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whocaresstillthelouvre · 1 month

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Golden Walkway

Pairing: Jackson Joel Miller x Female Reader (Reader is a teacher in Jackson, has long hair.) Rating: Explicit. 18+ (Minors DNI) Summary: It’s your birthday, Joel takes you out to the Tipsy Bison, kisses (and does more to) you in the rain, and takes you home to give you a gift (it's sex, the gift is sex). Also, the thought of Joel spitting whiskey in someone's mouth happened and I had to write it out. 🤷🏼‍♀️ Warnings: smut, drinking, consent first, degradation second, followed by so much praise, hair pulling, spitting, Joel calls you a slut, fingering against a brick wall, F receiving oral, I watched that doggy style Narcos gif (for research) a lot, unprotected p in v, apocalypse birth control (pulling out), Joel’s canon age, Reader’s in her 30’s. Words: 4,300 A/N: Hi! Welcome to my first published fic. I'm currently working on a grander scale fic with these two, I hope to have the first chapter out within the next couple of weeks. I just really wanted to get this out there! Thanks for reading and a big thank you to @ohheypedrito for all of her help and also to our phones for not overheating when I send 40 texts at once with ideas for fics. Hope you enjoy, can't even blame the feralness of this on the full moon.

Edit: I posted the Masterlist for Elks, my work these two are included in.

***

“Was turning 21 as fun as they’d show in movies back then?” You’re cuddled in next to Joel on his couch sketching in your notebook while Joel reads a book about Native Americans that you found him. You always do this, a random question or thought to break the comfortable silence.

“Not for me, bought a 12 pack of Bud Light and split it on my porch with Tommy. Sarah was only a toddler then and I had work in the morning. Didn’t have the money or the time to go to a bar. ‘Course I don’t think a lotta people did anything the way they’d show in the movies.”

“I always wanted to have my 21st birthday at a bar, ya’ know? Wait until the clock strikes midnight and order a weird named shot.”

“Well, I reckon we could do that at the Bison tomorrow night. Might not be your 21st but I’ll get you whatever you want to drink, and the best part is you can drink before midnight.” Joel pulls you in closer and kisses your forehead, “What do you say, let me take you out for your birthday sweetheart.”

“Yes, please,” you sigh into his shoulder, “sounds amazing.”

“Wear that little blue dress I know you have hanging in your closet.”

The drinks flowing through you making you downright giddy, alcohol making you bolder, your body and your inhibitions becoming looser, your hands becoming addicted to touching Joel, first his leg, then his thigh, now his lower stomach, right at his waistband. You haven’t been this tipsy in a long time, your face feeling flushed and red more from your desire than any drink you’ve had tonight.

“You better knock that off before I take you outside in the rain and fuck you against the building, darling,” Joel huffs into your ear. His fiery warning massaging your neck causing your heart rate cooled by your inebriation to pick up.

“Sooo, keep going?” You slur back.

“If that’s what you really want,” Joel puts a forceful squeeze on your upper thigh, a layer of your dress laying between his skin and your skin. If you weren’t both sitting at the bar, and maybe in one of the more darker corners of the saloon you’d surely hike your skirt up and let him learn just how bad you want him.

It feels so good to let go with him, to giggle openly at his jokes, stare at his profile as he talks with a friend or two who stop by to say hello, or place your hand on his broad back just because you want to touch his soft blue denim shirt.

You watch as his tongue darts out and licks the leftover whiskey off his top lip, Joel’s movements becoming a little slower thanks to the amber liquid he’s been drinking all night. Some droplets glisten on his mustache, you fight every urge inside yourself to not lean over and lick them up.

“It’s what I want,” you respond as you move your hand back and forth across his waistband.

“Jesus Christ, I’m about ready to throw you over my shoulder and run home,” Joel says as he takes your hand into his and pulls it away.

“Not so fast. You told me you’d fuck me in the rain, that’s what I want for my birthday,” you whisper into his ear with a breathy giggle.

“Can’t fuck you out here in public. Small town ‘n all, but I’ll make you feel good,” Joel takes a last swig of his drink, puts the glass down and knocks his fist on the bar to let the bartender know you two are leaving. He leans forward and drawls into your ear, “Now finish your drink if you want me to show you just how happy of a birthday I can give you.”

You nod and gulp your drink down. You’re so wet, you don’t know if you’ve ever been this turned on before. Joel grabs your arm with the perfect amount of pressure, you’ve never been so happy to get outside into the pouring rain.

——

It’s absolutely storming outside, your footsteps sloshing in the puddles on the ground. The rain pelting your’s and Joel’s bodies as you walk through late night Jackson. It feels like you’re the only two people in the whole town as you make your way farther away from the bar. The bulbs of the string lights reflecting off the water gathering on the sidewalks making your path towards Joel’s house golden. You don’t rush, the two of you not scared away by the downpour, the drops cooling your burning skin. Joel turns down the street before his, pulling you behind one of the storage buildings, it’s darker back here, practically pitch black thanks to the rain clouds blocking the moon and the nearest light source being three buildings down. You’re pushed up against the brick, Joel’s hand gently cradling your head to block it from hitting the wall, he’s such a gentleman.

“Happy birthday baby, I need you to tell me you want this, ‘n you’re okay with this, I have plans for you and I need you to tell me you want it.” Joel instructs you, all you can see is his eyes and the faint lines of his facial hair, the rest of him camouflaged by the darkness surrounding the two of you.

“I want it, more than anything. Please,” your voice straining as you beg.

“Tell me you want me to have my way with you,” Joel speaks into your slack mouth as he rubs his arched nose against yours.

“I want you to have your way with me,” you moan against his wet shirt, “so bad.”

“Good girl, now, m’not gonna fuck you here, because I’m afraid I won’t be able to stop and I need to have you in my bed tonight.” Joel starts to move his hand down your body lifting the hem of your dress. “But, you are going to cum for me right here.” Joel captures your mouth with his. His hand starts to trace the outline of your panties, you mew out a cry as his fingers slip through and begin to pet you right where you ache the most. His hands are so big, his fingers so long and thick, always putting the right amount of pressure, moving the way you need him to move. Joel Miller is a capable man, everyone knows that, but nobody, except for you, knows just how capable he is.

Joel sticks a finger in you, though his finger is thick and feels so good, you need more to fill you.

“Another,” you instruct in between fevered kisses. Your pussy clenches as Joel pushes another finger in you. “Yessss,” you moan out against his lips.

“That’s my good girl, gotta get you stretched out f’me.” Joel begins to kiss his way down your chin and neck stopping at your chest, your hard nipples jutting through your wet dress. Joel takes one into his mouth, sucking the fabric and your tit deeper into his mouth. The sloppy wet sounds of Joel’s suctions making you want him more.

“Another finger,” you shudder out. “Three? You really want it tonight, don’t you?” Joel mumbles against your chest as he sticks a third finger in. It burns, it burns in the best way. You’re ready for him, it’s what you’ve been waiting for all night. You bite down on your lip as your legs begin to shake, Joel can tell you’re right on the edge and twists his fingers inside of you as he finger fucks you harder.

Your orgasm bursts forward your whole body going stiff as you try not to wail out into the night.

“That’s iiiiiit baby,” Joel pulls his fingers out of you and softly pets your pussy from hole to clit.

He removes his hand from between your legs bringing it up between the two of you resting his finger tips against your lips, you open your mouth and begin to lick. His tongue meeting yours as you both clean his thick digits covered in you. He takes his hand away leaving just your mouths to taste each other. His kiss turns tender, your kiss turns desperate.

Joel pulls away resting his forehead against yours. “My beautiful birthday girl. Let’s get you home, my gift’s not done.”

——

Your body practically chills with the promise of what is left to come. Joel grabs your hand and you take it depending on him to lead you to his home. Every step you take you feel your wet core heavy with lust, you’re soaked from the rain and from Joel, if you could drown like this, you would go down with the sinking ship. His house comes into view, your body tingling in anticipation at the site as the both of you speed your footsteps up in perfect agreement.

He throws open the gate, you’re following so close you almost trip on his heels making your way up the walkway and steps. He fumbles for his keys and unlocks the doors, you take the opportunity to run your hands all over his back and sides, rubbing the wet cloth of his shirt as it molds to his body. The door swings open and you both shuffle into his living room gasps escaping your mouths, both out of breath from your dash home and your mutual want for each other. You step out of your wet shoes and shake your hair out.

“Take your dress off, right now.” Joel huffs out as he tosses his keys on the console table and begins to kick his boots off.

You strip yourself of your baby blue frock as fast as you can. You’ve never had a reason to wear such a revealing piece of clothing. You don’t know why you held onto it, let alone grabbing it from the communal clothing rack, never thinking anything, or anyone, would be worthy enough for you to dress up for. Joel’s worthy, so worthy.

“Feel like I’m a little underdressed here…” your words grab Joel’s attention as he moves his hands up to his chest to begin to unbutton his denim shirt. He gets one button taken care of before he rips it open. Shame, it’s your favorite shirt, you'll have to fix it for him later. You watch as a button rolls underneath a table, before you can note where it lands, your attention turns back to Joel to find him stepping out of his jeans and underwear leaving him completely naked.

What a sight, what a fucking sight. There’s only a lamp on in the room, Joel’s body being cast in amber color and shadow, one side of him on full display glowing in the light, the other more difficult to discern. He moves forward stalking you. “Now I’m the underdressed one here. Take them off for me,” he says as he moves to pick up a bottle of whiskey from his shelf.

You follow his instructions shucking your underwear down your legs and leaving them pooled at your feet.

“Good girl,” Joel says as he begins to walk towards you unscrewing the lid off the bottle. He stands in front of you and takes a drink. “Open your mouth,” he orders as he grabs your hair and tips your head back. He takes another pull from the bottle, this time he raises his mouth over your mouth and begins to dribble drips of whiskey down from his mouth into yours. A moan raises from your throat, causing Joel to tighten his hold on your hair and arch your head back even more. He spits the rest of the whiskey straight into your mouth, you happily swallow his spit and liquor down. He unwinds his hands from your hair, takes another drink and kisses you, the whiskey and his tongue spilling into your mouth. Joel pulls back and takes his last swig before resting the bottle on the table. “Get upstairs.”

You don’t think you’ve ever run so fast in your life, tripping over your feet as you rush your way up, Joel’s naked form hunting you like prey up each step.

The sight of Joel’s bed brings a new wave of goosebumps to your skin.

“Bend over on the bed darlin,” Joel turns on a lamp in the corner and pulls it closer. “Need to lick and fuck you with my tongue.”

You move over to Joel’s side of the bed and bend forward, your ass sitting high in the air and your face in the sheets, you inhale the smell of Joel on his sheets. You swing your hips in giddy anticipation of what’s about to happen.

You feel his body lean over yours, his erection laying over your lumbar. “Okay baby, once again, need you to tell me you’re good with me having my way with your body,” he tempts into your ear.

“Fuck, y—yes, fuck, of course I am good. So good.”

“That’s my girl,” Joel’s heavy body lifting off of yours as he kneels between your legs. You feel his hot breaths on you where you’re aching for him the most, you widen your stance egging him on to touch you. “Look at you,” Joel licks your thigh, “so fuckin’ wet you’ve spilled out into your thighs.”

You scream a pleasured yell as Joel’s teeth bite down into the flesh of your thigh and sucks your skin into his mouth. The pain is perfect. He loosens his bite, kissing and licking the spot, the sensation making your body quiver.

“Okay baby?”

“Y-y-yessss,” you answer.

“Whaddo you need sweetheart?”

“Lick me,” you beg out, “please.”

“‘Course. Where do you want me to lick you?” Joel questions as he nuzzles his head against your ass cheek, giving it a small bite.

“My pussy. Pleeeaaase,” you’d say you sound pathetic but you couldn’t care less, your lust overshadowing any type of pride.

“Mm, you sound so needy baby, you sound like you really need my tongue on you, huh?” His teasing drawl drives you crazy, your body won’t stop moving, absolutely radiating tensity from your want.

“Please,” you implore, sobbing out.

“Alright baby,” his hands grab your cheeks and spreads them, widening his view of you. “Prettiest thing I ever seen, love your pussy.”

This act feels so depraved, everything on display for him, legs and cheeks spread wide, your pussy exhibited for him like it’s an art piece.

You literally scream into the bed, biting down on Joel’s comforter as his tongue finally meets your core. This, thiiiiiiis is what you’ve been wanting all night. Joel moans against you, not being able to hold himself back as he tastes you, his fevered licks exploring your cunt, his large tongue mapping every inch of you. He’s absolutely conquering you, the noises of his lips and tongue smacking against your wetness soundtracking his journey.

He can feel you getting close your hips beginning to cant as your orgasm begins to crest. You knew it wouldn’t take long, between the alcohol buzz and Joel’s tongue lapping up your wetness and cum from earlier, you knew you’d be a goner.

“Mmf, cum for me,” Joel speaks against you, his mouth full of you, too busy to pull away to clearly speak. You don’t think he can get any closer to you, his tongue working your orgasm up in intensity with each swirl and dash against your clit. You feel it, it’s here. Your legs instantly collapse, thankful that the rest of your body is resting on the bed. Your eyes tightly squeeze shut and then begin to rapidly blink as your orgasm shatters through you. Joel flattens his tongue against your clit as it pulses. You’re too turned on to make a noise, Joel stepping in for you and groaning as your juices seep out of you.

“Did so good baby,” Joel says leaving one last kiss on your clit before standing up behind you. You want to flip over to look at him, you haven’t seen his face since you laid down on the bed. You have no energy, you’re just a shell of a woman, the only sensations you can feel is the pool of wetness in between your legs and your light inebriation.

Your attention gets pulled to the sound of Joel spitting in his hand, followed by a hiss coming out of his mouth. When you realize exactly what he’s doing, you summon the strength needed to turn over. You flip over, your back thudding on the mattress your legs still spread wide, feet resting on the floor. And there…. there…. THERE he is, standing in the middle of his room, one large hand wrapped around his hard cock softly stroking as he watches you with hooded eyes. You know you just came, but the sight makes your pussy clench with desire.

Joel jerks himself off as his eyes roam your exhausted form. “Been thinking ‘bout this all day. You all laid out in front of me heaving for air after cummin’ all over my tongue,” slow strokes matching his lazing words. “Just about canceled our night out when you opened your door in that little blue dress, looked like you were wearing the sky, baby.”

You bite your lip as all of your senses are so overtly overwhelmed by lust. The sight of Joel’s handsome face watching you, the hazel flecks in his eyes twinkling in the golden light of the lamp. The smell of the rain on your skin mixed with the heady scent of your arousal and Joel’s sheets. The taste of Joel’s whiskey tongue still in your mouth. The sound of Joel’s fist pumping along his hard cock. The feel of the aftershocks of your orgasm still quaking your body. It’s so fucking much, you need Joel inside you. The thought of feeling him stretch you causes a whimper.

“Yeah baby? Havin’ a hard time over there?” Joel stops stroking his hard length, his hand pauses on his shaft. “You want me to fuck you now?”

“Pleeeease,” you keen out.

“Alright sweetheart.” Joel confidently strides over to you, dick still in hand. He stops right at the edge of your feet. “Turn back around ’n get on all fours in the middle of the bed f’me.”

You follow his instructions eager to please. The sooner you get this done, the sooner you can feel Joel enter you.

“Good girl,” he praises as the mattress dips lower with his weight behind you.

Your heart is pounding so loud, your whole body thrumming, you gulp down a breath of air trying to calm your need. You feel Joel’s cock brush against your ass cheek, he’s so close to fucking you.

“Sweetheart, I’m gonna fuck you real good and hard now. Happy birthday baby.”

And just like that, Joel buries his cock inside of you, you’re absolutely stretched around him. Your clit already worked over by Joel’s tongue, now your hole deliciously stinging while it flutters around his cock. He begins thrusting, tender and slow full strokes. Entering and exiting, swirling the head of his cock right at the entrance before plunging back in because he knows you love the feeling. Joel’s groans and your cries join in song as he begins to pound faster, the sound of your bodies slapping together match the rhythm.

“Feel so fucking good, always so perfect for me. S’a good girl, always take it so good,” Joel grits out.

He grabs your hair and wraps it around his fist as he pounds into you. “No one knows how fucking slutty you get for me behind these walls. They think you’re one of those innocent little teachers.” Joel pulls your hair harder causing a scream of ecstasy from you. “You love this, don’t you?”

You do. It’s so rough, so different from how gentle he always is with you. It feels like a luxury to be treated this way by him.

“Y-y-y-yes, God I love it,” you whimper.

“That’s right. That’s what I like to hear. So pretty so smart. So much smarter than me, now I’m makin’ you stupid with my cock, right baby?”

Everybody knows Joel Miller as the strong, silent type, a man of few words, somebody who doesn’t do chit chat. But with you in his bed naked and wailing as he slams into you, Joel Miller won’t shut up.

“Doin’ so good for me. So pretty, so perfect f’me. So wet for me.”

“You made me so wet earlier, I was afraid I was going to leave a mark on the barstool.” Your words coming out as tortured weeps, so lost in your ecstasy you struggle with every word spoken.

“Fuuuuuck.” That got him good. He pounds you even harder, the bed frame shaking violently against his wall, your body and cunt acting as if it’s the only barrier between Joel knocking a hole in the plaster. “Had I fuckin’ known I would have made you stick your face on that chair and made you lick yourself up as I fuck you against it.”

That’s it, that’s the hottest thing you’ve ever heard. Joel’s deep timbered accent grunting those deviant words as he grabs you and begins to roll his hips into your cunt. Your body is strung so tight and rigid in all places besides your hips and core, pumping and rolling along with Joel’s as he fucks you. You’re close again, your panting breaths letting Joel know.

“Baby, if you gotta cum, cum,” his grip on your hips pressure into you.

“Going … going.. going to,” the only words you can say as your third orgasm radiates out of your body, your pussy is the epicenter, tingles firing through your veins, your hands fisting the blankets at your detonation. Slack jawed and fucked senseless you rally the strength to not disintegrate and fall into Joel’s bed. Your world has been shattered by Joel, but your body survives for him, your legs and arms shaking under gravity and your weight as they deal with the fallout.

“C’mere baby, lemme help you.” Of course he can tell you’re struggling. He reaches his hands around, clutching your stomach and pulling you up against him. Your back up against his chest, his hand seeking out your breast, the other wrapping around your torso and clutching you to him. He holds you as he fucks into you, his nose brushing against your ear as he puffs and grunts against your neck. “Fucking. Love. You. So. Much.” Each word matching a thrust into you. Your hands find his and grip them, you’ve never felt more loved and protected. Joel Miller has got you.

You feel the familiar shudder in Joel’s movements as he edges close to his climax. His labored breaths getting louder and more fevered against your neck. You’re absolutely wrecked, but the angle of Joel’s cock inside of you mixed with the feeling of the shudder in his movements as he edges himself brings forth another orgasm. Words are gone, just sounds, whatever your throat can muster up and out of your mouth.

“That’s it, that’s it, that’s it,” Joel repeats. His hands squeezing yours so tightly, his chest heaving against your back, his strong thighs straddling yours, his nose pressing into your ear. You feel his body tense as he pulls out. His release coating your pussy as his whole body surrounds you. Hot breaths huffing against the side of your face in between featherlight kisses. “Love you,” a whisper in your ear so delicate and sweet as he lets go of your hands. Your body falling forward without his support, your arms catching you before crashing down on the bed. Joel gets up with a groan as you lay yourself down on your stomach, taking the opportunity to stretch your legs out before rolling over on your side to watch Joel. He stands arms akimbo in the middle of the room. He’d look like a Greek statue if his shoulders weren’t rising and falling rapidly as he catches his breath. He’s gorgeous and he looks just as wrecked as you feel.

“Probably shouldn’t have gotten up as quick as I did,” he chuckles. “Damn well feel like I’m standing in the middle of a earthquake.” You love the casual banter he puts forth seconds after being deep inside you, his cum still covering your core. This is love.

You smile at him, your cheek resting on your hand as a makeshift pillow. You’re exhausted… the whole night and your four orgasms catching up with you. Eyes feeling heavy, matching your limbs you begin to drift off.

A wet sensation in between your legs jerks you awake. “Sorry baby, just want to clean you up,” a whisper just as light as Joel’s tender attention as he washes you lulls you back to sleep.

——

“Baby,” Joel’s low voice gently wakes you up along with a soft kiss to your forehead.

