Totally Shameless For Certain

There was something magical on their dance, something I couldn't explain and then I saw it the sun rise and... there are no words to describe it. It was truly magical, the most beautiful thing I had ever see.

I still don't know why they were dancing or if they do that every single day, I never searched it and I never asked I don't want to know the answer, but while looking at that amazing sight I like to image that all those druids that go there since so long ago, centuries ago, do that every morning until the sun rise to make sure the sun will keep rising every day until the end of times!

I know that it's hard to hear about innocent people dying. I know it's hard to care about politics especially if it's from other countries or if it doesn't affect you. it might be depressing for you to hear about these things happening but imagine living it. it's our last chance to win this fight, if we don't the internet is gonna stay limited, more people would die from poverty and police brutality, they will be more strict about the hijab and more afab people would be arrested. maybe you're asking yourself what can I do about it? maybe you're thinking that it's none of your business and sharing posts won't do shit. maybe you're right, at the end of the day it's our revolution, it's our fight. and I swear that we're trying our best to overthrow this brutal dictatorship.

but they're killing people, using minors as police, using schools and ambulances to hide police forces, they are breaking into people's houses and beating and arresting protesters. so I beg you to talk about it and share the news. the only reason that they haven't shut down the internet completely and haven't killed 1500 people like in 2019 is that the world is watching us, the world knows about us. after 44 years of oppression and fear and violence finally our voices are being heard. so don't let people call it a color revolution, don't let them call it islamophobic to burn a veil. these are some tactics that the government use to silence iranian people. so just ignore it and get your news from iranian people instead of so called "leaders" of the protests.

help us if you can, be our voice.

Fiction get its inspiration in reality, reality inspires itself in fiction. It just makes sense that we can trust some parts of fictional stories, because something might actually happen!

But then, you have to wake up! You have to grow up and stop believing everything will be alright because in stories does, you grow up thinking bad things happen to bad people and if you good you will be rewarded by fate. But then, reality comes and it hits you hard.

One day you wake up and you understand that your good deeds didn't take you to your better half, they didn't lead you to a happy job where you are congratulated by being a good worker. No!

Fiction failed me, not only because it lied to me about my happy ending before my thirties with my soulmate but it failed me also because good people not always get good things, bad people not always suffer the consequences of their actions. Karma isn't real, the world is, the physical things are.

Reality is real, fiction it is not but I no longer see the inspiration they used to share! The world is getting rotten because dreams keep on dying, because people keep on thinking on ways to survive instead of ways to live.

Fiction is like a Greek goddess everyone can applaud to her beauty, but she will never completely protect you because like all Gods fiction is also egotistical they sell dreams but never tell you they're impossible!

Fiction has failed me and I can't forgive her for it, I just can't seem to find that sympathy on me to forgive her, or maybe I can't just find within myself a way to forgive myself for believing on her!

your fave fingering you, hitting all the right spots, keeping a perfectly maddening pace, thumb pressed right over your clit while his slick knuckles slide in and out and in and out making you cum again and again—and you start to whimper and squirm away but he just holds you down with his other hand and pouts,

c'mon sweetheart, you're doing so well for me, don't make me stop now...

Finally a royalty fic by navy 💜💜 this is amazing, I'm in love!! I needed this more than I knew

Cordially Invited

Pairing: Modern Knight!Bucky Barnes x Princess!Female Reader Summary: You're in need of a date for an upcoming wedding. Word Count: Over 1.9k Warnings: Pining, flirting, slight feels (it's me okay), could be considered fake dating (or is it? 😏), protective Bucky Barnes (he’s a warning, okay?), future smut. A/N: Again, I need another AU like a hole in the head, but here we are. @11thstreetvigilante, thank you for letting me scream about this. ❤️ Beta read by the beautiful @whisperlullaby (thank YOU as well!), but any and all mistakes are my own. Bucky edit by Nix, divider by @firefly-graphics and moodboard and banner by yours truly.

Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications and please reblog or comment as it means the world!

Modern royalty is both a wondrous and strange concept. As the only child of the King and Queen of Brooklyn, your parents raised you with a blend of tradition and modernization. They taught you to speak your mind while stressing to follow certain customs. You did your best to make them proud. 

The picture-perfect princess.

Except, you didn't have a prince by your side.

“Something wrong, your highness?”

You turned in your chair to look at your personal knight, James “Bucky” Barnes. Standing tall at 6’4” with a muscular build, he served as your bodyguard when he wasn’t fighting for your father. Like his father before him. You worried in the beginning that he’d resent you for having to be your personal guard, but he took his duties seriously. He watched over you as if it was an honor to do so. Though he intimidated most because of his size and strength, he displayed kindness toward you. He quickly became one of your closest confidants.

A knight in name, but a prince in my heart. 

“Nothing to concern yourself with.”

“Are you sure?” he asked, not moving from his spot in the left corner of your large bedroom. It was the perfect vantage point for him to see your window, the door, and you. “You dismissed your ladies for no reason, you’re not dressed for the day, and you’ve been staring at that invitation for the better part of an hour.”

You turned back toward your vanity and picked up the ornate invitation with a sigh.

Her Majesty Queen of Waverly requests the pleasure of your company at the Marriage of His Royal Highness Prince Clinton of Waverly with Her Royal Highness Princess Natalia of Volgograd.

You RSVP’d to Clint and Natasha’s wedding weeks ago and said you would bring a plus one because that was the expectation. Your parents asked every day since the invitation arrived who you planned to have on your arm. They gave you the option of choosing instead of making the decision themselves. With the wedding around the corner, you were running out of time.

“I still haven't chosen a date and my parents want an answer today."

"Forgive me for saying so, but you have been dodging the King and Queen's question."

"I know, I know. They're already disappointed that I've dragged this out."

Just like they're probably disappointed that they didn't arrange a marriage for me once I was old enough to wed. 

"I highly doubt you could do anything to disappoint them or anyone else. You’re Brooklyn’s beloved princess through and through," he said. 

Blood rushed to your cheeks as you set the invitation down. His praise felt good. "Thank you, Bucky. But why do I have to bring someone?” 

"Tradition," he replied, crossing his arms. “You know, I figured the princes would be knocking down your door at the chance to be your plus one.”

“As if you’d let them get close enough to ask,” you said. "You don't even let Sir Steven near me and he's your best friend."

As your knight, one of Bucky's duties was to keep you safe from any possible threats. He took it to the extreme. If anyone got within a few feet of you, he was there to keep them away. Most didn’t try to speak to you once they caught a glimpse of him.

“It is my job to protect you,” he reminded you. “Especially from handsy princes.”

"Does that include Prince Nicholas?" 

Bucky's jaw twitched as he nodded. It was a bit of a low blow to mention Nick’s name considering your knight couldn’t stand him. The prince was one of the few men not afraid of him. 

"Especially Prince Nicholas," he grumbled, not hiding his disdain for the man. "What gift did he send you last week?"

"An emerald necklace. I almost felt bad sending it back."

"Insulting. Doesn't he know diamonds are a girl's best friend?" 

You narrowed your eyes at him in the mirror, which made him chuckle. The sound sent a jolt between your thighs. Between that and the earlier praise, you prayed he didn’t notice how it affected you. Your knight was not only brave and trusting, but so handsome. Staring into his eyes was like getting lost at sea. Too many nights, you imagined how silky the brown strands of his hair would feel against your fingers. 

And how the scruff on his chin would feel between your legs.

“Emeralds, diamonds, it doesn't matter. You don’t let any man get close enough to give them to me themselves,” you muttered to distract yourself from getting aroused. “Some days I wonder if you take pleasure in making sure I’m alone.”

Bucky frowned as he unfolded his arms. “You think I want you to be alone?”

