More Rodrick In College Chronicles ! 18+

this is the best superman fic i’ve ever read…

(arranged marriage, smallville, old kansas au, reader cheats with superman unaware it’s clark, omg clark is just a sweetheart here LOVE IT YUM, nsfw)

https://archiveofourown.org/works/61503487/chapters/157628683#chapter_4_endnotes

serving up suds!

parings: patrick zweig x fem!reader / art donaldson x tashi duncan

word count: 3.9k

summary: you and the rest of the girls on the tennis team need to figure out a way to earn money for new uniforms. your boyfriend suggests the best idea.

contains: SMUT 18+ with lots of cute boyfriend patrick plot, fluff, only contains art and tashi as side characters (sorry), suggestive language between art and tashi, oral (m receiving), inaccurate numbers probs, if you think anything else should be added, please let me know!

note: wrote this simply because i love and miss pookie patrick zweig so enjoy… i planned to post i choose you but wanted to post this instead! also, not edited – will be doing so shortly.

You stood in front of Coach Williams, arms crossed and brow furrowed, your frustration barely masked. “We don’t even have proper uniforms,” you said, voice tight. “They just told us to wear red tank tops and the shortest white shorts we could find. It’s ridiculous. No one takes us seriously.”

It had been a minor irritation at first, something you could almost shrug off as a small injustice. But when you found out that the boys' team, including your boyfriend Patrick, had crisp, matching uniforms—with collars and the school logo stitched on the chest—your irritation curdled into anger. They looked like a team. They looked respectable. And you? You and the other five girls on the team looked like a mismatched afterthought.

A few of you had approached Coach Williams, hoping she’d understand, hoping she’d do something. You told her how embarrassing it was to stand on the court, mismatched and disheveled, while the boys walked by in their pristine gear. She’d just sighed and said the school didn’t have the funds. “Those boys raised the money themselves,” she added, almost proud. “If you girls want uniforms that badly, you’ll have to do the same.”

You groaned. Right, like it was that simple. You had done the math in your head—the cost would be at least a thousand dollars to get anything decent, something that would make you all look polished and cohesive. You wanted sharp collars, the school name embroidered in neat white stitching over your hearts, maybe even matching skirts. But there were only six of you, and $200 each was a lot to ask from college girls already juggling tuition, textbooks, meals, and a list of other expenses that never seemed to end.

The thought gnawed at you for days, and finally, you did something you never would’ve considered before. You went to Patrick. The two of you were sprawled out on the campus quad, the grass prickling your skin, the sun warm on your back. Patrick was fiddling with a Rubik's Cube he’d picked up from god knows where, twisting it clumsily, his focus entirely absorbed. You were trying to study, your math textbook open in front of you, but the thought of those damn uniforms kept distracting you. You sighed, louder than usual, trying to get his attention. He didn’t look up.

Another sigh, this one practically a groan. Patrick smirked, eyes still fixed on the colored squares in his hands. “Something on your mind?” he asked, voice teasing, as if he was enjoying your distress.

“Actually, yeah,” you said, sitting up and crossing your legs. “The girls’ tennis team needs uniforms.” He finally glanced up, confusion flickering in his eyes. “And I was wondering…” you trailed off, giving him a mischievous grin before reaching out to tickle his side. He jerked away, laughing, and caught your wrist. “...if you could, you know, maybe donate a little to help out.”

“You’re cute,” he said, kissing your cheek. “But I’m broke. Spent my allowance for the month already.”

Your head slumped against his chest, and you whined, letting the sound drag out, like a child who didn’t want to go to bed. “C’mon, Patrick. We need this.”

He chuckled, but you could sense his patience thinning. “Why don’t you do a fundraiser or something?” he suggested. “I don’t know, a bake sale?”

It was a simple idea, but it sparked something. You sat up straight, eyes bright with sudden inspiration. “A car wash!” you said, the words tumbling out in a rush. “We could do a car wash! Who wouldn’t want to donate to a group of girls in bikinis?”

Patrick’s smile faded. “Wait, I meant like selling cookies or something, not—”

But you were already on your feet, packing your things, a plan forming in your mind. Oh you’ll be selling cookies all right. “Thanks, babe! I’ll call you later,” you said, barely looking back as you headed off to find the other girls.

Patrick’s voice trailed after you, a mix of amusement and resignation. “Great. This is going to end well, I’m sure.” But you didn’t care. For the first time in days, you felt a thrill of hope. If it took a little shamelessness to raise the money, so be it. At least the girls’ team would finally have the chance to be seen.

You stood outside Art Donaldson’s dorm room, tapping your foot impatiently, half-wishing you didn’t have to do this. You were almost certain Tashi was hooking up with him. Everyone on the courts could sense the weird tension between them, the way they eyed each other during practice. It wasn’t admiration for his technique, that was for sure. Art was talented, sure, but he played like a baby deer—deft, but awkwardly loose, stumbling into his own brilliance.

Your knuckles rapped softly against the door, and when it finally creaked open, you caught sight of Art’s glassy eyes and his half-buttoned shirt. You had to stifle a laugh. He looked like he’d just rolled out of bed, and not because he was taking a nap. “Uh, is Tashi around?” you asked, already guessing the answer. Art glanced over his shoulder, almost as if he was checking to see if she was still there.

“Yeah, but she’s busy,” he said, with a casual shrug that didn’t quite hide his irritation.

“I’m sure,” you replied, tilting your head with a knowing grin. You leaned past him, raising your voice. “Tashi, come out here! I’ve got an idea!” Art winced, his expression morphing into a tight-lipped smile, the kind you give when someone’s overstaying their welcome. “She’ll be out in a minute,” he muttered, stepping back to let you linger in the doorway.

You could hear the faint sounds of shuffling before Tashi appeared, her hair tousled and her expression caught somewhere between glee and annoyance. “What are you doing here?” she asked, eyes narrowing.

“Patrick gave me the best idea,” you said, ignoring the way she rolled her eyes, clearly unimpressed. She didn’t even try to hide her skepticism—those words didn’t belong in the same sentence, and she knew it.

“No, really,” you insisted, giving her a playful shove. “We should do a fundraiser!”

Tashi’s face softened slightly, but her arms remained crossed, a single brow arching. “A fundraiser?”

“Yes! Think about it—tight bikinis, soapy cars, a bunch of frat boys with too much cash to spare. We’d make bank!” You bounced on your toes, grinning, your excitement spilling out uncontrollably.

She scoffed, but you caught the flicker of a smile tugging at the corners of her lips. Maybe she was amused, or maybe it was just the sheer absurdity of the situation. “I’m not selling my body to a bunch of frat boys,” she said, shaking her head firmly.

“You’re literally in there with Art Donaldson,” you shot back, your shoulders slumping with exasperation.

Tashi’s eyes narrowed, and she folded her arms, leaning against the doorframe. “So, what’s that supposed to mean?”

You let out an awkward laugh, waving your hands. “Oh, nothing. Just making an observation.” You could see her jaw tense, but you pressed on, undeterred. “Anyway, I’m telling the other girls. We’re doing this, with or without you.” You winked, trying to keep things light, but Tashi’s expression was unreadable as she watched you turn and leave.

A week later, you found yourself in your dorm room, sorting through an array of colorful bikini tops. The whole plan felt like a gamble, but you were determined to make it work. You wanted it to be fun, at least, if you were going to be out there scrubbing cars for spare change. Patrick was sprawled on the edge of your bed, watching with a bemused expression. “You’re seriously going through with this?” he asked, one eyebrow raised.

“You suggested it!” you argued, as you adjusted the lettering on a handmade sign with your glitter gel pens.

“I suggested you bake cookies and sell them on campus,” he corrected, waving his hand as if to swat away the absurdity of your plan. “This is not what I meant.”

“We’re just washing cars,” you said, shaking your head as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “And besides, it’s for a good cause.” You added a few more swirls and hearts to the sign, mockingly repeating his earlier words in a high-pitched voice before tossing a pink towel at him.

