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criminalamnesia · 2 months

Note

Hiii!! I hope you're doing well :))

I just loveee the traitor series. Do you plan on making a part 5 or more?

thank you! here’s part five :)

the other parts can be found in my COD masterlist, which is here

ALL PARTS CAN BE FOUND HERE

I’ll proofread later :))

you stormed out of the gym, eyesight blurry from hot tears. you weren’t crying because you were sad— no. you were furious. furious at how simon was so fucking stubborn. at how he thought he was in the right.

droplets of blood marked your footsteps as you made your way back to the infirmary. you weren’t particularly anxious to be yelled at by the doctor, but getting it over with as soon as possible was ideal.

“bonnie, y’alrigh’?”

soap. you hadn’t even seen him, so lost in your thoughts. you blinked away tears and ignored the scot, continuing to make your way down the hall in silence.

the sound of hurried footsteps was unmistakable behind you. soap wasn’t taking silence for an answer, apparently.

“bonnie, please—” he began, the drawl of his voice catapulting your mind to the past. to better days.

days when soap had patched you up after a fight, his fingers nimble as he stitched up a cut in your thigh.

“s’it hurt?” he spoke, voice gravelly because of his hushed tone.

you shook your head. your head was tilted back, eyes staring up at the ceiling but not truly seeing. you were worried sick— you and soap were the only ones who’d made it to the safe house so far. the others should’ve beaten you there, and now they were over an hour late.

“bonnie, ‘m sure they’re alrigh’,” he told you, poking the needle through skin. you barely felt it, too hyped up on fear and adrenaline.

“they should’ve beaten us here, y’know that—” you began, but he tutted, quickly cutting you off.

“cannae think like tha’, bonnie. they’ll be here any second, aye?”

he stops his stitching, his face tilting up and away from your leg. you faintly register the feeling of his eyes on you.

you felt lost— floating in sea of numbness. your mind is mulling over the millions of possibilities— possibilities in which they never return.

you’d never felt this way before, and the five of you had endured far worse.

the only thing that was different this time was the fact that you and simon were together. you’d never explicitly told the rest of the task force, but they knew.

johnny knew why you were so worked up. he understood.

he reaches a hand up, his dirtied fingers lightly tilting your chin down so you’re face to face.

“y’there?” he asks, his hand dropping from your chin. he moves to squeeze one of your hands, pulling you back down to the ground.

you give a small nod, fingers moving to intertwine with his. he smiles— not his usual playful expression, but a true, grateful, relieved smile.

“im here,” you tell him. he releases your hand, pulling away from your skin, giving your hand a light pat before fully retreating.

“‘m almost finished, yeah? then I’ll go lookin’—”

“no need.”

it’s kyle, breathing heavily as he shuffles into the room. price and ghost are right on his heels, the three men making the room feel much smaller than it did a moment ago.

“you two good?” kyle asks, a small frown on his lips as he takes note of your bloodied leg.

you nod, your eyes flitting from gaz, to price, to simon— who is now moving towards you. he crouches down so he’s eye level with you. you meet his gaze, and although he doesn’t say it, you know what he’s thinking.

he’s relieved, and it’s a deeper relief than usual. it’s heavier, more profound, because he’s started to let you in. you’re more than teammates now, and it doesn’t truly hit ghost until this moment.

“im good,” you tell him quietly. he nods, glances down at where johnny is tying off your stitches.

johnny must notice ghost’s stare, because he breaks his focus and looks up at his lieutenant with a cheeky smirk.

“no worries, LT. made sure to do ma best work,” he grins and shoots the other man a wink, to which ghost grunts, unamused.

the heavy weight of a palm on your shoulder breaks you from the memory. you move without thinking, bloodied fist swinging as you whirl around to attack whoever laid a hand on you.

then you remember— soap.

johnny narrowly dodges your assault, his eyes widened as your fist barely clips him.

“steamin’ jesus!” he speaks, throwing his hands up in surrender and taking a step back from you.

“i was jus’ tryin’ to make sure ya were alrigh’! yer bleedin’, bonnie.”

you blink as you slowly escape your stupor. you’d completely lost yourself in the memory, and you didn’t know why.

probably because your brain was trying to comfort itself the only way it knew how— by seeking comfort from the people closest to you.

old habits, right?

old fucking habits.

“don’t touch me,” you seethe, eyes narrowing as you glare at the scot. he frowns, bites his lip, but doesn’t say anything.

like a kicked puppy. you can’t help but feel sympathetic before you wrestle that feeling back down. he wasn’t sympathetic for you— why should you be for him?

you look at him for a moment longer, taking in his appearance. he looks fine, and that angers you just the slightest bit more.

“look, i— i ken we really messed up, and sorry cannae fix tha’, but please, bonnie. a’least let us try—”

“I don’t owe you anything, mactavish.” you told him, gaze cold as you met his eyes. “and you’re right, sorry can’t fix it. nothing can fix it; so, stop trying.” you step forward, raising a hand as you point a finger into his chest.

“the four of you need to leave me the fuck alone. frankly, I couldn’t care less about how the four of you feel. about how he feels. you did what you did, believed what you believed, and now you have to live with that.”

johnny’s frown deepens as his eyes glance down at the finger you’ve got digging into his sternum.

“you deserve to feel like shit,” you tell him. “and anything you feel— how sorry you are— just know that I suffered a hundred times more in that chair, locked up in that room. so the next time you wanna watch me from outside the infirmary, or you wanna put your fucking hands on me,” your jaw is clenched, fire licking at your veins as you speak to him.

“remember what you did. remember that nothing can fix it. remember that you’re dead to me— all of you are— and that I never would’ve let that happen to any of you.”

“and I hope it hurts like hell, mactavish. I hope it eats you alive, and that you never find peace because you don’t deserve it.”

you drop your hand, your eyes still on his.

“and I hope you tell the rest of them I said that. especially him.”

you turn then, take a steadying breath, and keep walking.

soap watches you go without another word.

“that was stupid,” the doctor chastises you, her lips pressed into a thin line as she examines your knuckles.

“you blatantly went against my one rule for you. I shouldn’t have even let you out of bed, but you’re too damn stubborn! so I thought I’d give you some grace, but there you go— leaving my iv pole in the hall. bloodying your knuckles. I should let one of the newbies patch you up,” she grumbles, her gloved hands cool against your skin.

over the time you’d spent in the infirmary, you and the doctor had formed an odd bond. it was almost as if you were friends, but she always kept things strictly professional.

but you’d catch her giving you sad glances sometimes. you knew she was upset for you, angry for you, but she would never speak on it. that was okay with you.

it was enough to know that someone was on your side.

“sorry, doc. it’s not like it was planned,” you tell her, and her eyes flick up to meet yours. the look on your face told her everything she needed to know.

she didn’t push the topic. instead, she finished patching you up in silence. wrapping your knuckles in bandages, she gave them one last once-over before sending you on your way.

“kicking me out?” you asked her, raising your eyebrows.

she nodded, her eyes scanning the chart in her hands.

“if you’re okay enough to throw a punch, i think you’re okay enough to return to your quarters. unless you want to stay,” she says, and its unspoken, but you know what she’s implying.

unless you want to stay behind that door, guarded from the 141. unless you don’t want to go back to your quarters and see it as you’d left it before they’d tied you up.

unless it would be too painful to leave.

you shook your head. “im good. thank you, doc. really.”

the doctor gave a small smile and nodded. “of course. you’re due back in a week for a check up, alright? I need to check on those bruises and mending bones.”

you nod and give her a smile that doesn’t reach your eyes. “wouldn’t miss it.”

she bids you goodbye before turning and disappearing behind a white curtain. you inhale deeply before heading for the door.

when you step into the hallway, it’s quiet. you pass through base with relative ease, quickly slipping past anyone you come across in the halls.

you don’t see any of the 141, and you’re grateful. you couldn’t handle another interaction with them today— and you didn’t know how much longer you could remain civil.

once you reached your door, you pushed into the dusty darkness of the room. it’d been a while since you’d been in here, and although you were glad to finally be free of the smell and sounds of the infirmary, you weren’t particularly happy to be back in this room.

this room, which was down the hall from the rest of the 141.

this room, which held memorabilia of your time with your team.

this room, which you swore still smelled like simon.

you grit your teeth, willing yourself to stop thinking about him. he was fucking everywhere, and you were starting to believe you’d never be free of him and the 141.

your memories. your pain. your scars. no matter how much you healed and moved on from what happened, it would always be there in the back of your mind. it would sneak up on you when you least expected it; it would haunt your dreams at night.

it would leave you waking up screaming for mercy.

it would keep you untrusting for the years to come.

you flicked on the light and scanned the room. it had been upended, clothes strewn across the floor and picture frames shattered.

in the midst of it all, a vase of long dead flowers sits atop your desk.

there’s a little note hanging off the vase. against your better judgement, you reach for it. the paper feels scratchy against your fingers, and the scribbled pencil inside seems the tiniest bit faded.

your eyes scan the note.

‘You were right.

Hope you can understand.’

— sr

you pick up the vase and throw it against the wall. glass shatters. dead flowers fall to the floor.

your knees give out and you crumple to the floor, sitting amidst reminders of once was.

you let yourself cry for the first time in a while.

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psychedelic-ink · 8 months

Text

𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐘 𝐆𝐈𝐑𝐋𝐅𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐃

pairing: joel miller x f!reader

genre: explicit smut, minors dni, childhood bestfriends to lovers, tlou'verse, jackson era, mild hurt/comfort

word count: 4.9k

summary: When your boyfriend is desperate to win back what he lost, he bets on you this time without your knowledge. And everyone knows you don't go back on your word when it comes to Joel Miller.

warnings: okay so technically not cheating because your boyfriend literally gambled you buuut if that's not your thing I totally get it, piv, dirty talk, choking, spitting, size kink, soft!joel & feral!joel, he likes hearing how big he is, affectionate whore calling™, a hint of analplay, oral (receiving and giving)

a/n: another joel fic inspired by p.orn, we love to see it

a special thank you to @nothoughtsjustmeds for the beta! 💕

Joel was never that into gambling.

Back before everything had gone to shit, that had always been more Tommy’s forte than his own. Joel doesn’t remember the amount of times he’d had to bail his brother out, either by protecting him while putting himself in the middle or by giving him loans he’d never ever see again. Joel hadn’t minded. Tommy was his baby brother after all. As long as he was safe Joel was happy—annoyed, for sure, but happy.

He was surprised when he learned that Jackson had a pretty heavy gambling scene and that Tommy wasn’t a part of it. He didn’t know why that was, because even on the nights where he had to go bail him out and bring him home all bloodied and bruised, Tommy just made the same mistakes. Not even Sarah’s worried expression, while she peered from between the wooden stair railing, deterred him from it.

Guess it was different when your own kid was on the way.

However, despite his lack of interest in gambling, he found himself betting away what little he had for someone else—someone he thought he would never see again. But honestly, he wasn’t half bad at it so he didn’t mind it that much. His only complaint was when he had to get messy hunting down those who didn’t pay up.

One by one the men around the table folded, only leaving Joel and Liam. A huge stack of weaponry lies in the middle of the table, Liam’s eyes constantly flit between the stack and Joel. They stare at each other long and hard. Joel knows that he’s going to win. He usually did with these face-offs.

Liam folds.

A small smile tugs at the corner of Joel’s lips. There’s nothing better than to take what someone he absolutely detests wants.

“Let’s go again,” Liam grunts, his forehead shining with sweat.

Joel raises an eyebrow, “You don’t have anythin’ else to bet on.”

“Come on now, Miller,” Liam leans back into his chair. “There must be something that you want.”

Joel’s eyes bore into his long enough for the man to grow uncomfortable and nervous. Only then did he speak.

“You still have that pretty girlfriend?”

Someone Joel didn’t bother learning the name of pipes up from his right, “I thought we were only betting huntin’ supplies this time.”

“Come on, let the man try to win his rifle back.” Joel grins.

“Fuck you, Miller.”

“Careful now,” he slowly places his elbows on the old table, his weight on it enough to let out a threatening creak. He cocks his head to the side, his smile small but still there. “My kindness wears thin.”

Liam’s an addict. And of course, he says yes.

“You fucking gambled me away?!” your voice is shaking, body trembling all over as you pace back and forth in front of the couch Liam was nestled on top of. At least he has the decency to look guilty. “What the fuck is wrong with you, Liam? I’m your girlfriend, not some kind of deer hide you can put on the table.”

“Look I said I was sorry alright?” He stands up fast enough to make you flinch. He holds you by the shoulders, thumbs moving in a soothing manner. “Won’t happen again, I promise.”

You scoff, “We both know that’s a lie.” You lift your chin up in defiance. “I won’t do it. I have free will. You can’t make me.”

That makes Liam sweat. You can’t blame him, you’ve heard of Joel’s. . . outbursts. But honestly, that’s the least of your worries. You’re mostly confused as to why Joel asked for you specifically. You’re positive that he’d been avoiding you ever since he came into Jackson, only talking to you a handful of times. Why now? And why like this?

“Baby,” Liam whines, snapping you away from your thoughts. “You have to. He’s crazy, he’ll kill me.”

“You should’ve thought of that before.”

“Please. All you’d have to do is entertain him for the night, make him happy.”

“So to be his plaything? Is that what you want?”

“Maybe he’ll ask you to cook him dinner, hell if I know.”

“Sure,” you roll your eyes. “I’m sure he’ll just want something to eat.”

You give him one more look before slipping away from his gentle hold. Your heartbeat is slow, hours spreading across every beat, making your chest feel heavy and lightheaded.

“Fine,” you cave, wrapping yourself with your shaking arms. “But after this, I’m done, Liam. I’m so tired of bailing you out.”

“You can’t leave, where would you go?”

The soft tone he used while begging you to spread your legs for Joel quickly turns into a tone with sharp, dagger-like edges. You don’t say anything. Don’t answer him or agree with him. You’re lost in a broken world.

And now, amongst all the things you’ve been through, you have to see the pity in your childhood best friend’s eyes.

You don’t want to be here. You don’t. It’s embarrassing.

Your boyfriend is in the other room, brooding on his couch, examining his life choices. You’re not doing any better. Your robe loose over your shoulders, the chill of the bedroom settling over your skin. It’s especially embarrassing because it’s Joel for crying out loud. You’ve known each other since you were kids causing mischief all around the neighborhood. You still remember the time you fell and scraped your knee, how he kissed it better and placed a pink bandaid over it because it was your favorite color.

Why the hell had he asked for you? To humiliate you? Well, he definitely succeeded.

The door opens and you jolt. His presence is large in the room, making you shudder despite yourself. Your pulse quickens. You shouldn’t be afraid of him yet here you are, trembling like a newborn doe. He closes the door with a gentle click, the wood creaking and solidifying your fate.

You haven’t known him for years. Even before the outbreak had torn the world apart. You had moved away two years prior and after everything went down you never expected to see him again. When he showed up in Jackson you barely recognized him. He looked rugged, more salt than pepper in his beard, his eyes drained of life. He had scars that ran deep and he had found a kid along the way. You were surprised but relieved to see he still had a big heart.

You were ashamed the first time you two sat down after years. Everyone knew of Liam’s gambling problem, he couldn’t help it, and you knew that Joel knew. You hated the idea of him pitying you, of him seeing the world weighing down on you. You’ve heard from around that Joel also started to place bets. Nothing too big though, unlike your boyfriend who would bet on almost anything in the house. You knew those bets could turn out violent and people feared Joel. Even in a safe utopia like Jackson, the kind of man he’d become traveled from ear to ear, striking fear. And when someone that owed him money ended up with a bloody nose and broken jaw. . . no one dared to deny him of anything.

And it seemed like you were no exception.

Joel stands in front of you, his sleeves pulled up to his elbows, exposing sinewy muscle. He stands close. Close enough that you feel his breath on your lips. Your eyelids flutter before you avert them, tears stinging the corners.

You drop the robe, the old fabric pooling at your ankles. You’re left in a decent enough-looking bra and somewhat matching underwear.

“Not interested,” Your entire body goes taut, eyes wide. You hear the blood rush in your ears. Joel moves past you and takes a seat on the bed, crossing his arms over the expanse of his broad chest. You stare at him and a thick knot forms in your throat. He gives you a brief look before explaining. “I only wanted to teach your boyfriend a lesson. He’s reckless. One of these days he’s gonna be in real debt to me and, darlin’, I don’t want you gettin’ caught in the middle.”

Your heart drops. You don’t know what you’ve been expecting but it certainly isn’t this. Tears blurring your vision, you quickly bend over and scoop up your robe, throwing it over your shoulders. Somewhere along memory lane, you forgot to remind yourself that Joel was your first; first crush, first love, first kiss, first time. But it just hadn’t worked out. You had stayed close friends until you moved away, he had Sarah, you had a promising career. You were planning on getting back to him. It just never came to be. Liam didn’t know you knew Joel, only Tommy knew about the connection you two had, mainly because he was there.

And now you had Liam—Boyfriend who calls you names because he hates everything, Liam. Shitty boyfriend, Liam. Boyfriend who put you up as a prize, Liam.

It’s just too much. All of it. Your heart can’t handle how unfair it all is. The pity Joel shows you, the way Liam treats you. He loves you, you know that much, but he just doesn’t care enough to treat you right or tend to you when he’s so broken himself. He doesn’t understand that you would take care of him just as much.

And now you’re just a shell. A shell of your former self.

The first salty tear slips from your lashes, it’s followed by another and then another.

You manage to reach the end of the bed on shaky legs, collapsing, you cover your face, heaving silently into your palms. You don’t want Liam to hear you cry, deep down you want him to think Joel is fucking you this very instant. You want him to feel guilt, or at least a sliver of the way you feel.