"You tell me. My parents want me to wed eventually, but how will that happen if you won't let any suitors near me?" you asked, toying with one of your makeup brushes to keep your hands busy. “Or are you punishing me for constantly being on babysitting duty?"

"I'm sure the right man can court you without being in close proximity to you," he said, even though he didn't sound pleased. "And we both know I want to watch over you, so why are you trying to pick a fight with me?”

You looked away, embarrassed. You had no reason to speak to him like that. But how could you admit that you didn’t want any suitors when you had him right in front of you? He wasn’t just your knight, he was everything to you. It upset you to think he didn't want you. It scared you more that he’d resign from his duties to settle down and have his own family. You didn't want that day to come.

Is it selfish that I want him forever by my side?

“I’m not trying to pick a fight,” you said, turning in your chair to face him. “And you know I don't care about any suitors. I'm just frustrated."

That includes being sexually frustrated and the toy I named after you is calling my name. 

"I'm glad you don't care about those suitors because if you married one soon, I might be out of a job."

"You're stuck with me no matter what," you smiled. "I'm sorry for being rude."

“Give me a hug, princess, and I’ll forgive you,” he said as he held out his arms.

“No,” you said, but you were already on your feet. The robe you wore didn't do much to cover your body and you wondered if you imagined the hunger in his eyes. “I don’t think you deserve a hug.”

He placed his left hand over his chest, which drew your attention to it. He lost his left arm in battle years before and the kingdom had a state of the art metal prosthetic fashioned for him. To some, it was a sign of sacrifice and bravery. It showed you that he was a fighter and survivor. 

“You wounded me with your words and you’re hurting me more by denying me a simple request.”

You fought to keep from smiling as you walked toward him. Knowing that he wanted to touch you, even in an innocent form, was a heady feeling. You wanted his touch, too. You craved it like nothing else.

“I’m only going to hug you because I love you,” you said, wrapping your arms around him once you were close enough. 

He inhaled as he hugged you close and you allowed yourself to melt in his strong embrace. It made you feel safe and cared for. “I love you, too, my princess,” he whispered. 

You closed your eyes and hid your face in his shoulder. Whenever you said you did things for him because you loved him, he always replied that he loved you, too. You dreamt of falling asleep to him whispering that in your ear.

I wish he loved me the way I love him.

“If I could, I'd be your date for the evening."

You lifted your head and pulled free from his arms as you considered his words. You couldn't stop the grin from spreading across your face. Bucky as your date? Why didn't you think of that? 

“What’s that look for?”

"Sir James, would you do me the honor of being my date to the wedding?" 

His eyebrows shot up. "You called me James."

"That should tell you how serious I am."

Please, don't reject me. I'd feel like a fool.

He cleared his throat and you tried not to feel anxious as you waited for his answer. "I’m not a prince.”

“Who said I have to bring a prince? It may be tradition for a princess to have someone on their arm for royal functions, but it should be a person of my choosing. Who better than the man my parents trust with my life?”

“But-” he began before you held up a hand to stop him.

"Isn't it your duty to serve and protect me? Your princess?" you asked.

“It is,” he answered, looking down when you took his left hand in yours.

“Bucky, I’m not just asking you as my knight. I’m asking because I want you to go with me,” you said, your voice soft as he lifted his head to look at you. "There’s no one else I’d rather go with."

You felt a slight burn in your eyes from unshed tears, but you held your head high. If he sensed your vulnerability, he kindly didn't call you out on it. You didn’t want to command him to take you nor did you want to beg.

“But if you don’t want to, I understand. I can ask Prince Nicholas instead.”

Bucky stopped you before you could turn away from him. "You'll do no such thing," he said, bringing your hand to his lips and softly kissing it. “It would be my honor to be your date, your highness."

"Really?" you smiled as he lowered your hand, but didn't let go.

"Only because I love you," he smiled back. 

Your heart raced as you playfully hit his arm, letting your touch linger. "That's my line," you teased, looking over your shoulder to check the time. "Let's go tell my parents."