Patrick caught the towel and laughed, shaking his head. “You’re something else.”

Grabbing your keys and the finished signs, you turned to him, flashing a grin. “Walk me over there,” you said, already halfway out the door.

He groaned, dragging himself to his feet. “I better get a free car wash out of this,” he muttered, but there was a hint of a smile on his lips. The two of you headed down the hall, and as you passed by, you could almost imagine the scene—the sun beating down, water glistening, and a line of cars full of guys willing to fork over their cash just to see a group of girls make a splash. Maybe it was shameless, but you were desperate, and desperate times called for bold, glittery, bikini-clad measures.

The sun was barely up, but the day was already heating up as you and a few of the girls set up the buckets of sudsy water, sponges bobbing in the foam, and wrangled with the nearest hose. Patrick stood nearby, scanning the growing crowd like a bouncer at a club, his eyes narrowing at any guy who dared stare a little too long when you bent over to dip your sponge. He was protective like that, and maybe just a bit possessive, but you couldn’t deny it felt good having someone in your corner, even if he looked ready to body check anyone who ogled you.

You were just about to yell something smart at him when Tashi strolled up, the sound of her flip-flops soft on the concrete, and every head turned as she made her entrance. She was all long, tanned legs, glistening in the sunlight, a tiny bikini peeking out from under her daisy dukes, and she moved with a sort of effortless grace that made you want to both envy and applaud her. You let out a sharp whistle, catcalling her as she approached, unable to resist. She rolled her eyes.

“Careful, those eyes are gonna get stuck back there one day,” you said with a small smile on your lips, and you could tell she was enjoying the attention.

“You look so hot!” you squealed, bouncing on your toes. Tashi flicked her hair over her shoulder, pretending to be exasperated, but she knew she was killing it, and so did everyone else.

Hours passed, the sun climbing higher, scorching the asphalt, and the music thumped from the speakers you’d set up, loud enough to echo down the block. You and the girls took turns yelling at passersby, daring them to get their cars washed, and you couldn’t believe how fast the line grew. It felt like every guy within a five mile radius had suddenly remembered he needed a wash, and they queued up, engines idling, windows down, some leaning out just to get a better look.

Your bodies were practically spilling out of your clothes, skin glistening, slick with soap and sweat. You pressed up against car windows, sponges swirling over the glass, your laughter and chatter floating above the music. “Thank you!” you sang out, flashing bright smiles as you took crumpled bills from hands reaching out of car windows, a parade of faces you didn’t even recognize. You skipped over to where Patrick was standing, collecting the money, and tossed the latest stack of bills into the box he was holding.

The pink, glittery box which you wrote ‘Stick something in me!’ on. It was heavier than you’d expected; you were actually making bank.

Before you could turn back to the cars, Patrick caught your wrist and pulled you close, his hand warm and firm. He cupped your cheeks between his fingers, smushing them slightly, and before you could even register the movement, he kissed you hard, right there in front of everyone. It wasn’t gentle, wasn’t soft. It was a claim, a brand, like he was marking his territory for all to see.

“You’re mine,” he said, his voice low, but loud enough for everyone nearby to hear, a hint of a challenge in his eyes. He wanted to remind you.

You blushed, caught off guard, but then a grin spread across your face. “I’m yours,” you repeated, just as firmly, before pulling him down and planting another kiss on his lips, making sure the message was clear. As you pulled back, you saw a few guys in line avert their eyes, and you laughed to yourself, a mix of pride and relief swelling in your chest. You had Patrick, you had the girls, and if things kept going this well, you’d have those uniforms too.

"Six-fifty… seven-fifty," Patrick counted, his voice low and steady, as the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in soft pinks and purples. You were sprawled out across the lawn, grass tickling your bare arms, and you watched him with a warm, tired smile, the kind of smile you give when everything feels just right for once. It had been a long, sweaty day, but now the breeze was gentle, like a cool kiss against your skin, and you felt almost weightless, your body thrumming with a sense of accomplishment.

“Okay, that’s great!” you said, grabbing his arm, a burst of giddy excitement surging through you. Around you, the girls broke into their own cheers, hugging and high-fiving each other, still buzzing from the success of the day.

“And $100 from me,” Patrick said, pulling out a crisp bill from his wallet and tossing it into the box with a casual flick. The girls swarmed him, shaking his shoulders and showering him with thank-yous, calling him sweet, generous, the best. Even Tashi, who’d been leaning coolly against Art, broke into a grin, and she nudged him with her elbow. Art, who’d been half-pretending not to care, rolled his eyes but couldn’t resist. With a reluctant sigh, he parted with another $100, mumbling under his breath as he handed it over.

“Fine,” he said, almost as if the word hurt, but he was grinning a little, too, when the girls shrieked and patted his back. Rich people, you thought, shaking your head with a smirk. They always made it seem like giving was a struggle when it barely scratched the surface of their wallets.

You took a breath, pushing yourself up to your feet and looking at the small circle of girls around you, their faces flushed and glowing under the dimming sky. "I just want to say… thank you," you started, your voice slightly hoarse from yelling all day but still earnest. "I know this wasn’t exactly easy, but we did it. And I’m really proud." You reached into your own wallet, pulling out a $50 bill, twirling it between your fingers, and held it up like a trophy. “Here’s to us. And new uniforms!”

The girls erupted, their cheers echoing across the lawn, loud and jubilant, as if they’d just won a championship. For a moment, it felt like they had. The line between a football team scoring a last minute touchdown and a group of college girls hustling for their dignity had blurred, and you all basked in the glow of it, even as the day faded into night.

Later, you stumbled back to your dorm, too exhausted to think but too exhilarated to sleep. You flopped down on your bed, sinking into the mattress, letting out a long, satisfied sigh. You barely had time to close your eyes before Patrick followed, landing on top of you with a playful thud, his chin digging uncomfortably into your stomach.

“Ow,” you laughed, swatting at his head as he tried to adjust, mumbling an absent apology. He shifted, then propped himself up, and you cradled his face in your hands, tilting it up so you could look into his eyes. They were the soft blue of summer berries, glinting with mischief and tenderness, and you felt a sudden rush of affection that made your chest ache a little.

“I have the best boyfriend in the world,” you said, the words coming out soft, almost like a secret you were finally ready to admit. Patrick’s cheeks flushed a faint pink, something he did so rarely it was almost a treat to see. He gave you a shy, crooked smile, and you could tell he was savoring the moment, letting it hang in the air between you.

Then he leaned in, pressing his lips to yours, slow and careful, his mouth tasting faintly of your pomegranate chapstick. It was gentle at first, then firmer, like he was memorizing every bit of sweetness. When he pulled back, his eyes were still half-lidded, and his lips curved into a teasing smile.

“So, what’s the reward for being the best boyfriend?” he murmured, his gaze flicking over your face, taking in every detail as if he hadn’t already committed them to memory. His eyelashes fluttered, casting a silhouette across his cheeks, and you felt a shiver of warmth spread through you.

His reward for enduring the humid, sticky air all day, the sun beating down relentlessly on his already sunkissed skin, was right here, pressed against him. He had been patient, sitting there with the box of crumpled bills, sweat glistening on his forehead, eyes darting protectively every time someone lingered a little too long on you. He deserved something for putting up with the heat, the endless chatter, and the occasional, awkward guy who looked like he wanted to challenge him just for standing there. And this was it. You, warm and pliant under his hands, your fingers tangled in his hair, lips brushing his, teasing, like you were savoring every second as much as he was.

You raised an eyebrow, tilting your head in mock contemplation. “Hmm, I guess I’ll have to think of something…” you said, running your fingers through his hair, pulling him closer until your noses touched. “Maybe a little more of this,” you whispered, your lips brushing his as you spoke, letting the promise linger in the space between you.