There’s a gentle hand on your shoulder. Your brain doesn’t even register that Joel is pulling you into his chest, wrapping solid arms around your shaking frame. He holds the back of your neck, squeezing tenderly just like he did when your mom yelled at you and he wanted to calm you down.

“Why are you cryin’?” he mumbles. “I told you I’m not gonna do anythin’ to you. Or to him. I just wanted him to think before he put you in any danger. What if it wasn’t me there? Not everyone is as they seem in this town.”

After all this time Joel Miller is still looking out for you.

“It’s not that,” you answer, between sniffled and muffled hiccups. “I’m embarrassed and so fucking tired. I don’t want you thinking I’m some damsel in distress, even though me crying isn’t really helping,” you take a deep breath and peel yourself unwillingly from his chest. “I don’t feel good about myself. I never do with him. I just feel like shit with some more shit thrown over. And well. . . now I know that you don’t want me either. It’s just too much. But I’ll be okay, thank you for looking out after me even though I’m a mess.”

He suddenly grips your chin and pulls you close enough that your noses almost touch, “What the hell makes you think that I don’t want you?”

“You. . .” with a sigh, you look away. “You didn’t want to fuck me.”

“You want me to fuck you, sweetheart?”

Squeezing your chin, he forces your gaze back to him. His lips are parted, pupils wide enough to hide the chocolate brown of his eyes. He seems just as surprised as you feel. Arousal pools between your legs, heat dripping down the curve of your spine. You press your thighs together and swallow.

Joel’s hand moves up to your cheek and cups it gently, thumb toying with the corner of your lip, “I just never thought you’d be interested if I’m bein’ honest. Especially not after. . . everything I’ve done.”

“You’ve done what you’ve had to do to survive,” you kiss the curve of his palm and he shifts, coming even closer. “I always wanted to come back to you, you know? You’re my first love, Joel Miller. Deep down I always wanted you to be the last.”

Joel was never an emotional guy. He always had trouble expressing what he thought and felt, thinking he always had to hide behind large invisible walls. The outbreak had put a magnifying glass over that quality of his. You can only tell that your words affected him by how the crease between his brows softens and his cheeks gain a subtle red hue.

He only grunts as he forcefully brings your hand to his crotch, his cock hard and throbbing under your palm. His lips skim down your neck, kissing where your pulse beats frantically. Joel grinds into your palm, “You still want to fuck with your boyfriend waiting in the living room?”

“God, yes.”

You stand up and he parts his legs for you, allowing you to take your rightful place between them. Looking up, his fingers dance up your shoulders, pushing off the robe so it once again pools at your feet. The fabric of your bra has worn away with time, meaning that your nipples meet no resistance as they stiffen under his gaze. Joel licks his lips and brings both thumbs to the peaks, rubbing them until they’re fully hard.

Then he suddenly shoves you closer to him, your aching nipple met with his wanting mouth. He sucks through the fabric. Saliva darkens the color. He sucks and moans each individual nipple until both are hard like diamonds and only then do you find yourself on the bed, his mouth still on you, starving for more. Your back forms the perfect arch, the sheets feeling like silk against your skin despite them being years old—almost rotten.

He drags his lips down your body, rough facial hair tickling your skin, your hips helplessly stutters into the air. Two large hands pin your hips down. You can’t help the noises that tumble from your lips. For the first time, you’re feeling whole. He lays soft kisses against your inner thighs and finally, he reaches where you want him most.

Joel sucks your clit through the fabric and your body jerks, seeking the heat of his mouth against your bare cunt instead. He smiles, digging his blunt nails into your flesh.

“Patience,” he licks a stripe down your clothed folds. “I want you to be loud, sweetheart. Make noise for me. If you want me to fuck you, that’s my price—your sounds.”

Liam never liked the sounds you made. Unless you were mimicking porn and whispering how close you were, which was a very rare occasion.

Joel slides his hands up to the softness of your stomach, squeezing gently. Like you might fade away at any given second. He kisses the lips of your pussy and his eyes flutter closed.

“Doesn’t it feel good,” he begins, his southern drawl more prominent as his voice grows deeper. “To have that prick in the next room listenin’ to me fuck you, riddled with guilt because he bet on his pretty girlfriend?”

It does feel good. “You think I’m pretty?”

“‘Course I do,” his brows furrow, eyes finding yours. “Prettiest girl I’ve known since the first day my dick got hard.”

The words send a tingle up your spine but Joel doesn’t allow you to linger on them for long. He slides your underwear to the side. The fabric sticky with slick, he immediately presses his lips deep into your cunt, tongue swirling around your entrance and teasing it by pushing in the tip. You cry out and grip his head, your legs pressing against his ears. Your heart hammers within the confinements of your ribcage.

“Gonna ruin you,” he groans, licking himself deeper and rutting the bed. Your eyes roll back, your body melting with every fat stroke of his tongue.

Joel takes you apart slowly. His jaw moves, head lazily going from left to right. You feel so wet, soaked, from both his mouth and your slick. It’s almost like he goes slower the more soaked you are. He draws various shapes around your throbbing clit. You're left withering under him, shaking, begging, and moaning his name loud enough that the entirety of Jackson could probably hear. The wet smack of his mouth is followed by loud slurps and groans, and your stomach coils tight.

After all these years, Joel Miller had certainly learned a few new tricks. He wasn’t that same teenager anymore, though, neither were you. He feels different, yet he also feels the same. Like a familiar wind stroking your skin.

“So damn wet and sweet like honey, fuck.”

He moves away and you nearly cry out of frustration, fingers burrowing into the old sheets. You only move when you hear the deafening sound of a belt buckle coming loose. Joel’s pants drop to his ankles, cock painfully hard and slightly curving to the side. Your mouth waters, “No underwear?”

“Got too lazy to wash’em last Sunday,” he lazily strokes himself. Today is Tuesday. He’s been going commando all this time. More saliva fills your mouth, you don’t know why but the thought excites you and he seems to notice. “You always did get turned on by the weirdest things,” he mutters. “Now get on your knees, sweetheart. Been waitin’ a long time to feel those lips again.”

You pout, “Forearms are sexy, ask anyone.”

Joel sighs and shakes his head, his dark gaze makes you clench around nothing. He ignores your comment entirely. “Don’t make me say it again.”

You sink to your knees immediately after that.

He’s so much thicker than you remember. The bulbous head a beautiful shade of red, shiny beads of precome gathered at the slit. You notice the vein meandering down the underside of his cock and you trace it with the tip of your tongue. The blood pumps harder in response, his length twitches and smears the shiny pearls against your cheek.

You moan as you finally take him between your lips. The corners of your mouth sting from how wide you need to open to accommodate him. You manage to take him half way in, swirling your tongue, you hollow out your cheeks.

“That’s it—That’s it, fuck—suck me harder, sweetheart, please—” his hips rock forward, his cock filling your mouth until the head is hitting the back of your throat. You choke on him and his head falls at the way your throat constricts around the width of him. He then pulls out, prompting you to look up. His hair is a mess, lips swollen and parted. “Use your spit, need you to wet my cock good if you want me to fit darlin’. I ain’t that teenager anymore.”

You kiss the soft crease between his balls, rolling them with your tongue. You’re delighted to witness how he shudders at the soft caress of your lips, “I can see that.”

“Get on with it then.”

Joel sounds almost annoyed—no, not annoyed, but eager, desperate—to have your mouth wrapped around him with Liam in the other room. You don’t want to make him wait so you slowly allow a thin line of saliva to drip from between your lips. His thighs tense when it touches the head of his cock.

“Is his dick as big as mine?” he asks, jaw locked, words bouncing off of clenched teeth.

“No,” you gasp, dragging your lips down the length of him while staring at him through heavy lashes. “No, it’s not as big as yours.”

Suddenly you’re lifted to your feet, your body nothing but a ragdoll as he pushes you to the bed, the old mattress creaking with protest at the added weight.

“Play with that fuckin’ pussy for me, I want to see it.” He wraps a hand around his weeping cock, his strokes hard and calculated. Your breasts tingle as you push a hand between your thighs, he clicks his tongue in disapproval, approaching the end of the bed. “Spread your legs wide, honey.”

As soon as you open your legs and spread your folds for him to see how soaked you are, he’s quick to climb up the bed. Turning you to your side, he gets right behind you. Joel wets his own fingers, sucking on them with a loud groan before replacing yours with his own. He rubs your clit with precise movements, each stroke hitting the mark and making you see bright, dazzling stars. Your body moves on its own. Heat pools between your legs, your hips grinding back to feel the heft of him on your ass.

“Joel, please,” you whimper. “Please, fuck me, please—”

His lips touch your cheek and he breathes heavily, his chest heaving and rattling with every exhale. You feel the head of his cock slowly sinking into you, stretching you wide as his lips decorate your sweaty skin with fleeting kisses.

“You’re takin’ me so fuckin’ well, honey,” your eyes roll back, a mild pain blossoming from where you two connect. He brushes his fingers over your clit, the sharp pleasure shortening your breath. “That’s it. That’s my girl takin’ my big cock so well. So good. So good for me.”

Your jaw drops as you take him inch by inch. He continuously plays with your clit, kissing you and whispering words of praise while his tongue plays with your earlobe. You feel like mush. Like dough that only he can mold. Your lashes grow wet with tears, your heart beating so wild that you swear he can hear it as well. Joel slightly pulls back his hips and pushes back in, your breath catches in your throat, and soon enough he begins fucking you with shallow thrusts.

“Is this what you wanted, huh?” he mutters into your ear. You nod helplessly, your body burning from the inside out. “Tell me, louder, come on,” a smack echoes in the small room, and pain blossoms over your ass cheek. “Come on, louder.”

“Yes!” you cry out. In a weak attempt to meet his thrusts, you roll your hips. “Yes, this is what I wanted. I’ve never stopped thinking about it—never stopped thinking about you.”

“Is this pussy mine?”

“Yes, it’s fucking yours.”

Your voice must’ve come out too much like a whisper because Joel’s pace quickens. He fucks you hard, deep, hammering into you until you’re struggling for air. He wraps thick fingers around your neck, squeezing until there’s pressure building under your eyes, your lungs burning.

He loosens his grip around your throat, “I wanna hear it, come on now, don’t make me beg for it. Tell me, is it mine?”

“Yours! It’s fucking yours!”

Suddenly Joel is underneath you and you’re on top, his hips relentless as he snaps his hips up into you. It feels even better now. The way his cock massages your walls shooting crackles of electricity up your spine. He holds your ass with both hands and spreads you for his liking.

You moan his name and when you look down, seeing him staring at your face, a sudden gush of embarrassment overwhelms you and with a small whimper, you cover his eyes with both your hands. Joel grits his teeth at that. He fucks you harder, the vicious way he presses inside making you gasp and drop your hands so you can brace yourself by flattening your palms over his chest. His eyes flash with anger.

“Why the fuck—” he growls, “would you cover my eyes?”

“I–I got embarrassed—” you squeeze your eyes shut and open them back again. You push down your hips, taking him to the hilt as a form of apology, but he doesn’t seem to accept it and holds you still. Your head falls back with his every thrust.

“If you ever pull that stunt again, I’ll take you over my knee,” he rasps, ignoring the way your pussy clenches at his words.

His finger teases your asshole and beads of sweat gather at your tailbone. Joel’s grin is dangerous, something you’d run away from rather than run towards. But you can’t help it. A wanton moan rattles your throat, your pussy clenching hard around his cock. He presses forward, burying his finger down to the first knuckle. You shudder over and over, your body building tension and releasing it simultaneously.

“You like that, wildflower?” he groans, thrusting his finger in and out while snapping his hips up. “You enjoy it when I play with your tight little asshole?”

“Fuck, fuck—Joel—yes, yes I do.”

His other hand snakes around the back of your neck and yanks you down. His damp lips touch your ear, “Gonna fuck this hole one day, pretty thing. . . gonna fuck it so hard you’re not gonna be able to stand for weeks.”

Before you can catch your breath, you’re being hauled towards the closed door, the emptiness you feel sudden and cold. He pulls your hips up, presses your cheek against the barely standing wood. Your hard nipples graze against the surface, a jolt of pleasure shooting up your spine. Again, Joel thrusts forward, filling you to the brim. The mild pain tingles within your lower abdomen and you melt against him, eyes rolling back as you wiggle your ass for him.

With every rock of his hips, your body hits the door with a thud and you’re sure Liam can hear every forceful fuck, “Tell him how fuckin’ bigger I am than him—I wanna fuckin’ hear, it come on.”

“He’s so much bigger than you!” you groan, bracing your palm against the door. “You hear me, Liam? Never had a bigger cock in my life, I’m soaked.”

Liam’s muffled voice follows through, “Jesus fucking Christ, what the hell is wrong with you? You fucking whore!”

You know it shouldn’t, but his words still jar you.

“I’ll fuckin’ break his hands for that, don’t you worry darlin’,” Joel mutters into your skin, his words marking you as something untouchable. “And I’ll make it fuckin’ hurt.” He then kisses your shoulder and shouts towards the door, slamming especially hard this time so the thud of you hitting the door echoes. “You’re the one who gambled her like some kind of prize you dickhead. Don’t blame her for feelin’ good about it!”

“You could never satisfy me,” you say barely above a whisper, like you’re not entirely sure you’re allowed to feel good about this. About finally having him all to yourself.

“That’s it, tell him,” Joel growls, pushing his cock even deeper. You swear that if you looked down at your stomach, you’d see a bulge, as impossible as that sounds. “Tell him.”

You desperately grab at Joel’s forearms, feeling the sinewy muscle tense. Your slick drips down his length and wets the inside of your thighs. With a loud moan you repeat your words and it feels delightful.

You only smile when you hear the outer door close shut. Liam is gone.

“Yes yes yes,” Joel murmurs into your neck, ramming into you harder. “That’s it, come on my cock, sweetheart, please—I wanna feel it—”

Your breath catches in your throat, body seizing, “B—Bed,” you manage to choke out.

If he pulled out, you’re not aware. His body is a constant presence against your back, lips always latched on to a patch of skin, tasting the salt. Joel lays you down gently and pushes your legs high enough that it grazes your forehead with every desperate snap of his hips.

“Is this what you want?” he groans, the wet noises of him fucking into the tight fist of your cunt bouncing off the walls.

“Yes, Joel— this is what I want.”

“My whore,” he leans over and grinds into you. He slips his tongue into your mouth, sucks on your tongue. The back of your thighs ache with protest but you whimper into the kiss anyway. Breaking the kiss, Joel breathes into you, “My good sweet little whore,” and another kiss.

Your eyes roll back, “So deep,” you groan, breaking the kiss.

“Deeper deeper deeper,” Joel mocks you by mimicking your dazed tone with his drawl. He slowly pushes in, holding himself there, he halts your breath. “How’s that, wildflower? Deep enough for you?”

“Oh god, Joel—” you choke. You fist the sheets, your cunt fluttering and throbbing. He doesn’t move, he flexes his cock and the pressure of that is enough to break you.

Joel wasn’t expecting it, this much your muddled brain is able to realize from the shocked groan he lets out. His lips find purchase on your forehead, kissing and mumbling praise as your entire body clenches and releases, your pussy gushing around him. You feel the trickles of fresh wetness ripping out of you and all you can do is take it when Joel resumes his thrusts, fucking you through your messy orgasm.

Despite your insistent begging of wanting him to come inside, Joel pulls out, coming undone instantly as he does so. He rubs himself over your mound, thick ropes of come spurting across your stomach and even the underside of your right breast. He releases your legs and they fall limply to his sides.

Joel kisses you long and deep, his weight comforting above your trembling body. When he finally pulls away, he lets out a low chuckle and brushes your noses together.

“I think he left, sweetheart.”

“Good,” you mumble and press a quick kiss to his flushed lips. “All I want is you.”

Liam’s not your boyfriend anymore.

#joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x fem!reader #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller smut #joel miller fanfic #tlou fanfic #the last of us fanfiction #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal character fanfiction

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cherubfae · 3 months

Text

jealous slashers~!✧

With Michael, Brahms, Jason, Billy Loomis, Stu Macher, Vincent Sinclair, Bo Sinclair, Lester Sinclair, Thomas Sawyer, Sal Fisher, & Patrick Bateman

tags: gn!reader, jealousy, creepy men, unwanted attention/touching, uggestive and mature themes, gore/blood, violence, canon typical behavior, billy x reader x stu poly, rob zombie!mikey, I know Sal isn't exactly a slasher but he's my baby and needs to be included

Alexa, play Love to Die by the Slashstreet Boys

Michael

Rest in Peace to the poor, stupid man who thought it'd be a good idea to mess with the Shape's partner, and Michael had witnessed it all. How this man shoves you into an empty alleyway, the clatter of your groceries falling. The guy doesn't get much more than a few bruises and claw marks when Michael's knife slices through the back of the man's throat, protruding from the other end in a splash of blood. The Shape watches you wipe your bloody face off, not doing much but picking up three of your four fallen bags and tugging you into his side.

Brahms

Absolutely not. Brahms is fuckin' seething from his safe space sheltered behind the walls. Heavy breathing muffled by the porcelain mask, he watches with wild eyes as some idiot decides to break into the mansion whilst you were sleeping, and proceeds to hold you at knifepoint, effectively pinning you to the bed in what little nightclothes you wore. The unwanted guest and you are certainly going to know when Brahms is upset. There's banging on the walls coming from every direction that leaves the would-be burglar panicked and you slightly more comfortable.

"You're not allowed to be here," comes the eerily childlike voice Brahms has perfected. He crawls his way out from behind the large antique mirror. "I'll make sure you never come near them again." With a sudden slam, Brahms downs the intruder with a lead pipe repeatedly bashing the object until all that remains was brain matter and gooey blood. He drops the pipe with a huff and collects you into his arms, the cool porcelain biting onto the heat of your chest.

