward, eyes not leaving mine as he dragged the flat of his tongue all the way up my core, the feel of him such a relief I felt myself throbbing in anticipation of him.
He gave one more long lick before he went to work, suckling and swirling his warm and wet tongue against my clit as he eased one finger into me slowly. The glide of me had him desperate for any friction. He squeezed his cock with his free hand, begging himself to calm down so that this would last as long as possible. I bit my lip at the sight of him suckling at me, pleasuring himself to the taste and feel of me. I pressed my hips forward slightly, pressing his mouth harder into me. His eyes re-found mine in an instant and he hummed his approval as the hand that was on his cock moved to grip my hips, encouraging me to grind myself against him.
I was going to pass out. He was so sexy and I wanted him so badly and his tongue was quite literally cauldron-blessed. He added another finger then, pumping into me harder, dragging obscene moans from me. With every one of my moans, he hummed in return, sending vibrations to my clit and making me see stars. My head was swimming, sweat forming on my skin as he rode me to my high, my hands buried in his raven black hair and riding his face with fervor.
I came with a loud cry, my core squeezing around his fingers as he continued to pump into me, still sucking at my clit until it became painfully sensitive and I was squirming beneath him, and then he released me. He kissed the insides of both of my thighs, rising back up to his feet.
He placed the two fingers he had been pumping into me at my lips, pressing on my bottom lip so my mouth would open for him.
“Taste how well you did for me, little Valkyrie. You taste better than I ever dreamed,” he purred, pushing his fingers inside my mouth. I swirled my tongue around his fingers, his knees almost buckling as he groaned.
“I bet you taste even better,” I say, a devilish grin filling my face as I reach down for him. I grab his hip and pull him closer to me as I reach up to kiss him. Our tongues caress each other, exploring and devouring each other. I guide the tip of his cock through my folds. He glided against me with such ease he shuddered in reply with a string of murmured curse words.
“As tempting as having that pretty mouth wrapped around me sounds, I want you to ride me,” he panted, arms pressing into the bed on either side of me as I had a hand between us, rubbing him against myself. “Please.”
I wrapped myself around him, legs wrapping around his back. He lifted me, turning us and scooting back until he lay back on the bed with me on top of him. I leaned forward and sucked on his neck, his nails scraping down my back. I pushed my tongue in his mouth as I reached between us to line up his huge length with my entrance. I slowly sank down on him, a deep reverberating moan echoing through us both. He pulled me down onto his chest and kissed me slowly as he sat inside me not moving. Slowly, he pulled out and then rammed back into me. I whimpered into his mouth which earned a groan of approval from him. His mouth latched onto my nipple, swirling it on his tongue around me while I bounced on him. His hands roamed and praised my body with gripping and passionate touches.
He began to thrust up into me, meeting my own and creating a filthy, wet sound as we fucked each other with reckless abandon.
“You feel… so fucking good… FUCK…” He panted, hips still driving up to meet mine. I threw my head back in ecstasy, his hands rising to grip my breasts in his hands, squeezing roughly and kneading them between his huge hands.
“I could fuck you forever,” I gasp out.
“I’d beg on my knees for it,” he breathed, eyes shutting in pleasure, mouth open as he panted, nearing his climax as we continued with intense effort, both of us desperate to please the other. His thumb began to rub my clit as I slid up and down on his cock, making me throb around him, which sent him over his edge at the same time that I tumbled into mine.
We sang out in intense satisfaction, both coming together. He twitched inside me, cum dripping out of me from around his cock. I scooted downwards then, pulling him into my mouth and licking him clean as he groaned, hands laced in my hair.
“My filthy girl,” he purred to me, thumb rubbing across my bottom lip. I lifted my head, sitting up to look down at him. “You are dangerous. Now that I’ve had you, I don’t think I’ll ever be able to stop wanting you.”
“Good.” I grinned down at him, planting a kiss on his abs as I climbed off the bed. He whined in protest.
I reached my hands out to him, and he sat up to grip them in his own. “You’re invited, don’t worry.”