You rolled over, his back sinking into the worn mattress. You let your lips graze his jaw, then drifted down to his neck. He shifted under your touch, laughter mingling with a nervous squirm as your breath tickled his skin. “You’re so good to me,” you murmured, pressing a kiss to his earlobe. “So supportive,” another kiss at his temple. “And so, so handsome.” A faint smile broke across his face, eyes closed, lost in the moment.

You let your fingers glide over the cool, metallic buttons of his shorts, tracing each engraved design as if it were spelling out something only you knew. You helped him pull them off, giggling as you threw them across the room. Your hand dipped into the dark mouth of his boxers, rummaging past his trimmed bush of curls, until your fingers closed around the smooth, familiar shape.

His hard cock slid out, catching the light above, precum gleaming, almost tauntingly. You held it up to your mouth, breathing in the faint trace of scent that lingered, delicate but intoxicating.

You stared at it for a moment, feeling a slow, subtle warmth unfurl in your chest. It was a tiny, almost imperceptible smile that tugged at your lips, like the beginning of a secret, and you could feel the tension building under your skin, pooling low in your stomach. Something about holding it in your hand made you feel powerful, like you were in control.

The head was your favorite color—deep, cherry red and glistening like a polished gem when you pulled back his foreskin slowly. You slid it between your lips, supple and sweet. Your tongue circled over his tip, feeling the tiny slit. His sap dissolving against your taste buds. You closed your eyes, savoring the taste.

His arousal melted on your tongue, sweet and syrupy. A thin string of saliva stretched between your lips and the tip when you pulled it away, snapping when you moved it too far. It was deliciously wrong, like sneaking a piece of forbidden fruit.

"You’re so sweet," you murmured, almost to yourself, but loud enough for Patrick to hear. He glanced up, his expression lustful and high.

“Wanna taste it?” you asked, slightly lolling your head to the side. The way you said it was innocent, almost playful, but there was a glint in your eyes, a subtle edge to the offer. You leaned up to him, grazing your tongue over his lips. He moaned at the contact. You grabbed his jaw, letting the glob mixed of your saliva and himself fall onto the heart of his tongue. He groaned, letting it slide down his throat. “I love you.” he whimpered, sloppily inhaling your lips.

You furrowed your brows, mocking the desperate look in his eyes. You watched him, a slow smile curling on your lips. You hadn’t realized how much you’d loved being in control. It reminded you that, for once, you weren’t following the rules, and that felt more delicious than anything you’d tasted in a long, long time.

You pumped your hand up and down his shaft, practically begging him to release all over your pretty face. “You wanna come for me?” you asked with a sweet, honey tone. “I’m so close,” he panted, fingers tangling between your strands of hair. “Fu– please,” he cried, mouth gaping open while hips desperately bucked toward you.

Taking him in mouth again, you slapped his stiff cock against your tongue, the familiar sensation flooding your mouth as saliva pooled in your cheeks. His fluids mixed with spit, oozing down your lips and pooling on your chin. It felt disgusting, the wetness creeping along your skin, but deep down, every drop was a small victory for making him feel good.

With each stroke, you watched the fizzy mixture drip, the mess clinging to your hand and wrist as you pumped vigorously. You squeezed him in your palms, watching him sputter. Come painting across your face. You bit your lip, trying to steady your hand, hoping you milked him empty. His slit deflating a little more with every squeeze. You could see the droplets peeking through, mocking you.

He threw his head back, catching his breath. “Feel good?” you teased, sucking your fingers. You slid your body up his, his bare cock still hard, brushing against the skin of your thigh. His body jolting at the touch.

"Thank you for your help today, baby," you murmured, letting your lips brush gently against the tip of his nose, a soft, affectionate kiss.

“Anytime,” he said, a playful glint in his eyes. “And don’t hesitate to bring me any other problems you’ve got,” he added, only half-joking, clearly savoring the reward you’d just given him. “I’m always glad to help.”

You laughed, the sound light and warm, as you slipped off the bed. “I’ll keep that in mind,” you teased, padding across the room toward the bathroom to shower. You glanced back at him once more, a smile still tugging at the corners of your mouth, “You coming?” you ask, disappearing into the bathroom.

He slid off the bed in a hurried, awkward motion, the springs letting out a sharp, staccato creak that echoed through the room. His feet barely touched the floor before he was shuffling off, making his way into the bathroom behind you.

gentle elliot smut (it could be a headcanon, blurb, preference or full on one shot whatever tickles your fancy :)) where reader is scared to make noise and elliot sorta urges her too because bsjsiqjsjajwajaja

but kinda heavy on the gentle i like absolutely adore gentle but sexual elliot he's cute <3

Hell yeah, I can do this. I love me a quick smutty blurby about my boy haha :D

His lips are slow against my neck, pressing heated, open-mouthed kisses against my searing skin, my fingers gripping his bicep as he nudges his hips against mine. His hands soothe down the expanse of my back, my head tipping back as he thrusts up into me, helping me move against him, guiding my hips as we go.

"Don't be shy on me, love." He whispers, the words sending an immediately shiver down my spine as I allow a shameless whimper to leave my lips. He groans happily at the noise, fingers squeezing my hips gently as he twitches inside of me. I giggle breathlessly at the feeling, loving how I make him feel and how easy it is to make him feel beyond belief. He knew my body so well, knowing every in and out to what makes me feel good and what drives me crazy.

"So good." I whisper, tucking my face in the crook of his neck as my fingers card through his hair, knowing he loves my gentle messages more than anything. This was more than just fucking like teens for pleasure. This was to feel and get lost in each other, to familiarize ourselves even more with each other's bodies, to bask in the closeness and comfort of each other's bodies and hushed words.

Luke Castellan losing virginity with the reader

can i kiss you?

let's push a loser!luke agenda pls pls pls guys pls see my vision he's a loser villain who just needs his dick sucked! [nsfw 17+]

the thought of luke castellan being a charming, skilled, intelligent, and mentor to most of the younger campers places him at the top of the food chain at half-blood. he’s practically the golden boy; the guy every girl wants and every boy wants to be. so, it sure does take you by surprise when he pauses at your kiss-swollen lips, brows furrowed in embarrassment as he whispers, “i haven’t… i’ve never gone this far before.”

you haven't done much. you've only palmed his crotch. he's hard to the touch, warm too.

your chest is pressed against his, luke's hands roam up and down the backs of your thighs as you sit on top of him, and he does it as if to soothe and steady himself, to have some kind of self-control while he kisses you. but at some point (maybe it's when you started running your fingers through his hair and tugged), he can't help the buck of his hips against your own.

when you dropped your hands from his hair and reached between the two of you, he pulled away, looking at you through his lashes, eyes lidded and lips parted to tell you a secret. the great luke castellan who has girls kissing the ground he walks on has never been touched before.

it makes you excited.

luke was a lot of your firsts; first love, first boyfriend. gods, he was even your first kiss years ago because of a silly dare from the aphrodite girls during a campfire night. but you never thought of yourself to be one of his firsts. you've always known luke was out of your league, so you've assumed he's far more experienced in the whole dating life and intimacy thing than you were.

but gods, were you wrong.

you could've stared at him all day, the glossy look in his eyes, and the shade of red that's started to grow on his cheeks after his admission.

"we can stop," you start to say. "we can just kiss."

suddenly the sun shining between the leaves of the trees starts to burn at your skin. you think there are peering eyes but there aren't. there can't be. you're too deep into the forest for anyone to find you and luke tucked away in a clearing of bushes filled with sweet berries.

when you move to get up, he holds onto your thighs tighter, stopping you. "no." you stare at him as his mouth opens and closes. he thinks hard about what he's about to say next. his voice drops when he tells you to stay. "please. don't stop."

you can feel a smile, well maybe more of a smirk, growing on your lips when you see the desperate look in his eyes. he pulls you closer, brushing his nose against the pulse on your neck before he licks and sucks at it.

he lets out a low, deep groan when you run your fingers through his hair again, tugging at the ends of it to pull him away. he's looking at you with those pretty doe, brown eyes.