Jason

As the protector of the surrounding forest, Jason is always watching. He's omnipotent, he sees all. He seems to know where people are at all times and he can sense when you're in distress. Your shared cabin door left ajar sends his blood boiling and his heavy footfall increasing as he approaches your home. Barging in, Jason's pale eyes lock onto you and your assailant holding you by the throat. His thunderous steps are quick, slicing through the man with his machete and proceeds to lift him up while still pierced with the blade. The man gurgles, arms weakly reaching behind him in attempts to claw at Jason. All attempts were futile. He tossed the body to the side before he gently frets over you, his large hands soothing the fingerprints tarnishing your throat.

Billy & Stu

Rather snake-like the two will wrap themselves around you (they adore your personal space) and stare down whoever else demands your attention. Billy's arm hooks around your waist and Stu wraps himself around your shoulder, tilting your chin up with a single finger. "Is this guy bothering you, baby?" Looking like a shark that's tasted blood in the water, Billy's eyes grow more wild. He's already making a mental note of who and where this guy lives. The guy raised his hands in defense backing down the more the two stared at him, walking off completely.

"We're gonna take care of him, doll," Billy promises, kissing your cheek. Stu cackles lightly, tongue sticking out. They would strike tonight.

Vincent

There's no one Vincent trusts more to watch over you when he can't than his own two brothers. He had his hands full, turning Dalton and Wade into wax people. Nick and Carly were proving to be hard to get a hold of and there was still another tourist that needed to be taken care of.

But then Bo is telling him that the person escaped and he doesn't know where you were. His two worst fears confirmed. Vincent is soon on a wild hunt, trying to find you anywhere with Bo hot on his heels. He soon locates you, passed out with a bit of blood on your head. Your eyes slowly open as he touches your cheek, catching you as you wobble into his warm embrace. He shares a look with Bo who nods.

"I've got you, brother. Keep them here with ya. Wait til I'm back, ya hear?"

Out in public, he's all cordial and kind smiles. Especially if this is an intended victim. Some random person putting the moves on his partner is a huge no-no and one Bo doesn't take lightly. That person just warranted themselves a for sure death sentence and Bo isn't feeling too kind, so perhaps he'll drag things out, yeah? Touch what's his and you got what's comin' to ya.

"Can I see, baby? That bastard leave any marks on ya?" Bo strokes your shoulders, blue eyes drifting over your frame like water. He has every intention of marking every place that person touched, no matter if you tell Bo the guy only grabbed your arm. Once he has his mind set on something, he's gonna do it.

Lester

Unlike his older twin brothers, Lester is actually pretty chill. Especially in comparison to Bo. He doesn't think much of the people he's helping get into Ambrose knowing full well it's their final destination and Vincent and Bo will take care of things as they always have. What he doesn't like is some dude making a pass at you right in front of him. Can't he see the engagement ring on your finger? It leaves a sour taste in his mouth, watching with narrowed eyes as the small group heads towards the mechanic shop in search of a fan belt.

A familiar hand on his arm calms him down instantly. He turns to you and musters a weak smile as your hands slide around his torso from behind, leaning your cheek on his shoulder. "Y'alright?" Lester nods too quickly and unconvincingly, giving you a quick kiss. "Yeah, darl', always."

Thomas

Your partner is not unlike a bear, watching with wild eyes as one of Hoyt's new catches clasps onto you, their nails digging into your arms, and pinning you to the barbed fence. The cry of pain you let out has Tommy barreling towards you, chainsaw revving to life. A deep snarl echoes behind his mask and he wastes no time cutting down the poor soul with a single swipe of his motorized saw. Tommy turns it off and picks you up in his large arms as gently as he can. With his masked cheek leaning against yours, he carries you back towards the house. Mama Luda Mae will take a good look at you.

Sal Fisher

Honestly Sal isn't one to get jealous. He's pretty level-headed and understanding in most situations. He respects your choices and he's not gonna step on any toes or do anything drastic; Sal isn't a monster. However, if he sees some guy make a creepy pass at you and clearly overstep your boundaries, he won't hesitate to swoop in, looping his arm around your shoulders. His sharp blue eyes staring at the man from behind his prosthetic mask.

"Do we have a problem here?" His voice is cold, lacking any interest in what excuse the man finds. Sal's main focus will be on you, rubbing gentle, soothing circles into your skin. His main priority is to get you away from this sicko and would totally call in reinforcements from his brother Larry if need be.

Patrick

A jealous Patrick Bateman isn't a good scenario for anyone. Especially not with his deteriorating mental state. He trusts you explicitly, with his thoughts, ideas, and recreational hobbies that most would find distasteful. So when a colleague of his gets too big for his britches and unabashedly begins to flirt with you in his presence, Patrick finds it difficult to keep his boiling bloodlust at bay. The heat of his anger is getting to his head, the fierce emotions only swelling well it's clear how uncomfortable you look in that man's company. He must see to put an end to him quickly.

|| I DON'T GIVE PERMISSION FOR MY WORKS TO BE REPOSTED, RESHARED, OR EDITED. TUMBLR IS MY ONLY ACCOUNT AND THE ONLY PLACE WHERE I POST MY WRITING. ALL CHARACTERS BELONG TO THEIR RIGHTFUL OWNERS, THE STORY BELONGS TO ME. || CHERUBFAE © 2024

"Are you alright, my darling? That man surely didn't know his place, did he?" Patrick places a hand at your back, guiding you out of the office party. "Let's get you home and into a nice hot bath, hmm? I'd rather not taste that swine on your lovely skin."

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moondirti · 21 days

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simon sees a familiar face. (AO3 mirror) tags: darkfic. ghost x nude model! reader. (given a stage name but no discerning characteristics.) violent intrusive thoughts. objectification. rough sex. marking. dacryphilia. possessiveness. dubcon photo sharing.

It's the slip of her skin in his periphery. Moisturised, gold shimmer body glaze. Tucked up against the bar and nursing a negroni in both hands, her dress riding high up on her thigh. Sticks out like a sore thumb in a pub like this, where seedy men come to drink their woes away. Just a little too clean, prim and perfect polish. Pretty enough to make his teeth hurt.

He has to do a double take before he can be sure. Where he would know her calves, those hands and varnished nails, anywhere, he can hardly believe it until she turns a quarter angle and her face comes into full view. Lips he's seen perked up and glossed into erotic O's. Eyes so often half-cast and sultry, lined in kohl, that it's odd to see them wide like this; looking around, searching for something.

Yeah. Simon knows her. Knows her like the grip of a gun, the rip release of a hand grenade, the flat lining of barrack cot mattresses. Knows her so well that his cock chubs up in an almost pavlovian response, fat and heavy and leaking already, like a bloody sixth former seeing a pair of tits for the first time. In all honesty, this might just be the equivalent for a man like himself. Aching jowls, frothy lips. Ageing, dirty beast – thrown the most delectable fucking bone.

Because it's her. Cut straight from the centrefold of his favourite magazine and pasted a mere four feet away. Just as alluring, as provocative as she is in the poster he'd gifted Johnny on a deployment birthday. The object gracing every page not adhered together with dry cum. The one thing that gets him – and frankly, every other mutt on the task force – through long missions.

He throws back the last of his bourbon and slips his mask back over his chin. The haunt is emptier than usual. He assumes the big guy by the doorway is responsible, no doubt hired to follow her around and scare the creeps away. Simon must count as one – if his intentions, latched like filthy claws in his stomach, are anything to go by – but he's also bigger. Bolder. Probably has tattoos that outlast her bodyguard's experience in the field. So he takes his chances as he stretches up and prowls up to where she's sitting.

"Selene Harlow." It's a stage name, of that he's certain. But he has nothing else to call her by, not having fallen short of searching for her true identity. She's good at keeping herself safe from perverts like him. A good fucking girl, if not a little minx.

"Only on the clock." She smiles softly, dipping the orange peel in and out of her drink. It looks untouched, glass sweating onto the bar top. He thinks of holding her head back by her hair and knocking the concoction down her throat. "You don't look like my date."

Simon makes a sound. "No' your usual type, then?"

"I didn't say that." Her dress is low cut, bandage tight. When she breathes in, he devours the way her chest heaves out of the material. Begging to pop free, or else be ripped open right here. He can't imagine she would be opposed to being stripped in public. Not with her breasts plastered on a million different publications, issues displayed in the illicit material case behind every gas station counter.

"Well, he must be soft in th'head."

She shrugs. "Don't sound so surprised." Simon wonders, if he were to press his thumbs down onto each collarbone, how much pressure it would take to snap them in place. He's always liked the delicate arch of her shoulders, the swan-like column of her neck. With how he fixated he is on them now, he can hardly place the dejection in her voice. "Not a lot of people wanna go out with a girl who does what I do. It was only a matter of time before he found out."

"Can' be too pissed at him, a'suppose."

"Hm?"

"His loss is my gain."

"Aha." A flash of teeth. She turns on the bar stool to fully face him, and her knees knock his. Soft fucking legs, plush like a chew toy and he knows– he knows what they look like completely nude and spread open. But nothing could've quite prepared him for how different it is to see them in real life. To see her – real, fleshly, blood full – and not be able to take. Have to hold himself back despite the way he's pumped himself raw to her arse almost a hundred times now. He lost the plot some time ago. His mind must think of her as his. "Is that what this is?"

And what is this? Simon doesn't have a name for it. All he knows is the way his head itches, the tantalisation crawling in his skin. The sheer self-restraint it takes not to pocket her home and chain her to his bed. He wants to dig his teeth into her cheek.

Instead–

"Could be."

"I think that's up to me." She crinkles in a wily little smile and he chuckles because it's funny. Funny because she takes him to be a good man. But with the way her bodyguard is eyeing him from across the room (fucking muppet), he knows that's not the quality he's projecting. There's the urge to crack a sick joke, something about clipping a bird's wings, just to see her pick up on the rot he carries with him. "You military?"

"Tha' obvious?"

"Hm, no. Wild guess." She straightens her back and the vague gesture she makes with her wrist is enough to drive him up a wall. It sets a timer, ticking time bomb, in his brain that'll detonate if he doesn't get his nasty old hands on her waist. Thirty seconds on the clock. He can never be patient when it comes to sweet things. "Your... stature. And I tend to be popular with servicemen, anyway. What's your name?"

"And why do you wan' to know my name, bird?"

She flutters her lashes, pointedly looking down to where he's bulging in his jeans. Bird is right. She shines like one with pretty feathers, begs to be plucked, because why else would mother nature create things like her if not to appease men like him?

"Figure you'd want me to moan it later."

And it's like watching one fly into a cage on its own accord. His blood boils hot and thin, flooding his head until his eyes strain with something ferocious. "Why wait." Simon says. He can't wrap an arm around her waist fast enough, scooping her from her seat and wrapping her tight against his side. Tight enough that, if she changed her mind, she wouldn't be able to flap her way out of it. "Name's Simon, and there's a bathroom 'round back."

It's nasty. Depraved. Graffiti lines all four walls and it's no coincidence that the one he pins her up against looks the filthiest. Something in him craves to see her degraded (the same part that marked a picture of her in black ink, chicken-scratch body writing proclaiming her as his), brought down to the same peg that he occupies. Beasts with too much baggage stored in their marrow. Humans, men, with moral compasses that skew a tad too far left. Animals. Animalistic.

"I don– Don't usually do this..." She breathes, excuse stuttered through little whimpers as he mouths at her jaw. Maybe she's afraid of living up to her name, or whatever image Selene Harlow projects. Not a prostitute, he can almost hear her say. Tastes the fear of misconception, sour on otherwise tart skin. He hums and tugs her breasts free with one, scarred paw.

"Doesn' really matter, bird. Were fuckin' made for it." He squeezes the two mounds, pinches knotted nipples and rolls them between his fingers until she cries. Her voice breaks in little bubbled sobs – starts crying so fast that, christ, it must be some sort of record – and he aches in his trousers. Ready to burst if he doesn't bully his cock into a hole soon, just like she's been ready to be unravelled all night. "Made to be mine, yeah? Bloody 'ell, jus' look at you."

Frayed little tapestry. If he weren't so mad with lust, he'd obsess what drove her to this point. What brought her to some shitty pub in Manchester to meet a good for nothing lemon. Why she mewls and completely melts into him when he slaps her tits, just to see the way they jiggle. He's an ugly bastard, definitely punching just by breathing the same air as her, and yet she's so perfectly willing. Flaying herself open, skinned alive. Gasping selfish gulps of air when he finally pulls off his mask to sink his canines into her shoulder.

He's so used to seeing her posed, perfectly still. To have her like this, a trapped worm underneath him, feels like concentrated lightning on every artery. Overstimulating. Paralysing. He never thought he'd see the day where she exposes herself in motion: folding her dress up over her wide hips, slipping soaked panties down to her ankles.

(In fact, he vividly remembers brooding over an interview her magazine had added to the corner of a cover page, once. Selene Harlow tells all! Answers inquiries on video pornography and more!

I don't think I'm the right person for that sort of scene. Not much of an actress, I'm afraid.)

Not that her feigning was ever a concern. Simon knows the giddy gossamer over her eyes can't be artificially replicated. She's too clumsy, too amateur in the way she readies herself for him. Used to doing all this prep in a frilly dressing room with apathetic staff members directing her. Sways a bit on her heels and holds onto his thick forearms as she widens her stance. He stands until she's steady, then drops to his knees in search of the star of this show.

And the sight is as much a bludgeon to his self control as seeing her for the first time was, trigger for the feral mongrel that barks and chomps on his ribcage. Her cunt is just as perfect up close in this grimy bathroom as it is well lit, professionally oiled, and printed on coated paper. A little fuzzy, swollen enough that it flowers open for him on its own. Shyly inviting him to dig his nose right under her clit and inhale, eyes rolling to the back of his head at the scent of her, undiluted. Salivate blooms around his teeth.

When he flattens his tongue against it, she tries to find purchase in the roots of his shorn hair. Nails scrambling along the buzzcut until she forfeits and clamps her hand behind his ears, head thrown back to knock against the wall. If he were a nice man, he would spend hours buried between her legs. Sated by licking her slick from its source, like a kitten given a bowl of cream. Would make her cum until she forgets how to keep quiet, until she screams his name loud enough for the world knows their muse is off the market now.

But if he were a nice man, he wouldn't be defiling her here. He would've taken her out to the Greek place that never seems to have room for him alone, and then back to her apartment, where he'd drop her off with a chaste kiss and a promise to call her tomorrow.

So Simon combs through her lips once, twice, three times. Coats her in enough spit to be able to shove two fingers with little fuss, and scissors them apart. The little thing stretches to accommodate his ministrations immediately, clutch swallowing him up to the second knuckle and sucking around him when he spreads her hole for his leering eye. It's cute – so fucking cute how she clenches and keens and cries. Neck arched up above him. Apple of eden, blank canvas. His fingers leave her cunt as he rises to bite into it.

(Truthfully, she could've done with more prep. She wasn't lying when she said she doesn't do this often, whatever this is. But the way silver pebbles brim on her lash-line makes his chest twist, the dog rearing on its haunches, ready to pounce – and he thinks he'd like to see her babble in pain as he splits her open on his cock.)

"Gonna take you home after this, y'hear? Fuck you well 'n' good, all proper like. Fold ya over a mattress and print my cock on your guts, birdie. Never let you forget it. "

"S-Si! Simon, please. I n-need..."

Ichor beads in the shape of his teeth, streaking oxygenated red down her throat. He makes a mess of it, smearing it across the marred patch of skin, and brings the fluid up to her face to rub it into her cheek. The type of marking he'd reserve for his third or fourth going with someone – if anyone ever lasts that long – but is absolutely necessary right now. Here, with her. Technically their hundredth something time together, if he were deranged enough to count the various times he'd spent himself over her spreads.

But nothing can supersede the truth of the matter. He streaks blood along her face and licks it off in a show of merciless possession. Pretty things like her get plucked off streets and ruined everyday, despite her cynicism on her value, and he can point to at least three other men by name who would slaughter to be in his place. Best to stake his claim now, clamp a collar on the exotic fowl he pulled down from the sky.

"Need wha', hm?" His tongue laps at her cheek, laving over the contour of her nose and swiping right under her eye to catch the tears that freely fall. She winces when he gets too close, hands faltering along his waistband.

"Your... d-dick. Please, please. Just wanna be fucked, Simon."

He plants a rough kiss onto her mouth, all teeth and tongue, and finally ladles himself free of his jeans.

Just wanna be fucked.

Daft, silly girl.

She should've chosen anyone else.

It takes a bit of pressure to feed himself into her cunt, pinning either leg to the sides of his hips as he guides his cock toward the opening. If she was putty before, she's positively liquid now, boneless rag doll slumped onto him. Dead weight. Letting him take control of this fight. Content to do nothing, slack-jawed and empty eyed as her hot walls come to embrace him completely. Her breath halts, the air recalibrating to just the sound of his ragged grunts, and he considers it an invitation to wrap a fist around her neck.

"I'll do more than jus' fuck you, pretty thing. Won' ever let you out of my sight."

And he means it.

It's impossible to withdraw completely from her – vacuum sealed too tight, too good, around him. So he fucks in short thrusts instead, snapping his pelvis back, only to shove forward once her legs begin to flail about. It's brutal even by his standards, rough in a way that supplants pleasure with pain. A small pity surfaces when her lip trembles, discomfort wringing her darling face up like a dish towel. Wet and pathetic, but he sneaks his free hand down to knead at her swollen clit anyway.

Like oil, it slips and hardens, tense enough that he knows she won't last long if he keeps it up.

Simon feels his own release encroaching. Unfurling at the base of his spine to form something cruel and primal. His vision tunnels to fixate on her – not the filthy bathroom or the lewd squelch of her pussy taking him in. Not the banging on the door by a customer desperately needing to piss, or otherwise, her bodyguard concerned at the choked screams carved from her lungs. Just her. Little bird.