A sly grin covered his face at my words. I walked over to my shower, opened the glass door, and flicked the shower on, allowing it to heat. When it was a good enough temperature, I dragged the shadowsinger in after me, giggling as the door closed behind him and he began to kiss me again. His hands slid down to my thighs, lifting me with alarming ease as my legs wrapped around his center. I felt him harden against me again, his head buried in my neck as he started to laugh.
“I warned you.”
✨ = indicates smut | ‼️= indicates dark content | 💔= indicates angst | 🌸= indicates fluff
｡･ﾟﾟ･main masterlist･ﾟﾟ･｡
series
-> in my hometown (COMPLETE) ✨💔🌸
series summary: [PRE-OUTBREAK] you've had a crush on joel miller for as long as you can remember. there are just a couple of problems with that: one, he's ten years your senior and your dad's best friend. two, you're moving to LA in the morning.
-> your summer dream (ONGOING) ✨💔🌸
series summary: [NO OUTBREAK] fresh on the heels of the worst breakup of your life, you find an unexpected kindred spirit in joel miller, who's agreed to tag along for seven days at a tropical resort with you and your parents.
-> good to me (COMPLETE) ✨
series summary: [NO OUTBREAK] a three-part series chronicling the smutty adventures of reader and gynecologist!joel miller.
one shots
-> look at this godforsaken mess that you made me 💔
joel is a sad guilt-ridden sadboy (and also your touch-starved drug dealer). joel and reader are sad and get high together, that’s it.
-> what i need ✨
reader has a bad day, joel gives you what you need aka the one with joel miller knifeplay.
-> here in your doorway 💔🌸
your fiancé tommy breaks off your engagement. you seek comfort in the arms of your best friend, who just happens to be his older brother, joel.
-> say it with your hands | part two: put your lips close to mine ✨🌸
ellie convinces joel to see the town masseuse. it goes mostly okay.
-> stay here, honey ✨
porn no plot. you sit on dbf!joel’s lap at a party, it’s a whole thing. (daddy!joel)
-> creep it real! ✨
a masked angel. a rugged cowboy. you're the answer to joel's prayers...until he realizes who you are.
-> snowflakes, a fireplace, and you ✨💔🌸
you get more than you bargained for when you end up snowed in at miller's inn on christmas eve.
requests
-> in her defense 💔🌸
an unexpected attack. a protective instinct. a heartfelt exchange. (aka when a stranger tries it with ellie, reader steps in and joel is a guilt-ridden sadboy about it.)
-> rare ✨
request: If you're still accepting fic requests, could i request a smut fic with joel using the hitachi wand on the reader? i doubt theyd be able to find one in the apocalypse but for sexy purposes, it'll work!!
-> taking mine ✨
request: Can I request possessive, jealous Joel + comeplay 😳
-> yes, sir ✨
request: Omg this may just be the southern girl in me but reader calling Joel “sir”. Just had to share this thought with someone.
-> mad love ✨‼️
request: Could I request reader getting turned on after Joel goes feral on some guy who tried to touch her and eventually fucking feral!joel
-> skinny dipping with joel ✨
request: Shy/innocent reader skinny dipping with extra horny Joel and he uses the opportunity to make some moves 😄😄
-> joel miller cumplay thoughts ✨
request: IM CONVINCED JOEL LOVES TO CUM INSIDE YOU AND THEN GET FILTHY AND EAT YOU OUT ok thank you for coming to my ted talk
-> style ✨
request: Can we get some glove kink up in here?👀 maybe he shows you a nice pair of leather gloves he found and puts them on and this awakens something in you. I mean the smell of leather, his thick fingers even thicker in them, the way they glisten when he touches you…
-> this is our place 🌸
request: the main idea is basically domesticity/intimacy and i had javier peña in mind but to be honest, it can work with joel as well. either way, it would be about soft mornings, waking up together. maybe reader helps javier/joel to shave, they get dressed together and have breakfast. it’s normal and it’s soft and there are a lot of giggles and kisses and love and everything that there isn’t in either shows
-> focus on me ✨
request: i just really need to read joel spitting in f!reader’s mouth during sex… like, i rlly can’t stop thinking about it. just food for thought! *flees*
-> holding back ✨
request: i've been thinking of smut written from joel's pov?? like it could still be reader ig, but we're in his head, and he's experiencing it?? what would that be like 😳
-> anomaly (sequel to rare) ✨
request: i was wondering if youd see it possible for reader to convince joel into using [the hitachi wand] on him? i dont know if it makes sense to u in their dynamic but if so, would u be willing to write something on it? id honestly die for needy joel.