"what do you want, luke?"

"you."

you laugh, it's soft and endearing. "yes, i know. i meant what do you want me to do for you?"

he doesn't know what to say. luke sputters. you raise your brows at this. how could it be that this is the same guy who's the best swordsman at him in the last, what, hundred years? he's melting into putty at your hands.

you lean closer and whisper in his ear, "do you want me to kiss you?"

he swallows, "yes."

"where?"

"anywhere."

you press a wet kiss by his jaw, "here?"

he doesn't say anything, only sighs.

"what about here?" you suck next to the skin by his adam's apple until there's a bruise. you can feel the vibrations in his throat against your lips when he groans again, a low, seductive sound that makes you nearly tremble in want.

you poke at his side, "can i go lower?"

luke nods. "yes."

"how low?" you're fucking with him now.

he rolls his eyes and stares at you, annoyed. but there's no true bite to his glare, not when you palm at his crotch again. he bucks his hips once more, chasing after your touch and your fingers fumble with the buttons of his shorts. "can i kiss you, luke?"

"fuck, yeah," he huffs, and he moves to meet your lips with his own. luke freezes though, when he watches you lean back, dodging his kiss.

"can i kiss you down here?" you correct yourself, palming him again. hopefully making your intentions more clear to him. you find a delight in watching him become so flustered so quickly.

he nods. once, twice, and then stutters out an eager yes. gently, you smooth the palm of your hand up and down his knee, then the skin of his thighs, not so different from how he caressed you earlier. you push his shirt up to his stomach and lean down to kiss his abs. you can feel him heave below you as you make your way lower.

your fingers trail over the hair on his skin, tracing the waistband of his boxers teasingly, and you can't help but giggle when his hips jerk up.

slowly, you pull down his underwear and take him into your hand. poor luke, he's so hard and so so warm; red and leaking and begging for some kind of attention.

he moans when you've only touched him. you lean closer, looking up at him as you press a kiss on the tip. then he whines, loud and long when you lick a long, wet stripe from the base of his cock to the throbbing head. naturally, his hands find a home in your hair. "shiiiiit."

"feels good?"

"so goo- gahhh-"

you barely give him a chance to answer as you're taking him into your mouth. he watches you take more and more of him, fingers curling into your hair. he whispers your name when you pump the rest of him with your hand.

you flatten your tongue and ease your throat to take him as far as you can. you're doing your best. it's not like you're a pro at this, you've only ever done this once before and that was in behind the bathrooms with some kid from ares' cabin. but the way luke moans above you, pulling your hair and calling your name, you like to think you're pretty good at this. you want to be if it means you'd hear luke whine and whimper like this more often.

"yeah, just... keep goin'"

and you do. you suck and swirl your tongue against him until there's a faint strain at your neck and he's struggling to keep his hips still so he doesn't buck into your throat. that's when you pull off him with a wet pop and your hand fists his length to keep the pace.

"use me," you gasp, trying to catch your breath. "want you to use me. i wanna make you feel good." luke's dick twitches in your hands, 'cause fuck, you're a sight to see.

you're sinking back down on him, doing that thing where you swirl your tongue against his head and now you're playing with his balls-

"fuck- fuck!" his hands pushing you down until your nose brushes against his pelves and you're gagging around him. he holds you there for a few seconds before pulling you back. and then he pushes you down again, and again. luke slowly grows confident, his hands push and pull to the point he's not nearly as gentle as he had been at first, increasing his speed while he finally finds the nerve to buck his hips into you again.

"you're so pretty like this, baby," he moans, brushing your hair out of your face. "yeah, yeah, so, fuck, you feel so good." his thumb on your cheek cleans the tears running down your cheek. "beautiful."

his abs start to flex and tremble when you hallow your cheeks at the head of his cock, your hand working the rest of him. "i'm- i'm..." he's stuttering again, "wait, baby, i'm gonna-"

when you hum against him, he comes into your mouth. moan sputter from his lips, along with hushed curses and whispers of your name. luke holds your face gently, pulling you up, up and up until your lips brush against his in a phantom kiss. you're smiling at him as he tries to blink away the haze from his eyes. "can i kiss you, luke?"

he huffs, "shut up." and he brings your mouth to his and kisses you hard.

Hihi, ik this is corny lol but could you do a fake dating scenario with 1610!miles where he uses the relationship to cover up his identity as spiderman and why he’s always gone ?

I LOVE THE FAKE DATING TROPE SO MUCH!

Thank you for the prompt! I added some childhood friends to lovers to this :) Hope you like it!

---

Miles and you had been inseparable friends since childhood. Growing up, your families had lived in adjacent apartments, but circumstances forced your family to move to a more affordable neighborhood when you turned eight. Despite attending different schools, you remained friends throughout the years.

As fate would have it, you had come to suspect that Miles was none other than Spider-Man through your occasional encounters with the web-slinging hero. His unmistakable voice, his quirky sense of humor, and that distinctive laugh had given his true identity away.

Miles’ double life as a superhero kept him perpetually occupied. It had been a while since you had last hung out, but you were understanding of the situation. Keeping New York safe was not an easy task.

Each time you witnessed him soaring through the towering skyscrapers of the city, a smile appeared on your face. He was happy, and that was all that mattered to you.

On this particular day, as you were heading home from school, an unexpected event unfolded before your eyes. It was quite a comical sight – a shopping bag laden with groceries in Spider-Man’s hands, as if he were an ordinary citizen carrying out mundane tasks. But just as he exited the store, a car raced down the street at a dangerous speed, closely followed by a convoy of police cars.  

Without a moment’s hesitation, he dropped the shopping bag and leaped into action, joining the chase. Amused by the relentless chaos that seemed to follow Spider-Man wherever he went, you decided to do what any loyal friend would have done: You picked up his abandoned groceries and embarked on a mission of your own – to deliver them to his parents’ apartment.

It took you quite some time until you finally arrived at your destination. The sound of a heated argument echoed from the inside of Miles’ apartment. You hesitated for a moment, unsure of what to do next.

“¡No puedo creer que te hayas olvidado de comprar los comestibles otra vez!” His mother’s voice rang out, filled with frustration.  

“Lo siento,” you heard Miles’ voice reply. “I just – I got distracted, and then forgot about the food entirely!”

“Distracted by what?” His dad sounded equally irritated. “You had one job!”

Technically, the poor kid has multiple responsibilities, you thought. That’s when you decided to step in and save the day. You knocked on the door, determined to help.  

The conversation abruptly fell silent. Miles opened the door, his expression a mix of surprise and bewilderment when he saw you.

"You left your groceries at my house," you said, attempting to convey with your gaze: Hey, I know you're Spider-Man, and I saw you drop your shit just to chase after a criminal. Step up your game.  

His father appeared in the doorway. When he recognized you, he smiled. "Oh, it's you. Miles, why didn't you tell me you were visiting a friend?"

You could see the gears turning in Miles' head. Then, to your own astonishment, he responded, "Girlfriend. Not friend."

A sudden crash of dishes on the floor interrupted the scene. Miles' mother stormed towards the door. "What did I just hear?"

You raised an eyebrow, silently questioning him. What the hell, Morales?

Thankfully, you and Miles had always possessed the unique ability to communicate without words.

His look pleaded: Play along. Please.

Who were you to let down a friend in need? If he needed the excuse of a girlfriend, then of course you would provide your assistance.

His father's jaw had dropped. He stared at you as if he were seeing you for the first time in his life.

"Yep!” you said cheerfully. “Girlfriend. We've been dating for..." You looked at him, seeking his support on the matter.

"For a while!" he rushed to say.

Not helpful, you thought.

"What do you mean 'a while'?" his mother inquired suspiciously.

"Nine months,” he said.

"NINE MONTHS?" Her shrill voice pierced through the room, making you cringe. "You've been dating a girl for nine months, and you're only telling us now? Come on in, dear, don't just stand there in the doorway!" She grabbed you by the shoulder and, before you could protest, you were dragged into the living room.