The howling in his head doesn't stop, but it sure as hell quiets down when she soaks the coarse hairs at the base of his cock. Squirts, off-white fluid gushing from her and trickling onto the tiled floor. His movements grow stilted, off-rhythm, at the sight. His want grows claws and scales, grows wants that have wants. Beastly. He sees red.

"N-noghonbirfcontraahl." She gasps, suffocated still by the fingers pressing crescent-shaped scars beneath her jaw.

"Don' give a shit." He growls, then cums.

(Really, he doesn't. To see her swell up with his child is just one more added temptation, carrot on a stick. He bucks like a rabid animal and bookmarks that thought away for later.)

His seed doesn't stay put when he pumps her full of it. It gathers and drips out of her, undeterred by the barrage of his softening cock. When he pulls out, it draws milky treks down her legs. There's the instinct to shovel it back into her, tape her lips shut until the spend takes; but as he pockets her panties and helps her readjust her dress (after polishing himself clean on the expensive fabric), he finds he quite likes the thought of parading her around like this.

"C'mon," He nips her earlobe. "let's walk you home."

Simon does end up making good on his promise. They hardly get any sleep that night, sweating on every available surface her flat affords. By the end of it, she's so tuckered out that he has to lift her to bed. Hardly cognisant as he strips to his boxers and sidles up right next to her.

What doesn't escape her notice, however, is when he pulls his phone out to snap a picture of her like this. Fucked to oblivion, puffy pussy oozing about three loads worth of cum.

"W-what are you–" Stuttered. Panicked, like a pet that has at last realised it's been caged.

"Shhhh, birdie. You're my model, ain't you? Let me show you off, yeah? Won' let it get into the wrong hands."

"Promise?" She whimpers, tucking into his broad chest. She isn't in the condition to give her proper assent, but he takes it anyway, kissing both eyes and carding his fingers across her scalp.

"Promise." He mutters, then sends the portrait off. "Jus' to men like me."

Sgt. Garrick: ?! Is that Capt. Price: Christ, Simon. Someone ought to muzzle you. Johnny: I don't believe you. Johnny: Pick up my calls. Johnny: SIMON.

#should've made this a proper fic #it's longer than i expected it to be #anyway.#simon 'ghost' riley x reader #simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #simon 'ghost' riley #simon riley #ghost #x female reader #call of duty #fanfiction

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tacticaldiary · 8 months

Note

Reader joining 141 for a mission and Simon is not having it and is pissed at price for calling them and all of the other guys are confused about why ghost is so upset till they find out reader is his wife after the mission

Maybe reader got hurt and ghost goes off on price

The Price Of A Secret

Pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Reader

Genre: Hurt/Comfort

"People get injured on the job, Ghost." Gaz tries to defuse the situation. "She's alive-"

"This is different." He grits out.

"And why's that?"

"Because that's my wife!" He hisses, slamming his fist onto the table. It strikes them harder than if he were to have yelled it at them.

A/N: It's 2:45am and I have no energy to proofread caution advised-

Masterlist

The moment the picture of the intelligence officer joining them flashes on the screen, Ghost puts his foot down.

"She's not coming."

Everyone in the room pauses, Price staring at Ghost mid sentence. It's the usual 141, and then it's her. Sitting there with a mildly frustrated look, refusing to look at him because she should have known he'd try to pull some shit like this.

"Why not?" Price folds his arm, narrowing his eyes. "Is there an issue, Lieutenant?"

She was supposed to work from the inside, drawing out data and cracking through defences that they then passed on to people like the 141. An integral part of the process of running the whole task force, but not once was she involved in hands-on field work.

It's not that she's incompetent. No, not at all. Ghost would have his head bit off if he even remotely implied that because it simply isn't true. She got the top scores in almost every part of her training exercises, and yet she chose the intelligence part of the military to serve in. His wife was as competent as they got.

His wife.

"This is a covert operation, the fewer people the better." That's what he goes with. Not because his heart picks up at the thought of her being anywhere near what they deal with every day.

"I won't have the range I need to retrieve the data from their servers if I'm not close to them." She speaks up, and their eyes meet from across the room.

His determined, hers resolute.

Sometimes he really hated that she was so fucking stubborn. It had been the same stubbornness that cracked down the iron grip he'd had on the walls in his mind and around his heart, but if that stubbornness was what got her killed Simon would give up this joy in a heartbeat.

He'd do it for her if it meant she kept on living.

"This isn't up for discussion, Ghost." Price states, "She's part of this operation on my authority."

"Price-"

"End of discussion. You settle whatever you have going on outside this room." And fuck, he can't refute a direct order like that, can he?

Ghost sees her release a long exhale, and he knows he won't share such a relief until this damn operation was over and done with.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Her body is so limp it scares the ever-loving shit out of him.

Ghost grips her so tight it's as if he himself is the only thing tethering her soul to her body, boots thumping hard against the muddy ground as they retreat back to their extraction point, data successfully retrieved.

Successfully, not smoothly.

The plan was simple. They'd flank the building while she camped out near the edge of the woods, retrieving the intel they needed. A couple of fuckers slipped out of the building and went straight for her.

Ghost's stomach turns when he remembers how he found the scene. She wasn't answering through her comms, but he knew he wasn't able to leave his position until the building was secure.

Waiting felt like an eternity, he could feel Soap send troubled glances in his direction at the way Ghost was unusually silent and more brutal than.

When the building was finally secure, they'd gone to reunite with her position and found three men dead, bloody seeping into the ground in a crimson mess. The last one standing hovered over her unconscious form, over his wife with a knife raised ready to slit her thought.

The only thought Ghost had as he ripped the man away with his hands was that he was going to take the one good thing in his life away, and he would not let that happen. Not her. Not like this.

"Bleeding wound to the head, unconscious but still breathing!" Gaz called out while Ghost shoved the man's own knife into his throat. Tossing the gurgling body aside like a ragdoll, he's immediately by her side, assessing before carefully lifting her up in his arms.

It's the most emotion Ghost has ever expressed in front of the others, but he couldn't give a fuck about the looks or the questions right now. Her heartbeat against him settled him the slightest bit with the reassurance that she was alive.

Angry does not begin to describe what itches under Ghost's skin as they scramble into their exfil airship.

"Medic!" He barks the second they lift off. Setting her down, he brushes the bloody strands of her hair away from her face.

Despite the urge to stay by her side, the medic gingerly requests for him to take a step back so he could work. Ghost obliges but his eyes never leave her face.

He's painfully aware of his wedding ring pressing against his chest, strung onto a chain long enough to be tucked under his uniform. A matching one to her own.

Nobody speaks.

Perhaps they recognise the anger washing off of Ghost in waves, because if they'd just bloody listened to him, she wouldn't be laying there with a head wound.

The atmosphere is heavy and sombre. Even Soap keeps his mouth shut, too confused by the outward, uncharacteristic way Ghost was acting to make fun of it.

It's only when the medic announces she's stable that the suffocating knot in Ghost's chest loosens. There's audible relief from everyone in the place.

"Bloody hell." Price breathes, and something in Ghost snaps.

"I told you to dismiss her from the op." He says coldly, turning to the man.

"We got what we needed, son." He sighs, deep and tired, and part of Ghost understands that this was their life. But he's too worked up to care.

"At a fucking cost."

"People get injured on the job, Ghost." Gaz tries to defuse the situation. "She's alive, that's all that matters. Nothing permanent, yeah?" He glances at the medic, who confirms with a nod before slipping away.

"This is different." Ghost grits out.

"Why's that?"

"Because that's my wife!" He hisses, slamming his fist onto the metallic walls. It strikes them harder than if he were to have yelled it at them.

How long had it taken for Ghost-...no, for Simon to let someone crack open his defences until he was coaxed out and allowed himself to love again? Four years they've been married, and four years he's kept it a secret.

It's not that he doesn't trust his team. He trusts them with his life, would lay his own down for Johnny, Gaz, and Price any day.

But this? This was bigger than him, she was the most precious thing that had ever happened to him, and the safest way to preserve that was the keep it on a need-to-know basis.

She'd agreed with him, of course. In that soft, patient way she always has with him. She'd seen the paranoia in him, recognised that he needed this one thing for himself, and she'd been more than happy to oblige.

What was outside validation about her relationship worth when she got to crawl into his arms at the end of the day? Be granted the pleasure that comes with being loved by someone as protective, intelligent, and sharp as Simon Riley? She adores all of him, even the jagged pieces that cut into her from time to time, because he's always there to take care of her afterwards.

"She's my wife." He repeats quieter, sitting back down. Exhaustion lines the slope of his shoulder's dark circles well present under his mask.

"You're married." Soap is the first to speak, incredulously. "You? Ghost? You're married?" His eyes flicker down to Ghost's left hand, and then to Gaz and Price who look equally as surprised. "I mean, congratulations?" He trails off, knowing it's not really the situation to celebrate.

"Thanks." A tired, small voice has everyone's attention back onto the figure on the bed. Ghost is on his feet in moments, by her bedside. "It'll be five years in...what, a month?" She cracks an eye open, giving Simon a tired, smile.

"Two months." He corrects with a mutter, and Johnny looks like he might just collapse. "Sitrep?"

"We're not on the field anymore." She groans, pushing herself to sit up. Ghost's hands fly to her immediately, helping her sit up. At his blank, insistent stare, she relents with a deep sigh. "My head's killing me but other than that just a few scrapes and bruises." Her hand travels down to grab his at her shoulder, squeezing briefly.

"I'm alright." Her voice turns into something soft and reassuring, and it's only then that a quiet, shuddering breath comes out of Simon's lungs. "I think I'll sit to working from the inside though." She jokes weakly. "Leave the dirtier work to you brutes."

It lightens the mood as intended, eliciting a snort from Gaz. "Yes, ma'am."

He'd make sure she got checked out properly when they landed, but for now he takes his place sitting beside her. The others fall into a hushed conversation after a while, but he makes no move to join them.

A warm hand intertwines with his, hidden beneath the bulk of their combined gear.

"I'm alright, Simon." She mumbles, just loud enough for him to hear.

Simon squeezes her hand in response. "Fucking hell, love." He breathes.

And it's enough to convey everything he's thinking. Humming, she tips her head against his shoulder and lets her eyes slip shut. The warmth of his body, even through the tang of copper is enough of a familiar comfort to drain the tension from her body.

She's fast asleep against his shoulder a minute later, and the devil himself couldn't make Simon move lest he wake her now.

He wasn't a publicly affectionate person by any means...but he trusted his team enough for this right now.

Letting his own head press against the metal wall behind them, his eyes shift to meet Price's. A softer, knowing look from the Captain is all he needs to hook his chin over her head and turn his attention outside the small window.

And if he counts her breathing while she sleeps for his own peace of mind? Well, that's no one's business but his.

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(10/09/2023)

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kiwisbell · 8 months

Text

Boots [joel miller]

Joel doesn't like the idea of someone else gettin' all your best.

pairing: joel miller x female!reader

rating: 18+ (mdni)

tags and warnings: jealous joel giving you a lesson in who really likes you best, birthday sex, (over)protective joel, softie joel, dominant joel, oral sex (m and f receiving), face-sitting, riding, no plot just porn and some fluff because it's me, possessive sex, praise kink, squirting, established relationship

word count: ~ 4.5k

hello, all! i'm beginning to unload my fics onto tumblr for those who prefer reading in this format - and as a result, some of you lovely folks who follow me will likely see works you've already read before. i sincerely apologise for that, but many new projects are in the works as well because i love y'all and i live to please. that aside, if you're new here, welcome, and i hope you enjoy this one-shot!! <3

BOOTS

If there's anything you know about Joel, it's that he can get real angry.

It ain't like he's always mad. He lives a lot of his life in utter silence, but you like to watch him. Sometimes, in the dark, he sits on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, steepling his fingers and bringing them to his chin. He’ll sit like that for hours without moving, barely shifting to take in air, and you know never to shake him from that trance. It’s how you’ve learned to read between the lines.

After fifteen years by his side, you can gauge his moods better than the weather. He’s got a restless spirit, but his voice is midnight water. It’s calm and dark and clear, and it rumbles: the ripples left behind by skipping stones. He never lashes out at you, never raises his voice.

Except for that one time in New Jersey.

“Are you goddamn fuckin’ stupid?”

This was a little while before you could patent your Joel-handling techniques, so you did what any woman would do when a man calls her stupid: you folded your arms over your chest and got just as mad. “Stupid?” you said incredulously. “I saved your ass in there. Multiple asses, actually.”

Above you, the canopy of brilliant red leaves felt like a bloody shawl, and they crackled underfoot. You sported a limp thanks to a sprained ankle and your lip was bloody, but you were fine. Truly. And yet, Joel’s anger was pulsating. You could see it: heat waves, distorting the air around him, his brows flattening over his eyes and his nostrils flaring. A bull ready to charge. He was brimming with the need to release this energy.

Behind you, a building burned. The fire was a monstrous, lively thing, and it scorched the hairs on the back of your neck. Inside lay the bodies of the men you’d stolen the medical kits from, along with two of your own crew. It was only you and Joel left. It was autumn, and the breeze was welcome in such relentless heat.

He’d been ambushed just as much as the rest of you, but rotten fuckin’ luck had pinned a man on top of him—armed with a knife, inches from Joel’s eye. Not trusting yourself to make a shot without hitting him, too, you had tackled the man without thinking much. It had worked well enough to send his knife clattering across the burning hut. He’d landed a punch to you before Joel had blown his head clean off. Brain matter still clung to your jeans, but you tried not to look. When you’d rolled the body off you, Joel shot him again. He was covered in blood from his greying hair to his boots.

“Your job is to look out for yourself out there,” he snapped, “not me. The fuck were you thinkin’?”

Your frown only deepened. What had you been thinking? Maybe leaving him to die would teach him a lesson or two about what it was like to fear for someone’s life. Even if it was his own. “We need to go. You can yell at me later.”

Joel didn’t say anything when he kneeled at your feet and lifted your ankle up onto his raised knee. You yelped when you almost toppled over, but he kept you steady and inspected the swollen flesh. He was achingly gentle when he prodded at you, his expression softening into something more like concern. “This hurt?” he asked.

“Of course it hurts, Miller.” You lifted a brow at him, but he wasn’t looking up. “Want me to try on a glass slipper, or can we go?”

“Still think that was stupid,” he grumbled.

You snorted. “Yeah, well, you’re the only one who can navigate for shit, and I don’t fancy getting lost without my own personal compass.”

When he stood, Joel surprised you some more by gently patting your leg. “Real nice,” he said under his breath, shrugging the strap of your pack farther up your shoulder. “Stay behind me.”

You grinned up at him. “Happily.”

He never gets angry for long. Not at you.

There’s a knock at his door in the rhythm only the two of you know. He still checks the peephole, but it’s you. You slip inside, practically bounding on the balls of your feet, that cute fuckin’ grin on your face as you hide something behind your back. “Guess what day it is,” you say.

Joel will never let it leave this room that he indulges in your stupid game. “Sunday,” he tries.

Your pout is extravagant, but he’ll be damned if it doesn’t make him want to bite it off your pretty mouth. “Rhymes with smirthday. Y’know… the only day I ever ask you for anything.”

He clicks his tongue. “Doesn’t ring a bell.”

You roll your eyes and bring your hands around from behind your back. You’re holding a cupcake.

“Holy shit. Where the fuck did you get that?”

“The FEDRA guy who monitors my building likes me,” you tell him, honest as ever. Too honest for this world and too damned sweet to be anything but a liability. And yet, here he is, digging, indulging, sinking his claws in. “Enough to sneak this to me from the kitchen, apparently.”

That makes him feel real fuckin’ grumpy. Nobody with eyes would be enough of a fool to deny that you’re gorgeous, but it doesn’t make him sleep any better knowing other men are chasing that brilliant twinkle in your eyes. He wants to tuck it between his ribs and let it illuminate his insides. He doesn’t want anyone else to see it, not ever.

“He’s tryin’ to make a move on you,” says Joel. “That’s what that is.”

If there’s a second thing you know about Joel, it’s that he lives with his foot in his mouth. Unfailingly.

You have long since learned the tactics of Joel-handling. You'd be offended if it were anyone else, but you just pat his cheek affectionately. “Sit down.”

To his credit, he does, but not after some grumbling. You scrape the second chair along the floor until it's right next to him. You split the cupcake in two as best you can and pass him one of the halves. Joel eyes it suspiciously. “You sure this is edible?”

You just take a bite and groan. It's been a long time since you've tasted chocolate, let alone the decadence of over-sweet frosting. Joel watches you carefully. Your lashes flutter in your trancelike enjoyment, a small speck of white frosting on the top of your nose. He's overcome with the knowledge that people in this world would try and take you from him. That people have put guns to your head, that they have harmed you, that they'll do it again and again. This world does not leave a woman like you untouched.

It's a good thing you've got him to make sure the world goes nowhere near you.

“Got frosting on your nose,” he says gruffly, trying to suppress his smile as he swipes it away with his thumb. “Some killer you are.”

You kick your legs up onto his lap. His thumb idly circles your ankle bone. “I don’t pretend to be a killer. I get by just fine, Miller.”

“Yeah?” He lifts a brow. “And if I wasn’t here?”

You shrug. “Dead, probably.”

Joel takes a bite of the fucking cupcake and he's a little mad when it's not bad.

You sit at the window on his bed later, your knees drawn up to your chest and your cheek resting atop them. You like to watch the lights of the FEDRA vehicles and the occasional star that winks at you from high above the QZ. You're a pretty sight to look at all the time, but it feels somehow more delectable when you don't know he's looking.