"You're in your robe," he reminded you as you tried to pull him across the room. "I don't think the other guards need to see you like that."

"I'll change later," you huffed when he planted his feet firmly on the ground. A wall of muscle, he was nearly impossible to move. "Bucky."

You gasped when he gripped your chin, forcing you to meet his gaze. His enormous hand could crush your bones if he chose to, but the gentle hold reminded you that you were in his care. There was no mistaking the hunger there this time. 

"Get dressed, princess," he gently ordered, his voice deeper than before. 

I'm going to have to change my panties since I'm soaking wet.

"Then we'll tell your parents."

"Yes, Bucky," you whispered as he released you, having to put some distance between the two of you. If you didn't, you'd be too tempted to kiss him. And if you kissed him, you wouldn't be able to stop.

"Good girl," he smirked, moving back to his spot in the corner as you tried to calm your pounding heart. "I'll be right here waiting."

Good girl?

You weren't sure if he was teasing you or trying to rile you up, but you could play, too.

Oh, this wedding is going to be a lot of fun. 

Let's hope it's nice and easy for them. We'll see how it goes. 😏 Love and thanks for reading! ❤️

Masterlist ⚓ Bucky Barnes Masterlist ⚓ Ko-Fi

HOLD STILL

written for @punkshort's AU August Challenge

RATING: Explicit (18+) PAIRING: Bodyguard!Dave York x f!Reader WORD COUNT: 3.4k CW: Dave's filthy mouth, pwp, smut (cockwarming, unprotected piv, creampie, sorta soft-dom!dave but really he's just bossy, sorta praise kink, a couple pussy pronouns don’t look at me), and one nonsense tense switch just for the hell of it I guess.

SUMMARY: On your last night together, Dave agrees to compromise.

read on ao3 | almostfoxglove masterlist

You want him, but he won’t fuck you. Not once, not even quickly, not even with just his hands. Dave York—ever stoic, unflinching—insists on doing his job and his job alone. And you, as he so enjoys reiterating, are not his job. Protecting you is. 

For three weeks you’ve smothered the calendar hung on the kitchen wall with another red X each morning, whittling the days until you give your polished testimony and say goodbye to him for good. Now the court date looms heavy on the horizon—it’ll rise tomorrow with the sun. 

In the meantime—these last, dwindling hours—you roam the grand rooms of an apartment rented for your protection, your anonymity, at the very skirt of the city where you’d surely have lost your mind if not for him. Stationed diligently at your side, hand never more than a twitch from the grip of his gun. So many hours spent alone you've memorized his form: how he looks scanning the curtained windows for any whisper of danger. How he's never complained when you choose cheesy reality shows from the TV guide. Teaching you how to play Spades with a deck of cards soft and worn—from his home, maybe, though you never ask—and letting you win the first hand, lips quirked when you call him out on it, then unapologetically wiping the floor with you for the rest of your isolation. 

Yes, you know him, though only in image. Broad and sturdy, shirts each neatly ironed and squarely tucked. The hard line of his jaw and the fullness of his bottom lip. His hair always swept neatly from his face, even when you know he’s recently woken up. Never scruffy, never stubbled. Clean shaven and the smell of nice hotel shampoo.

It’s wrong, how you try to prod him to no avail. No matter your efforts, he says nothing of the way you adorn your body: lacy slips and satin sets at night, hugging silhouettes during the day, hair always done, lipstick never out of place even though you can’t leave the apartment or stand too near the windows. Dave is the only one who sees you, save for the days or hours when he leaves you his clumsy understudy to step down from his post.

He must know you do it for him.

It’s wrong, but you asked once, early on. Tonight? 

And Dave’s mouth pinched into a flat, polite line. Unreadable, his face drained of its emotion. His declination drawled deep and heady, a voice that curled your toes and more than once kept you panting alone in your bed that’s not yours at all, just two doors away from his, fingers needy and swirling. No, honey. Not tonight.