You groan as you stretch your sore muscles under the sheet, opening your eyes to find Joel gazing down lovingly at you. He’s backlit by the filtered morning sunlight shining in through his bedroom windows. What a way to wake up. “Happy birthday sweetheart, I’d let you sleep all day but I need to give you my present.” His face is so bright and cheerful, a boost in your confidence provided by just how happy he looks when he’s with you.

“Thought you gave me your present already last night,” you yawn.

“Sweet girl, that was a present for both of us. Now come on, get up.” You grab his offered hand and reluctantly get out of bed. Joel wrapping his arms around you in a tight hug, his hands splayed across your back as you nuzzle your face in his warm chest. “Happy birthday.”

A/N: THANK YOU for reading my first ever fic. My inbox is always open. :)

#joel miller #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller x you #joel miller x reader #tlou fanfic #tlou fanfiction #pedro pascal character fanfiction #joel miller/reader #pedro pascal fanfiction #the last of us fanfiction #elks #joel miller smut #joel miller fic #pedro pascal

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offlinesims · 9 days

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𝐃𝐎𝐍'𝐓 𝐌𝐄𝐒𝐒 𝐔𝐏 𝐌𝐘 𝐓𝐄𝐌𝐏𝐎. + 𝐓𝐎𝐉𝐈 𝐅𝐔𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐆𝐔𝐑𝐎

masterlist. / taglist. / any request? synopsis. in his defense, it was you who initially mentioned having baby fever. Toji wasn't at fault since you were the one who influenced him in getting you pregnant.

pairing. toji fushinguro x reader

genre and warnings. 18+ under cut MDNI, established relationship, pwp, body worship, manhandling, size difference, oral (female receiving), eating it from the BACK, fingering, pregnancy kink(?), breeding kink, dirty talk, stomach bulge, teasing, table fucking NOT BETA'D YET | — feedback is always welcomed & don't forget to reblog 🤍

There was just something about the feeling of your soft skin against his that had Toji wanting to press against you constantly, cherishing how wonderful your body was and exactly how reacted once his hands caressed it like you were the most variable thing dear to him in his life.

He loved how easily he could control the movement of you hips just form the firm grip of his big hands guiding and lifting your body in the perfect position, how easily he could just lift you up and push you against the kitchen island to fuck you just how he had been thinking about all day.

His finger tracing down the curve of your arches back as your feet almost dangling from the floor, as your torso pressed against the smooth cold marble counter. “Let's get you outta these,” he hummed, hooking your panties under his fingers by the elastic and pulling them down to your thighs giving you just a little moment of space to shimmy them down to your feet to kicking them aside.

His fingers roaming against the curve of your ass, enticing a small gasp to pull from your throat that sounded like music to Toji’s ear as he lowered to his knees his hands spreading open your thighs to dip his tongue between your legs and against your pussy.

His hands reposition to have a better grasp of his fingers leaving an indent against the plush of your skin as his hand held you spread open just perfect for the other to toy with your pussy.

“stay still.” his low commanded the moment that your legs twitched from the feeling of his fingers slipping in between your wet lips and inside of you his entire attention pulled to how easily your cunt had clenched against his digits welcoming them to reach deeper inside of you.

It was like ever since you had joked about having major baby fever, showing him a Tiktok of a couple and their adorable toddler being all cute. It was like you had switched something on in his brain. His hands not being able to be away from you as all he could think about was fucking you on every surfface in your home and stuffing you full until you were carrying his baby.

You struggle to hold yourself up against the counter, not bothering to cover any of your whines or whimpers as each time Toji curved his fingers inside of you sending a spark up your body the more he teases you with his fingers the more you felt like wobbly mess ready to melt into a puddle at any moment. “Please, Toji i can’t,” you had managed to stutter out, his breath from his small sigh brushing against your skin.

“So needy, and for what?” he mutters biting back a smirk as he crawls closer between your legs, his fingers pulling out of you only to grab your thighs spreading them apart once more to duck in between them to get another taste.

You had to stop yourself from pressing against this face the moment his tongue laps against your clit, pulling a long whine from your mouth as he holds you into place to eat you out.

He frees one of his hands from your leg to fumble against the material of his cotton pants, grinding into his hand to ease the throbbing erection that was trapped against his boxers. His moans of pleasure sending vibratees that sparked against the places that his tongue touched, the wet noises of him licking and sucking at your psusy like he was a feral animal making your first orgasm leaving you trembling your head ducking low against the counter as your body threatened to fall slack.

Toji was a little less mericalful eating you out through the entire spasm of your high until he pulled away, using the back of his hand to wipe his mouth and spinning you around and lifting you up by the back of your knees to lay with your back resting against the counter.

He doesnt bother to hide his smirk, seeing you already all fucked out trying to catch your breath even as he leaned down to stick his tongue in your mouth making you get a taste of yourself, the kiss making your toes curl as your legs went to wrap around his hips yanking him forward the feeling of his dick bumping against the warmth between your thighs making him moan agianst your mouth.

“Holy shit, it’s like youre begging to get fucked full princess.” you wanted to give back some sort of protest, hoping to find just a smidge of dignity left inside of you to bite back some saractist remark, but the moment that your mouth had opened Toji had pushed down his boxers and shoved the head of his cock inside of you with a shared groan.

“Shit,” Toji drags out, his rough pace not letting up as he holds himself together by a tight grasp around your lifted leg, the other pressing the pouch of your stomach already dizzy from feeling himself pistoning in and out of you. each thrust leaving you feeling entirely full as he buries himself to the hilt.

“Aw, you take my take so good, you just can’t wait for me to fuck you full, huh?” Toji grabs the arm that you had covering your face, pushing it away and grabbing your sternly by the chin forcing you to make eye contact with him just to see his hypnotizing pearly white smirk.

Titling your head up to ecasp from your grasp, he had already gotten the reaction he wanted from the moment you clenched tighter around him from the contact. Your hips jerking from the the feeling of his fingers instead finding themselves between your legs, rubbing rough circles against your clit with the flat his of thumb.

“Talk to me baby,” he encourages, your mouth opening to but failing to actually form any proper sentences from the relentless pace of his thrusts. You wanted to sob from how good he was making your body feel, from how cool his touch felt against the boiling temperature of your skin.

Your stomach already tightening from just the sight of Toji starting to unravel from your pussy, his head ducking low as he spits out a string of swears his hands grasping around your hips to fuck into your even more harder then he was before.

Your orgasm hitting you both hard as Toji grunts at the feeling of your pulsing against his dick, his body slumping down on top of you with an arm to hold up most of his weight.

His hips letting up chasing after that flame that had him moaning like a modern day porn star in your ear as he shot thick white strings inside of you.

Making sure that he had filled you with every drop, the thought of him filling your tummy full making you light headed. “You okay baby?” you whispered as Toji caught his breath, his head hidden ducked around in the crook of your neck the feeling of his bare chest heaving against yours.

Your fingers went up to comb through the mess of his dark nest of hair, the vibration of him humming tickling your against your shoulder.

“Fuck, okay, “ he huffs standing up straight, his eyes tracing down your body before grabbing you by the thighs and yanking you closer to the edge of the counter. “Round two lets go.”

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studioghibelli · 3 months

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masterpiece - a joel miller x reader

summary: joel moseys on in to your art store, despite seeming distant and cold towards you. an annoyed artist and an aggressive man, now that seems like quite the match.

warnings: artist!reader, grumpy!joel (no shit lol), post-outbreak, jackson era, age gap (early 20s reader/ 56 year old peepaw joel), sort of enemies to lovers but the “they’re annoying to me” kind, no use of y/n, female reader, short but sweet smut (semi-public, f receiving oral, unprotected sex)

notes: this is for @iamasaddie’s moodboard writing challenge! thank you for the wonderful inspiration <3 also i know the photo is not joel, but i only write for him at the moment so everybody let’s just PRETEND OKAY!!!! enjoy my lovelies Xx

Memories from before the world collapsed were hazy for you.

Bucket hats sewn for toddlers, bright colored toy dinosaurs made from plastic, a red wagon your grandparents used to pull you around in through the neighborhood sidewalks- vaguely, their pictures sat within the confines of your mind. Vaguely you could remember the sound of your aunties laughing whilst cooking, the way your father would roar at the television during football season.

You could remember them, and yet they felt more like ideas than memories. As if they were something you read about in a book, not an experience you had once lived through.

When you were thirteen and your family had found their way to Jackson, you fell in love with all the art encyclopedias Maria had given you. On missions, your father would bring you every single book he could find that talked about art. All different types. From Giotto to Fragonard, Vélasquez to Monet, Van Gogh to Millais- all of them had enraptured you, they had taken you over, body and soul, and in a world that was chipping away around you, you found solace in their creations.

After you turned eighteen, you had enough courage to try your hand at portrait art. The first one you made of Tommy was unnerving. You made him look more like a neanderthal than a man, with mismatched ears and crossed eyes, thick and uneven facial hair and wild curls. Still, Tommy had it framed and hung above the mantle of his fire place.

It was a reminder of growth. Of where you once were.

Now you did portraits around town, traded them for some dried out herbs or freshly pressed paper. People liked having art around. It reminded them of what once was. They flocked to you happily, wanting to feel the same contentment they once fell, before the world had sunk to its knees and submitted.

You were a reminder to the townspeople that life didn’t have to be so gray, nor dreary. Everyone seemed to love you and your quirky, distant, eclectic personality. A true artist. A Van Gogh, as Maria had described you once. You saw the world in whatever color you so pleased, you saw things others didn’t, you picked up on pockets of beauty that many looked over. People admired you for that, they wanted to talk to you, wanted to pick at your brain.

Everyone except him.

The moment you watched Joel Miller trot in through those gates, you knew you had to have him. To paint him, that is. His thighs stretched taut across the saddle, his broad shoulders budging at the seams of his flannel, chocolate eyes distant and full of worry, anger, hunger- he was.... incredible. Your dream man. For painting purposes only, of course.

Well, that's what you continuously tried to remind yourself. You would reprimand your own mind, stating what you felt was the obvious: You were attracted to him the way an artist was attracted to the rising sun or the waves of the ocean. You wanted to paint him, study his features, color in his skin. There was no physical, emotional, or romantic attraction there.

No. No way. Not you. Not for a man as old as your own father, if not older. Not for a man who had only ever given you grunts and one worded answers in response to your questions. Not for a man who couldn't give you the time of day.

It was a normal Wednesday when it finally happened. Sitting in the little studio in the town's strip that Maria and Tommy had created for you, doodling away and sketching. You were working on a watercolor of the tree line in the distance, now focusing on the rise of the mountains behind them. Snowy, navy, serene. You weren't that good with scenic paintings, but Maria wanted a big canvas of your work to hang in the Tipsy Bison, for everyone to see.

And, as you so often did, you decided to indulge her.

The record player was scratching in the corner, some melodic crooning of Sinatra filling the room.

A deep huff escaped you. Things were not going your way today. "Not right. No, no." You muttered, looking at the wonky, twisted tree trunk you had just messed up on. "Not right at all." Amidst your personal berating, you hadn't heard the bell of the front door swing open and chime its familiar song.

"How hard is it to draw a fucking tree?" You grumbled, hissing in annoyance as you wiped away the dripping paint. Somehow, it only looked worse. You wiped your stained hands across your pants, groaning out in defeat.

"Am I interruptin' somethin'?"

The voice startled you. As your nerves dissipated, you recognized who that voice belonged too. Deep and baritone, the kind of voice that sunk through your chest like honey dripping from a spoon, swirling in to a cup of steaming tea.

He was honey, wasn't he? If honey was old and bitter, you thought to yourself.

You turned, finally meeting the face of Joel Miller.

"Hello." You stood up from your stool, wringing your messy hands out on your apron once again. "Why... are you in here?" You spoke slowly, as if you couldn't believe he were actually in front of you. Was it him? Or an apparition? Your eyes could be deceiving you. Perhaps you were Van Gogh after all.... slowly descending in to madness. You shook the thought away.

"You give that warm a' welcome to all your guests?" Joel narrowed his eyes at you, looking around the slightly messy studio. Hanged paintings for sale on the walls, splatters of paint dripping down wooden easels, tubes of oil and acrylics strewn around. Not many people visited you in here, lest to pick up their orders.

"I..." You trailed off in search of what to say next, narrowing your eyes at him in return. "No."

Joel hummed out between his teeth in response, fingers gently trailing down the sides of a few handmade journals you had for sale. "What do you want for one of these?" He asked, picking up the leather bound pages.

"I usually do a trade. Some vegetables, um... pretty much anything, really."

"You drive a hard bargain." His words dripped with sarcasm.

"Did you come in here to annoy me, or do you actually want something?" You snapped, sitting back down in your chair with a huff. The current painting you were working on was doing your head in, and your artistic talent was definitely being challenged.

You felt shit at your craft today, to be honest.

"I don't really got none of that." He responded sheepishly. "I could do somethin' for you? Got a leaking sink? Broken cabinet?" He sat down on a stool adjacent from you, flipping through the blank pages. "I wanna get this, for my daughter. She's, uh... she's a bit like you. Real in to art and stuff."

You rolled his offer through your head, thinking on it.

Portraits! There was your answer.

"I know what you could do for me."

Joel looked up at you and shrugged. "Sure, what is it?"

"Let me paint you. I-I need to work on my portraits, need to.... find my style." You explained softly. You watched his face spread over with confusion.

"That's just extra work for you, you ain't gettin' anything in return for painting me."

"Yes, I am! I'm honing in my skills."

Joel looked around at the art all around him. Paintings of the dogs he had seen wagging their tales through town, a portrait of Maria in the corner, a field of blooming flowers- he didn't think your skills needed any honing. You were remarkable, but Joel didn't really know that much about art, anyways.

"Fine."

"Free tonight? After dinner?"

Grudgingly, Joel agreed.

• • •

His ass was hurting. The cold, metal stool beneath his thighs was uncomfortable, digging in to his skin. He wondered how you could do this all day, how you could sit and stare and paint and move without complaining.

Because, god damn, was this seat uncomfortable.

When he had walked in for his portrait, you were changing the track on the old record player. The Goo Goo Dolls. He had rolled his eyes, unable to count all the times he had heard Iris on the radio.

Still, it brought a sense of nostalgia he had thought died out a long ago. It made him feel…. normal. And normalcy was the most beautiful thing in the world now.

“How d’you sit on this all day?” He snapped half way through your session. Your body was hidden behind the canvas, and every so often he saw splatters and drops of paints exploding. He was curious what you were doing back there.

“Just do.”

Joel snorted. “That ain’t a real answer.”

He heard your annoyed sigh. “It is. Once I get in the zone, I just go for it.”

That answer satisfied him enough.

“Why do you like art so much anyways?”

You peeked out from behind the canvas, eyebrows furrowing. “Because it makes me feel alive. Do you know that feeling? Inhibition? Freedom?” Your words dripped with sarcasm, hissing out with impatience. Why did he care, anyways?

Joel rolled his eyes, holding on to the edge of his seat as he winced. His back was strained, and he knew he was getting too old for this.

“I do, actually.”

“I’m sure.”

“You’re really damn annoyin’, you know that?”

You grumbled beneath your breath, tweaking a few strays of eyebrow hair on his portrait. “Been told.”

“Sure you have.”

A long bout of silence eased over the room, and for a long while, the only sound was the scratching of the vinyl and the thick breeze outside.

“What’s your deal, anyways?” You finally asked, working on the thick vein of his neck.

You stared at him for a long while, tracing over his face. He was undoubtedly handsome. The curve of his Aquiline nose reminded you of the Roman sculptures you had seen in your books, the softness of his perfectly curved lips, the shape of his moustache. He really was a true masterpiece.

The length of his neck bled into two sturdy collarbones and thick shoulders, biceps strong and deep beneath the sleeves of his dark green flannel. The color of his skin, tanned and slightly golden and perfect, had been your favorite to paint thus far, the depths of his cheeks and cheekbones perfect beneath the swinging light of the studio.

Joel stared at you, your question racketing through his brain like a pinball machine. “What do you mean?”

“Why’re you so angry? Why don’t you like me?” You finally asked, disappearing behind the easel once again.

“Never said I didn’t like you.”

You laughed softly, the tip of your brush swiping down the side of his jaw. “It’s implied.”

“By you, maybe.”

“By me? You’re the one who avoids me. I don’t have the plague, y’know.”

Joel snorted. “Worse than that.” Hu grumbled beneath his breath.

“Heard that.”

He took in a deep breath, and although you couldn’t see his face at the moment, you knew without a doubt his brows were furrowed, jaw clenched. The typical mask Joel Miller wore with such pride.

“Look.” Joel began speaking, but he wasn’t sure where he was going. “You….. I….. look.”

“I’m looking!” You exclaimed in annoyance. “Just spit it out already, man.”

In one swift move he had gotten up from his stool and had grabbed your wrist. His grasp wasn’t hard, it wasn’t mean. In fact it was gentle, sturdy with an unfamiliar sort of warmth. His brown eyes bore down in to yours earnestly, and you saw them flickering with something you couldn’t quite pin point, an emotion you had never seen him show you.

A thick lump was forming in your throat, and you felt your stomach churning with butterflies, aflame by the feeling of his calloused palm on your skin. He was warm, rough, masculine.

He was perfect. A masterpiece.

You sucked in a sharp breath of air as Joel crouched down, now level with your eye sight.

“Look.” He began once again with his new favorite word. “You’re fuckin’ gorgeous. Okay?”

“What?!” That’s what he was trying to say?

“Yes. It’s embarrassing, I know.” He was seething through gritted teeth, jaw clenching with annoyance. His cheeks had grown a soft pink, no doubt out of embarrassment for the admittance of his secret.

“I-”

Joel wasted no time cutting you off. “I ain’t the poet type, alright? Lord knows I’m not. And when I see you…. fuck. This is so fucking stupid. When I see you, I feel shit. Okay?”

A laugh of amusement escaped you. “You feel shit?” You asked incredulously, and his grip on your wrist loosened.

Joel took a step back, sitting down on the floor. “It’s stupid. A fuckin’ crush, in the middle of the world ending.”

“It hasn’t ended yet.” You purred, setting down your brush as you sat in front of him. “So, maybe take the time to kiss me? Just in case it doesn’t end, tomorrow or something.”

Joel stared at you, a long moment blanketing your bodies. He was weighing his options in his mind, calculating what could happen if he did, if he didn’t. Damn the risks.

He had spent so long wondering what you tasted like, what you felt like. He said a silent prayer to whatever god may still be alive, and leaned in towards you.

His lips were softer than you thought, and his facial hair tickled and bristled against your cheeks. Joel was a good kisser, a passionate kisser. Your mouths melded together like two pieces of iron being hammered into a ring, thick and sweet and harmonious in their shared movements.

Joel couldn’t help his wandering hands. The rough tips of his fingers made you shiver, calloused thumbs drawing circles in the dips of your hips as he pulled you closer. You were straddling him now, arms thrown around his neck as you kissed him fervently, as though his spit was the last thing you would ever taste.

“You could’ve done this months ago, y’know.” You mumbled against his skin.

“Probably could’ve.”

Your fingers moved down to the buttons of his shirt, Joel’s mouth attaching to your neck.

“Probably would’ve saved you a lot of annoyance, you know.” You grinned down against him, a soft gasp escaping you as your hands instinctively moved to his hair, fingers tangling into his curls. You grinded your hips down, feeling that bulge pressing into the crotch of your leggings. “If you woulda told me, I could’ve helped with all that pent up aggression.”

Joel rolled his eyes at the playfulness of your words, pulling you closer to him. “You’re trouble.” He muttered, lips attaching back to yours. A smile broke out across your face as you pushed his flannel off his shoulders. Joel pulled away, throwing off his shirt, before tugging yours off in turn. Your chests, bare and warm, pressed in to the other, and in one swift flick of his wrist your bra came off with ease.

He pushed you back on to the ground, grinding himself against you. You tugged your pants off, left with a pair of panties that were now soaked through. Your clit, swollen and throbbing beneath the cotton material, was ignited with each movement of his hips, his covered bulge tracing circles into your sensitive nub.

Joel moved downwards, until he was face to face with your covered pussy. He leaned forward, dragging his nose across your clit as he pressed his tongue flat into your folds, tasting your arousal that had settled into your underwear.

“Off.” He commanded, undoing his own belt. You flicked your panties away, and he was face to face with your cunt once more. “Pretty little thing.” He mumbled, leaning forward to taste you. When his lips wrapped around your clit, your back arched off the cold tiles of the floor, pleasure coursing through you in electric droves.