It's nearing midnight, and you're getting up to leave. Curfew means you have to scurry back to your apartment across the street or you'll be stuck here all night. It also means you have to walk right past the same officer who snuck you that cupcake.

“You asked me once if I ever wanted to end it.”

Across the fire, he looked like a spectre: a thing you could not touch, sizzling tendrils of silvery air curling around crackling flame. You’d stopped for the night, and neither of you wanted to sleep. Even though you’d both seen enough fire for a lifetime, you still extended your palms toward it and let it warm you as you watched his dark brown eyes grapple for a way through the thistly wood of his past.

“I tried,” he told you. “After I lost her.”

Somehow, you felt undeserving. Like wrapping your fingers around a piece of Joel Miller’s steel-hard aorta and yanking out all the precious bits that came with it. Like licking the blood from the heart and shoving it back inside. Would he ever be the same knowing another soul in the world had this information? Would he come to regret telling you?

He watched you stand and shuffle up next to him on the piss-poor, blood-stained excuse for a sleeping bag. When your fingers lifted to the scar on his throat, he did not flinch away. Your hands were warmed by the fire. It filled the very soul of you, that flame. He did not meet your eye, but you looked into his nonetheless.

“I’m happy you missed.” A hand, warm and kissed by a tenderness he would never deserve, settled at the nape of his neck. Fingers gently combed through the grey strands, and he leaned into your touch, not quite understanding the pull but giving in nonetheless. For the first time in years, he thought he might be able to sleep if you just kept touching him like this.

Your next words were soft, but they were not afraid. “But I’m sad I never got to meet her.”

His head turned, and at last, his eyes met yours.

“Me, too.”

You smiled sadly. “Joel.”

“Don’t ever,” he said slowly, his hand squeezing your knee, “play fast and loose with your life again. Your life happens to fuckin’ matter to me.”

And that was that.

At some point, this began. Neither of you attempt to define how or when. Perhaps it has always been. It isn’t like time matters anymore.

When you pass Joel on your way to the door, he grabs your wrist.

“Does that FEDRA fucker know whose place you go to every night?”

You sigh, turning your head to meet his eyes: glimmering black beetles in the dim light. “Joel. Don’t be an asshole.”

But he’s long past trying not to be an asshole, especially when it comes to people honing in on his fucking territory. He tugs you by the waist so your back is pressed against his chest. His fingers are splayed over your belly. “You like him?” he says into your ear.

Your lashes flutter on your cheeks. “Joel.” His name sounds like the citrus of the oranges you like from the cafeteria. It’s sweet and tangy and somewhat discrete. “You know I need to meet with Robert about the battery tomorrow. You’ll keep me up all night.”

A grunt rumbles deep in his chest. “You’re not goin’ to see Robert alone.”

“That was part of his deal.” You gasp when he buries his face in your neck, sucking at the skin beneath your ear. He’ll make it show up angry and purple for the FEDRA officer and, fuck it, the entire QZ to see. He’ll litter your whole body with bruises and hickeys like he's a goddamn teenager if that's what it takes to keep you here.

“Shit fuckin’ luck.” His fingers dip to the waistband of your jeans. Your hips rock subtly and he smirks against your skin. “Robert doesn't get to decide how this goes.”

“Yeah, he does. He’s the one with the battery.”

The scratch of his beard is rough and deliberate against your neck. “If he doesn't wanna see me,” says Joel, unbuttoning your jeans and sliding the zipper down, “he can tell me himself.”

“He’s terrified of you.”

Joel turns you around and presses you right up against his chest. You feel his hardness at your belly, the sear of his gaze through yours. “Good,” he says. “Get on the bed.”

It’s already midnight, which means you’ll get chewed out if you try to leave now. Joel’s plan, you guess. “You jealous of a little FEDRA officer, Miller?” Backing toward the bed, you smile up at him, coy and teasing.

“You never answered my question.” He chases your body, stalking toward you as his hand juts out to squeeze your hip. Your legs hit the edge of the bed. “Do you like him?”

His lips are so close you could just surge toward him and end this suffering. But he's keeping you at arm’s length, keeping you pliant under his touch because he knows—the bastard—that he’s winning.

Still, getting a rise out of Joel Miller is your birthright. “Would you rather I fuck a Firefly?”

A faint sneer twists his mouth, and this is his anger. This is the simmering, thrilling thing that infests your very blood. He’s jealous, and you're surprised at how deliciously it thrums in your lower spine, knowing he’s furious at the thought that someone else could even come close to the way he knows you.

The kiss begins slowly. For the heat you can feel through the press of his chest against yours, his nose only gently nudges yours as he works his way up to claiming your mouth. When he does, it’s a bizarre and dizzying shift compared to the rage you know he feels. The desire to march out onto the street and beat that officer to near-death. He compensates with a unique tenderness, taking his time with you, his hand pressing down against the exact spot on your lower back that forces his hips to mould to yours. His other cups your face, his fingers winding into your hair and curling at the back of your neck. It forces you to look up at him.

His beauty loops like a knot through your nerves. If you prodded any spot on your skin, the blood beneath would sing with the topography of him. You know the lines of his face better than your own. There is a patch in his beard that resembles a heart. There is a twinkle in his eye that lingers when he frowns and smiles. It’s a rare thing in such a sullen person. But you like finding those eyes in the dark. Somehow, for you, he’s hope.

When his lips finally meet yours, they're soft, and he lets you reach up to tangle your fingers in his soft, messy hair even though he’s doing everything he can to keep you under his control. Not that you mind. He knows you're his.

He deepens the kiss with a soft groan, curving his body over yours, tongue seeking the seam of your lips. You part them willingly, gasping when he lurches forward and slides his tongue along yours, biting and sucking at your lips. Joel growls softly at the faint noises you make, your fingers tightening in his hair, the pleasing sting in his scalp sending jolts down to his hard cock.

“MmmmmJoel.” You’re panting, desperate for air he won't give you. He likes this—making you gasp, making you weak, making you forget entirely that you’re supposed to be teasing him.

“Careful,” you gasp, barely able to form words around his mouth on yours. “Gonna hurt your back.”

That only seems to egg him on. He may not be young and agile anymore, but that’s never stopped him from giving you what you need. He turns you around and lies on his back, wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you down on top of him. Your jeans go quickly, sliding down your hips with your panties and dropping somewhere on the floor. Your shirt follows, his fingers enjoying their path along your shoulders as he slips your bra straps down: a rare moment of indulgence and appreciation in a world that does not allow either.

For a moment, he just looks at you, brushing the pad of his thumb across your chin. Your eyes glimmer from the light through the window. “You only like me,” he says. Matter-of-fact. He knows.

But you smile, because he decided to say it anyway. “I only like you, Joel Miller.”

A hand kneads your ass, giving it a smack. You jump in his grasp, but he just gives you that crooked smirk and whispers: “Come take a seat.”

You rear back, frowning at him. Is he—

“You waiting for a sweeter invitation, baby?” His voice is low and gruff, unused to compromise. You feel his fingers dig into your ass and pull you up onto his chest. Your cunt is slick with anticipation and the ichor of desire.

He wants you on his face.

“What if I—”

“Sit.” Every letter feels like a deliberate strike, bone-deep. “C’mon, now.”

Let me show you how much I like you.

Your bottom lip between your teeth, you shuffle gingerly up his chest until you can brace your hands on the wall, your cunt hovering over his mouth. Joel doesn't like that. He wraps his hands around your upper thighs and forces you down onto his face. You gasp his name, one hand flying to his hair and locking your fingers in his locks. “Fuck.”

He grunts, squeezing your thighs up to your hips as he pulls your clit into his mouth, lathering it with his spit and your wetness. It’s white-hot: the pressure on your sensitive little bundle of nerves, the insistent bump of his nose against your clit as he teases his tongue around your tight hole. “Joel, Joel, fuck,” is all you can manage, sweet little gasps that he drinks in, his hips bucking involuntarily with the delicious pain of your fingers pulling at his scalp. You're losing grip on the real world and slipping elsewhere, and he wants to get you there.

One of Joel’s hands slides between your legs, easing them open even more, and rests on your belly, shifting to your ribcage and helping you steady yourself atop him. His fingertips graze your breasts, reverent and gentle despite their roughness. Those hands have been split and bloodied, but they hold you like they’ve never known anything but kindness. His eyes closed, savouring the taste of you, his fingers trace a scar on your sternum from an incident at knifepoint six years ago. He cannot see it, but he knows it nonetheless.

Joel is greedy when he has his face buried in your pussy. He doesn’t get the opportunity to take his time like this often; the both of you have only ever been acquainted with impermanence. But now, tucked comfortably between your thighs, licking between your folds like a starving fuckin’ dog, taking what he wants from you.

The sounds are slick and obscene, mingled with your drunken sighs and words of encouragement as you curl your fingers against the wall uselessly. “Joel,” you whimper, your hips rolling against his face, moonlight bursting on your eyelids. “I… can’t… so good—”

He groans, his hand smacking your thigh, feeling your cunt gush on his tongue as he flicks his tongue against your clit repeatedly. He’ll imprint the feeling of him on your skin forever—if he hasn't already. He’ll make sure you never have another man like you have him.

It’s a selfish thing, love. He's mastered clutching it to his chest and keeping his palm closed right around it.

“I’m… oh, fuck, I’m gonna…” Your hips buck wildly, and a growl rumbles deep in his chest, holding you steadfast and firm to his face. He sucks your clit back into his mouth and fixes his tongue to you, wiggling slightly as he feels you stiffen above him. “Oh, my—gonna come!”

He knows. You're already coming. Your hand leaves his hair and braces next to your other one on the wall, ensuring you don’t fall over as your thighs shake uncontrollably and your mouth drops open in a keening whine. Joel keeps lapping at your clit long after your orgasm fades and you cry out from the overstimulation. Gently, you reach down to tug his hair, and he reluctantly pulls away. He’s so hard he can’t conjure much mental activity besides getting his dick wet.

Your chest is heaving as you try to pick your leg up and get off him, but your strength fails you. Instead, Joel grabs your hips and sits up, your cunt sliding down to sit on top of his erection. Experimentally, you grind down on him, watching a muscle in his jaw feather. “Are you going to let me take your pants off?” you ask him, teasing, your finger tracing the metal of his belt buckle.

He grits his teeth, letting you take control for a moment, sliding the belt achingly slow out of each loop. Your wicked little smile is so pretty in the darkness, illuminated briefly by passing patrol vehicles through the window. Unbuttoning his shirt, you dip your body low to his chest and press gentle kisses all the way down to his soft belly and the trail of hair disappearing under his waistband.

Joel moans brokenly when you shuck his jeans down his legs and squeeze his hard length before it can slap up against his stomach. There’s a tattoo on his inner thigh that you like to trace with your fingers, something he got with his brother when they were young. Your tongue darts out and licks up the precum pooling at his slit, making his cock twitch in your grasp. “Jesus,” he groans. “Baby, c’mon, let me—”

Your soft lips parting around the throbbing head of his cock destroy whatever end to the sentence he had planned. Squeezing his strong thighs to ground yourself, you swirl your tongue around the tip and take him deeper, your throat expanding to accommodate his thick, heavy weight in your mouth. He huffs, grumpy that he can't think straight for long enough to stop you and overcome with pleasure all the same. You squeeze his thigh again, your thumb rubbing circles over the little tattoo, and he meets your eyes. They're watery, blinking hard to expel the tears, his hand instinctively cradling the crown of your head to keep you on him, keep you choking around him.

When your nose meets the thatch of hair above his base, he’s the one who chokes, his head tipping back. “Jesus, fuck, goddamn—” His fingers curl in your hair and gently urge you off his cock; you pout, a string of saliva connecting your lips to his length. His dick jumps at the sight, lying hard on his stomach.

“Come up here,” he rasps. You do, crawling up his body until your hips are flush, his hardness slotted, thick and throbbing, between your folds. The hum that leaves your mouth is wanton, your teeth tugging at your bottom lip. His hands move to your lower back, digging into the flesh just above your ass so you’re forced to roll your hips along his shaft.

Your mouth drops open at the jolt of pleasure to your cunt. “Oh…”

“That’s it, baby.”

He cannot come inside you, but he can come like this. And he will, probably faster than he likes; your pretty lips parted, your eyes lidded and boring into his even as you grind along his cock, unwavering. You look good like this. You look happy and soft and all his.

Joel’s hands clutch you a little harder, roll you a little faster, your hands supporting your weight on his firm chest. He’s so fucking close, your wet pussy soaking his length and his tip catching on your sensitive clit with each roll of your hips, but he needs you to come again. You come first.

“Joel,” you sigh, your thighs locking tight around his hips, nectar and frosting and citrus.

“I know,” he says, “I know. Keep goin’, baby. C’mon. Doin’ so good. Jesus, so good.”

The first orgasm was a meticulous build-up. This one crashes down with the ceremony and courtesy of an ambush: it seizes your whole body and leaves you helpless. You moan his name—maybe you whisper it; everything is loud in your ears—and double over, your cheek pressed into the hollow of his throat. He keeps you moving, seeking his own high, bucking up against your cunt.

“That’s it.” His praises gently puff out across the top of your head, tucking your head under his chin, admiring the curve of your back and the supple taste of your skin under his fingers. His balls draw up and his core goes tight with imminent release. “Fuck, baby. Fuck—”

There’s a hot, wet splash against your belly, then another, and another. When you peel yourself away to watch his cum spurt onto his stomach, your cunt tightens with the pulsating rhythm of his shaft under you and another brief, but devastating, rush of pleasure surges through your whole body. It almost fucking knocks you over. You lift yourself off his cock in time to see a burst of wetness soak him, dribbling out around your bodies onto the mattress. Joel groans, his brows lifting, another spurt of cum landing on his belly.

“Jesus Christ.”

You list to the side, unable to hold yourself up in any capacity. You land next to him, your arm belted across his chest, fondly nudging a pec with your nose. “Me, too,” you mumble. Your voice is hollow.

Joel turns his head to face you, and you swipe some cum off his belly with your index and middle fingers, looking him in the eyes as you lick it up and swallow. He grabs you by the back of the neck and kisses you hard. “No fuckin’ FEDRA asshole,” he grumbles into your mouth, “is gettin’ anywhere near you. And neither is Robert.”

You forgot that was what this was about. “Joel,” you whisper, lips migrating from the corner of his mouth to his jaw, his scratchy beard, “you can’t keep me safe forever.”

He reaches around to grab your ass and then hitches your thigh up onto his hip. “Yeah, I fuckin’ can. Stay here.”

“We aren’t related, or married.” You pin him with a stare. “They would never let us.”

Joel lifts his brows. You roll your eyes. “We aren’t married.”

He’ll pick a fight in the morning. But you already know you won’t be going to see Robert about the battery with your big guard dog standing just behind you. Robert can suck it the fuck up, for all Joel cares.

“Happy birthday, baby,” he says, squeezing your thigh. “It was a shitty cupcake, though.”

You laugh, kissing him on the nose. “No, it wasn’t. For all you know, you may never have one again.”

“For the fuckin’ best,” he grumbles, chasing your mouth again. You let him kiss you, and neither of you get much sleep.

He really didn't mind the cupcake.

#kiwisbell's fics #joel miller x female reader #joel miller fic #joel miller smut #the last of us #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller fanfiction #pedro pascal fic

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pseudowho · 5 months

Text

Defending Your Honour

A series in which the JJK guys stick-it to the creeps and perverts bothering the reader.

A multi-fic in a series ❤️🫖☕

Part Two (Takuma Ino, Higuruma Hiromi and Itadori Yuuji)

Part Three (Gojo Satoru, Fushiguro Megumi and Kugisaki Nobara, Inumaki Together and Fushiguro Toji)

More JJK men and women to come

Trigger Warning: train gropers, flashers and unwanted sexual advances

Nanami Kento

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"Quick, Kento! We'll miss the train."

"This one's packed. We'll get the next one."

"Come on! We can make it!"

With a squeeze and a groan, you and Kento squash yourselves into the packed carriage, the air a humid perfume-deodorant-sweat miasma. You faced Kento's chest, his back to the door. As the doors closed, squashing you to his chest, you shoot him a playful smirk as he glowers down at you, only half-serious.

You lean up to give him a sweet peck on the lips as the train jolts to a start. Kento wraps an arm around your waist as you wobble, although barely, your movement corseted by the tight pack of people around you.

The train rattles through tunnels, dipping in and out of orange lights. As the train goes through a particularly dark tunnel, you feel a set of fingers inching between your legs to the inside of your thigh. You cringe, clamping your legs together, which doesn't dissuade the hand from climbing up the back of your thigh, lifting your skirt to rub the cleft of your bottom.

When light flashes back into the train, the hand doesn't stop. You're paralysed, eyes stinging with tears, constricted by the crowd around you and unable to move to stop your assailant even if you wanted to.

Kento is looking down at you, frowning, concerned; what's wrong? His eyes ask you.

You whisper, voice shaking, "A hand-- someone's hand-- touching me--"

Kento blinks once, and his face clouds, deep rage settling in the crinkles and lines as his narrow eyes scan the people behind you. Within moments, his eyes settle on someone behind you, his eyes narrowing further until they're snakelike. You feel Kento's hand leave your waist as both arms wrap behind you, waiting.

A minute later, your train pulls to the next platform, and Kento pulls you off. Behind you on the train, a circle has formed around a man on the floor, crying and screeching, cradling two badly broken hands, bloody, twisted and ruined.

You hiss at Kento as you're pulled away up the stairs, "What did you do?"

Kento scowled, "I've got strong hands, he had wandering hands. Had."

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Todo Aoi

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"God, it's so busy. I don't think we'll make it to our table in time," you stressed, Aoi head-and-shoulders above you as he tried to see a path through the crowd. Halloween in Shibuya was always heaving, and throngs of costumed celebrants slid past each other like eels.