Repeated in your mind until it warped like an overplayed tape.

No, honey.

Honey.

Honey.

Not tonight.

Tonight.

Tonight, he is gone—your last together before the trial—leaving you in the hollow apartment with his proxy, stung. Same dark clothes, same holstered gun, same little piece nestled in his ear, but not half of what you want. You want Dave: a man as solid as he is driven, immutable as he is tempting. Assigned to protect you until you deliver the account that’ll send a monster away.

Perhaps you’ve liked the game—how he watches you, but never gives in—but now it’s lost its shimmer.

Lights dimmed for the evening, all black curtains drawn, the vaulted ceilings of the kitchen feel miles high as you perch on a barstool at the breakfast counter to stare at the calendar taunting you across the quiet room. Beyond the pristine halls you’ve lapped all day like an anxious dog, the city serenades you. Traffic squealing through streets, sirens singing in the distance, the occasional shout of someone walking by outside, eight floors below. 

You are not, at night, permitted to part the curtains, lest someone get a glimpse of your illuminated face, but you long to open one now, see if Dave is out there, returning to your little castle turret one final time. Because it’s possible he won’t come back at all—that his coworker will escort you between lobby and truck, between truck and courthouse, between courthouse and whatever comes next. Maybe home. That you’ll never see Dave again, let alone throw caution to the wind and ask once more, tonight?

And then, just then, as your stomach begins to sink with disappointment, you hear the sudden crack of the front door unlocking and the creak of its surrender. You’ve conjured him, somehow, past the stroke of midnight. Then low, rumbled whispers, the unmistakable tone of Dave’s voice mumbling to his understudy. Your heart speeds as the door closes again and his stand-in retreats into the hall. How dizzying, the sound of locks settling into their rightful places, turned by Dave’s unerring hands. 

When he appears in the dining room behind you, bomber jacket hanging from one arm, he tucks a tiny apology into the twitch of his lips—or maybe it’s meant to be a smile. “It’s late,” he says, as your eyes drink him in. Polished as ever, despite the hour, not a stitch out of place. “Should be in bed.”

You shrug, hoping you might appear indifferent. “Couldn’t sleep,” you say, aware of how the satin of your robe slopes off your shoulder with no intention of righting it.

Does something darken in his face then, or do you imagine it? You can’t be sure, not in this umbra, at this time of night. Jaw ticking, Dave strides cautiously toward the dining table, drapes his jacket over the back of one glossy chair, and sinks into the seat at the head of the sleek table, same as usual. A quiet kind of reign, his claiming this position, always, for every meal. He scratches his cheek, slips the gun from the holster at his belt to rest on the table, and as he leans back you indulge yourself—how can you not—in the slight buck of his hips as he shifts to stretch out his legs. 

“Need your rest,” Dave chides softly. No edge to his tone.

Sighing before you can stop yourself, disappointed all over again as his gaze draws off you to the windows and drapes. On duty, still. On duty, always. Not you. Not tonight. “S’the last night,” you reply, staring at the calendar again. One little red X to go. “You weren’t here.”

Behind you, his deep and measured breath. The shiver of that unflappable restraint, you hope, but you don’t yet dare to look back. He might spook.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

You don’t budge. Don’t move.

“You hear me?” Voice a little harder now, solidifying. When he speaks to you, you always look him in the eye—or you always have before.

Electric, your heart. Revving just a breath faster, just a hair harder, at the sound of him huffing in frustration. Your lips tick up in one corner, hidden, a secret meant only for you. When Dave says your name, your whole body purrs and you at last turn your head enough to let him glimpse your profile, still withholding your gaze.

“Pouting,” he scolds, this time meaning it. “That what this is?”

“Avoiding me,” you counter. “That where you were?”

Dave hmphs, darkness fading and softness returning to his tone. “Course not, honey.”