“Taste pretty, too.” Joel smirked against your pussy, his tongue pressing in to your hole, dragging out that sweet wetness that dripped from you like syrup.

He tasted you, breathed you in, swallowed you. You were the only thing that filled his senses at the moment, the only thing that he had his mind on. In that moment your pussy was the only thing he worshipped, the only thing he wanted to spend any time tending to.

Your hips were grinding against his face now, his tongue swirling and lapping at your swelling clit. You couldn’t even talk, couldn’t even think. He was all you could pay any attention to. Damn your art, damn your painting- right now his mouth was the only thing you could wrap your head around.

Your pussy was clenching around nothing, your orgasms on brewing in the pit of your belly. Joel’s rough palms carved up and down your sides, his well worked hands scratching your skin in a delicious sort of way. He was moaning against your folds, nose brushing up and down your pussy as he lapped at the pink of your cunt.

“Joel, Joel-” You were drunk on him, on his movements, clit tingling against the tip of his tongue. He chuckled against you, knowing just what he was doing to you.

Joel knew how to make a woman feel good, and you were no exception.

“Gonna cum.” You breathed out excitedly, hips bucking one last time as your orgasm washed over you. Your moans and cries echoed across the wall, and you tugged him by his curls farther between your thighs. Joel licked you through the height of your orgasm, until you had no choice but to push him away.

You lay on the floor, breaths hard and shaky, blinking as you came back down to earth. Joel crawled over you, his thumb gently trailing down your cheek. He kissed you, and you tasted yourself on his tongue, which was now pushing past your lips and exploring the softness of your mouth. You moaned, legs opening to grant his throbbing cock access.

With your small hand, you guided the tip of his leaking cock to the folds of your pussy, pressing it gently against your sensitive cunt.

“Fuck me.” You begged against his mouth.

Joel happily obliged you.

To say you had never been fucked quite like that was the understatement of the year.

Joel’s cock was thick and perfect, curved ever so slightly to the left. He hit every spot deep within you that made you shiver and moan, he knew just how to roll your hips to drag you towards your second orgasm.

And god, did he know how to last.

By the time your third orgasm had rushed over you, his fingers had tangled themselves in your hair and your teeth had sunk into the thickness of his pretty neck, his cock still hard and stern inside of you. He was panting like a dog, grinding and humping in to you as his twitching cock filled you to the brim.

Your thighs were shaking, wrapped around his waist as his fingers tweaked your nipples. He was breathing hard and heavy in to your hair, eyes shut tight as he took you all in.

“Feels so good.” You whimpered, eyes pricking with tears of pleasure.

“Fuckin’ love your cunt.” He grumbled, teeth nipping at your ear. “Gonna paint these fuckin’ walls. Gonna fill you up, make you mine.” It wasn’t just dirty talk, it was a promise. His hips stuttered into you, your aching clit pressing into his pelvis with every deep thrust he gave you.

“Cum inside me then. Make me yours.” You whispered, nails digging into his shoulders, dragging down his back. You had etched your sketches into the skin of his back, drawing lines of ravenous pleasure that only he would be able to see, when all was said and done.

Joel groaned at the sound of your sweet voice, and with a final grunt, you felt ropes of his cum filling you up, dripping and sliding out of you as he lazily thrust, riding out his own high.

By the time he had fallen beside you, your hand had grabbed his, and you both knew you were done for.

Months of built up pressure, stolen glances, curt conversations- you both knew what was there, beneath the surface. Two people who didn’t quite know how to approach the other, and yet still, two people who knew what was lurking beneath the surface.

God, you were so happy Joel had walked into your shop.

He had helped you get dressed, and you both walked outside to the street, sharing a cigarette you had bartered for a couple weeks ago. You took in a deep drag, gently holding it to his lips. As you exhaled, he inhaled the tobacco, and both of your eyes settled on to the bare street, the winter moon beating her sweet, silver light on to the pavement.

“If you keep doing that, I don’t think I’ll ever finish your panting.” You finally spoke, filling the comfortable silence with the sweet cadence of your words.

“I like it how it is.” He whispered.

You turned, looking at the canvas that was drying ever so slowly beneath the store light. It was a bit whacky, a bit unfinished, as though a part of its story had yet to be told. But Joel’s eyes though…. well, his eyes were what struck you the hardest out of it all, and for a moment you allowed yourself to take in the beauty and skill of your craftsmanship.

Those umber orbs, painted with that familiar distance his eyes so often held, swirling with mystery, regret, wonder, and a little bit of admiration that you hadn’t quite picked up on while painting. They were full of emotion that Joel so often showed, in his own quiet way.

You turned to him, taking another puff from the cigarette. A smile stretched across your face, and his arm gently hooked itself around you.

“Yeah, me too.” You admitted quietly.

After that night, the townspeople wondered why Joel was a little bit more approachable. They wondered what made him a little bit more softer, kinder, a bit more poetic.

And each time you would sneak away into his house underneath the cover of darkness, the reminder of that fateful night hung just above his sofa, Joel’s unfinished portrait staring at you with that familiar beauty of his.

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biteofcherry · 5 months

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Winter wonderland

More Precious Than Rubies Masterlist

Ruby Garden series

Dom!Steve Rogers x plus size female reader

summary: As a part of his Christmas gift for you, Steve takes you to a lovely ski resort.

warnings: none; it's all fluffy; a bit of teasing and innuendos

This is a very short winter/holiday treat.

Maybe it was the romantic in you, but there truly was something magical about the coziness of a warm interior with the view on the snowy slopes outside.

Orange hues from the fireplace danced in the window glass, making the mountains appear hauntingly alluring.

You stepped into one of the common areas in the resort with a smile on your face, that only broadened at the sight of pines and spruces decorated with Christmas lights and shiny baubles.

Fire crackled in the huge fireplace, people mingled around, enjoying soft conversations and bursts of laughter. You couldn't help but grin as you watched a man trot after his toddler, who bounced from one Christmas tree to another, poking at baubles and cackling.

Being in a place like this was never on your dream list, but Steve knew you well enough to predict that aspects of it would call out to you.

As always, without a fail, Steve swept your off your feet.

With the trip itself, because you both needed a bit of vacation away from all the buzz. And then with everything that followed. Including how fun he made your very first skiing lesson; and how he warmed you up later, introducing you to a golden ball gag - as shiny as a Christmas bauble.

Your Dom sure thought of all the aspects of staying in a resort and prepared strategically.

You kinda loved that about him, too.

Spotting Steve in the common area wasn't hard, even with all the people around. His silhouette alone was recognizable.

Even in the soft, gray sweater he was wearing, his body was impressive. Especially those tight jeans that made your fingers itch to squeeze his perfect ass.

There were curious eyes settled on him, which was no surprise. Though you knew how shocking it could be to some that it was you who walked over to him - your arm sneaking around Steve's waist as his immediately weaved around you, pulling you to his side.

A few years ago you'd bow your head in shame and run away, beating yourself with hateful comments and convincing yourself that all those jealous women were right to think that you looked ridiculous beside Steve.

That you didn't deserve to be with him.

While feeling eyes settle on you and suspecting some may whisper among themselves nasty comments and innuendos about you buying yourself a man to make an impression on others, you didn't cower.

You didn't move an inch away from Steve.

Quite the contrary, you leaned into his embrace and melted a little into the heat radiating off his body.

There were still occasional self-deprecating thoughts that haunted you. Other doubts and insecurities poked their heads up, as well. But they were ghosts of past demons, which you fought hard. With Steve beside you every step of the way.

You tilted your head up proudly and let your hand slip down, resting on Steve's ass.

A part of you hoped that everyone saw.

That they saw where your hand possessively rested and that this Greek god of a man didn't flinch away.

Maybe they even caught a sparkle of the diamond ring on your finger.

They could choke on their envy.

You barely stopped yourself from squeaking and apologizing on the spot when Steve looked down at you, his eyebrow quirked in question.

Instead, you clenched your fingers a bit, squeezing his butt.

Twinkles lightened Steve's blue eyes. His hand moved along your shoulder to the back of your neck. He didn't squeeze it in warning, but you were trained enough to know it's a sign he was an inch away from going full Dom on you.

"Are you looking for trouble, Darling?" Steve asked in a voice as soft and velvety as the chaise in your bedroom that you wanted to curl on like a cat.

"Not at all," you replied sweetly. "Just admiring all the slopes." You squeezed his ass again.

Then you simply moved your hand up, since you didn't want to push too far.

Steve's quiet laugh tickled your skin as he leaned down to kiss you. A demure kiss, fitting for a public display.

You were both used to doing far more debauched acts in plain view, but the crowds you undressed for were a familiar, consenting community. People here were not.

"I get it," Steve grinned, using his other hand to cup your chin. "I plan on exploring all the curves and caverns, as well. Thoroughly."

His cheek pressed against yours as Steve inched his mouth to your ear, whispering so that no one beside you would hear.

"Cover them all in white, too."

Steve felt you shudder in response. Undoubtedly heard your intake of breath as well.

Straightening as if an explicit current didn't just sizzle from your brain to your clit, Steve traced his fingers along your arm down to your hand. He intertwined his fingers with yours and pulled you with him towards the small bar.

"Would you like eggnog or spiced hot chocolate before dinner?" He simply asked.

"Eggnog is disgusting." You scrunched up your nose. You never liked it.

"For that alone you're getting five swats," Steve's tone was teasing, but you felt that he would be delivering anyway.

Good thing he bought that ball gag, you never could keep quiet when Steve's hands were on you.

#steve rogers x reader #steve rogers x female reader #steve rogers x you #Dom!Steve Rogers #Dom!Steve Rogers x reader #more precious than rubies #ruby garden #ruby garden series #steve rogers imagine #steve rogers fic

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wickedoldwitchsims4 · 10 months

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HopscotchHoodieDress

Mesh was from which I did a little edit on https://hypergnomesimblr.tumblr.com/post/691428495236218880/fiftymilehighclub-hypergnomesimblrs-hopscotch Female Dress Package http://www.simfileshare.net/download/3984716/ Zip http://www.simfileshare.net/download/3984715/

That is all until I take the next lot into my game to take photos

#Sims 4 #Sims 4 CAS #S4S uploads #WickedOldWitch #TF Full Body #Toddler Female Clothing #Toddler Female Full Body

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rosesbxrry · 2 years

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Banquet

Pairing: Husband! Jay X Wife Fem! Reader

Genre: Smut🔞 (Minors DNI), established/ married AU!

Warnings: unprotected sex, breeding kink (to the max), Oral (female receiving), fingering, slight lactation kink (very brief but if you’re sensitive, I advice you not to read any further), a lot of dirty talking about making babies, Jay using the term ‘wife’ to the reader, slight cockwarming. Hopefully I didn’t miss out anything else

Summary: Celebrating special occasions with your husband was nearly impossible with your young son around, especially when the both of you craved for something more intimate. With the help of your mother, she opt to take care of your son, leaving you and Jay to take advantage of this rare moment.

Main masterlist

Word count: 2, 469 words

The sound of your phone closing echoed in the empty dining room, finding no trace of any new messages from your husband who had promised to come back home from work as early as he can. Today marks your wedding anniversary, preparing a banquet full of his favorite dishes to celebrate the special occasion.

You had left early from work to send your son to your mother who agreed to take care of him so that the couple could enjoy some quality time without their toddler fussing around. Don’t get it wrong, you love your son from the moon to the back but the last time you baked a birthday cake for Jay, your son took his time destroying it before the surprise party.

If it wasn’t for his chubby cheeks and buttercream frosting all over his face and body, you would have cried instead of laughing at the sight of the mess.

Your thoughts were interrupted with the sound of the front door opening, signalling that Jay was back. You shuffled hastily to greet him, beaminng at the entrance of the door as Jay took off his dress shoes.

“Welcome back.” You said, reciprocating the hug he initiated even though he was holding his briefcase and jacket on each hand.

“Hey, love. Happy anniversary.” He circles his arms around your waist, pulling you into a quick peck on the lips, smiling loopy as he holds you close to his body. You laugh, arms lock around his neck in an intimate manner.

“Happy anniversary to you too.” You grin at the way he sneaks another chaste kiss to your lips before losing his grip to stare at you.

“Sorry about coming home late,” He apologised, pushing some strains of hair that escaped your bun out of your face lovingly. “The others wouldn’t leave me alone to come home to my beautiful wife.” You chuckled while imagining Jake and Sunghoon constantly tailing him for business related affairs.

Yet, Jay doesn’t want to admit that without those two as his trusted right hand mens, he wouldn’t be able to flourish the company without his advisors beside him. You gave him a few pats in the chest before saying. “Now, now. As the boss, you have to set a good example to your employee if you want them to actually see you as the leader.”

“Oh? I thought I was the boss here? Why would I need to listen to you?” He raised his eyebrows in a playful manner.

“Because I’m your wife, and it goes without saying that I’m automatically your boss.” You poke his chest challengingly.

He gave you a mini salute. “Yes Madam, anything you say goes.” Laughter ensued in the room as you ushered him to come in, heading towards the dining table filled with an array of dishes you’ve prepared.

“I might have to heat up a few. They’ll taste better warm.” You said, distracted on washing your hand on the sink to handle the food when a pair of arms circle themselves around your waist from behind.

You immediately giggled when you felt his pair of lips pressed against the shell of your ears, hugging you from behind as you shiver from the contact. He moved to kiss you at the column of your nape when you turned around to face him, wrapping your arms around his neck.

“You really can’t wait until the end of dinner, can you?” You taunt, staring at the way he was looking at your lips before smiling. His grip on your waist in a sensual manner as he leans close to your face to whisper— it almost gets your knee buckling at the proximity.

“I can’t help myself, can I? Not when my son is not here and I got his beautiful, sexy mommy all to myself.” He bit his lower lips, and you can’t help but let out a chuckle at his words.

“So you’re not gonna eat my food?” You ask. He shakes his head, watching you with hooded eyes.

“I'd rather eat you.”

He captures your lips without a second to spare; a content sigh emits from both of your lips as the constant aching feeling inside finally vanishes at the touch of each other’s lips. Jay’s soft lips move to devour your own, not like the ones he would usually display in your mundane life, but a sort of thirst or hunger in the way his tongue explores the roof of your mouth to suckling on your bottom lip.

“You don’t even understand the things I want to do to you.” He mumbled.

You moan and tighten your hold on his neck as he trailed down to kiss your jaw, leaving rough butterfly kisses on the sensitive skin before moving slowly to nibble on your neck. He pushes his body against yours, the edges of the marbled countertop digging at your lower back. The faint smell of his cologne alone could intoxicate you with electrifying pleasure but partnered with his dangerous lips and roaming hands on your sides, you can’t help but let him take the wheel.

“What is it you want to do to me?” You whispered, leaning back to let him leave hickeys on your neck with his love bites.

His fingers moved under your shirt and you let out a little gasp at the feeling. He chuckled at your cute reaction. “I rather let my body do the talking.”

His arms lifts you up to sit on the countertop before he adjusts himself to stand between your legs. You took this opportunity to loosen his tie while he proceeded to remove your shirt, diving in to attack the swell of your breast against your bra.

“Jongseong.” You whine, feeling his cold fingers on your back as he unclasps your bra from behind. He watches with a lustful gaze as your breast bounces out from their confinements.

“Beautiful.” He compliments, and you blush at the way he cups one pair to level it to his mouth, lips capturing the hardened nipple with a small suck. You cried out when he nibbled the area, licking and lapping at the sensitive tit while the other was occupied with his other hand, fingers delicately played with the neglected nipple to compensate for the lack of attention from his lips.

“Fuck, Jongseong.” You moaned. “Feels so good.” You close your eyes, feeling the pleasure stimulate the throbbing on your cunt as you lean back in your palms.

“If I suck hard enough, will your milk come out?” He asked while his mouth was still occupied with your nipple, his cheeky comment made you let out a shaky laugh.

“Not unless you want me pregnant again.” You said before choking on a whimper when his fingers discreetly moved under your skirt, rubbing at your clothed folds that were wet with your arousal. He pushes you down on your back, letting you rest on the marble surface before you look up to see him unbuckling his belt to relieve himself from the huge visible bulge of his hard cock against his pants.

“I think we can arrange that.” He commented.

He was roughly unbuttoning his white dress shirt, his fingers moving impatiently to rid of the fabric to display his lean body; melanin skin with toned arms and deep v-line bare for you to gaze. You swallow down the saliva coating at your throat, imaging the way his body would move against yours, the amount of brute force as he pounds into you that it was almost impossible to even imagine you not being pregnant after.

He almost chuckled at the way you squeeze your thighs together, grabbing your knees to pull them wide open for him to see the visible dark wet patch on your panties.

“Shit,” He cursed. “Are you that excited for me to fuck you? Can’t wait for my big cock to be in your pussy and fucking you dumb until my seeds make you pregnant with my babies? Yeah, you want that don’t you?”

You let out a breathy yes as he pulled your panties down until it dangled on one of your ankles before bunching your skirt. The sight of your folds wet with your own juices in full display for him like a meal had him groaning while messaging the flesh of your thighs. You bite back at the way he prompts one of your legs on the countertop, shivering at the sheer coldness that hits your core.

“Don’t worry, I'm gonna fill this tight hole with my seed and you’re gonna thank me for it like a good wife. But first—“ He leans down and you let out a loud gasp that echoes through the kitchen, feeling his tongue licking a stripe along your dripping slit. “—let me eat you out.”

You stuttered out multiple broken moans, pleads mixed together in between when starts going faster until he was burrowed deep into your cunt. With a hand gripping his hair while the other rested over your forehead, you see the concrete ceiling of the kitchen when you throw your head back when he attaches his lips around your clit.

“Please go faster.” You were sobbing at the sheer amount of pleasure as your husband eats you out without mercy, every flick of his tongue sends you over the edge until you feel the tight knot in your stomach.

“Fuck— Jongseong, I’m gonna cum.” You gasp.

As if his tongue wasn’t enough, Jay slid a finger in you before following it with another, stretching your hole and caressing your sensitive walls. You cried so loud when he slid his fingers in and out of you, accompanied with his tongue pressing on your clit in a slow agonizing motion that you came all over his mouth with your back arched and hips bucking ever so often.

His mouth welcomes your juices, cleaning the fluid off your folds as he rides you out of your orgasm.

“You’re right. The meal does taste good when it's warm.” He wipes the excess off his lips.

You tried to catch your breath, but when he handled your other leg on the countertop as well, you stared at him reaching into his pants to whip out his hard cock, pumping the length a few times with beads of precum leaking out of the head.

“You’re going to be beautiful carrying another baby for me, yeah?” He said, aligning the head with your hole. You let out a shaky breath as he descends into you between your legs, his cock filling you to the brim as you wrap your legs around his waist.

“So fucking round with my child. Breasts filled with milk for them. Showing everyone how good I’ve knocked you up with my cock. You like that don’t you? Showing them how bad you wanna carry my kids.” His mouth spouts every dirty word and you can’t help but reach out to hold onto his arms for support, his pelvic flush against yours.

You moan with every thrust of his hips, his grip on your sides were hard and tight that you were sure bruises would form the next morning. The loud wet sound of skin slapping echoed in the kitchen and this time, the both of you don’t have to worry about your son from ruining the moment and potentially scaring his life.

“Yes— God fucking yes. Put a baby in me, please.” You plead, watching as Jay’s eyes turn feral at your request. His fucking you roughly, your face twisted into the most lewd expression possible. The carnal lust was evident in the way the head of his cock japs at your g-spot over and over again, imagining it reaching close to your womb and painting it with his seeds.

“Fuck, take it. Take it like a good girl. I’m gonna fill you up with my cum and breed you like a good wife you are—“ He chokes a little, voice an octave lower as he groans loudly. “—fucking hell, you’re so tight.” He growls out while watching you squirm below him with your mouth agape. He feels you sucking him in, your walls spasms over his length that gets him throwing his head back with his eyes shut closed.

“I’m so close, fuck— I’m cumming.” You’re at the edge of losing your mind at the familiar tight feeling in your stomach, letting him rut you into oblivion even though it was starting to hurt with the way he keeps drilling into that sweet spot, making you see stars dancing along your vision. Your legs were shaking at every vicious movement of his hips, his balls slapping against your skin.

A few more slams of his hips and you came hard on his cock— ropes of his cum filled you in warm slow waves. At this point, Jay would usually fuck you through your orgasm but that would risk spilling the load and for some reason, it made the pleasure even more overwhelming at that thought of him trying to keep it in.