Aoi looked behind him to you, breaking into what he assumed was a charming smile, and you rolled your eyes at him as he squatted down, his hands out behind him like steps.

"Get on my back, babe. You'll get lost, I'll get us to the restaurant-- win win."

"Me getting lost is...a win?" Aoi blinked, gears grinding as he reconsidered his words. Smiling (charmingly, again) and opening his mouth to talk (again), you raised a hand to stop him, exasperated.

"I can keep up. It's fine. Let's go."

"That's my girl." Aoi grabbed your hand as you weaved together through the crowds. You found it harder and harder to keep up, body buffeted from side to side by faceless monsters, vampires, sexy cats, and you felt Aoi's hand slipping in yours, holding tightly to his knuckles, now fingertip to fingertip until--

With a pluck, his hand slipped out of yours. You tripped, stumbling, unable to see above the sea of heads, and you slipped sideways into an alleyway to get out of the thronging masses. Breathing in a sigh of relief, you turned your back to the street, knowing Aoi would turn back to find you.

Your breath caught in your throat when, on turning, you come within two arms-length of a middle-aged man, in a heavy coat...completely exposed, as he stared at you, thrilled and smug. You gulped, flushed, bizarrely exposed and humiliated and trapped, as if you had your genitals flung out for the world to see, and you opened your mouth to scream for hel--

"Oh, man. Is that all you're working with? You're no brother of mine." The flasher grimaced, scowling for a moment as his eyes fixed behind you, and he took a single step backwards before--

*CLAP*

-- the crowd in the street behind you quietened for just a moment, enough to hear the sounds of a single rattling empty beer can, spinning in the flasher's place...before a cacophony of screams, laughter and appalled shouts poured into the alleyway. You gaped like a fish as Aoi pulled you gently to him.

"Are you alright? I'm sorry I lost you."

"I"m-- I'm fine-- did you just use your technique on that guy?"

You heard a ruckus at the mouth of the alleyway, watching your flasher's legs skittering as he was bodily dragged away by Police officers, arguing and bargaining.

Aoi grinned rakishly, thumb and forefinger framing his jaw, "Did you like that? Nobody flashes my girl but me."

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Geto Suguru

"Keep our table! I'll get us some drinks. You want...?"

Suguru rested a single bent finger against his temple, narrow eyes looking you up and down fondly; "You know what I like."

You skipped away through the buzzing bar, blowing Suguru a kiss as you went; most of the patrons were two or three drinks deep already, and you pushed through a hen-do, apologising loudly to get to the bar.

You stood at the bar, tapping your fingers as you waited to catch the bartender's eye, and you felt a big hand slip around your waist from behind. You turned, grinning, leaning in for a kiss--

"Oh! God, sorry," you cried as the beer-breathed stranger laughed as if he knew you, and you cringed as he leaned back into you.

"No harm done baby, thought I was gonna get lucky there," he shouted over the music, flecks of spit peppering your face and lips.

"Nope! Not tonight I'm afraid--" as you moved to pull away, his hand tightened around your waist, skimming down to cup your hip, pulling you closer, squeezing--

"-- look, can you get your hands off--"

The stranger raised his hands off you dramatically, waving them in your face, barely concealing aggression behind an easygoing facade; "Just trying to have a good night like everyone else here, sweetheart, so you could just loosen up--"

You turned your back, flushing with confrontation, almost tearful as you tried to attract the attention of the bartender. You felt hot breath on your neck, the same unfamiliar hand on the small of your back--

"So you got a boyfriend, then?" You swallowed hard, closing your eyes for a moment, desperate to be left alone.

"She has," Suguru crooned, voice mercurially smooth as he slowly took the stranger's hand off your back, his eyes black, flat and cold. You had never been happier to see him in your life, and you pressed yourself against him, back still to the stranger. The stranger's lips rolled inwards, an irritated tongue dabbing out to lick them.

"Sorry bud, didn't realise she was here with anyone--"

"-- but scum like you always respect an absent boyfriend more than a girl telling you no, right?" Suguru's voice could have frozen water. The stranger excused himself without another word.

"Come on," Suguru gently urged, "I don't like this bar anymore. Let's go somewhere else."

As he slipped an arm around you, walking towards the doors, you heard frantic shrieking behind you; the stranger writhed and squirmed on the floor, frantically undoing and shoving his trousers down, kicking and shouting in alarm.

Suguru smirked; "Had that weird little snake curse in my pocket for a while now. Even better, he can't see it."

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Will do some more of these; always more Nanamin, but also the other JJK crew too!

Part Two (Higuruma, Ino and Yuuji) LINK HERE!

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charliemwrites · 5 months

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Part 4!! (No content warnings)

Fuck these men :)

You roll your neck, trying to loosen muscles tense from keeping your head locked in place. Hard work denying natural instinct to look at whoever is speaking, but the 141 doesn’t deserve any more of your attention than they’ve already stolen. Even if they didn’t know they had it at the time.

You’ll have to ask Nikto if he’ll massage out the knot forming there. He’s handy with anatomy like that.

“Listen, about what happened…” Gaz starts.

“Not relevant,” you snap, crouching behind a barrel.

“I’d say it’s pretty relevant,” he replies. “It’s not right, how we left things.”

You nearly snarl. ‘Not right’ is the understatement of the bloody century.

You twist on him. “You’re being unprofessional. Shut up and take this seriously, Garrick.”

You duck as a sniper shot pings dangerously close to your head. Spot Nikto across the way, hand-signaling to ask if you need back up. You reply with a ‘no’ and turn back to Gaz.

Thankfully, it seems he’s caught the message and keeps his mouth shut for the rest of the stupid drill. You resist a snappish comment when it’s over. Up until Gaz starts up again.

“I just think you deserve—”

“I don’t care what you think I deserve,” you interrupt. “I know what I deserve. And it’s a partner that can keep their feelings in their vest.”

Speaking of, Nikto appears at your side like a shadow in shifting light. There’s a disapproving tilt to his head, aimed at Gaz. You shake your head and tap your knuckles against his.

“Need a water break?” You ask, worried about how long he’s been under the helmet.

He shakes his head, then surprises you by bumping his forehead against yours — his version of a kiss. Even in private those are rare. You hum at him.

“Thank you, Nik.”

You have to run the next drill with Soap. Know from the start he’s going to be a stubborn prick about it. Can see it in the set of his jaw and the flicker in his eye.

“Didnae have to be a knob to Gaz,” he says.

You don’t respond, slipping away as the exercise begins. He calls after you and hurries to catch up, nearly blowing your cover.

“He feels bad enough for what happened, ye know.”

You level him a cool, blank stare. “You speak for him now?”

His eyes narrow. “If you won’t give him the chance to, aye.”

You knock his leg out from under him and fire at the “enemy” combatant, Nova. She sportingly goes down, but mutters that you should have let her take the shot. You should have.

“You compromise this drill again,” you tell a toppled Soap, “I’ll tell Laswell direct that you don’t belong on this mission.”

You spin on your heel and continue the exercise, ignoring any and all attempts by Soap to get you to speak again. At the very least, he picks up the slack, earns his callsign.

Nova finds you again when it’s over, arms around your neck and chest plastered to your back.

“Look’it you go, mamas,” she coos. “Shot me through the heart all over again.”

You laugh bending your legs to let her hop up for a piggy back ride. Yeah, you’re tired. But never too tired to carry your girl around. She giggles in your ear as you carry her off back to your captain for her next drill.

“With Price now,” he says, tucking your hair behind your ear.

“Sure thing, boss,” you answer, doing a good impression of enthusiasm.

You know your place, settle into position just behind Price’s left side. No overtures about the past this time. Whatever iota of lingering respect you have for him grows as you complete the drill flawlessly. When it’s over, the two of you are at the furthest point from the designated “start”. And that’s when he decides to open his stupid mouth.

“It wasn’t personal, you know,” he says.

You smooth out your expression even though you don’t turn to him, already starting back.

“Okay.”

“It was the best call,” he explains, falling into step with you.

You tilt him a sideways look, don’t even bother with your full gaze. Spent far too much time looking up to him, by your estimate.

“Okay.”

“I look out for my soldiers.”

You turn forward again. “I wouldn’t know.”

Your captain happens to intercept, sweeping you up with one arm. You yelp, though can’t help grinning as you hook your fingers in one of his chest straps.

“Shouldn’t sneak up like that, sir,” you scold.

“That’s how I’ll know when I need to retire,” he replies with a crooked grin. “When I can’t sneak up on you anymore.”

You huff, snatching his sunglasses off his face to wear all the way back to the start point. Keegan meets you, looks directly at you as he salutes.

“Captain,” he says.

You laugh, give your CO his glasses back.

“Keeping fuckin’ around, Russ,” the captain rumbles, “I’ll take it out of your ass later.”

You gasp, scandalized, and laugh as the little skin visible through his smearing face paint turns pink.

“Off with you, girl,” your captain says. “We’re done after this, so keep it quick and clean.”

“Yessir,” you reply, jogging off to meet Ghost.

Fucking Ghost.

You don’t spare him a single look as you set up for the exercise. If nothing else, you have every expectation that he won’t say a single goddamn thing to you. No attempted apologies, no reprimands, no justifications. Just radio silence, like always.

What you don’t expect is for him to treat you like nothing’s changed. Like you’re still a fresh transfer that can’t watch their own six. You consider just putting your “gun” away and trailing after him until the exercise is over, but that would be just slightly too immature.

So you suck it up, grit your teeth, and do your job. Up until he gets in the fucking way. You’re about to get a sneaky shot on Keegan — a rare thing indeed — but Ghost moves. Goes out of his way to get the shot you already had and loses you both the element of surprise.

“Fucking oaf,” you snarl, scrambling behind a wall. “Is this your first fucking day or something?”

His eyes flash across the corridor. “What the fuck did you just say?”

You don’t reply, getting low and kicking your boot off, carefully sneaking it towards the corner like you’re trying to peek out. Keegan comes around, aiming too high and in the wrong direction, and Ghost shoots him.

Keegan “goes down” — goes out of his way to land on you, actually. You huff and shove at him.

“It’s not nap time,” you groan.

“Can’t hear you, I’m dead.”

You snort and shimmy out from under him. Not so different from most mornings, actually.

“If you two are done…” Ghost growls.

You suck your teeth and stalk off, giving Keegan one last pat to the back. The rest of the drill is barely civil, Ghost’s eyes more on you than on the training grounds.

When it’s finally, finally over, you sigh and pause, trying to work out that knot again.

“Haven’t changed a bit, have you?” Ghost sneers.

It’s meant to hurt. Meant to piss you off. Maybe remind you of the last things he said to you. You don’t look at him, bending to re-lace your boots. Thrilled to realize it’s like poking at an old scar. The skin is deadened, even though a mark remains.

“Fuck you’re so immature,” he growls.

You straighten and just start walking. Keegan finds you almost instantly.

“The hell was that about earlier?” He asks, frown audible.

“Ugh, he got in the way. I would have fuckin’ had you, otherwise.”

His eyes spark with outrage. “He fuckin’ what?” He snarls, turning like he’s about to say something to Ghost. Which… no. Just not worth it.

“Keegs,” you sigh, “c’mon, I told you this would happen. He’s not worth it.”

He scoffs, laces his fingers with yours. “‘Course he’s not. Don’t waste bullets on the dead, right?”

You snort and tug him along. The rest of your team will be waiting.

#thoughts™️#cod #my writing #fanfiction #reader fic #dark fic #angst #sad fic #former 141 reader #specgru reader #cod nikto #keegan p russ #nova cod #task force 141

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starstruckmiraclekitty · 1 year

Note

Ayo! Can I request of TF141 + König x Fem! Reader who sneeze like a kitten and how the mens react when they see her sneeze. Imagine like Y/n was minding her own business and she sneeze, then the men’s watch her awe.

Take all the time no need to rush.

Thank you for this!! Thought this was a cute request. Sorry this is a bit short, but hope you enjoy!🙃🩷

141 Boys + König with a Reader who Sneezes like a Kitten

Warnings: swearing

Simon "Ghost" Riley-

It was awhile into the two of you dating, before he heard you sneeze for the first time.

You were cooking dinner together in your apartment, when you turned your head to the side and squeaked out a sneeze.

"What in the bloody hell was that?" Simon asked, directing his attention to you.

You lifted a finger at him, and turned your head away as you let out another sneeze. "Apologies, must be my allergies."

"That….was a sneeze?" Simon asked incredulously. He'd never in his life heard someone sneeze like that.

"Unfortunately." You chuckled, amused at your boyfriend's reaction.

"It was…kind of cute." Simon's cheeks burned at his admission. "It was like a little kitten."

Soap MacTavish-

Both of you were laying in bed, cuddling before a mission. You were snuggled into Soap's side while he was stroking your arm lightly.

"I love y-." You were cut off mid sentence by an oncoming sneeze, you sat up and quickly turned your head to the side to sneeze. A small squeak came out, and you turned to see Johnny staring at you in awe.

"That was possibly the most adorable noise I've ever heard." He couldn't help but laugh, incredibly amused at your little sneeze.

"Oh hush, I've always hated my sneezes." You pushed him lightly. You felt another one coming and braced yourself.

"Oi yeah, give me another one. Gotta hear this again." Soap bit his lip to prevent himself from laughing further.

You let out another squeaky sneeze, and Soap cackled the rest of the day because of it.

"Hey L.T. You've gotta hear Y/N's sneeze. Sounds like a mouse kitten hybrid. It's bloody adorable." He'd later told Ghost, much to your dismay.

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick-

Like you, Gaz also has rather squeaky sneezes. The first time he'd heard you sneeze, you and the 141 were on a mission together.

You and Gaz were camping out in a small hideout when you had the urge to sneeze. You took a deep breath in to try and fight iy, which caused Gaz to look in your direction. "You good, babe?"

You nodded your head, causing you to squeak out a sneeze.

"Oh my God! You sneeze like me!" Gaz cried out, a smile forming on his face.

"I, what?"

"Your sneeze, it's like mine. Got a little squeak to it." Gaz was practically beaming, and you had to bite your lip to prevent yourself from laughing at your boyfriend. This certainly wasn't the reaction you expected.

Later on that night, you awoke to sounds of repeated squeaking coming from beside you. "Gaz?"

"See? Told you my sneezes were like yours!"

John Price-

Price was on a work call at your house when he heard your sneeze for the first time. You were in the other room trying to be as quiet as possible, but you'd looked at the sun through the window a little too long and felt the distinct feeling of a sneeze coming on.

You quickly threw your face into your arm and let out a squeak.

You could hear Price stop talking in the other room. He poked his head out from the doorway and called out to you. "Love? You okay?"

"I'm fine! Just a sneeze!"

"That was the weakest sneeze I've ever heard in my life." John had a shit eating grin on his face as he addressed you.

"Would you rather me sneeze like you? Loud enough to shake the whole house?" You quipped with a smile.

"Fair enough, love. I'll take the squeaky sneezes."

König-

The two of you were cleaning your weapons together, when a bit of dust came off the weapon, directly into your nose.

You blinked back slight tears, and turned your head to the side letting out a sneeze.

König whipped his head around the room, looking for the source of the noise. "Y/N. Is there a cat in here?"

The fact that he was deadly serious had you in a fit of giggles. He was walking around the room, inspecting each corner intently.

"What? What's so funny?" Konig asked bemused, stopping his search to look at you.

"I sneezed, love. There's no kitten."

König's eyes widened as he let out a chuckle. From then on, you'd lovingly earned the nickname "Kätzchen" from him.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A/N: I hope you enjoyed!! :) working on some requests now, but am always open for new ones🙃

Also Kätzchen is German for kitten😊

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inklore · 1 year

Text

code breaker

premise: there’s always been something there, between the two of you. unspoken and filling in the cracks of those moments where joel is helping you out of a tough situation and your offering up a thank you and sweet smile. if only it didn’t take bloody knuckles and some band-aids to finally crack the code of that something.

pairing: joel miller x (f)reader

word count: 6.2k

warnings: eighteen+ content, unprotected p in v, smut with feelings really, fem receiving oral, friends to lovers, mutual pining, fluff, mentions of violence and blood, alcohol mention, toxic exes and relationships discussed, dirty talk, biting and love marks mention, lots of banter, au (preoutbreak).

note: i meant for this to be darker but it turned out wayyy more fluffy and i’m actually really happy about it. i hella edited this but it still feels choppy so if it is i’m sorry ya girl has bad eyes lmao. gif made by me so don’t be an ass and steal it tysm <3

There’s words you should be saying right now. Expressing. Spilling from your mouth in a heap of thank you, I appreciate you, what would I do without you always being there for me…

But they just can’t seem to come out. The speech part of your brain—and your heart—aching and prompting you to speak. To show courtesy, your vocal cords refuse to let you get out. Like your mouth has forgotten its purpose, your throat hoarse from screaming Joel’s name in the chaos of thrown fists, people shouting, men trying and failing to haul Joel’s weight off of the bloodied body below it.

The blood on his knuckles pulls your eyes in like a neon sign: caked, dark, and drying the longer the air gets to it. If it hurts Joel doesn’t state it—show it as he grips the steering wheel. You’ve never thrown a punch before, have never seen something like this up close and personal. You excelled at resolving conflicts before they arose. Never let arguments get past the phase of unfair yelling. But you would assume his knuckles must be aching, even if only a dull pounding.

You know for certain your ex's face is.

Good.

You hadn’t expected him to show up at the bar, your job. Hadn’t expected him to start in on the possessive act—coincidently the local patrons were less than surprised at the all-too-cliché behavior. The town having labeled him as bad news ages ago. Something you had to learn the hard way, when you finally took off those rose colored glasses.

Joel had been staring at you for the duration of the exchange. Even after your ex left to hang out with a group of his buddies in the corner, his gaze lingered on you.