You look at him now, properly. Barstool spinning as you push off the counter to face him. Under the dusk of dimmed pendant lights over the dining table, Dave glows. In the time you’ve looked away, he’s unbuttoned his shirt one button lower than it’d been when he walked in.

One button lower than you’ve ever seen him wear before.

“Said I’m sorry,” he says again, head tilted. His foot comes out to nudge the leg of the chair beside his, angling it in your direction. “Come here.”

He means for you to sit, maybe play a hand of Spades, but as you slink off the barstool you have no intention of taking the seat. Warmth flushing in your chest, cool, conditioned air greeting your bare legs and collarbones, all the skin not covered by your sleekest sleep set. You swear he drinks the sight of you, for once, as you cross the kitchen toward him. Eyes dark not only from shadows, from the time. Or else you hope, as you come to a stop between Dave’s knees, that the way he’s not yet blinked means what you want it to.

Lips parting, a breath from speaking when you beat him to the punch and ask, “Tonight?” Your chin lowered and eyes searching his. It’s the last night. Might as well show your hand while you still can, before he slinks back into the underbelly of a city where you know he’s lived for years but you’ve never once glimpsed him, and not just because it’s busy.

Because invisible is what he’s paid to be, what he’s good at. Unseen until the fist of him is needed, the gun.

Pink striping his bottom lip, a swipe of his tongue, eyes boring into you. The slightest shake of his head, clean-shaven cheeks sharked in the shadow and golden light. “Honey.” Not a no, honey. Not a not tonight. Just honey, like you’ve imagined.

Emboldened, you caress of your fingertips across his shoulder, tracing the seam of his crisp, pale blue dress shirt. So handsome, always so handsome. A man who takes care of himself, who tidies and cleans without your needing to ask. Spotless, always. Reserved, always. Killing you, always, with every brush of his gaze. 

You draw your fingers towards his shirt collar.

“Can’t,” says Dave, softer still. Breathy, almost. You pet the knife-cut of his pressed collar, the button just below it, and his Adam’s apple bobs slowly in his throat. Again, he shakes his head so slightly it looks more like a twitch. A reflex to say no. Not a desire to. “Can’t fuck you, honey. Wouldn’t be right.”

You bite your lip, brows drawing together, not lifting your hand from the button placket of his shirt. “Just tonight,” you breathe, and bat your eyes a little.

At last Dave’s dark eyes drop from yours, scanning the length of you above him with searing precision. Consideration. You slant your head to one side as his gaze slides back up, hesitating on your silk-draped chest, and you suck a sharper breath before it returns to meet yours. He cuffs your wrist with his hand to halt your teasing as he shakes his head once more, licking his bottom lip again with greater meaning. A glint in his eyes, lust finally flaring. 

Pride swirls in your stomach, honeyed and wanting. Then he tugs you by the hips with such reflexes you hardly register the movement of his hands before you’re on him, straddling him in the chair, your thighs framing his hips. Held. Your robe fanning behind you, over his knees. Heart pounding dangerously close to a cardiac event.

Dave tsks softly, smirking when you whimper, trying to roll your hips over the heat of his crotch. Those careful, deadly hands lock them in a vice as he clicks his tongue. “Not gonna fuck you,” he murmurs, and you lean in to kiss him but he pulls his head away. “Not gonna kiss you either. Not right.”

You don’t care about right. Now you pout for real, forehead wrinkling, staring at his upturned lips. You feel the unmistakable twitch of him growing hard against you and your cunt throbs in reply, needy and slick. You try to wiggle again but Dave pinches your hips in warning. “Look at me,” he repeats, that edge to his voice that curls your toes, and your eyes snap to his.

“Good girl.”

You moan quietly, made liquid by the tender swipe of his thumb over the satin of your sleep shorts. Your eyes fluttering at such a tiny stroke, not even the meeting of skin. 