He didn’t show any intentions of pulling out, instead he helped you sit up on the countertop, clinging on to you with his face nozzle to the crooked of your neck. You wrap your hands around to feel his back, beads of sweat sticking to his skin under the tense muscles.

Only heavy breathing filled the silence but oddly enough, him being in you was completely relaxing. This is just you and him basking in the moment of clarity in each other’s embrace. Jay moved to stare at you, pushing back wild stray hairs out of your face.

“Are you sure you’re okay with this?” He hummed sweetly.

You nodded your head with confidence. “Yeah. I have been thinking about it a lot and maybe adding another little one into the family is the right decision now. Are you okay with it?” You ask. He pecked you without hesitation, a big smile on his face was enough to tell you that he equally wanted this as well.

“You should call in sick for work tomorrow.” He said. You tilted your head in confusion.

“Why?”

You yelp in surprise when he lifts you up by the back of your thighs, making you instinctively wrap your legs around his waist and your arms around his neck for support. The movement caused you to be well aware of his cock still inside you, hard and aroused that gets your toes curling at the way his throbbing against your sensitive walls.

You feel him moving to the familiar direction of your bedroom, and you can't help but shiver when he whispers an octave lower against your ears, heart pumping in excitement.

“I don’t think you can walk properly once I’m sure you're stuffed full with my cum.”

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@forjongseong @skzenhalove

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chimivx · 11 months

Text

public occurrences. // myg.

pairing: Idol!Yoongi x Female!Reader

summary: It's been almost a year since Vegas. As one would expect, life hasn't gotten any easier. If anything it's gotten even more chaotic. The world knows who you are now... There aren't anymore secrets to hide.

words: 6k

warnings: SLIGHT SPOILERS IN THE WARNINGS. use of cuss words, they talk of anxiety, some mental health situations, talks about a miscarriage, talks about Jin and other members leaving. other than that- not much else. If I missed anything PLEASE let me know.

a/n: CAN'T BELIEVE ANOTHER VEGAS IS HERE. Enjoy my loves. Thank you for all the love and support always. <3 It's just a short little drabble of one specific moment of time, but I thought it was pretty important.

~ the end of february 2023 ~

A dull pain begins to erupt where you’ve had your jaw clenched for the last twenty minutes. A soreness in your jaw you’re not quite sure will ever be able to go away. For the past few months it’s found itself in this compromised position.

Your entire body is made of steel, your joints creaking as you attempt to pull yourself together amidst the panic ensuing within your nervous system. Limbs heavy to the point you aren’t sure whether or not you’ll be able to exit the vehicle.

Breathe in, breathe out. The words repeat.

Breath in, breathe out. It made you want to sing Hobi’s song. Inhale, inhale, exhale, exhaaale. But there was no time for fun. Not when you were about to walk outside in front of cameras for the first time in eight years.

The morning was spent in a blur, the attempts to perfect your hair and makeup happening at an hour too early, much like how you rolled out of bed. An hour too early. You were awake before your daughter even had the chance to stir.

Anxiety had been simmering beneath your skin for weeks. You could barely eat, the nausea would rip through you violently. Again, for the past few months that’s how life has been, nausea, anxiety, melancholy thoughts and dreams, however this event seemed to be adding twice as much. These past few days you’ve probably accumulated a total of nine hours of sleep. You had more shuteye the week after your daughter's birth.

There seemed to be a butterfly effect from the events in Vegas. The incident that caused countless meetings and endless discussions because the company just couldn’t handle anymore media control or protection. You should never have trusted that girl.

BigHit took their time, the company drug out the announcement as long as they could so it would surpass Jin’s deployment and your goddamn wedding. Now, with it being the end of February, Yoongi’s been traveling absolutely everywhere for basketball games, photoshoots, and he’s announced a tour… It was about to happen. For the very first time in eight years you were officially about to be on camera, branded by flashes, posted online permanently, forever going to be seen and known as Min Yoongi’s wife.

Next to you, Yoongi grips your knee tight, in hopes to settle your worries. Glancing down to his knobby hand you sigh and suck in a deep breath.

“We’ll be fine,” he said softly. Meeting his comforting gaze, you attempt to smile, one that makes him laugh. “I promise. Remember everything we talked about?”

You do. Of course you do. It’s been playing on repeat for one hundred and sixty eight hours.

That’s how many hours are in a week. You had to google that.

When this entire plan was set in place you requested a play by play, a step by step tutorial- a rehearsal even! You were walking out into the public eye with your child for the first time. People knew who you were now.

There were going to be cameras, and fans, and paparazzi, and loud noises, and people rushing you, and standards to follow. It was all too much, it all seemed to be entirely too much. You were going to have a toddler on your hip, one who could barely stand to be in a room full of people her father worked with let alone god knows how many strangers at an airport.

“What happens first?” Yoongi asked, reaching for one of your hands to tangle his fingers with yours. He could feel your panic. “Tell me the first thing we’re going to do.”

Gulping, you respond, “Park.” Looking up at his short hair that you’re livid with- his long hair was dreamy, and sexy, and you could pull it- you receive another laugh. He hadn’t expected you to be so literal.

“Good, we’ll park,” he praised. “And then what?” Tipping his chin down his eyes widened a bit, becoming all the more endearing.

“Then, Branson and his team get out,” you said, feeling a bit better looking into his eyes. Yoongi gives you a soft smile, dragging his thumb over the back of your hand.

“Has Branson ever let you down?”

“Never,” you whispered. Almost nine incident free years with the man, after Yoongi, you depended on.

Your husband leans in to press a kiss to your forehead. “Exactly,” he said. “What happens next?”

Going through the last three simple steps, everything seemed ready to go to plan. Once Branson was ready, you were going to take your daughter out of her carseat, exit the car, and follow the men inside. You would be the one to carry your daughter, just in case. People were unpredictable in these situations, and Yoongi agreed that if something were to happen to him here, you should be the one to carry her inside. As much as that little comment terrified you to hear him say, he was right.

Simple as pie. You hoped.

In a perfect world that’s how it would happen, and you want nothing more than for this to go smoothly.

People knew your name. Everyone has found out that it’s been years. The company was prepared for mass destruction, and so were you and Yoongi. A first public appearance, this is where it would all go to shit. There isn’t much chaos people can fully ensue over the internet.

As for your friends, the two of you personally asked them to stay out of it and at the drop of a hat they agreed. The five boys and Sunny shook on it. No one would say a word publicly, no one would do any interviews, no tweets, no Instagram posts, no stories pushed, no Weverse comments. Silence. Radio silence.

Jin has most definitely heard what has happened, and the next time you and Yoongi get to see him, there will be tea to spill. Your heart aches whenever you think about him, especially for Yoongi. He’s had to go through this madness and so much more without his best friend.

The week after he left was complete and utter hell for your family. And not just because of Jin.

Pushing aside all thoughts of having to redo the motions with Hobi very soon, you come to realize that steps one and two of the plan have already commenced.

The black SUV was parked in front of the airport, and Branson and his team were setting themselves up. Through the dark tinted windows there are crowds upon crowds of people, masses of them so large one would think the entire band was here. It reminded you of a concert, they were all waiting in groups with their phones out, pointing them at the vehicles that you and your team were in.

Slapping your hand on top of Yoongi's, you grip it tight, digging your nails into his palm. He places his other right on top of yours.

“I can’t do it,” you mumbled, whipping your head to shoot him a terrified look.

Yoongi smiles, though your fear threatens to crack him. If this wasn’t ordered by the company he’d whisk you away to safety, getting inside the airport without a soul knowing. He’s broken these rules before, going against what his company wants for your sake, it’s been eight years of you coming first, you topping all things that have to do with his job.

Now that the gig was up, now that people knew who you were and knew that it’s been forever, he feels as though he owes it to his fans to do a three minute appearance. As much as he was deeply in love with you, he loved his fans almost as much. He wanted to show you off, he wanted the world to see who’s been keeping him sane all this time, who’s been the source of his happiness for years.

“Yanno, the last time you told me that you seemed to handle everything just fine,” he said, glancing at your sleeping daughter beside you. Blowing a gust of air through your lips, you roll your eyes.

“I didn’t have to do any work, D, they cut her out of me,” you grilled back, narrowing your eyes. “I can’t-” your words are cut off by a sudden short breath. “I feel like I can’t breathe,” escapes you in a whisper.

Branson taps his fist on the window a couple of times gently, signaling that he was ready for the three of you to come out. The murmurs from the crowds can be heard, leaking through the cracks in the doors, swarming around you constricting your chest.

Yoongi slips an arm around your back, holding you against him tight. Burying your face into his chest, he rests his chin on top of your head and takes a deep breath. You can feel his beating heart steady between his lungs. This was just another day for him. He’s had ten years to grow used to this.

“I was afraid this was going to happen,” he said softly. Peeking up at him, you frown.

“What?” you question, lowering your brows. He nods a couple of times, giving you a small smile.

“I was afraid this was going to happen, because I knew this was going to happen,” he said.

“Me freaking out, right?” you sighed, your tone completely breathless. A soft hum leaves his chest as he ponders what you’ve said, then he shakes his head. “What?” you question again with more vigor.

“Well,” he huffs a gentle laugh, “I figured something along the lines of that would happen, but only ‘cause of her,” he nods to your daughter, “Not because you’re scared of going out there. You’re only worried for her. If it were seven years ago you think you’d feel this way?”

Shaking your head to answer him, the electricity coursing through your veins seems to subside.

“Exactly,” he smirked. “Before her you were dancing in the streets before my shows, you were talking to people, my fans! You were prancing around stadiums and concerts like it was nothing.”

“I loved doing that,” you smiled.

“Fuck yeah, you loved doing that,” he said, giving you the smallest shake. “And, you know what? It’s not just you going out there as my wife, right? They know what you’ve done for us, they know what you’ve made for us.”

Your smile starts to grow. He was right. The fans, the people, they loved your work. The music videos, the art, the TinyTan, the creative concepts, the photoshoots, all of it. They finally knew that it was you. The ghost creator had been unveiled.

“You probably have fans of your own,” Yoongi said matter of factly. “I guarantee you all these people are here for you, not me.” Frowning humorously, you make him laugh.

“Doubt that,” you said flatly.

“Alright, half and half,” he winked, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “We can do this, you can do this. We’re doing it together, like we do everything. We’ll get through this together. We always do. Just think, next time we see Jin we have to tell him all about this, he’ll never believe it.”

Averting your eyes from his, your mind is suffocated by the many, many things you’re going to have to tell Jin when you’re with him again, which you’re hoping is soon. So much has happened, so much has changed, and it’d only been about three months.

“Yeah,” you whispered, flickering your eyes up to Yoongi who’s flashing you a curious look. “He probably still thinks I’m pregnant.”

A flash of discomfort wrecks his expression for all of two seconds as he glances away from you with a breath. Swallowing hard, he relaxes his face and looks back at you, his lips pressed together tight.

“He, uh,” he began in a whisper, “He... knows.” Before you have a chance to say anything, the subtle shock on your face telling him plenty, he cuts you off. “I’m sorry, baby. I had to tell him, it’s Jin, that’s my best friend, he’s the only one I could even say the words to.”

Sitting up a bit, you reach a hand up to cup his cheek, dragging your thumb over his smooth skin. “D, it’s okay,” you reassured him, bobbing your head. His lips form a pout, one that gets you to giggle. “I promise, it’s okay.”

There’s a moment of quiet between the two of you, feelings swirling around the empty air as you both choose what to do or say next. Yoongi leans into you, kissing your forehead once more before placing his own there.

“You’re so incredible,” he said, watching you flutter your eyes shut. “The strongest woman I know, the most talented woman I know. On top of having such a beautiful, creative mind, you’re a fucking fantastic mother.” Yoongi pauses, taking a deep breath, as do you. “He was lucky to have you for as long as he did.”

A lump lodges in your throat. Scrunching your face, you shake your head, rubbing your forehead to his.

“Don’t make me cry,” you said, voice wavering with uncertainty.

“Cry?” a tiny voice speaks up from your right, a yawn of the same intensity coming out of her straight after. Popping your eyes open you share a small smile with your husband, and just as you’re about to turn to your little one, Yoongi slips a hand beneath your chin, holding you in place.

“Hey,” his voice is soothing. “I love you.” Your heart flutters.

“I love you, too,” you whispered, accepting the quick kiss he gives you.

Turning to the carseat that has secured a permanent spot in this car, you smile at your daughter who has her head turned toward you and her father. Her sleepy eyes entice a happy hum from you.

“You were supposed to sleep through this,” you said sarcastically sweet. Yoongi chuckles, unbuckling from his seat. The clang of the metal on the door makes your heart skip a beat.

“No,” your daughter said. “No sleep. All done.” Her voice is tiny, and slightly broken, and not hitting all of the right sounds, but her speech has only been improving. The two of you speak to her like she’s a human being, saving the baby voices for when she’s feeling silly, which can attest to her strong vocabulary and understanding of conversation.

You’re beginning to think she is a genius like her father.

“Mama, up,” she cooed, reaching out her arms that were finally starting to get a little chubby. Her cheeks had caught up to her as well, they were finally perfectly pinchable.

Freeing her from the car seats restraints, your daughter aids you in her escape, launching herself forward and up into your arms with a shout.

“Oh!” she giggles once her arms are around your neck and her face is buried in your hair.

“Oh!” you and Yoongi copy her, to which she responds with another shout.

Her attentive eyes point out the window when she sits herself up, tapping on your shoulder a couple of times with her palm. Lifting a hand, she tries to point at the crowds of people.

“Where?” she asked curiously, looking to either of her parents for an answer. Her voice turned you into a complete puddle, the sound coming out as ‘Wheh?’, the middle syllable is even more pronounced when she questions the two of you again.

Yoongi brings a hand to her forehead, brushing away a few dark hairs that fell into her eyes. The girl hated bows, you stopped trying.

“We’re at the airport,” he told her, and she listened with all of her might. “We’re going on a plane, isn’t that fun? You like flying.” Her eyes blink a few times, taking her time to process the words.

Sighing aloud, dramatically of course, she glances out the window and mumbles a jumble of sounds. Following her gaze, you gulp.

Eager eyes of bystanders attempted to shatter the glass of the tinted windows.

“Mama,” your daughter said, looking at you. “Go, Mama,” she bounced once. “Go,” she bounced twice. You knew the moment you stepped out into the noise and the flashing lights that she would have a meltdown, but you admired her desire to get out of the car. Yoongi was right, she loved flying, it was her second favorite thing right now. Securely at number one was Jungkook, for a year and seven months. That spot was unattainable for anyone else.

“Shall we?” Yoongi offered, watching you fiercely, letting you take the lead. He waited patiently for your answer, heaving a sigh of relief when you finally gave him a tentative nod of your head.

“Dada, go,” your daughter babbled. “Mama, go. Dada, go. Mama, go.”

Sharing a laugh with Yoongi, you take a long deep breath and tighten your grip around her back, holding her in front of your chest. Smiling at you, your baby touched a hand to your cheek.

“I love you,” you whispered to her. She leans her head toward you and puts her nose on yours.

“Ah-luh-oo,” she tried her best to repeat. Stealing a kiss from her, you let Yoongi press a thousand to her cheek to make her giggle, and then it’s time.

Everything seems to move in slow motion, your vision tunneling as your husband opens the car door. Pulling a mask over his face, he sends you a reassuring wink before he rounds the vehicle.

Screams erupt from every corner of the space, and shouting from the team can already be heard. Strict shouting, like things were getting crazy already. Your daughter’s eyes are wide as she looks out the windows and up at you. Her curiosity has been swapped for a little bit of fear.

You couldn’t let her see you panic.

Sliding off of the leather seat and onto the concrete of the airport lot, you pull a mask over your own face and instantly slip a hand to the back of your baby's head. Her legs were wrapped around your torso, and the moment you stepped outside her arms clung around your neck for safety. You already had a suspicion that you weren’t going to have to actively try to hide her face, she would want to do that herself.

Your bags were already taken care of, there wasn’t anything else you needed to grab from the car other than your child and yourself. Everything else would be taken care of for you.

With another deep, dramatic breath, you hold your daughter close, allowing her to bury her face into your neck, and you circle the car like Yoongi had. Upon rounding the back, cameras that were already flashing began to flash faster, quicker. Wide eyed and stunned by the greeting of screams, you barely have time to process anything before Branson grabs your arm.

It’s a gentle tug, one to help keep you on track. He pulls you close to him, staying one step ahead of you as you wait for a couple of seconds in front of the car. Glancing amongst the crowd, it’s mainly full of paparazzi and probably some journalists. Behind the tall men and their cameras you can see the fans, the ones holding up their phones and jumping up and down trying to catch a glimpse at the commotion.

Airport security guards held some people back, though no one seemed to be trying to push through excessively, which was your main fear.

“Another minute here,” Branson said to you, leaning into your ear. “They need photos, then we go.” Nodding, you peek down at your girl who was content clinging to her mother and hiding from the chaos. A sound of admiration rips through the crowd as you stroke her back, one that surprises you.

Up ahead, close to the doors, Yoongi was walking backward slowly, watching you. His fans twisted their heads side to side, from him, to you, and back again. To spice things up a bit, he gives you a wave, and everyone goes nuts.

You can’t help but laugh at him, eyes crinkling at the sides. For some reason you had thought he’d treat you differently when you were outside, but aside from following the rules, he was still your husband. He points to the baby on your chest and questions you with a thumbs up. Another giant ‘Awh!’ rolls through the chattering crowd.

Sending a thumbs up back, the fans laugh, and cheer. Then, your heart plummets to your stomach.

From somewhere within the crowd your name is shouted. And then again. Before you knew it, the entire crowd wanted your attention. Overwhelmed, feeling utterly insane, your eyes well up with tears. You're unable to make out anything else they’re saying though, there were too many people talking at once, and to you, that was a good thing.

God forbid anybody had anything bad to say. You’ve heard it before, but you don’t need to live it in real time.

“Holy shit,” you mumbled. Branson leans into you again, questioning what you’ve said. Turning to him, you smile and repeat, “Holy shit!”

“You’re okay?” he asked, gently putting a hand over your shoulder blade.

“I- I think so?” you said to him, raising your voice over the crowd that was only getting louder. Glancing down to your daughter who’s little fists were attempting to rip holes in your sweater, you send a look to Yoongi, and he stops walking all together. Bundled up in the safety of her mothers arms wasn’t enough for the baby, she needed to be out of this situation immediately. “Branson we have to go.”

“I don’t have the signal yet, we need Yoongi inside before we move forward,” he said. Frowning, you knew the man was just doing his job, but a cry from your daughter flipped a switch within you.

“We need to go,” you insisted, shooting him a glare. Cradling the back of her head, you press your masked lips to her hair and take a deep breath, hoping she’d feel as much of your love as possible.

“Go! Get him inside,” Branson spoke into the tiny walkie he carried on his chest, gesturing toward the door with persistence.

The crowd, now roaring, and growing larger, began to push. The barriers that were blocked by guards were spilling over the edge.

Branson placed a hand to the top of your shoulder and held onto you tight. Grabbing the little speaker, he spoke clearer. “We need to move forward, and we cannot do that if you cannot get him indoors.”

Up ahead your husband was watching you with a heated gaze. His attention didn’t deter from you once. His heart twisted when you cradled your daughter, when he saw Branson begin to get defensive. The hand that was placed protectively on your shoulder could make him scream, and the team behind him, calling after him to get him to step inside the airport made his thoughts fuzzy.

What the hell was he doing? Why would he ever allow the two of you, the most important people in his life, why would he allow you to do it alone? This was the very first time you’ve done this, and he’s realized now that he’s made the biggest mistake.

Forgetting everything he was told, everything he’s learned, Yoongi bounds toward you, using the fast paced walk that his fans clown him for. They absolutely lose their minds, the people around you.

Wide eyed and shocked, you’d never think he’d break the rules on this one, you sigh in relief when he reaches your side. An arm wraps around your shoulder, Yoongi closing you in front of his chest.

“What are you doing?” you asked, giving your head a small shake.

Your husband smiles, reaching up to pull his mask off of his face, removing yours as well.

“Not letting you do it alone,” he said to you, leaning in to press a kiss to your lips. As you could’ve guessed, the collective lost their minds.

“You’re gonna get in trouble,” you smiled up at him, laughing as he dramatically rolled his eyes.