Oh, boy. This was going to be a disaster.

"That explains a lot," his father muttered, but it sounded more like he was talking to himself and thinking out loud. He patted Miles on the back. "You could have talked to me about it, kid. Although... I guess you're not a kid anymore, huh?" His tone turned sentimental and fatherly, and you couldn’t help but feel embarrassed by the entire situation. You had to suppress the urge to grimace.

"Miles, don't just stand there like that, take your girlfriend's bag! She came all the way here because you're forgetful." His mother gave you a tense, yet warm smile. She probably would have reacted worse if Miles had introduced them to a complete stranger.

Miles, who suddenly seemed to remember that he had a role to play, hurriedly took the bag from you, putting it on the kitchen counter. When he returned, you could see him hesitate for a moment before giving you a quick kiss on the cheek.

Tame.

Well. You were in front of his parents, so displaying restraint seemed appropriate.

But if you were already doing him a favor, you wanted to have your fun with it.

With a mischievous grin, you took his hand in yours, and he looked at you with wide, somewhat panicked eyes.

"I don't understand why you didn’t tell us sooner,” his father said.

"Because you guys embarrass me," Miles murmured shyly.

"Embarrassing? Us?" His mother gave him a disapproving glare. Then, turning to you, she said, "Don't break his heart, yeah?”  

"Mom!" He whined, blushing.

His genuine reactions were delightfully innocent, and you couldn’t resist taking it a step further.

You threw both your arms around his shoulders and pulled him into a quick kiss. He was taller than you, and his hands instinctively wrapped around your waist. Caught off guard, his eyes widened as your lips met his.

His father cleared his throat, and his mother made a choked sound.

Grinning, you released him from the embrace.  

"I'm afraid I still have a lot of homework to do. I'll see you tomorrow, Miles. You guys have a great night, Mr. and Mrs. Morales!"

You left the apartment.

Miles ran after you and caught up with you on the street.

"You – what was that just now?" he exclaimed.

"I should be the one asking questions. Since when did I become your girlfriend?"

"I had to use that excuse!" He sounded contrite. "Sorry, it's just... They've been on my case for ages because I'm always busy and away from home."

"Don't worry about it." You gave him an encouraging smile. "I don't mind playing your girlfriend. Was that your first kiss just now?"

He flinched, embarrassment written all over his face. "No, I've kissed hundreds of girls. What are you talking about?"

"You're a pretty bad liar, Miles."

He puffed out his cheeks. "Fine. Yeah, it was my first kiss. Satisfied?"

"No, not yet. But it seems we'll have plenty of opportunities to practice kissing in the future."

Before he could say anything in response, you had already walked on, leaving an extremely perplexed and embarrassed Miles behind.

Well, you thought, this whole ordeal might actually be a nice distraction from my boring life.

You just had to be careful not to fall for him.

INTENTIONS, pope heyward

summary: y/n makes pope relax after seeing how stressed he is while he has other intentions

notes: idk how i feel about this but it’s short & sweet so here it is

warnings: sexual intentions, kissing and a light description of nudity.

“POPE baby you’re going to pass” y/n sighed as she watched him peace holes on his rooms floor.

“what if I don’t? then i fail and that goes on my-“

“pope”

Keep reading

dumbification (kinda); riding; MDNI 18+ w/ RODRICK HEFFLEY

rodrick gets lost when you ride him. no, not lost as much as distracted.

it's a little comical, really. it's mostly flattering when you watch his eyes focus completely on your tits. but it's also a little funny. there were times where you held back laughter when rodrick's mouth would go slack, his plump lips still glistening from your lip gloss, drool leaking from the corner. he was a big drooler, you knew that. you had the evidence from the nap the two of you had taken earlier still resting on your sternum, right between the things he couldn't keep his eyes—or hands—off of.

you wouldn't call him dumb (at least to his face) in most circumstances, but he tends to get really dumb when you ride him. you've told him as such, cooing down at him as you tipped his chin up with a gentle pull from your pointer finger.

"you've gone dumb on me?" you asked him, your voice more sultry than even you thought you could muster. and it sent him off the deep end. his eyes fluttered shut, and his head tipped all the way back. you actually think he whined, and the stroke to your ego was almost as big as his orgasm.

BY YOUR HANDS ALONE

neteyam sully x gn!reader

notes: silly and overtly fluffy. flustered neteyam. reupload.

"there you are."

"here i am," you mirror back instantly, hardly sparing a glance up at the far too familiar voice as your fingers continue to work at chopping up some vegetables. it's a busy day—a momentous day. there is no time to waste.

"let me help," neteyam offers, already making moves to steal your knife from you as he steps to your side.

but you weave it away from his grasp, nudge him back with your shoulder and point the knife at him as you address him. "aht, don't think so," you differ, then continue your slicing. "besides, don't you have your own tasks to get to, mr. mighty warrior?"

days like this require a lot of preparation; everyone chipping in and doing their part so that it all gets done and runs smoothly. if even one person slacks off, it could cause a rift in sanctified plans. and that simply wouldn’t do. no, it would not.

"i have completed all of them, actually," he retorts, but he shrivels when you narrow your eyes up at him. "okay, almost all of them."

you scoff, let your pupils meet your sockets with a roll as you pry the truth out of him. of course, one of the most important days of the year and it is now that neteyam chooses to have an irresponsible whim. you aren’t sure what you’re gonna do with him.

"your mother will have your tail if she finds one thing out of place for tonight, you know this." it isn't necessarily a warning, but there is some tip-off in your tone. "you must get everything done."

neteyam hums, leans his hip against the raised wood that you are using as a makeshift counter. he says nothing, simply watches you. takes into account how you dice up the vegetables in front of you diligently before sliding them to the side with your knife and moving onto the next ones. his stare is driving you crazy—no one works well under pressure, after all.

it causes you to have a slight blunder; a misstep. you cut a pattern a tad too fast and send a slice of root tumbling towards the ground. neteyam's instincts are superb, quick, and he catches it before it hits the dirt. mumbling a thank you under your breath as he places it back on the tray, you find the heir before you still not making a move to speak.

you aren't sure why it unnerves you so.

"what do you have left to complete?" it's not the question you want to ask, but 'what the hell do you keep staring at?' doesn't sound quite as nice. so you settle on it.

you take a pause, a breath, to turn to him. throughout the years you have seen the eldest sully child wear many expressions. ones tainted by smiles, irritation, pride, devotion—but this one has you tipping your head in the most peculiar way.

because timidness is not something you think you've ever seen don the strong features of neteyam sully.

he carries himself with such an air of confidence; shoulders pressed back and chin held high—not arrogant, but undaunted. he does not shift gaze unless he is avoiding scoldings and he does not suck in his cheek unless he is fighting frustration. so, you wonder, what could possibly have his face contorted in such a reticent manner. if you did not know any better, you’d almost call his demeanor a rendition of shy. but that seems rather uncharacteristic of him, doesn’t it?

"ah—are you sure you don't need help with that?" he's deflecting, brushing off your inquiry like he hasn't heard it. and you can't decide whether you find that amusing or concerning.

he's making way for your knife again and you twist your arm to hold it out of his reach behind you. you eye him carefully, flit your gaze all around him to pick up on anything that you can that would explain his behavior.

"tell me." it's not an order, you aren't demanding, but neteyam nods his head like he's respondent of such.

"my father told me i needed a, uhm," he stutters, licks his lips, like he's tripping over his own tongue. and it's undeniable the way you see his ears twitch. "for the celebration tonight. i need a.."

"a what, neteyam?" you press, cock your brow up at him. you don't think you've ever seen him like this. never witnessed him so.. "you need a what?"

"a.. date."

so fidgety.

"a date?" you repeat with widening eyes.