“You can’t move, okay? Only allowed to sit.” When you don’t answer, too lost to the throb of his cock against your begging core, Dave pinches you again, voice gravelly in a way you’ve not heard before. “You hear me?”

Nodding, you hum. Can’t quite get out the word. 

“Need to hear you, honey. Gonna hold still for me?”

“Mhm,” you whine, fighting your every instinct to grind down against him as you meet his lust-blown eyes. “Yes. Only allowed to sit.”

Dave puffs a hot breath out that sends a wake of goosebumps across your chest. “Good girl,” he coos, and your brows pinch at the praise. “Soaking me already, honey. Can’t sleep like this, can you? Just need to turn your brain off, hm?” The movement of his hips below yours is so slight you might imagine it, that tiny grind as his cock grows. You nod, whine softly, and both his thumbs stroke your hips gently before stilling again.

“Show me, honey.” So quiet. So little air between you, and yet too much.

You scan his face until he offers a small nod. Those brown eyes hooded by dark lashes, devouring you without need for the press of his mouth. It’d be soft, you’re certain. The caress of his lips. Maybe the rest of him is hard and deadly, but those would be tender, careful—they’d take you apart, breath by breath. With the same precision with which he darts between shadows and cleans his gun and beats you at cards and tucks your hair behind your ear when you’re falling asleep on the couch, he’d dissolve you kiss by kiss with a kind of grace.

It’s his lips on which you pin your gaze as you let one hand drift between your legs, dipping easily between silk and skin—your body made jelly so quickly and by so little contact, already wet. You pray you don’t imagine the sharpness of his breath when your knuckles accidentally graze against his slacks as you slip your fingers between dewy folds. Then: your hand rising in the dim light, shining, honeyed. Dave watching them, the corner of his mouth cracking just a little. Tensing into his cheek.

He grunts, good girl, and then he’s lifting you just enough to peel down the zip of his slacks, flick open the button, but when your eyes fall hopeful for a glimpse of him he tsks, hooks one finger beneath your chin to tilt your face up, whispers a soft eyes on me, honey as he pulls himself out where you can’t see.

As his knuckles brush against the wet gusset of your shorts, nudging them to the side. Finding no panties to move.

As the head of his cock—plush, warm, weeping—nudges against the ache of you, the thrum of your longing.

He grins, wicked.

Then pressure, a moan lost to the air you’re hardly conscious of and the stretch of him, the slow press in and the ache of your cunt swallowing his girth inch by inch. You whimper, eyelids shuddering like old film, catching only still frames of Dave’s expression as he lowers you gently, burying himself in your drooling heat until you come to rest at his base, flush and full.

So full. Light-headed, sparkling. Your hips must rock because he squeezes your waist. “Hold still, honey,” he coos. “Remember?”

The terms of his touch sounded alright just a breath ago, but now you can’t imagine how you ever agreed. How you’re supposed to stay still with him throbbing inside you like this, heavy and sweet, exactly what you need. A flicker in his eyes like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you, how he’s scrubbing out every thought in your head. Cocky, yes. But earning it.

“Dave,” you sigh, breathy and desperate. Your cunt clenching and squeezing and pushing out slick, probably ruining his slacks but he won’t let you look down, just tilts your head up gently every time it hangs slack. “Please.”

His breathing catches for a beat, then it’s steady again. “I know, I know,” he murmurs, keeping his finger under your chin to keep your eyes on him—but he hardly needs to. You’d swear the whole world drained away the second he slid into you. There’s nothing else past your bodies, past this one dining room chair. Everything else disappears like magic. The trial, the dread, the drone of city noise. The slow leak of your heart knowing this is goodbye—all of it. Gone.

You’d have sworn it impossible to come like this, with no movement at all, but you will. You do. And months from now—safe in the swaddle of your actual apartment that for weeks has stood hollow and dusty, plants withering sadly on their windowsills—you’ll lie in bed longing, missing, remembering. Trying to recreate the swipe of his thick thumb on your clit as you replay this moment in your head. How you whined, wanna take care of you when Dave still wouldn’t let you move, even when you were close, just swiped and swiped his thumb until you were something more than alive, transcending.