“You two are always worth it,” he said. “Now, c’mon,” he stepped aside to hold you behind your back, keeping you tucked beneath his arm. Using his other hand he rubbed the baby’s back and gave her cheek a quick kiss, happy to find that once he joined you two she had calmed down. “Let’s go see Kookie.”

Her head shot right up with enormous dark eyes full of stars. “Koo-hee?!”

“Koo-hee!” Both you and Yoongi copy her tiny voice, making her giggle with the silly smiles you flash at her.

The world around you seemed to melt away the second you were in your husband's arms, like all of a sudden you had the strength to handle anything the world would have thrown at you. His grip around your body as he walked with you into the airport was enough to silence the crowd, and power your legs to get through the doors without an incident.

A mere twenty minutes later, the three of you were seated on the plane, your daughter snoozing soundly on her fathers chest while you scrolled through your phone, curious to see what the internet has had to say of your appearance already. Resting his head on your shoulder, Yoongi followed along, making a sweet comment at every single photo of you.

“Oh, that one is the best,” he said quietly, your Twitter scroll stopping on a picture of the three of you before you walked off. The big, genuine, happy smiles you and Yoongi wore were priceless as you grinned at your baby girl, one whose face didn’t make it into any photos- thank the good Lord that somebody believes in. “You should post that one.”

Giving him a sideways glance, you huff a gentle laugh. “To my Instagram? It’s just gone public, you want me to blow it up even more?”

Yoongi tips his chin up, flashing you pouty puppy dog eyes. “I just want them all to know you’re mine. Both of you. I want everyone to know I’m yours, and I always have been.” You gave his forehead a kiss.

“Okay,” you nodded, “I’ll post it. Her face isn’t in any of these, so I can post as many as I want.”

Settling comfortably on your shoulder once again, Yoongi gave you caption advice for the post- an emoji that seemingly had nothing to do with the photo… But, you used it anyway. The angel emoji, with a halo and little wings.

“That one’s perfect,” he whispered, tapping on it for you.

“If you say so,” you smiled. Yoongi sat up a bit, carefully to not disturb his sleeping daughter. “You always pick the random ones.”

“Every single one I use means something,” Yoongi gazed at you fiercely. “That little guy,” he pointed to the angel, “That makes four of us.”

Your lips parted in surprise, unsure of what to say. That week in December devastated you both. Your stomach flips while you watch him study your face. The whirlwind life you live hasn’t given either of you proper time to process, or grieve.

“Baby,” he whispered, closing the space between you to touch his forehead to yours. “You don’t have to post it if you don’t want to.”

Sucking in a deep breath, your eyes welling with tears, you furrow your brows. “What did I do wrong,” escaped you in an exasperated gust of air. Yoongi shifted, wrapping an arm around your back.

“No,” he said, putting on his strong facade. “We don’t do that, we’ve talked about this. You know there wasn’t anything you did wrong. There wasn’t anything I did wrong. You heard the doctor say it, baby, multiple times. You gave him the perfect home, you’re healthy.” Yoongi paused to gauge where you were, praying that you were listening to him.

You respond after a few seconds, bobbing your head. Taking a deep breath, Yoongi swallows down the lump in his throat.

“It just wasn’t his time,” he whispered. “He wasn’t ready.”

“Yeah,” you whispered fast. Yoongi’s thumb found your cheek, wiping away the tears that had fallen.

“And, you remember the last time we were there, they said we could try again whenever we were ready,” he said. The end of last month you had a check-up with your doctor, just to make sure things were back to normal, and that your body was holding up alright. Your second pregnancy was a surprise, much like the first, you and Yoongi haven’t seemed to learn your lesson. However, losing your son before you had even gotten the chance to hold him in your arms put a lot of things into perspective for the two of you.

There were routine check-ups, you were eating better- both of you! This second child was something that you and your husband both wanted, and though each of your emotions have been through the wringer… You would be willing to try again when you felt like you could handle it.

“I want to,” you whispered. Yoongi smiled, but you could see his own worries within it. “I know, I feel the same way.”

“Together,” he cuts off the nervousness quickly. “We’ll do it together.”

“Uh, we kinda have to,” you giggled, making him laugh.

“I can’t wait,” he sing-songed through clenched teeth with a grin, stealing a kiss from you. Yoongi backs away from you to check on your sleeping daughter who hasn’t made a peep. He was surprised she had let her eyes shut while she was beside the window, normally she’d be gazing out at the clouds passing by.

Picking your phone up off of your lap, you smile at the angel emoji and click post, letting the notifications flood in like wildfire. This was all brand new. You were allowed to make your Instagram public about a week ago, and since then you’ve reached four million followers, while you used to have forty-six. Silencing the notifications from the app, every photo you’ve ever posted amassed an incredible amount of likes. Your feed was a feast, and the public was hungry.

Four million followers and counting. The number was only going to get bigger.

Watching the photo gain twenty thousand likes whenever you refreshed the page, you nudged Yoongi’s shoulder to show him what was happening, and when he turned his head to look, an unknown number you’ve never seen before popped onto your screen, calling you.

“What the…” you mumbled, narrowing your eyes.

Yoongi snatched the phone from your hand and quickly snapped a photo of the screen with his own, then he silenced yours and went into it, blocking the number who tried to reach you. He called Branson over and showed him the photo, letting the head of security take his phone with him.

“Trace this, or, do something. Tell me who's number this is,” his voice is stern, on alert.

“I’m sure it’s nothing,” you said, laying your head down on his shoulder. “People get scam calls all the time.”

“Not us,” he said, tone flat.

Not even ten minutes passed before Branson came back, kneeling on the row of chairs in front of your family. He placed his elbows on the head rests and took a deep breath, darting his eyes back and forth from Yoongi to yours.

“Well?” Yoongi asked. Branson handed him his phone and frowned.

“Uh,” he stumbled over a few words, unsure of how to say what he needed to say. “We, um… The phone number belongs to your mother.” His voice is hushed, quiet, like he was afraid to tell you, when in actuality he was afraid to tell Yoongi. Touchy subject. Especially now.

There had been a restraining order set in place since the day after your daughter's first birthday. Yoongi held the meetings and took care of everything, all you had to do was sign.

Neither one of your parents were allowed to contact you, speak to you or your daughter, or try to see you in person. They were not allowed to mail anything to you, send anyone to see you in place of themselves, nor were they allowed to be in touch with anyone close to you. Sunny included. You had to make a list.

Expecting him to jump out of his seat, you stretch a hand over his lap and grab his other hand, the one on your daughter's back. Sitting up, you turn toward him ever so slightly to catch a glimpse of his expression. It had not faltered. He was stone faced, and you were sick to your stomach.

“Sue her,” he said. Turning to you, he sighed. “We’re changing your number again.”

“D, come on, it’s not like-”

“I don’t care,” he said, peering down to admire his daughter. “She clearly hasn’t gotten the message that you don’t want anything to do with her.” He pointed his focus back to Branson. “Fight it. Do what you can.”

“Got it,” the guard said, and whisked himself away.

It’s quiet for a moment before Yoongi said, “Why are you defending her?”

“I’m not defending her,” you said, and he raised a brow, giving you a funny look. “It’s just… Super annoying to give everyone a new phone number for the third time.” Both your lips turn up into a smile. “Sue the bitch, I don’t care, D.” Yoongi laughs. “Just don’t make me change my number again, I beg of you.”

“Alright,” he said. “No new number. BUT!” His raised volume made your daughter stir. “One more thing happens, you’re changing it.” The little one lifted her head, blinking a few times before she grinned at her father.

“Fine,” you whispered, not that he was paying attention anymore anyway. Your daughter took his full focus, and all of his kisses.

It seemed silly to just now realize that today was something of a confirmation of the last eight years. Living your life, being a secret to millions of others, while you and the people you cared most about knew, was nice, and secure, and peaceful. But, now… Now that everyone knew, the peace grew. It swallowed you whole, engulfing you and your family with stability and ease.

No more accidental reveals. No more false stories. No more rumors the company had to shut down. No more hiding.

You were absolutely free, and for now, that was everything.

thank you for reading, I hope you’ve enjoyed this piece!

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deliciousbasementtrash · 6 months

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Playing Nurse for the Batfam

Summary: you are a nurse working for Gotham General Hospital. Batman has offered you a job. You are now a nurse for the entire Batfamily. You have to have lunch with your father. How will it go?

Pairing: Slowburn Jason Todd x Female!reader

Warning: Adult language, angst, physical and emotional abuse, panic attack

Word Count: 2.4k

Note: These characters are not my own they belong to DC. The only character that is 'mine' is the reader. I am going to be as nondescript as possible for the reader as well for physical attributes. This is a continuation series; I’m not sure how long it will be. Also for some reason, my replies to comments are not showing up. I’m not ignoring your comments Tumblr won’t let me respond :( But please, please comment I live for it

Masterlist

Part Seven: Lunch with a Devil

I was restless. It was only 10:30 and I had already restocked my entire responder inventory. I had already done my laundry, the dishes, mopped the floor, helped prepare dinner, and now I was on my hands and knees scrubbing the kitchen floor with a toothbrush. Whenever I stopped thoughts and anxiety filled my skull. I hadn’t decided if I was going to go to lunch. My father would be less than pleased if I didn’t go. But I was supposed to be free of that guilt. Free of him. So, why does it feel like every time he talks to me I’m that helpless little girl all over again? The one that walked on eggshells. The one who did everything she could to be a good daughter and not be a burden. The one that took the pain and the demands with a smile and a yes sir.

I’m not that girl anymore. At least… I thought I wasn’t. I scrubbed harder at an invisible speck of dust as the thoughts crowded my head.

“Miss y/l/n, I do believe every centimeter of this floor is spotless thanks to you. There is no need to further scrub.” Alfred said, standing above me. Slowly he bent down so that he was at eye level with me. He took the toothbrush out of my bandaged hand, shaking his head.

“Might I have a look?” He asked, nodding to my hands. In my anxious state, I hadn’t thought about the condition of them, or what I was putting them through. The second he grabbed them it was like my body remembered that I was in pain.

I stood up and nodded, giving him full view.

He patted the island chair, “Take a seat.” He slowly unbandaged them. They were red and swollen, some of the blisters had popped, and some had refilled. It wasn’t my cutest look.

Alfred diligently put on numbing cream and rebandaged them for me. We sat in comfortable silence as he did it. Both of us concentrated on what he was doing.

“May I ask a question about your gifts?” Alfred asked, gently.

Instantly, my body clammed up. I didn’t want to say anything, but I swallowed down that protective response and nodded.

“You can heal other people. Can you heal yourself?”

I bit the inside of my cheek. “No, I can’t.” Suddenly I was bombarded by memories. Ones I try to keep down.

******************************************************************************************************************

Gotham City: 18 Years Ago

“Sit down, y/n,” my Dad said, patting the couch. I was hesitant as I walked over. I didn’t want to be close to him.

Slowly, I sat down. My body was tense, and I made sure my feet could sit touch the ground. I was not comfortable. I was ready to move. I was ready to run.

“Darling, have you heard of the Kleinian and Winnicottian psychotherapeutic theory?” My father asked, peering down at me like an owl.

I shook my head.

“Well, part of the theory believes that children think that they are an extension of their mother. Children have a difficult time in their infancy and toddler years defining what is their own body or their mothers. Does that make sense?” He asked, his voice falsely sweet. I knew that I should just play along. I didn’t understand, but I wanted Dad to be happy.

“I have a theory. If we can figure out how to make you heal yourself; you will learn how to heal your mother,” his words were frantic, his eyes bright. Some part of me wanted to run and hide. “Will you let me test my theory?” He asked.

Not knowing what else to do I just nodded. I wanted Mama to be better.

From his pocket, he pulls out a knife. My heart seizes at the sight of it. Quickly, so quickly, he trailed a cut along my thigh. Tears welled up in my eyes. It stung so badly. I didn’t like it. And the blood was getting on my favorite shoes. I frowned as I saw my blood run down my legs and stain them.

“Heal yourself.”

I tried. I really tried. But I couldn’t. My powers wouldn’t listen no matter how much I begged. Dad never liked that for an answer though.

So he cut.

And burned.

And stabbed.

Over and over. For years.

I never quite got it right. But that never stopped him from trying.

******************************************************************************************************************

I blinked away the memories that threatened to drown me. I don’t know if Alfred noticed the distant look in my eyes, but he quickly changed the topic.

“You have barely said a word all morning,” Alfred said, making an observation.

I knew this tactic. We used it in nursing. You state the obvious in hopes that the person elaborate and clarify if there is a reason.

“I’m not feeling very social today,” is what I landed on saying. I didn’t want to reveal too much to him. It was almost like he could read me like a book though.

“Why?” He asked, simply.

He looked at me with his wise empathetic Alfred eyes. All of a sudden I wanted to crumble. I wanted to tell him everything that went wrong in my life starting with day one. But that was irrational. That was that scared little girl with the bloody sneakers that broke free from time to time.

I cleared my throat and flattened my face of emotion, “I’m seeing my father today. Well… I actually have not decided if I’m going to go or not.”

Alfred gently patted my hands, signifying that he was done, they did feel a lot better. I mumbled a soft thank you, he nodded as if it was nothing.

“Your father, is he a good man?” I saw the cogs in Alfred’s head turning, deciding that this was the best question to ask.

“No. I wouldn’t say he is. But honestly, I don’t know if I have a definition of ‘good’ anymore.” My voice was smaller than I wanted it to be.

“I see. Miss, may I speak candidly?” Alfred asked, picking up a spoon and polishing it.

I swallowed, “You may.”

“It appears to me like you are dreading this lunch with your father. What service are you doing yourself if you go?”

I blink, trying to gather my thoughts. “If I also am speaking candidly, the service I would be doing for myself would be protecting myself.”

Alfred’s eyes narrowed, “In what way?”

I shook my head. I revealed too much. “Protecting myself from a positively boring time! I mean the man doesn’t even like Skip-Bo! Can you imagine, Alfred?”

“A truly horrific man I see.” His voice had a strange edge to it. One that I was unfamiliar with.

I laughed and muttered so quietly under my breath that he couldn’t hear, “Truly a horrific man.”

We didn’t say anything to each other after that. I politely excused myself and got ready for my hellish lunch plans.

******************************************************************************************************************

I arrived at lunch at exactly 12:30. Usually I was a meticulously early person, but this small action was a quiet rebellion.

My heart sank when I saw the back of my father. His leg bounced. He was annoyed. Wonderful.

“I would think that for your mother’s memory, you at least try to be more punctual.” He said, already snipping at me.

“Mkay.” I purposely dismissed him. A new fire lit beneath me. Suddenly I didn’t care about his petty little comments or his opinion at all.

I saw as he sat across from me; he was fully assessing me. Taking in every detail.

“Why are your hands bandaged?” He asked.

“Work accident.”

His eyes narrowed like he didn’t believe me. It didn’t really matter. I wasn’t technically lying.

“Do you ever feel guilty?” The question caught me so off guard I didn’t know what to do with it.

“Guilty?” I asked, clearly confused.

“That you could never figure out how to heal her.” He said the words as if they were special blows to my body.

“Yes of course I do,” I said.

“You don’t visit her grave. You don’t call. You don’t text. It’s like you never wanted to be a part of our family in the first place. Your mother would want us to be on good terms.”

I took a long breath in through my nose and roughly exhaled. “Do you want something? That’s usually when you try to use her to manipulate me.”

“Manipulate you! This is coming from the girl who would cry for my wife every time I tried to discipline her. You’re the manipulative ungrateful brat!”

I got up quickly. Leaving behind more cash than both our bills and tips combined. “Every time I give you a chance you show me who you are. I keep thinking there is more to you or that you will change. Well, newsflash, you’re not going to. I don’t need you in my life. I don’t want you in my life.”

Alongside the cash, I slapped down a court-ordered restraining order.

“Good riddance.”

I practically ran out of the restaurant. I didn’t wait to see his reaction. I quickly got into my car and drove off. Tears welled up in my eyes. Breathing became difficult. But I couldn’t stop. I didn’t know if he had men trailing me or not.

I tried my best to keep it together as I drove back to Wayne Manor. I kept it together as I walked in the door. I kept it together walking up the stairs. I kept it together as I shut my door behind me. But after that? I crumpled in on myself.

I sobbed until no tears came out and my chest hurt. I choked on the air, not being able to get enough. My mind couldn’t catch up with my body. I couldn’t get enough air in. It felt like my throat was closing. My fingers went cold and numb. Logically I knew I was having a panic attack. But I couldn’t calm myself down. I felt my heart pounding in my chest. My clothes became too tight. Helpless I started trying to take them off but I couldn’t they wouldn’t come off they were stuck to my body they would be there forever itching my skin until I couldn’t breathe and I died on the floor forever and ever and ever—

Strong hands gripped my face, “Breathe! Y/n breathe in! Like this,” Jason was laying on the floor with me, one hand on my chest the other on my face. He motioned inhaling in for five seconds and out for seven. In for five. Out for seven. The panic slightly eased but I still was trying to claw off my shirt. Once again I felt restricted and trapped. My breathing increased again. Jason grabbed both my hands with one of his and with his other hand he tore my shirt open.

Instantly I felt like I could breathe.

“That’s it. In and out. In and out. In and out,” he kept demonstrating for me until I had been steadily breathing for a few minutes. He just stayed with me for a while breathing with me. Our chests rose and fell together. I felt the warmth of his exhale against my cheek. It felt safe in that moment. Safer than I’ve felt for a long time.

“Do you want to talk about it?” He asked, his voice small. Smaller than I thought possible.

Some part of me did but I didn’t think I was ready to reveal all of it yet. “I gave my dad a restraining order today.” I couldn’t help the bubble of laughter that rose in me. Soon I was snorting I was laughing so hard. “God, my life is such a joke!”

I felt Jason stiffen. He was surprised by this. Almost angry by this news. “Why? What shit did he do?”

I shook my head my laughter dying down. “Can we talk about something else right now? Please?”

Jason’s eyes darkened like he was remembering that piece of information for later. “I’m sorry for being a jackass last night. I get these nightmares and I get so confused and very hostile. I should have warned you not to try and help me.”

I shook my head, “It wouldn’t have mattered. I would have tried to help you anyway.”

Jason gave me a pained look and gently ran his thumb along the edge of my jaw. “Why are you so nice? Why are you so good?”

“Do you have a definition for good?” I asked, my voice suddenly husky, realizing how close we are and responding to his touch.

“No. I just think of you,” he said, almost a whisper.

I felt my cheeks heat, “Thank you for thinking that. I just don’t— you don’t know the things I’ve done. The people I’ve helped. It’s all gray, Jason. I promise if you find out more about me you won’t like it.”

“I sincerely doubt that.”

As if waking up from a trance Jason shot up. He tossed me a blanket, covering my exposed chest. He cleared his throat.

“So, we are even now. You barged in on me. I barged in on you. Even Steven, all set, no worries. Goodbye.”

Stunned into silence I watched as Jason left. What the fuck just happened?

******************************************************************************************************************

Jason was just getting to leave when he heard it. The worst sound he had ever heard in his life. The sounds of whimpering and choking sobs came from y/n’s room. Without another thought, he ran into her room. He found her lying on the floor, gasping for breath, and clawing at her own skin. He had to comfort her. He had to help. So he soothed the ways he had been soothed before. He stayed with her. He helped her in the ways he knew he could. But as if snapping back to reality, his promise to himself to stay away set in.

Fuck! Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck! The plan was to stay away from her not be her knight in shining armor! God, why the fuck can’t I stay away? I couldn’t stand hearing her cry or struggling to breathe. It was like something in me cracked open. I had no choice but to help her. Jason thought.

He threw on the red hood and stormed out of the house needing to regroup and blow off some steam. Maybe he would look into her father. But no that had to do with her. That’s off limits! Off limits, Todd! Off fucking limits! God, he needed to hit something.

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Hashbrown Cam!

Please let me know what you guys think! I love reading the comments <3

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thelightsandtheroses · 2 months

Text

3. we can get away, palm trees, beach views ...

Let's Get Lost Chapter 3 | Frankie Morales x female reader

Summary: You and Frankie aren’t together anymore but you’re in a good place. However, spending a week together for your mutual friends’ wedding on a luxury resort might challenge that slightly and realising you’re still in love with your ex is a sure-fire recipe for disaster … Tropes: it was always you, getting back with the ex, beach!Frankie (you know *that* photoshoot) miscommunication, only one bed, good parent Frankie Chapter Warnings: 18+ MDNI, references to past drug addiction, references to food and alcohol, discusison of TF canon events, Frankie and the reader are parents to a toddler, past break-ups. Word Count: 2500 Notes: Thank you for the lovely feedback so far - it's meant so much to me and I hope you enjoy this update. I have a lot planned for this fic. The chapter title is from I Want You Around by Snoh Aalegra.