"no, no not a—not a date really but i need someone for the—“

"the staining ceremony.” you finish for him, continue his sentence because with all his blubbering you aren’t sure he’ll ever spit it out.

he nods curtly.

the celebration tonight is for all the young warriors who have proved themselves throughout the calendar year as being strong willed and great protectors of the clan. neteyam, of course, is one of them. has been since he earned the right to be titled as such. so perhaps it should have clicked in your head that he’d be searching for a partner for the staining ceremony portion of the night.

but a part of you—if you’re being completely honest with yourself—just figured he had one already. events like this take weeks of planning; most warriors find their artisan a fortnight in advance. because it cannot just be anyone.

the partner one chooses for the staining ceremony must be someone with whom they feel a connection. some of the older warriors choose their mates. some of the youngest choose their mother or father. some settle for siblings. others, in brazen acts of outstretched hands, choose a mate unbonded; one who they harbor feelings for but have yet to seal such in the eyes of Eywa.

you cannot lie and say you had not pondered over who neteyam’s choice would be. a part of you thought he would pick kiri—they have always been so close and she has been his partner for such ceremony before. but, you are not deaf to the murmurs of your village, you are not ignorant of what has been passed from mouth to ear of all that will listen. there have been other… prospects who have been suggested to neteyam for this special commemoration.

your name has not been among them.

“well,” you continue, tear your eyes away from him and get back to the task at hand. there is no need to dwell on such things and fall behind. you have just one more batch of greens after this to prepare then you will be done and can walk away from all this. “if you’re here to ask my opinion on who your choice should be, i’m not sure i will prove to be much help.”

a shut down; a cut off. you’d like this conversation to be over as soon as possible because it’s making your fingers itch. you’re offering him a gateway to close the topic off.

but he doesn’t seem to get the memo.

“no,” he chuckles, now, and you can tell he’s shaking his head out of the corner of your eye. it’s breathy; like he’s punched it out of his chest and finally broken past the barrier of whatever flusteredness had him trapped before. “that’s not why i came to find you.”

“if it’s to convince kiri to sacrifice herself to do it for you again this year, i’m not game for that either.” you don’t understand why his laughter leaves you agitated, why this whole situation has caused an odd twisting in your gut.

“that won’t be necessary,” he disputes, “i do not need kiri to be my partner this year.”

your fingers fumble, your slicing stutters. “oh?” and you want to kick yourself for how your voice hitches. you clear your throat, bite the corner of your lip that neteyam can’t see. “convince some other poor soul to do it for you? is it zuy’nik? i know she presented you a kill from her hunt recently.”

neteyam hums. “no. i have not chosen zuy’nik.”

you grip your knife harder, focus carefully on the blade as you chop down on a bundle of leaves. your throat is dry, your heart is thundering. you feel silly.

“sënuul, then?” you question, do your best to sound as disinterested as possible even though your chest is burning to know who could be lucky enough to have been picked by the heir himself. “i hear many young warriors wish for her. they say she has delicate hands.”

your hands—in contrast—have grown tense; your chops near erratic. being this worked up over a man who is not your mate seems so futile, so nonsensical. if your mother were here to see you now she’d call you childish.

but is it so childish to want things your heart yearns for?

“while that may be true,” neteyam agrees with the sentiment, and that makes your stomach lurch, “it is not sënuul either.”

“then who is it? who could you possibly—“

a hand covering yours has you cutting yourself off. neteyam’s palm melds over your knuckles; stops your unsafe cutting and stills your wrist’s movements. before you can even bring yourself to look at him, calloused fingers are hooking around your chin. swiveling your head around, you have no choice but to meet his gaze. and it is not averting, not twinkling with tepidness like it was before. you think, for a moment, that’s because he’s passed the feeling onto you.

“i do not wish for any other partner in this clan.” and his voice does not waver, does not stumble, now. you swallow as you listen. “i came here to ask if you would do me the honors, for tonight.”

your tongue feels like cotton; the fuzz of it floating to your brain to make everything go static. this is.. not what you had expected.

you had expected to follow neytiri’s orders for preparing the food for the meals that would be shared. you had expected to dress yourself in the ceremonial clothing and jewelry you keep for these special occasions. you had expected to stand around the edges of the circle during the opening dance, serve food to the elders, and sit with a content tight smile as you watched kiri declare neteyam’s war paint for the third year in a row before the true celebration began.

you had not expected yourself to be standing face to face with neteyam, ears twitching embarrassingly sporadic, as he asks you to join him in one of the most intimate and important events of a warrior’s life.

and you suppose you can use that element of surprise as the reason why you find yourself a tad bit speechless while you nod dumbly. a wide grin cracks across his face, curves up his cheeks as he lets out another breathy laugh.

“thank you,” he murmurs, and he still hasn’t let go of your chin. “i was worried i would not get the chance to ask you in time. i was pushing it, but i tried to get all my other duties done as fast as i could.”

now that, the mention of time, finally knocks you out of your little lovesick trance.

“hey, wait,” you huff, shove at his chest lightly with your free hand. “you should have asked me sooner! i should have already had your stain pattern planned out, and—and now i have to go get all of your paints and i didn’t factor in the time for that. you’re terrible!”

“ah, i’m not terrible. i am sure you can just wing it,” he waves off, simpers like this is funny.

“wing it?” you gape at him. because he genuinely cannot be serious. “this will be your war paint pattern for the rest of the year. if it’s bad then you will be stuck with it. you want me just to wing that?!”

“why not? i have faith in you, i’ve put myself into your hands.” and it’s meant to playful, you know this, but the way he’s looking at you proves his words hold their full weight regardless. “don’t be mad at me.”

“oh, i’m mad,” you retort, brush him away as you get back to slicing because now you really do not have the time for distractions. “i cannot believe you have waited until last minute.”

“would you like me to ask someone else?” he queries, and you whip your head over to level him with a glare. “i mean, i am sure sënuul would be honored to be the partner of the future olo’eyktan.”

“you know, i liked you better when you were sputtering and nervous,” you spit back, retract your attention once again. “terrible. truly terrible.”

“ah, do not be mad at me,” he levels again, “what can i do to have you forgive me?”

“nothing. you will never be forgiven.” with no hesitation, but also no malice. your bite holds no venom, and your cheeks are still warm. such hypocrisy you spew.

“nothing?” he questions, and you don’t even have to see his face to know he is smiling. there he is again; the neteyam who holds his chin up high and taunts his brother into mindless games to prove his worth. you admire this neteyam; love this neteyam.

this neteyam grabs your face and tugs you forward before you can think of another mindless rebuttal to spout.

the kiss is light but fervent, and if you were a poetic person you might just say that his lips taste like future promises you already intend to keep. the fight drains from your body and you find no urge to bring it back. this neteyam seems to know how to quell you, how to dispel your frustration and wipe away your grievances like fogged up glass. so easy, so effortlessly.

he pulls away languidly, breath puffing against your lips. "forgive me?" he asks again, and you find yourself nodding before he even finishes the question.

he turns your head to peck your cheek then drops his hands to finally successfully steal the knife still held in yours. you tip your head, blinking through the daze to inquire what he's doing.

"i can finish that, you know."

"i know," he answers, then flashes you a crooked grin that has your stomach twisting in a way far different than before. "but don't you think you should start planning how you want to trail your hands over me?"

and, oh. part of you wants to hit him for that. but part of you wants to tug him in by the neckpiece he dons and get him to shut up by an alternative method.

as you reach forward to run your hand ever so heedlessly up his chest, a faux illusion of planning your mapping, you think you might just settle on the latter.

kay this might be a CRAZY thing to say and idk if ur taking reqs rn but just!!! take this as a lil treat idk!!!!

luke w a sunburned reader……… and bro is obsessed w how he leaves handprints after he touches you…. IS THIS CRAZY IDK. AM I INSANE.

wc + pairing: 1.5k, luke castellan x daughter of poseidon! reader

notes/warnings: this thought literally made me feral thank u so much😵‍💫😵‍💫 got a little carried away but wanted to write some more of my twin beads babies so this was the perfect opportunity! reader is able to burn, mentions/allusions to sex, luke is horny but aren’t we all, just fluff & banter with smutty undertones

The waves roll in to break crisply against the shoreline. There’s a noise they make, a soft crackle and splash, that sounds like laughter. You’ve had a long, good day at the camp beach, savouring your one day off to lounge on the sand with your friends and swim as far as your legs could carry you. Percy was the only one willing to keep up with you—Clarisse tried and hid her bitterness when she failed, and Luke humoured you for all of five minutes until he realized he didn’t need to be your swim buddy anymore. Percy clumsily waded in after you each and every time, and it had never been more obvious the two of you were related.