How his pupils had set ablaze with your whispered plea. How you’d realized that was the point, for him. The begging and the not giving in.

How he’d growled, “Taking care of you is taking care of me. You don’t think I’m gonna come the second this pussy strangles my cock? ‘Cause I am. S’all I need, honey, just give it to me—”

His voice the thunder to your body’s crackle and lightning.

“Let her take care of me, that’a girl, that’s it, just like that honey, she’s so tight—fuck—so fuckin’ tight around me, just squeezin’ me, gonna come when you do, pretty girl, let me have it.”

How it hit you like a white bolt of heat and light, every cell in you tense and flaming, then melting, boneless on his lap as he murmured sweetly, grunted, tried to lift you off him just in time and you’d finally, finally touched him—lucid in an instant, hands slammed down on the muscle of his shoulders. Mumbling amidst your aftershocks, inside, inside, inside. Eyelids stuttering again, back to picture frames as your cunt seized and begged in tandem.

The snarl of his upper lip.

His knotted jaw.

Tongue sucked against his front teeth, resolve crumbling.

The allowance granted to your hands to stay right there, fisting his shirt collar as his locked your waist in a bruising vice. His hips bucking only once, grinding the head of his cock deeper, deliciously, almost too good to take. 

“Fuck, fuckfuck—yeah, that what she needs, honey? Needs me to fill her up?”

You’ll remember your own reply as you near a second-rate heaven in the nest of your duvet at home, all frantic hands and thrusting digits and eyes slammed shut, repainting him in your head. Golden in that gloomy light, hair straying out of position across his misted forehead for the first time. Yes. Please. Dave. Yes. Inside. Please—and his grunt, dark and sweet as caramel, as burnt brown sugar. That tiny grin dragging at his soft lips, pleased. You’d pleased him, surprised him maybe. 

That can make you sparkle now, to remember.

“Okay, honey. Okay—shit—gonna give it to you, hm? Gonna give you all of it, baby—she’s squeezing me so goddamn tight, fuck, wanna stay here all night—”

Then the granting of a wish, the heat of him spilling into your cunt, the unmistakable slide of slick leaking between your thighs and onto his; you didn’t have to look to know. You could feel it, that wholeness overflowing. You can almost feel it now; three fingers might be a poor attempt at recreation, but you fall off the cliff all the same, his name on your tongue, a cry in the night, all the curtains dark and drawn as you come down breathless and drowsy, your whole body limp and spent as it’d been that night with him—when he’d tucked himself away and petted your hair back from your face, so gentle with you, cooing that you did so good, honey. Such a good girl. Gonna get you into bed now, hm? Need your sleep, honey. Come on. 

Carrying you into your not-real bedroom, tucking you in so tenderly, like he hadn’t just taken you apart at the molecules. And Dave’s lips were just as plush as you’d imagined when they grazed your forehead, his big hand petting your cheek once more, then turning out the lights. That deep timbre whispering from the doorway, goodnight. The door clicking shut. All of it perfect. How you’d known you mattered more than a job for just one moment in time.

dividers by @saradika-graphics - tag list & some mutuals <3

@ak-vintage @thethirstwivesclub @la-vie-est-une-fleur29 @hediondoamor-blog @harriedandharassed 

@burntheedges @la-eterna-enamorada29 @goodgirlwannabe @guiltyasdave @for-a-longlongtime

@littlemisspascal @luxurychristmaspudding @tonysopranosrobe @evolnoomym @sweetpascal 

@spacelatinos4life @sweetpascal @biggetywitch @wannab-urs @jolapeno 

@pedgito @pastelpinkflowerlife @jessthebaker @rav3n-pascal22 @sixhours 

@noisynightmarepoetry @clawdee

Hazel Scott playing two pianos at the same damn time with ease

Dark woods