Previous | Series | Next

You can hear the birds outside when you wake up. Soft, lyrical songs coax you awake and you hear yourself groan slightly.

There are thin lines of light streaming through the gaps in the shutters and you’re surprised you can’t hear your daughter. She’s usually awake by now.

“Clara’s still asleep,” he says in a low voice.

“That’s got to be a record,” you whisper back drowsily, quietly shifting yourself so you’re propped up by your pillows.

Frankie is bolt upright in bed, a book loosely clasped in his hands and you can see that the reading lamp by his side of the bed is turned on. Despite the dim yellow light you can still take in every detail of his face, the freckles adorning his neck, the laughter lines, his stubble.

“Mornin’” he says, meeting your sleepy gaze.

“Hi, what time is it?”

“About six?” Frankie stifles a yawn.

“Why aren’t you asleep still?”

“Just woke up early. Couldn’t - y’know …”

You look at the book in his hands, he’s a lot further ahead now than you remember him being when he placed the bookmark in last night. You notice his worn eyes, the way he looks like he’s been awake for a while.

“How’s it shaping up?” you ask, indicating the book and leaning slightly over your pillow barrier.

For a second you’re not here, you’re back in Florida a few years ago and this is your usual morning routine. All sepia lighting, soft kisses, lingering touches and hot skin against you.

You remember awkward giggles about morning breath, the way he’d kiss you like he’d been waiting for years when it had only been a matter of hours.

You return to reality with the sound of Clara’s soft snores.

Frankie smirks at you. “She gets that from -”

“Do not finish that sentence, Francisco.”

He raises his hands with an easy grin. “Full name, huh? So, do you want to try her for a bit at the kids’ club this afternoon? Get her used to it more before we’re deep in all the wedding events?”

“She’s been really excited about that and meeting the other kids,” you say. You often wonder how two introverted people produced such a gregarious child. You imagine maybe Frankie was that confident as a little boy; you can see it - all round cheeks, mischievous grin and open eyes.

“She just takes everything in her stride,” Frankie whispers.

“She’s strong.”

“Like you.”

“I meant, like you,” you say.

Frankie shakes his head but there’s the slightest hint of a twitch on his lips.

You could reach over and touch him - it feels natural.

You can remember what his lips felt like on yours - the way his hand would so carefully and lightly move down your waist in a movement so delicate you used to think of it as his fingers dancing down your body.

It’s just proximity, it’s just the proximity.

You need more pillows for the barrier.

You lean back against your chair, listening to the steady sound of the ocean in the distance.

You spent the morning exploring in the local town with Lia and Sophie. At first you felt slightly guilty to not be spending time with Clara, but she was excited about a morning with her tios before heading to the kid’s club. It is Lia’s wedding break after all and you want to celebrate with her.

It had been a really good morning; you’d found a great cafe, wandered around tourist destinations and most importantly had enjoyed your time with Lia and Sophia. The three of you kept laughing and joking and any doubt you had that you would feel out of sorts for being the only one of them who was an ex swiftly vanished. In fact, you hadn’t discussed men once. It had been great.

All of you have now met up for a late lunch back at the hotel before you drop Clara off at the kid’s club. You’re sitting opposite Frankie who today has bought out one of what you used to semi-affectionally dub his ‘loud shirts’. Frankie’s style has always ranged from simple, casual basics to the occasional louder shirt that you feel would be associated more with a PI than an ex-army pilot. It’s Frankie though. You seem to remember those shirts were pretty soft too.

You take a sip of your drink, enjoying the sweet and refreshing taste of the coconut flavoured cocktail.

Frankie catches your eye and smiles briefly.

You’re finally starting to feel a little relaxed; that nagging anxiety to check your emails or to just be ‘on’ all of the time is starting to abate.

Santi stands up and raises his glass. “Okay, I wanted to call out that we’ve got the team back together and it only took Benny here getting married for that,” Santi says cheerfully, “and it’s a double celebration today because we need to mark that Frankie got the official confirmation yesterday he’s getting his licence back.”

You watch Frankie’s face colour up with the attention.

“No fucking way,” Benny exclaims, “finally, Frankie! I’m so fucking pleased for you.”

He’s got his licence back? you think immediately, proud that he’s achieved this goal he was working towards. It’s another sign of his sobriety, of his recovery.

It stings though. He didn’t tell you. He couldn’t do this while you were together either.

He didn’t tell you. He could have told you this morning - did he not want to? Or is it just that in your new co-parenting role you don’t get to know these things immediately anymore. You’re not his girlfriend or fiancée, you’re not one of his best friends, you’re not sure where you stand anymore.

He meets your gaze and nervously nods at you, wringing his hands slightly as Benny swallows him into a one-armed hug, delicately balancing his drink with the other hand.

“That’s great news, Frankie, well done,” you say, your voice sounding clipped and cold even to you.

Will frowns at you and you feel your palms growing sweaty with embarrassment as you notice Santi shaking his head. You tighten your grasp around your oblivious daughter who immediately fidgets on your lap.

You’re doing this all wrong.

You shouldn’t be here anyway.

“I - it’s time I need to drop Clara off. I’ll uh - I’ll, um, see you all later.”

You feel Frankie’s eyes on you the whole time you’re walking away.

“Fucking really, Santi?” you hear Frankie say as you walk away.

You're not hiding. Not officially. You watch the waves ebb and flow in the near distance, scrunching your toes on the sand just past the terrace from your room. There's the faintest sound of laughter, of people enjoying their time on the beach.

You shut your eyes. How did you get the lunch so wrong?

The door closes behind you and you turn around instantly, caught in the headlights as you see Frankie standing there.

“Are you okay?” Frankie asks, hesitance clear in his voice. “You just walked off? I thought we’d take Clara to the club together.”

Another failing. Why do you keep getting this so wrong? "I - I just - crap."

He pulls the terrace door to and sits on the sand next to you, hugging his knees. "It's not a big deal, sw- it's not a big deal. Just - what's wrong?"

“You didn’t tell me,” you finally say, trying so hard to hide the hurt in your voice. Frankie doesn’t have to tell you things anymore, you know that. You just thought that maybe he’d want to.

You’re friends again, right?

Frankie looks down at the sand and exhales a heavy, poignant sigh. He seems to be stopping himself from saying something, probably that it is none of your business. You watch him open his mouth then close it a couple of times and wait patiently.

“I know.”

“Do you not want to tell me things anymore? I mean, I guess you don’t have to but I thought -”

“I didn’t tell you because I don’t know what I’m going to do,” he confides.

“What do you mean?”

“I’ve spent the past few years with this single mission. Get sober, get my licence again, get my life, or at least something like it, back.“ He pauses, looking at you and then away from you quickly. A question pops into your head and immediately dissipates - no, you can’t go there.

“Well, you’ve done it,” you say gently, placing a hand on his sandy bicep. He’s all sun warmed skin and you can smell the hint of sunscreen as you sit next to him too.

“I never thought about - about what would happen once I got those things,” he admits. “I guess, I didn’t want to jinx it, I didn’t think I’d even get it back.”

“You don’t know if you want to fly anymore?”

Frankie lives for flying. The passion you remember in his voice, the way his eyes light up when he talks about the technicalities, the detail of the science and data behind flying. He used to read flight manuals to Clara when she was sobbing with colic through the night, right before the relapse and Colombia. Every time you see a helicopter or a plane, you think of him.

Can you remember him talking about flying recently though? Can you remember that passionate, bright look in his eyes at any time recently other than when he’s with your daughter?

“The last time I was flying - I crashed it. Tom ended up dead,” he says, barely above a whisper and once again looking away from you. “It’s all on me.”

Automatically you squeeze his arm in sympathy, in the only consolation you can give right now. “Not in the crash though, you said -”

“If I hadn’t crashed it, if I had just said no to the extra weight, if I -”

“Stop, stop, Frankie.”

He looks over at you, finally meeting your gaze with wide, brown eyes. His eyes are a swirl of emotion; pain, achievement, memories you can never know, regret. There’s so much regret in his eyes now.

It’s funny, you stood in an airport baggage hall just days ago thinking he’d entirely glowed up since the break-up, but his eyes are telling you wildly different stories now.

“You can’t change the past; you can’t go over what ifs. It was - it was a tragedy but it wasn’t your tragedy, it wasn’t your fault.”

“What if it was?” he asks plaintively, “And I robbed a kid of their father, of my friend, if that’s true. Do you realise that? Can you even imagine that weight?”

“You were all grown-ups, all making your own choices that led to that exact moment. I know, I know there’s a lot about that time I don’t know, probably never will, and I don’t - I don’t want you to tell me if you don’t want to, or can’t, but know this, Frankie, you are a good man.”

“Am I?”

“Yes. For what it’s worth, I’d feel safe in any aircraft if you were flying it. ”

He swallows, looking away from you for just a moment.

“You mean that?”

“Of course.”

He nods.

Your hand has slipped into his and he squeezes. It feels so familiar, so right at this moment.

“If you don’t want to fly,” you add, “that’s okay too.”

“I don’t want Clara to have a deadbeat dad.”

“She won’t. She doesn’t.”

“I don’t want know what I’m supposed to do other than fly.”

“We’ll figure it out.”

“Okay.”

It’s only later as you return to your hotel room that you realise you said we, that you made you and Frankie a unit again.

You still mean it too.

You feel awkward about what’s going to happen at dinner. Even though you’re walking in alongside Frankie, even though you know he’s going to demonstrate that the two of you are just fine, all you think about are the disappointed looks at lunch.

To your surprise, it hurts worse than leaving your daughter with a sitter.

You can only imagine what they must think of you right now.

They must think you’re becoming that stereotype of an ex - resentful and bitter and you don’t know how to say it’s not that at all. It’s that for some reason the confirmation you weren’t the first person he’d want to tell anymore cut a deep hole in your heart.

It’s hypocritical and stupid and risks ruining everything.

There’s a revelation low in your stomach you cannot let rise yet, you cannot voice because it really will ruin everything and you’re not ready for that. You’re not ready for this - things have just started to stabilise again.

You’ve prepared for dinner though. You chose one of your favourite outfits, doused yourself in your favourite perfume and spent time on your appearance for dinner. It’s armour.

Lia smiles when she sees you. “You look gorgeous,” she says in greeting, rising up and hugging you as you join them at the large table you’ve all now mentally claimed as your own throughout your stay.

She draws you in next to her. “How’s Clara? Did she like the kid’s club?”

“She did and she likes the sitter too.” You feel terrible about having a sitter on holiday but it’s novel to have a dinner with all of your friends in the evening. Besides, between you and Frankie, you’d both extensively researched and interviewed the hotel sitter so you felt as at ease as you could under the circumstances. It’s a family holiday yes, but two hours at the club and a sitter for a dinner hardly makes you and Frankie bad parents.

“That’s so good. It’s great having you and Clara both here, you know. I know work’s been a lot recently but I’ve missed you. I’m just - I’m pleased you made it.”

“Like I’d be anywhere else,” you say candidly. “You’re my best friend, Lia.”

“Ditto, just like, don’t tell my sister that?”

“Guide’s honour,” you say with a wink.

You’re grateful for Lia, she’s one of your closest friends and somehow she knows just what you needed to hear. You vow to be there more for her this week - it’s her wedding after all!

It doesn’t escape you that Frankie’s been sat with Santi and some distance from you and you are next to Lia. You wonder whose idea this seating arrangement was - Will’s perhaps, or maybe it was Sophia. You know they must be worried about a repeat of their wedding.

You take a long sip of your drink. On the other end of the table, you can hear Frankie’s soft laughter. You can’t help thinking about your conversation with him earlier, the slight tingle in your stomach when you spoke this morning.

You broke up for a reason. You know that.

It was the right thing at the right time and it hurt that all that love you had for him, that you think he had for you, was changed by everything that had gone on them.

It has to go somewhere though, doesn’t it? It can’t just stay stagnant; you’re supposed to move on.

It’s just, you think that maybe you still love Frankie a bit. Maybe you never stopped.

This is a hideously unwelcome revelation, it’s inappropriate, it’s clearly unreciprocated. You’re supposed to just be co-parents.

There’s no just with Frankie though, there never has been.

You feel nauseas. It’s starting to look like once again you and Frankie are going to end up ruining another friend’s wedding. Your best friend’s wedding to make it worse.

Only this time, it will be entirely your fault.

Tag List

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#frankie morales x female reader #frankie morales x reader #triple frontier fanfiction #frankie morales #frankie morales fanfiction #frankie catfish morales #triple frontier #fic: let's get lost #frankie morales x you

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sunshine-and-moonshine · 10 months

Text

Monster!Reader (Part 3)

Requested: No

Warnings: Some traditionally female creatures but they are written as GN, one mention of Reader in a dress, some ✨spice✨

Krueger - Hulder/Huldrekall

The village was quiet tonight. Quiet was something that Krueger enjoyed, hence why he had chosen such a scarcely populated area to make his home in. It didn’t matter that the villagers didn’t like having a new neighbor or that they shunned him, charged him extra for whatever wares he needed from the shops. He’d gladly ignore their glares and pay double for everything if it meant he kept his peace and quiet. Though sometimes he would get the occasional prankster teen who thought it would be funny to fuck with the out of towner, he had quickly dealt with them by the fifth time they came onto his property. Making them clean the broken eggs off his porch with their tongue, shell and all, his boot on the back of their head, their faces creaking against the hardwood as they cried for mercy. He was quite merciful in his own opinion. He’d killed people for less.

So he was shunned and avoided but that worked just fine for him. And he sat on his porch at night and enjoyed the quiet, a mug full of vodka in his hands as he just relaxed. Until it was interrupted one night by the sight of something poking it’s head out of the forest surrounding his home, peering at him curiously. He narrowed his eyes at it, at you, body tense but eventually relaxing when several moments passed and you seemed to not want to make any moves. You could stare all you liked, he’d leave you be as long as you kept your distance.

But then…..you beckoned him the next time he turned to look at you. And maybe it was the liquid courage clouding his judgment but he couldn’t help but follow you, amused by your giggles of enjoyment as he chased you through the woods, his breath catching in his throat everytime he passed you and saw that you were actually naked. It took almost all night before he actually caught you, growling and halfway feral as he flipped you onto your belly under him. He only noticed something was off when he yanked your hips up, hands pulling apart your ass cheeks to get a good look at you down below. And then your tail smacked against his hand, making him jump in surprise. A further look up showed that your back was…..opened up and hollowed out, revealing your beating heart. He wasn’t sure how you were even alive in this moment, let alone purring under him like a cat.

He decided he could figure it out later. When it wasn’t almost 6 in the morning with his cock aching and oozing precum in his pants.

Gromsko - Morowa dziewica

Gromsko was a man who experienced sickness almost all his life. His parents had both died of it and his younger sister was weak and sickly almost her entire life, even as a young toddler. It had distressed his family greatly and they struggled to pay for the hospital bills. Doubling up on jobs just to try and make ends meet. Throughout it all he never seemed to even get a cold, let alone anything serious. It was something his parents were extremely grateful for. That being said, he had a soft spot for sick people, just because they reminded him of his family. And seeing them suffering hurt him.

So seeing you, in your pretty white dress, coughing into what looked to be a rag the color of blood, being shunned and avoided as you begged for some help carrying your bag. In literal tears as you told them that you were in pain, that you physically couldn’t lift it any longer. Well, it upset him. If his sister was ignored like that, in that much pain, he’s sure that he’d kill somebody. So he didn’t hesitate to offer his help, lifting your bag with one hand and heaving it onto his shoulder, insisting that it was no problem when you started thanking him profusely. It actually wasn’t that heavy at all. Almost felt like there was actually nothing in it and he’d admit to being just a little curious on how something was so light but he didn’t want to ask you in case it was something you weren’t comfortable talking about.

And when he arrived in front of what you said was your home, he was more than a little concerned. It was more like a shack, run down and crumbling. Doubtful it was warm, especially when it was the middle of winter. But he didn’t get the chance to say anything as you smiled at him, cupping his face before dragging him forward to place a soft kiss on his forehead. It was hot, the warmth of it spreading from his head all the way down to his toes. Like the nicest fuzziest blanket he’d ever touched. He didn’t even notice you taking your bag back from him until you patted his cheek.

“Thank you, Sweet Boy.” You said, and there was something cold in your voice. Something a bit hollow and sad. “You best get home now, yes? Maybe stay inside for a little bit.”

He couldn’t find himself capable of doing anything but nodding, watching you turn from him and walk into the rundown shack, the door slamming shut behind you so loudly that it seemed like it shook the very ground around him.

Graves - Merperson

Graves hated the ocean. Always had, ever since he was a young boy and his grandpa would drag him out to the beach and toss him in as far as he could throw him then tell him to swim back on his own. He hated the way he couldn’t see in it, how anything could sneak up on him and take a bite. It made him anxious. Like something was just beneath the waves, watching him, waiting for him to let his guard down just so it could eat him.

As he grew, his fear of the sea lessened but never entirely went away. Which is why he was hesitant to get on the boat that would take him to his next assignment. And it wasn’t just his normal fear either. Today felt….different. Something in his gut yelling at him to not go. But he brushed it away, stepping onto the boat despite that trepidation. Over 3 whole days later, he was regretting that decision quite a lot as he laid on the beach of some piss poor “island” that was barely big enough for a dozen or so people. Not that there was a dozen or so people, there was just him. Him and a bunch of trees that bore fruits that he didn’t actually know the name of but that we’re keeping him alive. And the shade of the trees themselves did help keep him from getting too sunburnt.

He was on the verge of giving up today. He’d been out here so long with not a single sight of a boat or plane. He’s running out of fruit to eat and no matter how hard he tries, he can’t seem to catch any fish. He shuts his eyes and lays in the hot sand, feeling it scorching his skin, painful but he doesn’t care. Do distracted but his own mind that he doesn’t even hear the splashing of water before something wet and wiggling slaps against his face. He shoots up with a shout, eyes wide as he looks down at the still living fish that was flopping around in his lap. Confusion filled him, driving him to look up and around for what could have done this. It took him a minute but eventually he spotted it. You. Your black eyes barely peaking up above the waves, unblinking. You notice his attention on you quickly, sinking a bit lower in the water, seemingly growing a bit shy. He found it….cute.

“If you come out of the water, we can share this.” Graves called to you after a moment or two of silence, tilting his head. “What do you say, Darlin?”

Valeria - Gorgon

Valeria decided that she hated the woods. She had never had any particular feelings towards them before but now, now she is sure that she hates them. A month surrounded these god forsaken trees in the middle of she didn’t even remember where and she hated the woods. Once more she cursed Alejandro for forcing her to flee from her home, cursed her helicopter for crashing, her breathing heavy as she shuffled through branches and bramble, just barely keeping from tripping several times. She growled, low in the back of her throat, opening her mouth to-

A branch snapped behind her.

Her head whipped around, pulling out her gun and aiming it faster then she could think. Not that it would matter, she’d used all the ammo to hunt down food so she could survive. But whoever was behind her didn’t need to know that. Only….there wasn’t anyone behind her. Her eyes flickered around, hands still tight around her gun, a reflex more than anything at this point. A rabbit? Or maybe just her imagination. She was starting to become dehydrated. Maybe-

Another snap. This one closer. Behind her. She turned again but she wasn’t quick enough, her gun smacked out of her hands and her body knocked to the floor, her breath knocked out of her lungs by a foot pressing firmly in the center of her chest. She tried to squirm but it did no good, neither did clawing at the offending leg.

“If you don’t stop moving, I’ll turn you to stone.” A voice above her said and she looked up, Spanish curses already starting to fly from her lips before she even saw the head full of snakes you possessed or the cat like slits of your eyes.

Well that was…..certainly not what she was expecting

#cod #call of duty #mwii #mw2 #call of duty mwii #cod mwii #call of duty mw2 #cod mw2 #sebastian krueger #sebastian krueger x reader #Sobieslaw Kościuszko #sobieslaw kościuszko x reader #Sobieslaw Gromsko Kościuszko #Sobieslaw Gromsko Kościuszko x reader #philip graves #philip graves x reader #valeria garza #Valeria Garza x reader

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valaenatargaryensdragon · 1 year

Text

Snakes and Flames

pairing: Fanon!Aegon i Targaryen x Female OC

summary: Ashara Martell was not happy about being used as a peace treaty.