Despite the beauty of the sun warming down the sky, Luke can’t bring himself to pay attention. There’s only you, between his legs, staring out at the water like you’re seeing it for the first time. You’re especially gorgeous after a long day at the beach. Even prettier now that Luke doesn’t have to pretend you’re not. The muscles and the skin he spent ages tracing in the darkness of his cabin have a new weight to them out here, heavy and captured in the shadow of the sun.

He pulls you against him, arms winding around your front. You’re so warm and he needs more of it. He presses his nose into the dip of your shoulder and breathes. You smell like salt and sunscreen, a citrusy comfort that’s defined the past five years of his life.

“You tired?” He asks, muffled against your skin. No matter what you say, he knows. He can feel you sinking into him, the way your muscles have melted away.

“I’m happy,” is all you say, because you know he knows too.

The curve of his smile matches the curve of your shoulder as he kisses your skin, twice. He never does it once anymore. Reminds him of all the years he’d spent pretending like he didn’t want you. The least he could do is double what he gives you; return everything he’s saved for you in your youth.

He feels you sigh as he traces the tip of his nose up the dip in your neck, and the way your breath wavers when his mouth follows suit. He kisses your neck lazily, lets his teeth scrape on your skin, lets himself soak in the warmth and your exhales. He likes it when you pretend this doesn’t drive you crazy.

You’re really not giving in this time, though, and he supposes he’s in no rush either, so he pulls back and rests on the heels of his palms. You groan a bit, but whatever you’re about to say is cut by his very pronounced, “Shit.”

You glance back at him. “What?”

His eyebrows pique. “You’re burnt, sailor. Like super burnt.”

“Really?” You try to crane to get a look at your back, which is futile, and sigh, “How bad?”

“Pretty bad.”

“Like three years ago camp triathlon bad?”

He shakes his head. “Like … last year’s kayaking trip bad.”

That settles you a bit, so you shrug. “Oh, that’s fine.” You wave Luke off and turn back to the sunset. “You know it’s so weird, I never burn in the water. It’s only when I’m out of it that it happens.”

“Or when heatstroke happens,” Luke remarks, taking the opportunity of your back facing him to run his fingers along your spine. “Do you remember after the triathlon right after I beat you? When you crossed the line and the second I came over you started—”

“Please don’t finish this—”

“—vomiting all over the place and nearly passed out in my arms?”

“Luke!”

“And that older Ares kid you thought was soooo hot had to take you to the infirmary?”

“Okay, that is enough!” You turn around and wrestle his hands away from you, until he pushes back and you’re both slapping each other wherever you can, laughing like children. “Colin Ackerman was hot, you were just jealous of him!”

He catches your splitting smile that hits his heart like a tsunami. “Yeah, I wonder why!” He manages to gain the upper hand and maneuvers you back into his arms, but you put on an impressive show pretending like it’s not what you wanted all along. Your back settles against him once again, your nose smushed to his cheek, and you nudge and nudge until he kisses you. You sigh and trace your finger along his jaw and Luke wants to kick himself stupid for going this long without tasting you whenever he could.

“You’re so annoying,” you grin, kissing his cheek.

“At least I’m not Colin Ackerman.”

You snort and kiss his face again before turning back to the lake. Luke takes it upon himself to keep running fingers up your spine, noticing how your skin ripples a different shade in his wake. He can’t believe he didn’t see you were burnt sooner. You never listen to him about wearing a shirt once you come out of the water. Unfortunately, the part of him in his boxers is often glad for that.

He watches intently as he presses his thumbs into your back and drags them out, feeling your muscles stretch. It’s distracting, the burn briefly fading on your skin under his fingertips. It’s like a map of exactly where he’s touching you. A mark that lingers.

“Does it hurt?” He asks, running his thumb down your back again just to see what it does to you.

“What?”

“Mm, this,” he murmurs, moving up, watching a river blossom between your shoulder blades as he touches you.

“Not really,” you let out a pleased sigh when he kneads your shoulders for a moment. “Feels good.”

“Yeah?”

He drags his hands down to the middle of your back, making sure to press hard enough that he can see the path he’s travelling. He rubs circles near your spine, a place he knows you knot up. “This?”

“Aye aye, captain.”

He presses his palms flat against your back and pulls away to see the imprint. Embarrassingly, he thinks it’s one of the hottest things he’s ever seen. His hands travel further, resting on your hips. “How about when I do… this?” He hitches his thumbs just below the waistband of your bottoms.

“Luke!” You whip back to him like you’re scandalized, which he knows very well as a look you give when you want to rile him up.

“What, I’m just asking!” He takes your hips and drags you back so you’re flush again. There’s a flash of your smile when you look back at him, and he knows he has you. He kisses your neck again, toying with your waistband, letting his fingers dip a little lower every time. “How’s that feel?”

You don’t answer him, and you don’t need to. The sigh you give when he kisses your pulse is enough. He lingers there, swiping his tongue over the spot, and takes his sweet time cherishing it. You make a little sound that nearly kills him. “So pretty like this,” he says. “Wanna see?”

The two of you are chest-to-chest before he even gets a chance to elaborate. He has to prod your face away with his nose to get you to stop kissing him. Suck on that, Colin Ackerman!

He looks down and feels your gaze follow. He rests a hand on one of your arms, draped over his shoulders. When he drags his thumb along your skin, the path snakes across your complexion. “Look.”

“Yeesh,” you say, and Luke laughs. He lays kisses along your arm, and he imagines this is what the ocean smells like. This is what lost sailors feel when they finally press their faces against land again.

“Can I take you back to my cabin?” He asks, letting his teeth graze the skin of your shoulder. He doesn’t ever want to move, watching the imprint of his thumbs against your ribs and his teeth on your neck. He wants to see his hands on you everywhere.

You wind a hand in his hair. “There will be people in there.”

He gently snaps the strap of your swimsuit against your shoulder with his mouth, “Your cabin?”

“Percy.”

The sigh he lets out is embarrassingly pent-up and he pulls away to look at you in your beautiful face. “Can I please take you somewhere nobody else is so I can take off all these clothes and see where else I can touch you?”

“Be my guest, captain,” you smile eagerly.

“Thank you,” he exhales, and you waste no time in kissing him again, open-mouthed and fervent. He imagines his handprints nestled into your back, your hips, your thighs, and he’s gotta get out of here before he gets too carried away. You feel good and warm and wonderful and he’s desperate for more.

Thankfully he has practice in patience when it comes to you, so he kisses you twice more until the scorch is unbearable. The two of you rush along the sand like drunks, until Luke gets you somewhere with a little less sun and a lot less fabric so he can make good on his word.

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summer road trip with luke castellan (16+, implied sex)

it starts with a promise.

made late at night, in the kind of hazy space between sleep and dreaming, when the world feels quiet and nothing’s quite real yet. you’re lying side by side on a roof somewhere—one of those abandoned places luke likes to sneak into. the stars are barely visible, city lights bleeding up into the sky, but you’re not really looking at the stars anyway.

“we should do it,” he says, breathless from laughter after a dumb joke he barely managed to get out. “just take off one day. no plans. no schedules. just you, me, and the open road.”

you laugh into the sleeve of your hoodie. “okay, cowboy.”