"You alright?" He asked as he slid his glass towards you, his forearm leaning against the bar. A wordless nod letting you know he wanted another.

"Yeah, he’s not the first creep I've had to deal with. It's in our DNA as women to deal with the lesser species of the male population."

"Can’t tell if that makes me feel better or worse as a father."

"Oh," you send him a sweet smile. Setting his refilled whiskey in front of him, "no creep dare mess with Sarah. I’ve seen her make jocks cry."

"That’s my girl, taught her well." The grin he wraps around the rim of the glass makes something girlish—and foolish—spark in your stomach.

Maybe if you had a man like Joel in your life, you would be less likely to keep making the same mistakes with no-good assholes who are good for a week and bad for the rest of the 358 days.

A girl can dream.

And she has. Embarrassingly.

The two of you had continued to talk, your hip pressed against the bar as you cleaned a glass; perhaps you had been smiling and laughing too hard at what Joel was saying because your ex was back and grabbing you from across the bar in an instant.

An action that quickly landed him passed out and bloodied on the bar floor, and your boss trying to make sure Joel hadn’t taught him too good of a lesson to have him see God.

And while the adrenaline of shock had been bruising your heart against your rib cage, your lungs devoid of air—when Joel had put his non-bloody hand against your arm, calling your name (the white noise of the commotion in the bar creating an impenetrable barrier to your ear drums), a warm thumb under your chin pulling your attention away from the limp body on the floor and up into his eyes—that adrenaline melted and turned into serendipity.

Gratefulness.

Those girlish sparks turning into an entire flame that quickly engulfed you as he asked if you were okay. As he comforted you with a barely there touch on your arm and chin, concern in his dark eyes. Concern for what? Frightening you?

When your gaze is drawn to his knuckles, his body language responds with a grimace. When you see the gashes only bone against bone brings.

He’s worried he’s upset you. As if he's done something wrong.

When he insists on driving you home you don’t argue. Wouldn’t dream of it even if the circumstances were different. It wouldn't be the first time he drove you home because your beat-up car wouldn't start or because the weather was bad and your anxiety was high.

That’s the thing about Joel.

He was always there.

If you needed help, he always seemed to find time.

Because of this, and the aforementioned beating your toxic ex to a pulp, you shouldn't be allowing the silence to spread between the two of you like strangers. Like something in the air was making everything awkward, like you hadn’t sat in his truck a dozen times before. Like he hasn’t gotten you out of a pinch (minus the blood) before.

And after he’s pulled into your driveway, engine turned off, the cicadas and crickets filling the silence, it’s Joel who finally speaks.

Who cracks that barrier you have mentally been trying so hard to climb over.

"I’m sorry if I," he clears his throat, flexes his fingers against the steering wheel. "If I overstepped."

And the ridiculousness of him even apologizing has your mouth finally moving into action. "Joel, no, oh my gosh, no." Your palm presses against your chest as you look at him apologetically; you should be the only one saying sorry, thanking him, worshiping at his feet for this. "I should be the one saying that. I should have handled it myself or-"

"Or what?" He looks almost angry, shocked at your words. "He had a hold of you, and no disrespect, but I ain’t ever seen you kill a fly, let alone throw a punch at someone."

"Hey! I could punch someone."

"Could and would are two different things."

"You sayin I couldn’t?"

"I’m sayin' you wouldn’t."

"Not tough enough?"

"Your heart's too big."

"If you knew how hard I was holding back the urge to prove you wrong by bruising that bicep of yours, Joel Miller, you’d think differently." Your scowl and threat only seem to amuse him because he’s grinning at you. "You’re lucky you’re injured."

"I’m shaking in my boots."

"As you should be." The laugh the two of you share makes your cheeks burn. On the outside, many could and have labeled Joel as a complicated man. A man who takes a lot of nudging and persistence to get to know past that surface-level workaholic grump he sometimes displays. But he’s a man who would lend a hand at the drop of a hat. A man with honor embedded in his very DNA.

There’s a list you’ve kept in the back of your mind that has every bullet point filled out and doodled hearts around the edges of all the reasons Joel is a good man. A man you trust. A man you adore.

"Thank you, Joel." He starts to shake his head, but you stop him with your palm resting on his forearm, "thank you. "You're right, I don't think I even know how to make a proper fist, let alone connect it." Your soft laugh makes the corners of his lips tick up. "You didn’t hesitate to help me. You never do. It means a lot to me, I hope you know that."

He nods, his eyes only on your face. Listening. Taking in every word you’re saying, even if you know he hates the fact that you’re thanking him for this. But he deserves to know how much you appreciate him.

Your hand moves to his wrist, gently yanking it away from his vice-like grip on the wheel. Your index finger runs along a vein at the top of his hand—the one spot the blood didn’t cake on to. "Does it hurt?"

"No. Between the callouses and the whiskey, it’s nothing more than a cat scratch."

"You should still get it looked at."

"You’re looking at it, aren’t ya?"

Your eyes roll. "I’m not a doctor, Joel."

"All a doctors gonna tell me is to be more careful, hand me a band-aid, and charge me three hundred dollars."

"Well, in that case," you drop his hand and grab for the door. The dry summer air ineffective to your already burning skin from the man whose raising his brows at you, "I got band aids in the house, and I didn’t get to finish my shift, which means you owe me three hundred in tips alone sooo."

"There's barely three hundred people in this town, and you’re tellin me you make that in tips?"

"Joel, just get in the damn house." You order, slamming the door of his truck and walking up the path to your front door. Smiling when you hear him huff and grumble under his breath as he gets out.

A hiss—and a scowl so deadly it could scare away even the biggest and badest of grown men—has Joel’s hand twitching in your hold as you run a wet cloth along the tops of his knuckles. The fabric pulling up the caked on flecks of dried blood, the surface of the cuts along the bone already starting the healing process from being clotted with red.

"I thought you said it didn’t hurt?" You smirk playfully.

"Whiskey’s wearin' off," he grunts.

"Or," you dab the cloth in the small cap of saline solution you’ve pulled from your first aid kit under the sink. Bringing it back to his skin to press gently across his cuts, his body tensing. "You’re human after all," his eyes roll.

"Don’t alert the press."

"Oh, they’ve already been informed."

His hand rests on your thigh as you ball up some tissues to dry the area around his knuckles. Enough to keep the band-aids—the only thing he would allow you to use because gauze would just get in the way at work, he informed you when you insisted—from falling off. The heat from his palm burns through your jeans, and it's a blessing in and of itself that you're ignoring how it makes your insides feel; how your body's warmth is no match for how hot he feels. His legs are spread, body slouched against your couch, his knee against yours. A closeness he’s never been before. A casual touch and directness between friends that shouldn’t be making you feel feverish and cheeky.

When he flexes his fingers a couple times and his fingertips run along the top of your thigh, you find yourself wishing you’d worn a dress to work. A skirt. Anything to have been able to feel him do that against your bare skin. A thought you chide yourself for. A thought you hope isn’t written all over your face when you look over at Joel and he’s staring at you. Eyes darker, expression unreadable and stoic, in that way you can never tell what emotion he’s feeling at that exact moment. He gives nothing away but still sends your stomach plummeting.

After the band-aids have been stuck and you’ve cleaned up the mess on your coffee table you offer him a drink.

"Unless you have to get back to Sarah, then I understand."

"She’s with a friend tonight."

"You gonna tell her how you saved the day, all knight and shining armor style?" You tease as you walk back to the living room with two beers in hand, putting one in Joel’s outstretched one and the other to your lips. Taking a sip as you take your place beside him once again, this time a leg pulled under you as you face him.

He snorts, "don’t know about all that."

"I’m sure word has already gotten around. Her friends are probably gabbing about how heroic Mr. Miller is, a real prince charming." You laugh when you see his grin.

"Or," he says, swallowing the sip he's just taken. "She’ll give me that death glare that all teenagers possess after puberty, you know the one?"

"Oh, I know the one. Mine was so fierce my mother banned it from our house."

"It’s deadly."

"Truly."

"I’m sure prince charming will be the last thing connected to my actions. Rage and jackass sound more on the money."

You frown. Watch as he stares down at the result of the rage he thinks will now be accompanied with his name. Tarnishing it that now people will forget the kindness that was once there, the man whose hardworking now turned into something vile all because of an act of heroism some might find obscene; with how much blood and possible damage it has caused to one mans face, you could understand why such an act would be.

But to you—and those who knew how horrible your ex had been, how he had deserved every bone crunching punch, every spit of blood and teeth choked on—you knew that what Joel did was right. And maybe, somewhere deep down in those morals against violence everyone gets handed out to them at birth, you knew that Joel could be sitting in a jail cell instead of on your couch if those punches had been any worse. If it had been pure untamed rage like some will say.

"You’re a good man, Joel. So you potentially hospitalized an asshole, who hasn’t?" Your heart leaps in your chest when he laughs, and you thank God that your joke landed. Thank him that this man with his disheveled hair that's begging to have a hand run through it, work shirt and jeans looking like they’ve seen better days—is in your life. Not every girl has someone willing to bruise another man's face while destroying the hand that's needed to do their job properly.

No one had acted as quick as Joel had.

Joel Miller was a good man.

"What did you see in him anyway?" Joel asks, taking another sip of his beer. His gaze is drawn to you from the hole he was burning into his hand.

And if you were being honest with yourself, you didn’t know.

Couldn’t answer that question with the full truth because you didn’t know why you always went for the assholes. The guys who liked to scream instead of talk it out. Who liked to steal money from your wallet for booze or a habit they couldn’t kick. The ones who never remembered your birthday but made sure didn't forget theirs.

Your father had been a great man. Your mother an amazing woman. You couldn’t take the easy way out and blame it on family trauma.

So you answered with the only viable reason that came to mind.

"Loneliness makes you ignore all the bad stuff." You take a sip, swallow it down (washing away the pinpricks of potential embarrassment for being so brutally honest with Joel). "It makes you talk yourself out of throwing all their stuff to the curb or burning it in your backyard, because it’s not always bad. Some days are good. Some of them wait to be assholes before the novelty wears off; others wait until you're two years in and they’ve already slept with half the town behind your back. And some will bring you flowers every time they mess up, until one day you look around and realize you don't have any room to put this new vase and there's dried flower petals all over your floors. But hey, at least you’re not lonely, and your house smells really good."

The smile on your lips fades when you see the look on Joel’s face. See that he’s finding no humor in this story. And the gulp that swallows down the beer in your hands burns your throat the entire way down. Your cheeks are burning, and you have to look away from him. Distract yourself by picking at the label on the bottle.

"Or maybe it’s as cliché as saying I haven’t found the right one yet." You try to save, nervously chuckling under your breath. In hopes that he forgets everything you’ve just said and clings to this one shitty joke.

"Look at me."

You do, and you wish you hadn’t. The roughness of his voice makes your stomach swoop and fall like a rollercoaster of emotions you did not prepare yourself for. Hadn’t imagined this being in your future when you’d walked into work. But you’re looking at him. Meeting his eyes. Seeing the stern glower in them before he speaks.

There’s a million things you imagine him saying. Telling you how much better you are than that, than all of those meaningless assholes. How you deserve better, and you’ll find it someday. Hell, you expect him to scold you with how low his brows are.

What you don’t expect is to feel his lips on yours. His fingers digging into the skin at the back of your neck, his chest inches from your now-heaving one. And it renders you speechless. Still. Your brain not computing with the signals your nerves are giving off right now.

When he pulls away and looks at you, it takes you several blinks to meet his gaze. The air in your lungs weighing your chest down. You shouldn’t speak. Should allow yourself to get your bearings in order. To catch your breath and sort through everything you’re feeling right now. "Was that a pity kiss?"

"A what—pity kiss?"

"Cause of the," you swallow, lick your lips, "of the aforementioned assholes?"

Joel’s breath fans across your face when he chuckles, "anyone who’d pity kiss you deserves to be added to that list of assholes. And I might be on many asshole lists, but hopefully not on yours." The fingers on your neck skate forward to your cheek, thumb pressed gently along your jawline. His features grow serious again. "I didn’t just knock that asshole out because he had it comin'. And if you haven't noticed, I’m either working or at home with Sarah. Both keepin' me more than busy."

"Too busy to be making house calls for leaky faucets and tarnishing your good name with your fists?"

"Exactly."

There's a long pause between you two, as if you're both waiting for the other to say something, anything, to put these unspoken mutual feelings out there.

"Joel, are you saying you coming over to fix my faucet and staying for the occasional beer was you…flirting?" The grin he gives you makes you laugh, "who taught you how to flirt? And please don’t say Tommy."

"No. If I had listened to him we’d be–" he doesn’t finish. Just shakes his head and chuckles under his breath.

And maybe affirmative action with your hands wasn’t your forte, maybe you couldn’t do what needed to be done when it came in the form of actions. But when it came to words, to saying what you wanted, needed, craved when it was right here in front of you being hinted and teased at, you didn’t hesitate.

"Maybe you should have listened to Tommy." Your hand mirrors his own, resting on his cheek. You already knew he ran hot from his palm alone. But his cheek feels just as warm as you do, burning right through to your bones. His gaze falls to your parted lips, and a decision is made in the seconds it takes him to return his gaze to yours.

An agreement.

"C'mere." His lips collide with yours in a heated kiss of nicks of teeth and tongue that taste like whiskey and beer and something that your brain will forever recognize as Joel. A taste you know you’ll be wanting to swallow down again and again. To feel the burn of his beard against your chin until your skin is raw and blotchy from how hard his mouth is devouring yours. An arm wrapped around your waist pulls you into his lap, and your forgotten beers spill and stain the cushions of your couch. "Shit, sorry, let me," Joel starts, but you stop him with your hands on his cheeks.

"Leave it, just come here." You insist, lips returning to his.

"Yes, ma’am." His smirk molds to your mouth, wipes away as his tongue runs along your bottom lip to press against yours. A hand on your ass squeezes and presses you forward so you’re grinding against his lap. The seam of your jeans rubs up against the wet patch that's quickly forming on the fabric of your underwear, becoming sticky and clinging to your pussy. Joel's other hand runs down the column of your neck, gripping and pulling you away from his mouth so that his lips can latch onto your sensitive skin. A gasp leaving your lungs, teeth and tongue making you shudder and cling to his shoulders.

Shoulders you don't let go of until your back hits the mattress and you're both pulling your shirts above your heads, your fingers quickly working the clip of your bra, joining the discarded pile of shirts and shoes on your bedroom floor.

Your heart feels as if it’s beating a hole through your chest, like it’ll fall into Joel’s hands as he leans over your body, knees between your open legs, as his palms run down your chest, between your breasts. Over the globes of them, calloused thumb circling around your nipple. Your breath caught in your throat as you press yourself up into his touch. He’s taking you in, letting his eyes trail every dip, possible mole, scar, and marking on your skin. How your chest heaves in response to his hand. How your breasts fit in his palm. How you gasp and cry into the air when he leans down and swirls his tongue around one of your nipples before sucking it into his mouth, teeth lightly scraping against the sensitive flesh when he pulls off and does the same to the other one.

His mouth finding its way back to yours again. His hips canting against yours; you can feel his cock digging into your thigh. And when you let your hand skate between the two of you to give him more friction. A dizzying desire to feel more of his heat and need for you burning through your skin and to your core, where you truly crave him.

The deep grunt that falls from his mouth and onto your waiting tongue sends a shockwave of arousal through your entire body. Being. You want to hear it again, want to pull every noise from this man with your body and mouth until you are both drained and cursing yourselves for not doing this sooner. And you know he wants to do the same. Wants to catalog every pressure point and sensitive bit of your flesh so he can draw this out, can rile you up with a simple touch, scrape of teeth, run of his tongue along your jugular. Until you tell him how badly you can’t stand not having him inside of you.

He's leaving a trail of kisses down your stomach, his fingers digging into the skin above your jeans, holding your hips still. Preventing you from moving them the way you want to from each press and prickle from his mouth and beard—scalding the nerves of your skin and making your insides whirl.

"Lift your hips for me, sweetheart." Joel murmurs into your skin as his fingers curl into the waistband of your jeans. Your body feels barren and cool away from his heat as he sits back on his knees, your hips lifting as he frees your legs from their confines. His thumb runs along the lace of your underwear, dipping lower and lower until it’s pressing into that wet spot. A silent, smug praise tugs at the corner of his lopsided smile as his eyes look up to yours.

If your mind was working coherently and not filled with Joel Joel Joel (the way he smells woodsy and rugged, the way something deep and gruff reverberates in his chest when your teeth sink into the skin of his neck, and how he keeps looking at you like a fine art piece hung in the Louvre. Movements quick and gentle as he pulls your underwear down your thighs, making quick work to push your legs apart, fingers digging into the back of your thigh as he lets himself take his time adorning you fully on display for him) there'd be a sassy remark aimed at him.

The callus of his thumb nicks your swollen clit, eliciting a whimper from your lips, your hips following the descent of his finger as it spreads you apart. Trailing a line from your clit to dip into your entrance, gathering your arousal on the pad of his finger, his eyes on yours as he presses it against his tongue. A burning hunger in his eyes as he sucks your wetness from his fingers.

You're a panting mess by the time Joel positions his head between your legs, arms wrapped behind your thighs, lips, teeth, and tongue trailing up your inner thigh. Your fingers clench the blanket in anticipation, need, and want. The closer his mouth gets to your center, the more you can feel his hot breath moving in, the potential love bites and marks he’s leaving on your inner thigh—all a certain type of torture you don’t think you’re strong enough to put up with right now.

You lift your head to start begging, to plead with your torturer, but he’s speaking before you can.