Word count: 3,5K

Warnings: Angst, incest, Jealousy

Masterlist 1

Masterlist 2

"Ashara, your grandmother is coming" Ashara groaned at her friend and handmaid's words. Her grandmother only personally visited her when she wanted something.

"Alright" Ashara pulled her feet out of the bath where another maid was waiting to dry them. Ashara always had a small foot bath before bed to keep her feet fresh and with rose petals to give them a scent.

Just as the maid was done drying Ashara's feet and rubbing some oils on them her grandmother or also known as the yellow toad of Dorne walked in. Her demeanour serious as ever, her mere presence demanded respect and fear. She was over eighty years old and yet in her full health and strength.

"Leave us" The Princess of Dorne demanded. The two maids bowed their heads before leaving, they feared her and did not dare even looking her way. Ashara slipped her shoes on before getting up from the stool.

"Grandmother, what a surprise" Ashara plastered a smile on her face. She has always admired her grandmother, she was an amazing woman to say the least.

"Granddaughter" Meria Martell greeted. Meria moved to stand by Ashara's mirror with a silent order. Ashara moved to sit on the ottoman in front of her mirror and handed her brush to her grandmother.

"What beautiful hair you have, dear" Meria let her wrinkled fingers run through Ashara's silk black strands. Ashara smiled lightly and nodded her head giving her grandmother permission to proceed. Meria ran the brush carefully through Ashara's hair.

"When I was your age I had double the hair and length" Meria pointed out. Ashara believed her a hundred percent, her grandfather had ordered a painting to be done of his wife that Ashara knew her grandmother still had for she had shown it to Ashara and her siblings before.

"I remember" Ashara nodded. Meria swallowed thickly but her fingers remained steady as she brushed Ashara's hair.

"Where is Dyanna?" Meria asked, noticing the lack of the toddler running around yelling and screaming.

"She is asleep, grandmother" Ashara responded. Her face brightened at the mention of her daughter, a bastard but there was no shame in that, not in Dorne, no Dyanna was loved and cherished by everyone especially Ashara and her father.

"After the chaos she inflicted today I can only imagine so" Meria joked half heartedly. Her eyes wandered lazily around the room but there was no use, her blindness did not cease and she was used to it, sometimes Ashara wondered if her grandmother was truly blind, she saw things others did not, she spoke of things happening before her eyes as if she could truly see.

"You came here for a reason, grandmother, what is it?" Ashara was not scared to ask. Her relationship with her grandmother has always been one of mutual respect and care, maybe not love but they cared for their family.

"We have come forward with a peaceful solution with the Targaryens" Meria answered. Her brushing stopped and her blind eyes stopped their movement. Ashara looked at her grandmother through the mirror, waiting for her to continue.

"A marriage of peace" Meria explained. Ashara's whole body went rigid, she should have known the second her grandmother mentioned peace.

"No" Ashara denied, standing up from the ottoman and turned to face her grandmother.

"You must" Meria insisted. Ashara snatched the brush from her grandmother's aging grip. She slammed it down on the vanity table loudly.

"No, I will not go" Ashara moved away from her grandmother to sit on her bed. Yet again Meria moved to face Ashara sending shivers down her body when she realised that her grandmother knew of her every move even when blind.

"This is the only way to peace or we will end up in a long and bloody war and we never know who will win" Meria stepped closer tot he bed. Ashara though being Dornish meant some freedom from such a fate, they mostly married for love like her grandparents, her parents and her older sister but it seems that fate never favoured her. The man she loved died weeks before their wedding leaving her pregnant with Dyanna and lonely.

"What about Dyanna?" Ashara asked worriedly. Meria looked away for a second as if she was debating what to say before turning back to look at Ashara.

"They know not of her existence and it is better if it stays that way" Meria spoke. Her words echoed in Ashara's head for a couple of seconds. She debating pulling out her dagger from her side and stabbing her grandmother and end her regency leaving her father to become the Prince of Dorne, he surely would not send her away against her will.

Or maybe she could unleash one of her many snakes at her grandmother. Ashara's eyes slid to the other side of the room where small cages of glass sat with more than ten snakes slithering about, tongues hissing out and back into their mouths, poisonous teeth poking out. She could kill her grandmother and play it off as an accident, one of the snakes escaped but everyone would know that was a lie, snakes listened to Ashara, they followed her like slaves and she a goddess.

"You want me to leave my child?" Ashara whispered, her heartbreaking at the mere thought of being away from her child.

"For Dorne" Meria answered. Ashara clenched her fists trying to compose herself if that was possible.

"Alright" Ashara sighed defeated. Meria left without another word or even an embrace of comfort. Ashara's whole body trembled with anger, she hated her grandmother, she hated Dorne, she hated everyone for forcing into being away from her child but mostly she hated the dragons for trying to conquer her homeland forcing this decision upon her grandmother.

"Princess" Ashara looked at the door where a small maid had slipped through with a small box in hand.

"From King Aegon" She squeaked when Ashara shot up from the bed so fast it was like lightening had struck. The maid staggered back as Ashara stalked closer with a glare that if it could kill the maid would be dead on the floor.

"Leave" Ashara ordered snatching the box from the maid. The maid did not have to be told twice. Ashara snickered when she opened the box and found a necklace in shape of a dragon inside, a small letter by its side. Ashara pulled the small parchment out and unrolled it to read it.

A token to you wife

Ashara walked over to her desk and pulled open her drawer, she pulled out a small piece of paper and some ink. She scribbled down three words before shoving it inside the box and went in search of a maid to give it back to Aegon fucking Targaryen, the blonde piece of shit that had ruined her life.

Unbent

Unbowed

Unbroken

The same squeaky maid was a couple of corridors away whispering with some other maid, probably about Ashara and how scary she was. It was not the first time, servants feared her for her short temper and only her personal handmaiden was used to her and understood her without her having to speak, Wylla, a bastard of s distant cousin who was happy to be a handmaiden for she was close to Ashara when they were children.

"You" Ashara hissed, earning the attention of the two girls. They jumped at the sound of her voice and the squeaky maid started trembling again.

"Take this to your King and make sure he open it" Ashara held out the box. The maid shakily took the box making sure not to touch Ashara's skin. Many believed that Ashara had poisonous skin because of her ability to tame snakes.

"O-of course" The maid hurried down the corridor to do so. Ashara at least was thankful that the Targaryens were not staying in the castle and instead had decided to sleep somewhere else, she did not care where.

However their dragons were circling the skies still, all three huge and intimidating, especially Balerion the black dread. The roared and growled every once in a while to remind people of their presence overhead, threatening to burn everything to the ground. Ashara knew they were here and she was waiting for the fighting begin when her grandmother sent news that they were to live one more day.

Instead of going to her room Ashara instead made her way to Dyanna's room. The small girl was snoring away in her bed, small and perfect for her size. Only four she had a bedtime and even when most adults were awake she had been asleep for hours now. Ashara sat down on the edge of the bed trying not to wake the sleeping toddler. Dyanna sighed happily but did not wake.

"My little snake" Ashara whispered, tears building in her eyes. Her hand raised to touch the fat on Dyanna's cheek, flushed from the heat. Dyanna's eyebrows wiggled slightly and a smile slipped on her face as she dreamed.

"Oh my littlest snake" Ashara slid down on her knees beside the bed. Her face inches away from her daughters. She leaned her head down burying her face in the sheets letting the tears slip out and soak the golden coloured blanket.

"How will I ever survive without you?" Ashara questioned. If she could she would stay in that moment forever but the sun slowly rose in the distance and Dyanna's sleep became restless and just as the first rays of sun slipped through the sheer curtain Dyanna's eyes fluttered open.

Ashara was sat there still watching her sleep, watching her breath. Making sure she was alive, making sure she was having good dreams. Making sure her littlest snake was happy.

"Mama!" Dyanna explained happily. She threw the blanket off to throw herself at her mother.

"Oh my love" Ashara faked a smile and hugged her daughter back. Her heart was tearing on the inside but she refused to show her daughter.

"I missed you mama" Dyanna whispered. She pulled away to look at her mother in the eyes.

"I was right here the entire night, my snake" Ashara kissed Dyanna's forehead.

"Then I did not miss you as much" Dyanna pouted. Ashara laughed, a real laugh.

"How about you get ready and we will talk later?" Ashara asked. Dyanna nodded her head happily. Ashara placed Dyanna back in her bed and stood up from the floor, her arms and legs were stiff and she could no longer feel her back or bottom but watching her daughter sleep those couple of hours was worth it.

Ashara found Dyanna's handmaiden and wet nurse standing outside waiting for her to leave before stepping into the room. The two woman were shocked when Ashara did not let them past into Dyanna's room.

"Take care of her, make sure she never needs anything no matter what" Ashara was not ordering, she was not demanding but she was pleading, a mother's plea.

"Do not worry princess, she is more precious to us than life itself" Dyanna's wet nurse spoke. She had been a broken woman once, having lost her child to a fever and her breasts were still swollen and full of milk so she was brought to feed Dyanna whenever Ashara could not, she had raised Dyanna alongside Ashara.

"Thank you" Ashara whispered before moving to her own room. Her maids were already there packing her things. Ashara did not want to leave so quickly but if her maids were packing it meant her grandmother had already decreed for her to leave quickly.

"Goodmorning, princess" Wylla greeted. Ashara nodded her head moving to the full body length mirror to take her dress from the day before off.

"What am I to wear today?" Ashara asked making sure her weapons were still strapped to her below the fabric and secure.

"Riding gear" Wylla answered. Ashara nodded and let her slid the yellow cloth followed by the brown leather on. She looked ever the Dornish woman, brown tan skin, black hair straight as ever, that was what was unique about Dornish women some had curls and some had straight hair, Dyanna had curls like her father who she did not even know.

"All done, princess" Wylla announced as she tied the last braid in Ashara's hair. Ashara liked it away from her face when she rode and its length could get in the way as well.

"Very well" Ashara nodded. She looked at herself one last time before turning to her snake corner, all the glass cages were empty, Wylla probably moved the snakes to portable cages instead for them to be moved.

"You should have waited for me to say goodbye" Ashara scolded Wylla. She would be riding her horse while they will be in their cages in wagon houses, she would not be able to see them for hours.

"Sorry princess" Wylla smiled lightly. Ashara sighed but nodded her head anyways. She took a deep breath before leaving her room.

She could hear Dyanna giggling in her room when she passed by the door causing tears to build up in her eyes but she pushed them away. She had not cried in front of anyone in over four years, ever since Dyanna's father passed. The corridors were filled with servants and people from their army making sure everything was secure.

"Princess" A guard greeted Ashara by the gates. Her grandmother was standing beside her along with her sister and father.

"I wish you luck, sweet Ashara" Her father pulled her in for a hug, never one to show much emotions but was still very much a loving father. Ashara hugged him tightly, savouring what she could imagine was the last time they would see each other.

"Give me a turn, father" Her older sister teased trying to lighten the mood. Their father pulled away with a small smile giving her space.

"Take care, sister" The two girls hugged tightly. They were not close in age, no there was a huge age gap in between them but they loved each other dearly nonetheless.

"Take care of my littlest snake for me" Ashara begged in her sister's ear. The latter nodded her head with a soft smile. She was already married with three children of her own, from mother to mother they understood each other.

"Good luck, sweet Ashara" The sisters pulled away from each other. There was nothing sweet about Ashara, everyone knew that but still her family liked to call her so. The people of Dorne called her the tamer of snakes.

"Grandmother" Ashara nodded at the yellow toad before turning to the gates. The guard pulled them open in front of her letting her pass. To her shock three stark white headed people awaited her with their beasts not far away, and no horse in sight.

"Princess" The only male stepped closer to her and nodded in greeting. She raised her eyebrow at him and looked around at his soldiers surrounding them.

"Targaryen" She greeted back. He smirked amused at her greeting and as if he had a sixth sense he held his hand out stopping one of the two women behind him from approaching.

"Visenya, calm down" He called, without turning to face his first wife. Ashara eyed the two women behind him, his sisters and wives.

"Are you ready, princess?" he asked holding out his hand for her to take. She did not and instead asked "Ready for what?"

"To ride to King's landing of course" He answered as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. Her eyes snapped behind him to the great black beast.

"On that? No" She shook her head. She was not afraid but she did not feel safe riding a beast she did not control.

"Afraid? Do no worry he will not harm you" Aegon chuckled. Ashara's face scrunched up in disgust at the fact that he was trying to reassure her, comfort her that he will care for her.

"No, I am not afraid of an enlarged lizard, I do not fancy riding something I am not familiar with" Ashara shook her head. Aegon this time did not give her a choice and instead took her hand into his own and began pulling her to the beast. His hand was rough probably from sword fighting and it was larger than her own.

"I told you he will not harm you" Aegon tried assuring her. Ashara could not help but laugh at his attempt, he stopped his walking and turned to face her.

"I am not afraid, Targaryen, in fact I would not mind him attacking" Aegon frowned at her words. She preferred dying to marrying him. Or at least she preferred getting harmed than to marry him.

"Martell" Visenya hissed through gritted teeth, warning the younger woman to watch what she was saying but Ashara did not care.

"What Targaryen?" Ashara turned, hissing right back at the blonde woman. Patience was not something Visenya had so in seconds her sword, Dark Sister, was out and ready to attack.

Rhaenys gasped in shock moving back but Ashara was ready, she was always read, she pulled out her large dagger from its hidden place inside of her jacket and held it up to deflect Visenya's attack making the steel sing and echo around the area.

"Enough!" Aegon yelled pulling Ashara back and away from Visenya. Ashara grunted pulling away from his touch and hid her dagger back inside of her jacket.

"Control yourself, ābrazȳrys" Wife. Aegon whispered to Visenya. She nodded respecting her brother's wishes and put away her sword.

"Watch what you say next time, Martell" Visenya spat in Ashara's direction.

"Or what Targaryen?" Ashara smirked in Visenya's direction trying to rile her up. Aegon pushed Visenya back when she tried to get to Ashara again.

"To your mounts, now" Aegon ordered the two blonde women. Rhaenys pulled Visenya away from Aegon and made her walk in the direction of their dragons not far away from there, in a clearing fitting their sizes but still close that they were seen from there.

"Come on" Aegon nudged Ashara to follow the sisters. Ashara huffed and obliged but kept a good distance from them. They were muttering to each other but Ashara did not care to hear what they were saying to one another.

"Was that really necessary?" Aegon questioned, after a couple of minutes hating the silence that followed them.

"Did you receive my letter yesterday?" Ashara asked, changing the subject. Aegon sighed annoyed with her. Well too bad for him because they were meant to spend a life time together.

"Yes along with my gift" Aegon replied. Ashara smirked when she noticed the troubled look on his face.

"I did not like it" Ashara shrugged. Her eyes trailed to the dragon that stood proud in front of her. His eyes watched her and Aegon approach. Aegon moved a pace or two in front of her, holding his arm in front of her as a signal to stay back.

"Lykirī, Balerion, rȳbās" Calm donwn, listen/obey. Aegon called in a language Ashara did not know but knew of, High Valyrian, a language she did not speak herself.

"Bisa iksis ñuha future ābrazȳrys, Balerion" This is my future wife, Balerion. Aegon turned to her urging her to step forward. He held out his hand for her and she placed her own in his, letting him guide her hand to touch the scales of the dragon.

The second her hand touched the scales she felt like all air was pulled out of her lungs, her entire body shook for a second. Balerion's eyes snapped down to look at her. He lowered his head to her level and looked her up and down trying to study her. He pushed his head in her direction almost knocking her off her feet if Aegon had not held her waist stopping the movement.

"He likes you" Aegon pointed out, his eyebrows pinched in confusion.

"All snakes do" She smirked at him. Balerion growled a little when Vaghar and Meraxes took the skies with loud roars.

"He is no snake" Aegon hissed moving to climb onto Balerion's back. He offered her his hand to help her up but she ignored him and climbed on her own, taking her place behind him and held on to his waist so she would not fall.

"Everything and everyone have their own snake hidden away" Ashara whispered. On Balerion's back she could see the castle again through the tops of the trees there, despite the heat some trees survived giving the scenery more beauty.

"Shall I chain you or will you hold on?" Aegon asked, smirking over his shoulder. He had chained himself to Balerion for more stability.

"I won't make promises..." not to jump. But she did not finished her sentence, he was already chaining her to him. Chaining her to him forever, until he dies or she dies.

"Sōvēs" Fly. Aegon ordered ending the conversation. Balerion grumbled loudly moving a couple of feet before taking off after Vaghar and Meraxes easily catching up to them and taking the lead.

#hotd #house of the dragon #house targaryen #house of the dragon imagine #hotd imagine #game of thrones #aegon i targaryen #aegon imagine #aegon targaryen #aegon the conqueror #aegon x oc #aegon i targaryen x oc #visenya the conqueror #rhaenys the conqueror #rhaenys x oc #visenya x oc #ashara martell #house martell

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the-scandalorian · 2 years

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Title: Stepwise Pairing: Din Djarin x Female Reader Rating: E, 18+ Word Count: 5.1k Warnings: explicit smut (fingering, blowjob, unprotected p-in-v, cum eating, cum play, mention of ass play), touch-starved Din, possessive Din, somewhat inexperienced Din, soft feelings, references to canon-typical violence Summary: Requests for both soft and smutty touch-starved head canons spiraled out of control and became this.

Din Djarin knows some touch.

He’s versed in violent touch, in touch made heavy by duty. He's comfortable with the tangled chaos of hand-to-hand combat, the brutal embrace of wrestling a quarry to the ground, the dead weight of a body slung over his shoulder, the strange intimacy of towing someone by their bound wrists from the moment of capture all the way to the carbonite chamber.

From those things, Din comes away bloodied and bruised. Exhausted. They're second nature—reflexive, at this point—but whether he likes it or not, each one takes something from him.

Soft touch—touch that restores and comforts and gives—has been scarce for so long that it’s mostly foreign to him. He knew it best as a child, before his commitment to untouchable beskar and an unbreakable code. He has memories of his mother sweeping his untidy hair off his forehead and of his father taking his small hands in his much larger ones to show Din how to plant a seedling without crushing the delicate green leaves. He remembers falling asleep snuggled under a thick red blanket, crickets chirping a muted chorus outside his window, the grounding weight of a hand rubbing up and down his back.

These distant memories start to feel much closer—and more tactile—when Grogu comes into his life. Staring down at a wailing, wriggling kid with no idea what to do, Din finds himself thinking back to his childhood, to his parents, out of necessity. And as those memories sharpen, little by little, affection slips into his interactions with the kid. Din shrugs off a pauldron to rock him to sleep or soothes his hiccuping cries with reassuring pats from an ungloved hand. These soft gestures make sense: they keep the kid calm, help him stay asleep longer…which means Din gets to sleep longer. They’re purely practical. So they become habit.

And, gradually, they become comfort. For Din. He feels better—quieter—when Grogu is settled in the crook of his elbow with three tiny fingers wrapped around his thumb.

You come into Din’s life at just the right time, at the exact moment of this subtle opening.

He takes you on as a hunting partner—he finds that he needs one after ten years of working alone. Apparently, raising a toddler is a full-time job. Your relationship as work associates lasts maybe two months, though. Care and attraction are almost impossible to keep private in a space as small as the Razor Crest. He’s taken by your smile and your strength, by the way you soften the sterile lines of his ship into something akin to home. You’re enamored with his duality: a tender heart cased in steel.

When Grogu leaves with the Jedi, it’s implicit that you’ll stay.

The rest should be simple.

But Din—the man you really want, not Mando or The Mandalorian—is armored in so many layers, both physical and emotional. You have to work towards intimacy in stages, in a stepwise function you feel your way through together.

One

In the beginning, Din flinches away from your friendly physical advances: twisting his shoulder out of your grasp, recoiling when you try to help him clean a smudge off his visor, retracting his hand when you reach for it. It’s not that he doesn’t want you to touch him—he wants that more than he thinks he’s supposed to—but he has to overcome decades of conditioning, of constant reinforcement that every touch is a threat. Defensive reflexes—survival and solitude—are woven into the branched network of his nervous system. It takes time to work them loose.

He’s trying though. As soon as he twitches his gloved hand away from yours, he lets out a tired sigh, rolls his shoulders, and reaches back over to rest his large palm over yours, intertwining your fingers and muttering a quiet sorry through the modulator.