“i’m serious.” he props himself up on his elbows. “we’ll make playlists. stay in janky motels. get gas station snacks that’ll probably kill us. it’ll be perfect.”

you hum, eyes fluttering shut. “we’re always saying ‘one day.’ you ever think about making it this day?”

he doesn’t say anything for a long second.

then, “i’ll steal a car.”

you snort. “please don’t steal a car.”

“fine. borrow one.” he nudges your arm. “c’mon. you know you want this.”

you do. gods, you really do.

and maybe that’s why two weeks later you’re throwing a duffel bag in the backseat of an old car luke somehow managed to “legally” obtain (you don’t ask too many questions), a worn paper map stuffed into the glove compartment, and three half-charged burner phones just in case.

you don’t even pick a destination. that’s the point.

it’s about the drive.

the first few days are the best kind of disorganized. you get hopelessly turned around trying to get out of the city, miss your turn like, four times, and end up on some weird detour through a town that seems stuck in the 1950s. you eat breakfast-for-dinner at a diner with cracked red booths and a waitress who calls you both “sweethearts.” luke leaves a doodle on a napkin and tucks it into the jukebox.

the road stretches ahead like a ribbon of possibility, glittering under the sun. the heat blurs the horizon, making everything shimmer like a mirage, and the sky is that kind of obnoxiously perfect blue that feels more like a postcard than real life.

the a.c. in the car gave up somewhere around three days ago, so the windows are rolled down, warm air rushing in and tangling your hair, sticking your shirt to your back. it doesn’t help much, but it’s better than nothing.

you've got one foot propped on the dash and a half-melted slushie wedged into the cupholder, condensation dripping down the sides. the map—the one you swore you didn’t need, and luke insisted you bring anyway—flutters against your knee every time the wind hits just right. it’s already creased and stained, with corners starting to curl. neither of you are really using it.

a cd clicks softly in the stereo, and a hazy guitar riff spills out—something easy, something old. the kind of music that makes you feel like you’re in a movie.

you hum to the songs you know, watching the scenery blur past in golden smears of light and heat.

luke’s driving one-handed, the other resting lazily out the window, fingers tapping against the door in time with the beat. sunglasses slide down the bridge of his nose, and there’s a sunburn blooming along the edge of his jaw that he keeps forgetting to take care of. he looks over at you, grinning.

“you’re gonna fly out the window if you lean any further.”

“worth it,” you say, hair whipping across your face. “this breeze is all that’s keeping me alive right now.”

he chuckles, reaching over to tug the map from your lap. “you’re the one who said we didn’t need to stop for sunscreen. or, y’know, ice.”

“and you’re the one who didn’t want to stop for directions,” you shoot back, watching him squint at the map like it personally offended him. “so now we’re two thirsty idiots lost somewhere between nowhere and hell.”

“romantic,” he says, tossing the map into the backseat. “just the way i like it.”

you roll your eyes, but it’s affectionate. always is with him.

the wind smells like dust and wildflowers, and every few miles, you pass a road sign faded by time and sun. one of them promises a lake in twenty minutes which probably is not true. the next, a diner with the “best pie in the state.” you don’t stop for either. maybe the next one.

you were supposed to take turns driving. that was the deal—fifty-fifty, no arguments. but luke, being luke, never sticks to the plan. he always insists he’s fine, even when you catch his eyes fluttering shut at a red light, head tilting slightly like he’s about to nod off right then and there.

“i literally saw you close your eyes for five seconds,” you say when he pulls into a gas station, the gravel crunching beneath the tires as he parks.

“it was just five seconds,” he groans.

“five seconds away from crashing,” you mutter, already unbuckling your seatbelt. “move over.”

he sighs, dragging himself out from behind the wheel with all the theatrics of someone who’s definitely not fine, even if he still insists otherwise. he grumbles under his breath as he slides into the passenger seat—and is completely passed out the second his head hits the window. no “i’m not even tired,” no “just resting my eyes.” just out cold. mouth open, snoring, even drooling a little.

you drive comfortably after that. there’s less tension on your shoulders now that you’re the one in control, and luke’s quiet snoring is oddly comforting.

he stirs sometime later, sleep-warm and rumpled, his voice still thick with it when he reaches across the console. his hand finds yours with ease, like it’s muscle memory. his fingers slot between yours and, without a word, he lifts your hand and presses a kiss to the back of it. soft. slow. like a thank-you.

somewhere between a cracked-out diner with the best grilled cheese you’ve ever had and a pit stop at a quiet national park, you start feeling it—that warm, slow burn that only summer with luke castellan can bring.

it’s in the way he looks at you when you’re not looking, eyes softer than you’ve ever seen them. it’s in the casual brush of his thumb over the back of your hand. it’s in the way he steals bites of your food, complains about the heat, and still tucks a cold bottle of water into your hands without being asked.

he’s quiet during the hikes, but he always slows down so you don’t fall behind, even when you insist you’re fine. he keeps snacks in his pockets for you, things he knows you like, things you didn’t even notice him buying. and when you sit beside him on the edge of a cliff, watching the sun drip like honey into the horizon, he kisses your shoulder so gently it sends goosebumps across your skin.

he takes so many pictures of you. most of the time you don’t even notice until he shows you later—sun-drenched, wind-tousled, blurry with motion but sharp with love. he says he wants to remember you like this. you laugh and roll your eyes, but still smile a little too hard when you see them.

you two stop at a few motels every now and then. they were nothing special. peeling paint, flickering neon sign half-buzzed out, and a questionable stain or two on the carpet—but it’s cheap, and it’s got just enough charm to feel like part of the story. luke leans against the counter while you check in, tapping the bell repeatedly until you swat at him.

the old woman behind the desk gives you a room key and a knowing smirk like she’s seen a thousand versions of you two before: sunburnt, road-weary, eyes too bright to be anything but in love.

sometimes, impulses get the best of the two of you. like when one day luke spots a faded little hand-painted sign pointing down an overgrown path off the side of the highway. beach access. there’s no one around. no cars. just the sound of cicadas and wind through tall grass.

you both follow it on instinct, barefoot and laughing, racing toward the sound of crashing waves.

and then there it is: a hidden stretch of shoreline tucked between two cliffs, like a secret carved out just for you. no footprints, no noise except for the ocean. the sand’s hot and soft under your feet, the sun dipping low on the horizon and casting everything in amber.

you run straight into the water, still half-dressed, splashing and shrieking when luke dunks you under and then pulls you back up, breathless and dripping. he kisses you then, water-slicked and grinning, hands on your waist like he’s never going to let go.

and later, after you’ve both sprinted back to the car, giddy and dripping wet, after the sand’s stuck to every inch of your skin and the sun’s painted you gold, you end up tangled in the back seat. skin sticky with sweat, your bodies pressed close in the heat of the car, breathing in tandem.

the windows fog up, the air thick with salt and sun and something heavier. the radio hums low, some lazy summer song playing beneath the sounds of your bodies shifting, touching, needing. his hands roam like he’s mapping you out all over again, rough in the way he holds you but gentle in the way he touches, like he knows exactly where to press to make you shiver.

he kisses you like he’s trying to memorize the taste of salt on your lips, like he wants to bottle this exact moment and keep it somewhere safe. and you, half-laughing between gasps, fingers twisted in his curls, mumble against his mouth, “i told you the backseat would get too hot.”

“guess we’ll have to open the door,” he says, voice low and teasing. “get a breeze in here.”

you roll your eyes, breathless and flushed. “fuck off, if we get caught by some poor park ranger—”

“worth it,” he grins, before kissing you again. deeper, slower this time.

and when you’re breathless and half-dressed, your back pressed to the warm seat and your body aching in all the best ways, you lie there with your head on his chest. his heartbeat is loud in your ear, steady and real.

you tilt your face up toward him, the fading light painting him in gold. “same time next summer?”

his arm tightens around you, his voice soft and full of something you don’t have a name for yet. “you’re not getting rid of me that easy.”