-> flesh and metal ✨
request: Hello! If you’re taking requests currently (if not I apologize), but I have one that’s eating away at my brain. Joel and a reader with nipple piercings.
-> lie to me (non/dubcon)✨‼️
ao3 only: Joel corrupts an innocent shut-in and makes her his personal cock warmer.
non x reader
never let me down again (joel & ellie) 💔
folklore anthology entries
-> this is me trying (joel & ellie) 💔🌸
jackson. a flashback on a film reel sparks a memory. joel tells ellie how it feels.
-> peace 💔🌸
jackson era, post-tlou. you and joel discuss what it means to die.
｡･ﾟﾟ･main masterlist･ﾟﾟ･｡
Tired/Sick reader fics
I have noticed a lot of people have a liking towards sleepy/tired!reader and sick!reader fics specifically. I get messages asking for links to them all the time. So I figure I'll put them all in one spot for you guys and that way they're all in one place to find easily :D
Lando Norris
Drunk Girls Do Cry - not sick but hungover, Lando takes care of her
Rest. Sleep. Hydrate. Repeat. - sick!reader
Can I Get a Kiss? - fluff with some sleepy reader at the end
Taking Care Of You - anaemic!reader
Naps > Everything Else - sleepy!reader
It Was Your Stupid Idea - injured!reader
Ew You're Gross - sick!reader
Sleeping Habits - sleepy!reader
I'll Crawl Home To Her - sick!reader
Where You Lay Your Head - sleepy!reader
Panic Stations - morning sickness with pregnant!reader
Charles Leclerc
Any Time Of Day - sleepy!reader
Dangerous Conditions - driver!reader unwell after Qatar race
Max Verstappen
Rescue & Recovery (mouse series) - sick!reader
Sleep Calls (mouse series) - jet-lagged!reader
Oscar Piastri
Little Snores - sleepy!reader
Lewis Hamilton
44 Winks - sleepy!reader
F1 Grid
Races Shouldn't End Like That - driver!reader after Qatar race
hellishjoel fic masterlist
notifications blog*denotes adult themes - 18+
12 Days of Pedro
kylee's follower celebration masterlist
joel miller
series
➢cinnamon girl* | (dbf/neighbor!joel) You and your parents rent a lakeside cabin, Joel and Sarah Miller are your neighbors. You’re all grown up, and you’ll do anything to prove to Joel you’re a woman now. ➢psycho* | (brat tamer!joel) You're Joel's little psycho girlfriend, and sometimes you take things just a little too far.
➢cherry thrill* | (tattoo artist daddy dom!joel miller x virgin sub f!reader) Trust and devotion. Ink meets innocence. Your tattoo artist, Joel Miller, shows you what it really means to give up control. Reeling from the loss of your job, you’re running out of options, until a passing comment from Joel and a video camera give you just the right idea.
➢delicate | co-authored with @thetriumphantpanda Sarah decides, with a year until she leaves home for good, that it's time for her dad to start dating again. Joel doesn't understand the fuss, he's more than happy with how life is for him right now, but decides if it's for Sarah, he'll give it a go. After wading through the dating apps, he comes across someone new, someone who might just be able to be the company he's needed all along. ➢one shots / requests
frankie morales
series ➢table for two* | (linecook!frankie x waitress f!reader) Tommy’s Diner is where dreams go to die and burnouts clock-in for work. Waitressing would be boring without the flirtatious distractions of line cook Frankie Morales.
mike schmidt
➢every rose has its thorns* Mike really likes your white panties with the pretty rose on the front.
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