One day at a time, his icy exterior thaws. He gets accustomed to having you in his orbit, and soon, he can’t remember what it’s like without you there. He’s so used to keeping everyone out of his radius, but he starts to feel off if you’re not in it. You weave yourself into the fabric of his life, and it feels so damn good for Din to be fully at ease around someone else—not always tensed and poised to react. It’s a novelty in his adult life: feeling more secure with company than alone, like he’d be off-kilter in your absence.

He stops flinching. He starts craving, gravitating.

Din’s body language shifts as he relaxes around you: his fists unclench, the tap of his restless fingers abates, his shoulders loosen, his spine loses that fighting-corps rigidity. He dozes without shutting himself in the privacy of his bunk. And—first subconsciously, then consciously—he starts to make a point of keeping you close at all times, within arm’s reach if either of you happen to reach out. Soon enough, that progresses to comfortable contact: sitting so near that his knee bumps yours, leaving a hand on your lower back as you walk side by side, enclosing your bare hand in his gloved one, sitting back-to-back while you eat, resting his helmet against your temple.

He blinks, and you’re the sun around which he revolves.

Din’s throat gets tight when you stand behind the pilot’s seat and wordlessly remove his pauldrons to massage the tension out of his shoulders. After a few blissful minutes of your thumbs working at his tight delts, his eyes can't focus on the flashing controls in front of him anymore, no matter how many times he tries to clear his vision. Everything goes hazy and warm, and he has just enough sense left to reach out and flick a few toggles to set the ship to autopilot. Then, he stops resisting. He lets his helmet thunk dully against the back of the seat and hums low and content when you work out a particularly stubborn knot—one he’s never quite able to reach himself. Sitting there, unwound and mellow under your attention, even the cold black void of space laid out before him feels golden.

After that, he stops wearing his armor around the Crest, and there’s one less layer between you.

Two

Din’s flight suit and his gloves are his second skin, a vital sensory organ. He’s worn some version of both since he was eleven years old. Shedding them—especially in front of another person—feels wrong. It’s not that he’s self conscious; it’s that he knows the world through them. So peeling them off feels like baring raw nerves.

He needs to go slow, and you understand.

He wants to go fast. You can tell by his heavy breathing, by his frustrated growls, by the things he tells you in that husky voice—rasped in a gruff murmur, his cold helmet tucked against your neck. He wants to strip bare and press his chest against yours—to undress you, lay you down, spread your knees, and sink inside your tight heat—but you both know that would be too much, too fast.

Like exposing someone with severe hypothermia to direct heat too quickly.

Dangerous.

So instead, you start with two fingertips, slipped between his glove and vambrace, while your foreheads meet in a Keldabe kiss. You stroke the sensitive skin there, and he shudders and caves, his shoulders rounding as he breathes through the initial sting of it—the shock—as if you’d slipped an ice cube up his sleeve.

When the feeling wanes into something sweet, he pulls his gloves off, letting them fall, forgotten, to the ground.

Gloves precede vambraces. His cape crumples to the floor by his feet. He shoves his sleeves up his forearms, exposing as much of himself as he can without actually undressing. Learning the feel of you without the barrier of leather and duraweave is more intense than he expected. He already knows the shape of you—the curves and valleys and ridges—but now he gets the textures and the temperatures: the softness of your skin, the tickle of your body hair, the warmth of your breath when you bring his knuckles up to your mouth to plant kisses on each one. He loves it all.

Whenever he can, he holds you with bare hands, like a lifeline. He burrows, his cold helmet buried between your shoulder and your ear. He breathes you in like spice. He adheres—sticks to you like beskar on a Mandalorian.

Din Djarin goes clingy.

He tries to make up for decades of asceticism in the span of weeks, days, minutes. The milliseconds between breaths. Maybe, he can paint over a lifetime of austerity and deprivation if he holds you close enough, often enough.

You help him out, pulling him into you every chance you get. There are sweet moments of whispered words and quiet comfort, and there are desperate moments of fumbling hands and shared body heat. Din gets painfully hard when you grab his suspenders and reel him in, your panted words leaving a smudge of fog on his visor, right over his mouth. He crowds you against the wall of the hull in return, dragging his bare hands up your clothed hips. He moans, long and low, when you reach up to ruck down his cowl and drag the flat of your tongue up the side of his neck. He's not proud of the sounds he makes, but he's too lost in the sensation to really care that he's panting audibly, his labored breath a staticky drag through the modulator.

Your mouth will be the end of him.

Three

It’s been weeks, and he’s ready. Skin on skin doesn’t burn anymore. No, now he lusts for it, aches for more.

Din sits down in the pilot’s seat and pulls you down into his lap. He starts to unwrap you—shucking your shirt off and running his warm, rough hands up the sides of your ribcage. He whines quietly—you think it’s a whine but it’s hard to tell through the subtle distortion of the modulator—when he palms the curves of your breasts, weighing them like he's memorizing exactly how they feel. What you know for sure is that he’s making sounds you’ve never heard him make outside of hunting: desperate little exhalations, as if he’s overexerted himself physically, as if he’s fighting for his life. He kneads your soft flesh, the black t of his visor glued to where his fingers sink generously into the give, where his calloused thumbs graze over your pert nipples.

He thinks he could cum like that, with you on his lap, your perfect tits in his hands.

He’s pretty close to being right.

Din completely loses it when you start grinding on his thigh, your breasts bouncing subtly as you ride your hips over his taut quad. He guides you back and forth with a bruising grip, encouraging your movements, urging you faster. He’s mesmerized, drunk… his hips jerk forward involuntarily when you reach down to palm his aching cock over his pants. You don’t do anything spectacular to it—too caught up in chasing your imminent orgasm—just keep your hand over him, tight and hot.

Somehow, though, between the rhythmic movement of your body and the unrelenting pressure of your grip and the desperation of your whines, it’s enough. Before he even realizes it’s happening, he’s pressing the heel of his hand over yours, flexing his hips, and cumming in his pants like a fucking teenager. He’s too drowned in your lust-blown eyes and the way you moan oh fuck that’s so hot to be embarrassed. You keep your grip on the damp spot over his oversensitive, spent cock—clinging possessively—throw your head back, and fall apart too. The image of your face, jaw dropped open and eyes squeezed shut, will be seared into his memory forever.

Some time later, when you’ve both recovered and remember to start taking his clothes off, you discover something sweet. You ease his suspenders off his muscular shoulders then grasp the hem of his duraweave thermal to guide the thick fabric up, your fingertips ghosting over his skin, and Din makes a choked sound and leaps away from you. He's ticklish—of course someone so unused to touch would be hypersensitive.

At first, he doesn't like the sensation. It's itchy and weird, and the urge to wriggle and fidget makes him feel stupid and out of control—like a child. Slowly, though, he comes around to it: he sees the cute way you laugh and squirm away from him when he accidentally (…and then purposefully) tickles you. He considers the open way you welcome his touch, how good it feels that you trust him enough not to quell your natural reactions. He decides getting tickled isn't so bad and maybe white-knuckled composure isn't always a virtue.

He tells you his real name then, shedding another layer for you, letting the tight thread of his control go a little more slack.

“Din,” he says, “call me Din.”

Four

“Din,” you ask, “will you stay with me?”

So far, his bunk has been his sanctum, the one place you don’t follow. You haven’t questioned that boundary yet, haven’t asked for exception. But after all this time, he still pulls away from you when it’s time to sleep, and you’re starting to get tired of that, of sleeping alone just feet away from him.

He tilts his helmet—the proxy for a soft smile you know well by now. Apparently, he’s been waiting for you to ask.

Instead of staying with you, though, he takes your hand and leads you to the only place in the Crest you’ve never been. He’s dressed in only his thermal layer and his helmet, you in pajamas. You slide into the tight space, and he follows, shutting the door with a click once he’s shuffled all the way inside. For a long moment, you breathe together.

Then, there’s the sound of subtle movement and hiss, clink. Your heart jumps into your throat. You weren’t expecting this.

With some difficulty, you find your way together, shifting closer without actually touching, waiting like two nervous teenagers for the other to initiate something. There’s been so much anticipation, so much build up for so long that it almost feels like your first kiss, too. It has all the significance of a first for both of you.

You start forward at the same time, sensing and mirroring each other’s movement, and it’s an awkward fumble to meet mouths. You readjust, scooting closer, but keep your own hands knotted safely in your lap—you’re waiting for his cue to touch his face.

He kisses you, and everything else in the galaxy evaporates. It’s a little clumsy. Eager and unpracticed. You like the sloppiness of it, though, how willing he is to submit to being out of his depth, something that doesn’t come easily to him. He searches blindly to find your hands and brings them up to his face. He asks you to know him. He lets you guide him.

The Mandalorian—the man of strength and competence and action—follows your lead.

You grip his stubbly jaw and slot your mouths deeper. His sharp nose nudges yours, your shallow breaths mingling together. The kiss intensifies, and his tongue tastes like desperation when it slides against yours. You rearrange, sinking onto your back and pulling him down on top of you, his long body settling over yours, his hips cradled between your thighs. You can feel the hard line of cock against your clothed core as you wrap your legs around him, and his hand slinks down your side, a slow drag over your stomach, to slip between your thighs, where your underwear is already damp.

“Show me,” he says, mouthing down your neck.

You guide his hand, showing him what you like—demonstrating just the right pressure and rhythm and touch. The trigger-calloused pad of his forefinger plays against your clit; the fingers of his left hand—the one that reloads the charges in his Amban rifle—grip the outside of your thigh, spreading you open wider, until your knee rests against the durasteel wall. Then, you gasp a plea, and two of those fingers sink inside you.

You’re close before you know it, so you reach down to fumble in the dark until you’ve worked his pants open and shoved his boxers down far enough to take his hard, leaking cock in your spit-slick hand. A series of frantic strokes, and you’re cumming at the same time—you clamping around his thrusting fingers, him spilling warm over your knuckles and dripping down onto your thigh.

Later, when you fall asleep together, he coils around you like a hungry snake, your limbs intertwined like climbing vines, his face tucked between your shoulder and your ear. Lying in the tight space, enveloped by him, his humid breath against your neck, you don’t need a blanket at all. You toss it somewhere down by your feet and soak up the heat he radiates like sunshine.

Weeks slip by in a haze of half torn-off clothes and desperate groping. Everywhere. In the shower. In the cockpit. In a grassy field. In his bunk. In the hull. In the middle of a forest. In a cantina bathroom.

You fog his head like a drug, and he gets a little reckless with his affection.

It’s only a matter of days before Din is able to make you cum with one hand and no feedback—aside from an arched back, dripping cunt, and needy sounds—from you. He gets addicted to sinking his fingers inside you. The warm, wet clench of your cunt. The eager heat of your mouth. Eventually, the tightness of your ass.

You learn him in return.

He knows it will be over fast when you sink to your knees in front of him and reach up for his belt, undoing the buckle and lowering the weapon-heavy leather to the ground carefully. He stands with uncertain hands fidgeting at his sides while you work open his pants to free his stiff cock. When you take him into the welcoming heat of your mouth, Din’s jaw immediately drops open in a pant, the chin of his helmet clinking against his chestplate as his head falls forward to watch you.

He only lasts a few minutes with your wide, eager eyes looking up at him through fanned lashes, your mouth and hand working him up and down. His fists are clenched tight, and it takes all his self control not to thrust greedily down your throat. He watches spit drip down your wrist as you work the length of him that doesn’t fit into your mouth with tight strokes, your other hand cupping and rolling his balls. Then, with a choked warning, his helmet rocks back, and he's spurting hot and generous down your throat. A pained sound—a sound like raw relief—claws its way out of his chest as he flexes his hips forward in sloppy, stunted thrusts, his vision whiting out as he cums harder than he ever has in his life.

When Din pulls back, zipping his spent cock back into his pants, and looks down, he sees that he spilled past your lips and is dripping down your chin. The sight of it makes him groan. You catch a pearly drop on your thumb and push it back into your mouth, your eyes locked on his visor, and he reaches down to hold open the hinge of your jaw so he can see the rest of his spend glinting so pretty on your tongue. You know he likes it, that he’s watching intently—so you tilt your head back and stick it out further for him to admire. When you close your mouth and swallow all of it, suddenly, he’s half hard again, straining against his fly.

Five

On an otherwise unremarkable day, Din decides to take himself apart for you—fully, completely, in the light.

Actually, he asks you to do it. There’s something about your hands taking the place of his that feels right. A sign of trust. A surrender of control. In a way that feels equal parts good and disorienting. But that’s the beauty of you, isn’t it? How easily you reorient him.

It’s the first time he’s put his sense of self and safety into someone else’s hands so completely and willingly.

Months ago, it might have seemed odd to do it here, in the middle of the hull. But now, the sterile silver walls of the Razor Crest are home. Slowly, at his direction, you dismantle him: beskar, weapons, leather, duraweave, cotton…until all that’s left is his helmet. He’s breathing hard, and when you splay your hand over his left pec, you can feel the hummingbird trapped in his chest.

“It’s okay.”

“I know,” he says, his big hand covering yours.

He undresses you much more quickly, a flurry of warm hands until your clothes lie in a discarded pile on the floor. He doesn’t mention or reach for his helmet yet, and you know that means he needs time. So you count his scars in the meantime, tracing them with reverent fingertips. You already know you’re going to study their unique shapes and arrangements until you learn them by heart.

Here, on his soft, thick middle, a golden brown constellation, an echo of spattered shrapnel. On his quad, a decades-old archipelago painted in dull mauve—from a bad fall down a scree slope, before the beskar, he says. There, along his spine, a faded slash as long as your forearm. On his shoulder blade, a pearly white crescent moon with rose-petal pink puckered edges—a recent gift from a bounty. Still healing.

He offers what details he can remember of each, patient while you circle him.

It helps, you think, for him to have something to do.

As you run your hands over him and he acclimates to feeling so bare, the frantic beating of his heart gradually returns to normal. It picks up again when he reaches for your hands and brings them up to his helmet.

“Are you sure?” you ask.

Din thinks about how often he’s had to wrestle someone off him to prevent them from forcibly removing his helmet. All the times an enemy has spit some version of the same venomous threat—let’s see your eyes, Mando—at him. When he’s had to snap a wrist or shatter a jaw to stop someone from revealing his face. How, over and over again, he has had to fight to keep a stranger from making this decision for him. And how this is the exact opposite, finally on his terms.

He nods.

You watch the bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallows thickly, and you think you know why he’s not speaking. He presses the release and leans down momentarily as you ease the beskar up and off his head, letting it hang heavily by your side as you take him in.

Sharp jaw with patchy salt-and-pepper stubble. Lips—a pink, kissable bow—sweeter looking than you were expecting. A sharp nose you know by feel. Brown eyes, warm and soft—right now, they’re shifting uncomfortably, like he doesn’t know where to settle his gaze, like you’re a too-bright light he can’t look at directly.

You reach out for his hand with your free one, and he meets your eyes steadily for the first time, letting out a long exhale. You’re so distracted that the slick metal of his helmet slips from between the fingers of your other hand, and it clangs loudly against the floor, reverberating in the echoing space.

“Shit—sorry!” you squeak, bending to snatch it back up and examine it closely for damage. “I think it’s okay.”

You look up at his face, and he’s smiling, an endearing dimple appearing on one cheek.

Adorable. Kissable.

“It’s beskar,” he says with a low chuckle. “If anything, it dented the floor.”

He takes his helmet from you and sets it on a crate behind him then grabs hold of both of your hands and pulls you with him toward the bunk. He climbs in first, and you clamber in after, crawling up the length of his body until you’re perched on your knees, straddling his thighs.

Other than an encouraging nod, he stays still, his breathing slow and steady, when you reach up to touch his face. The pads of your fingers scale the slopes of his cheekbones, trace the furrowed ridge of his brow, and descend the strong curve of his nose. You sweep your fingers through the tickle of his mustache and back up to smooth the concerned lines that deepen in his forehead.

Din only has one memory to parallel this sensation: he can’t help but think of his mother and her long, gentle fingers brushing his hair back, how she’d let her palm follow a crescent moon downward to cup his cheek. She’d smile at him for a moment—a moment that always felt so long when he was wriggling with energy—before she’d release him to go outside to play or do his chores.

You watch Din’s expression shift, and you can tell he’s slipped off to somewhere else entirely.

When you pull your hands back, he meets your eyes, blinks, and looks away again, the feeling of exposure suddenly unbearable. You notice the water collecting at the corners of his eyes, so you shuffle down into a prone position and rest your head on his chest. One of his palms cradles the back of your neck, the other finding a home on the small of your back, holding you in place. As if you’d move.

Another time, soon, he’ll tell you about his mother. And his father. Everything.

When you peek up at him a few minutes later to make sure he’s okay, he looks calm. One stray tear has escaped his eyelashes and is making a slow path down his temple. You lean up to catch it with a quick kiss before settling back down on his chest. He squeezes you tight.

You stay like that for a long time, until Din steps out of his memories and returns to you fully.

When he's ready, he pulls you up and kisses you in a desperate, consuming way that makes tears collect at the corners of your eyes. There’s barely any build up: seconds pass, your mouths locked together, and what starts sweet goes hungry.

His hand slips down your body to work concentrated circles over your clit, and your thighs automatically part for him. His hardening cock is aching and smearing precum against your thigh. When his hand moves lower and he eases two fingers inside your already wet pussy, you reach down and stop him.

“Need to feel you inside me,” you pant into his neck. “Please, Din.”

You can see from the naked relief on his face that he’s as desperate as you are. He doesn’t say anything, just grunts as he adjusts. He positions himself over you and works the fat head of his cock inside you slowly, your pussy slick and welcoming, like it was made for him. His forehead rests heavy and warm against yours—a familiar gesture that feels completely different without the cold bite of beskar between you. You whine at the stretch of him, tilting your hips to chase the pleasure laced with a thread of pain. When his hips meet yours, he bites back a curse.

Neither of you is going to last. From the start, Din’s thrusts are stuttering and uncontrolled, his eyes squeezed shut. He opens them to find one of your hands and move it down to where you’re joined.

“Touch-touch yourself for me, mesh’la. Make yourself cum while I’m inside you.”

He forces himself to keep his eyes open to watch you fall apart, his hips a constant slap against yours. It takes everything in him not to cum when you clench around him and moan his name. He holds tight to his last remaining vestige of control and stills inside to let you ride it out.

You open your eyes during the aftershocks, and when Din meets your eyes, a word sears through his chest, itches at the back of his throat, struggles against the cage of his bared teeth: mine. He wants to say it. He likes the claim of it, the implied permanence. Din has never had much to call his own, and that hasn’t ever bothered him. Until now. Until you.

Instead of running the risk of scaring you off with something so possessive, he drops himself over you again to resume thrusting, your foreheads bumping together, the bridge of his nose sliding against yours, and offers you something.

“I’m yours.”

You pull in a sharp breath. Both of your hands find the nape of his neck, and you guide his mouth to yours. He likes the hungry press of your tongue, returns it in full.

“And I’m yours,” you whisper back, your words hot against his lips.

It comes out as a growl when he does say it, torn from his throat as he cums, his head thrown back and lip pulled up in a snarl: “Mine.”

You gasp through his last desperate thrusts, strung out on the feeling of his warmth spreading inside you. He pulls out too quickly for your liking, shuffling backward on his knees, and you whimper. But the naked intensity on his face silences your protest, and he grips your thighs and pushes them apart roughly.

“Wanna see—” he rasps.

He dips his head to watch his spend drip out of your abused cunt, and his eyes darken and brim with lust, like storm clouds crowding a night sky. He collects it carefully and pushes it back inside you with two fingers.

Once turns into twice—you sink down onto him while he’s still leaking out of you, riding him until he’s filling you again. Then you collapse onto his chest, exhausted and sweaty and sated.

He shivers when you reach up to comb your fingers through his hair and lightly scratch his scalp—a pleasant tingle running down his spine. Eventually your tired hands still, you nestle your face further into the crook of his neck, and moments later, your breathing evens out. You fall asleep like that, your body warm and relaxed on top of his, his spent cock still inside you.

Din is so used to the weight of his beskar—of his Creed and his obligations—that without it, he sometimes feels like he might float away or fade into nothing. Dissolve into a froth of atoms, dissipate into the void. Leave only the negative space of his memories. All at once, nothing.

But, with you?

With you spread out on top of him, your reassuring weight an anchor, he thinks he might be okay.

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