"Wanna take my time, sweetheart." His tongue swirls at the joint of your inner thigh. And just as earlier, the words you mean to get out, to speak from the storm cloud of lust in your head, die in the back of your throat when Joel runs the flat of his tongue up the seam of your pussy. The torturous muscle wraps you around his tongue, following the slowest path to your clit, until the tip of his tongue flicks, making a pattern of strokes and licks, until his lips wrap around the swollen nerve, making you feel delirious. Keeps pulling gasps, moans, and pants of pleasure and ecstasy from your parted mouth; head thrown back on pillows; legs trembling around his head from the blazing fire that grows and grows the more he consumes you.

The more his nose nicks your clit when he fucks you with his tongue, the more his fingers dig into your quivering legs to keep you anchored to the bed and his mouth.

It feels like hours with how slowly he goes. Keeps you dangling from the ledge with every stroke and suck. Every soothing indent his fingers are leaving in your thigh. Your skin slicked with sweat, knuckles cramped from its grip in the blanket. When your moans go up in pitch he goes slower in that motion, that spot that has you seeing stars. Then he lets your breath come back to you with slow strokes of his tongue at your entrance, giving attention to the other parts of you that you didn’t think could elicit such erotic noises from your lungs.

Your fingers find their way into those disheveled strands you’ve been waiting a lifetime to thread through. To pull and keep yourself from the feeling of floating away from the intensity of the pleasure. From your orgasm coming closer and closer until you’re panting his name, "Joel, Joel, Joel–fuck," your body shaking, the cries pulled out from this man burning your throat as you finally fall from the ledge and into him; his tongue coated in you, his chin wet with your essence.

Your body sensitive and heavy as you come down, a sweaty heat making you feel sticky. Joel’s fingers seem to bypass every sensitive part though, as his palm caresses the tops of your thighs, your hips, your curves, the side of your breast. Until he’s reached your burning cheeks, mouth pressing the gentlest of kisses to your lips. The kiss was slow and gentle. Your arousal coats your taste buds when his tongue meets yours.

The kiss feeling more intimate than before, more heady. Knocking you right back on that loop you just got off of. That ache and throb he just sedated starting again in your belly, moving to where your thighs are soaked.

"You’re overdressed," you murmur against his lips. Joel kisses you again, your open mouths exchanging a breathy chuckle.

"Do you wanna change that?"

The question holds more than just the surface level of a joke and an answer of "yeah, obviously." There’s a seriousness to it that makes you pull back from his lips and stare up at him. His thumb traces a soothing pattern into the bottom of your chin, his eyes holding an unspoken reassurance that he’s fine with it ending right here. With him just pleasing you, getting to take you apart and reassemble you with tender touches and a torturous mouth.

It can be all about you.

It is all about you.

You deserve nothing less.

His eyes and soft grin speak unspoken.

Your nod is slow and reassuring. Your fingertips copy the motions of his thumb against the patches of skin in his damp beard. "Unless you’d rather help me get the stain out of my couch that you caused."

"I caused?" His brows shoot up.

"It's to be expected when you can't keep your hands off of me," you say before shrieking as he pinches your side. His lips kissing your scowl away—a problem you foresee in the near future.

The kiss lasts for minutes (centuries you wish). Your fingertips never lift from the other's face, moving along jawlines, chins, and cheek bones. His chest comfortably against yours, giving you that heat you missed so dearly. His cock still stiff and hot in his jeans, grinding slowly against your pelvis.

Is this how it’s supposed to feel? When feelings haven't even been discussed yet, but you just know? Already know what each touch, kiss, and caress holds behind it. Telling a wordless story in the way he had wanted to give you pleasure first—to taste—and take his time making you feel everything his mouth could do. Everything he wanted to do to you.

He wasn’t thinking about himself after the fact. Wasn’t rushing to put you in a position that made it all about his pleasure. Giving you little to no space to cool down, regain your bearings, and have that fire slowly relight and become more tantalizing, as he is right now.

You really did date assholes.

Your fingers move to his chest, splaying your palm along his body until you’ve reached where he’s hard and pressing against you. Your fingers curl around the outline of him. Stroking, massaging.

"I want you, Joel." You breathe into his mouth.

He growls against your lips in something akin to frustration and agony. It makes something inside of you sink, overthink that maybe he doesn’t actually want to push it past the points you’ve already reached. Maybe it’s too much, all too soon, for this new territory of your friendship—even if it already seemed a little too late with the couch confessions and his saliva still coating your center.

He must see the thoughts volleying in your head because he’s scolding himself under his breath and shaking his head. A soothing touch placed on your skin. "I feel like I’m some horny teenager again, with how bad I want you." His chuckle soothes your heart, "I don’t have-"

And you can't help but laugh at his waving hand towards his pockets and the sentence he's about to finish.

"Jesus, Joel. Bless anyone who's ever thought you were the ungentlemanly type." Here you were worrying about whether or not he wanted you, the proof being clearer than just his dick against your fingers. While the only thing on his mind was protection.

"Glad I’m amusin’ to you."

Cupping his cheeks, you pull him back to your lips. "All a girl wants is a decent man to make her laugh, not break her heart, and be able to make her come. And so far you’ve done all three." You let your tongue slip between your mouths and run along his bottom lip, "I’m good if you are."

I’m clean.

I take a little pill every day because life is chaotic enough and I don’t want any surprises.

We’re protected.

Now take me already.

The drag of your tongue, the roll of your hips against him, the little whimper you let out when he bites your lip—speaks for you.

It’s all either of you needs to rid Joel of his jeans: hands tangled in belt loops, tugs, pulls, pushing until he’s completely bare in front of you. Your breath hitches when you feel the underside of his cock spreading you and running along your clit slowly and languidly. The heat of him feels nothing compared to your own, the throb and ache of requisite in every roll and drag.

And when neither of you can stand it anymore, when he’s grunting and you’re begging, he leans up on an elbow, hand wrapped around his cock, lining himself up to your entrance. Your breath leaves your lungs, stomach falling falling down to where he’s pushing into you. Stretching you, filling you until there’s no telling where either of you ends or begins. Attached by that intangible string of pleasure and bliss of only being able to feel each other.

"Fuck," Joel groans. Mouth finding your shoulder, breath hot and heavy. His thrusts start leisurely, taking his time in that way you’re learning he loves to do. Loves to compartmentalize up what you need—more, faster, harder. Going off of the moans panted into his neck, nails digging into his back.

There's a hand gripped in the pillow beside your head, another at your breast, his mouth connected to your neck, your jaw, your chin, your lips. His hips slamming against your open thighs, thrusts deep, sharp. His cock hitting places that make your back arch, his name strung together with pleas for more. The slapping of skin and wet squelching of bodily fluids between the two of you making a symphony of lewd delight.

When the hand at your breast hikes up one of your legs, the cry you let out is swallowed by his mouth. The deeper he fucks into you, the more your body shakes, the more you feel him completely consuming you. turning you into someone who will never get enough of this. Of him. Of how good he's making you feel.

"Sound s’pretty," his tongue brushes against the underside of your chin, teeth nipping at the bone. A trail of him brought down to the shell of your ear. Where his heavy breaths and grunts fill you just as his cock does. Fills you to the brink of pain turned satisfying pleasure, as each stroke brings you closer to a precipice he’s already pushed you from. "Can’t believe I held myself back from you."

"Joel."

"I should knock out every asshole who thought to hurt you, t’not love you the way you deserve. Put you first," he slips his hand between your slick bodies, palm hot against your pelvis as his thumb rubs fast tight circles around your clit. His words getting filthier, ragged. Becoming heaving breaths against your ear as he fucks you faster. As his thumb matches the pace, as you grow closer and closer. Led by his words and pushed over by his cock.

"That’s it, sweetheart." He’s encourages as you come. As he fucks you through it, as that white-hot heat makes your body contort against his. Cling and squeeze around him. The string of groans and curses, your name mixed with something incoherent but soft and deep, makes your chest swish—bit into your skin as Joel comes not long after.

And after the two of you have cleaned up enough to call it satisfactory, two new beers condensing on your night stand. Your cheek pressed into his chest as your bodies lay pressed together under your sheet. His chin resting atop your forehead, a soft brush of fingertips at your spine—there’s cheesy grins on your faces, "Tommy’s going to have a heyday."

"He owes me fifty bucks."

There’s faux shock on your face when you turn and lean on your elbow to look at him, "excuse me?"

"He didn't think I'd ever tell ya," Joel shrugs as his hand caresses your shoulder. A fondness in his eyes, "I never do anything for myself." You press a kiss to his thumb, "I think we both deserve something good for once though."

"I guess I solved the mystery of how to get Joel Miller to be soft," you joke. Nip at the skin of his thumb playfully.

"I ain’t soft." He grumbles.

"Postcoitous Joel disagrees with that statement," you say. The dramatic roll his eyes do makes you laugh. Your teeth nipping his thumb harder, a bite this time, you shift so you’re on top of him. Sitting up on your knees. "Since this bet is half at my expense.."

"Expense, huh?" His palm grabs a handful of your ass and squeezes, causing you to rock in his lap. His cock already twitching to life again.

"I think we should get you your money's worth," you smirk.

"That's the smartest thing you've said all night," his fingers tangled in your back hair, pulling your mouth down to his in a hard kiss, before you get the chance to at least pretend to be offended.

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lovifie · 2 months

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Lift Me Off My Feet

Chapter 12: Finale

Masterlist

Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4 - Part 5 - Part 6 - Part 7 - Part 8 - Part 9 - Part 10 - Part 11 - Part 12

“You are not listening!” You shout, frustrated with the man.

In the couple of weeks that you have known and lived with them, you never expected that you would end up arguing with them. Even less with Price.

“No, Birdie. You are the one that needs to listen!” The man argued back.

“You got me fired, John! What else do you want me to hear?” You ask, running your hands through your hair.

It finally set in, the reality that the idyllic life of living with the four of them without a worry was just an illusion. You were here because you were hiding, and they were here because they were hiding you.

“I didn't get you fired, Birdie. Your boss did.” Price says, crossing his arms.

“Don't get sassy with me! He told you that they needed to know if I could get back to work any soon or they would be forced to fire me and you told them to do so!” You shout again, feeling like Price is lying to your face. “Why would you do that?!”

“Because you hate that job!” He shouts back. “And you don't need to work!”

“Yes, I do, Price! Yes, I do!” You say, a dry laugh leaving your throat. “Like everyone! I can't just live sponging off of you guys!”

“That's not what's happening and you know it, birdie!” He exclaims. “Don't manipulate the situation into making it look like a bloody transaction!”

“I'm manipulating the situation?!” You ask, pointing to yourself.

“Yes! You are making it look like we are paying you to stay with us, birdie!” He explains, moving his hands to his hips.

“Oh, for god's sake, Price!” You exclaim, rubbing your face. “Why don't you exaggerate it a bit more?! I don't even know why I'm arguing with you about my job!”

“Neither do I?! Because I think it is pretty much settled!” He says, walking away towards the kitchen.

“IT IS NOT SETTLE!” You scream, shocked by his response. “The reason why I don't know why we are arguing is because I don't know who gave you the right to choose over me!”

That makes him turn around, looking at you like you grow a second head. “Well, excuse me. For believing I have a say in your life, I just assumed I could since we bloody love each other and all that!”

“Don't pull that shit on me, Price! This has nothing to do with love!” You say, crossing your arms. “I don't have a say on your work! So why should you have it on me!”

“It's not the bloody same!” He says, rubbing his face.

“It's not for you because it doesn't benefit you!” You scream, looking back when you hear the door open as Gaz, Soap and Ghost enter the house. The three of them having left the house not too long ago to buy breakfast.

“What's going on? We could hear the shouts from outside.” Gaz asks, entering first and looking between Price and you, seeing the wide cliff between the two of you.

“Nothing!” Price barks, crossing his arms again.

You ignore the looks on everyone's face, instead walking to the door.

“Where are you going now?!” Price asks, moving to be able to see you.

“Out! So I can fucking breathe without feeling I'm choking!” You say, opening the door after the boys closed it.

“Don't go far!” Price says, still caring under all his bad mood

“I KNOW I CAN'T GO FAR!” You say, slamming the door on your way out.

You hate screaming, hate shouting, hate raising your voice and even more if it is at Price or any of the men inside. It's not their fault and screaming at each other is not the way to fix it. But you can't help it, tired of being pushed around at everyone's mercy without asking what's your choice.

Sitting down on the step right outside the house, not wanting or needing to go any further, you hide your face behind your hands, letting your palms get wet with your tears.

“Hey, you alright?” A man's voice says, making you look up, to come face to face with an unfamiliar face.

You don't have time to answer, because something hits the back of your head and everything blends to black.

Price updates the boys once you are out, he tells them your ex-boss called, told him you needed to get back to work the next day or he would fire you, he tells them how he told him to go ahead since you couldn't go back to work jet, he tells them about how he wasn't able to tell you about the empty position at base that you could filled to work with them because you started screaming, he tells them about how he lost his cool and just screamed back instead of explaining.

He tells them everything, feeling like the worst person in the world for making you leave the house with tears on your face. It's Gaz the first one to stand up. “I'll check on her.” He mumbles, as he walks outside to an empty staircase. He walks down, checking both sides of the street only to find it just as empty.

An anxious feeling starts to brew on his stomach, entering back to the house with a worried expression on his face. “She's gone.” He says almost casually, as if not voicing one of the biggest fears the men around him have had for the last month.

“What do you mean she's gone?” Soap asks. “She must be around the block, she'll be back in a bit, mate.”

No one believes him, not even himself. You wouldn't have walked out of his sight like that, not without dragging them with you, not without a phone, not without telling them.

There is a beat of silence, each debating whether it is plausible that you simply left, all of them feeling that the most possible chance is that something happened to you.

“I'll check the car camera, it is parked right in front of the door.” Ghost says, taking his phone out to check it.

They all check the screen, seeing the door open and close. They see you sit down, body shaking as you cry, Price feeling his heart shrunk at the sight knowing it was his doing.

They then see the two men walking in front of you, how one of them takes advantage that you have your face covered to stand behind you, how the other calls your attention to look at your face, and how once he knows it's you he nods to the other man, who knocks you out hitting you with a bat at the back of your head.

The wave of all the different emotions hitting them at once keeps them in place for a second, paralyzed on their chair. Soap jumps first, talking about checking the cameras on the street, checking the cars, their licence place, anything.

But it doesn't reach Price's ears, the only thing he can hear is the voices in his head telling him that he has failed twice now. The first one he wasn't able to keep you close enough when you left in the middle of the night, and now he was the one that pushed you away.

You were just on the other side of the door a moment ago and now… now he didn't know where you were. All because he didn't explain himself and let his emotions take control of him.

“Price!” It's Ghost's voice that wakes him up, standing beside the sergeants. “Move.”

That's all he says, and that's all Price needs.

They'll get you back, whatever it takes.

Two weeks.

That is what it takes them to finally find a trail.

That is what it takes Price to breathe again.

That's what it takes Simon to let be seen outside the office.

That's what it takes Soap to let himself be embraced by any of the others.

That's what it takes Gaz to stop baring his teeth to everyone.

They have a trail.

And god knows that's all they need.

What you need, is a doctor. A shower. A glass of water. A nap. Anything that is not forced or thrown at you.

Two weeks of torture.

Two weeks of just getting hurt, insulted, humiliated, all of it just for the purpose of causing you pain.

The henchmen of the man you used to say good morning to were the ones that have stolen you away.

The ones that have thrown you into an empty dark room.

The ones that have “interrogated” you about who you worked for.

The ones that have “interrogated” you about how much they paid you.

You didn't say a word, which usually resulted in a punch to the face or a kick to the ribs.

You want to believe that they will find you.

That they will take you back home.

That Price will forgive you for shouting at him.

Hell, if you die and the last thing you did was shout at him.

You'll live.

They'll find you.

Two weeks.

Of fighting with yourself.

The side that says you'll live.

And the side that tells you to give up already.

The second one usually wins.

Like today, when the man that enters the room every day walks up to you, limping and with a knife in his hand.

He yanks your hair, pulling you up on your feet and pressing the knife on your throat. “Make a sound and it'll be the last thing you do.”

He moves you into a chokehold, pushing you in front of him as he walks down the hall. There is shouting and the sound of guns inside the building.

The moment he sees the car where they push you in, the one they saw on the cameras; Price almost needs to pull Simon back from running inside the building.

This is it.

This is the headquarters they couldn't find for so long.

The headquarters where all the important information and the guns they have looked for so long are at.

The headquarters where everything that matters is.

The headquarters where they kept you at.

Price sends Ghost to the building on the other side of the road, not trusting the man in face to face with what they can find inside.

And he obliges, hating the rank differences.

They move in, clearing room after room.

No sign of you.

The move to the second floor.

You are not there.

More and more people that hit the ground when they found them.

You are still missing.

Until you see it.

The unmistakable blue cap on Gaz's head.

And you shout.

You shout louder than you shout at Price.

You shout louder than when Soap scared you hiding behind the door.

You shout louder than when you called for Ghost when you thought he fell on the shower but it was just the shampoo bottle.

You have never shouted at Gaz.

Until now.

And the moment you do you feel the blade dig into your skin, moving your hand between the knife and your neck.

The three of them turn to you, immediately updating Ghost and telling him to move.

The window behind you is almost like a target for a perfect shot.

But Ghost can't shoot.

Not when he can see your head.

Not when there is a possibility that he may hit you.

But he can when you move.

When you grab the blade, breaking the skin of your fingers, and you pull back just enough to squish yourself down.

You are still against his chest, the man still holding you. But Ghost can now see your head, lower than before. And the arms around you quickly go limp, falling forward taking you with him.

A ringing in your ear keeps you from Price's voice calling your name. Everything is dizzy for a moment, there is a warm sensation on your elbow and when you look back a red pool of blood is bleeding onto your clothes.

You liked that t-shirt.

You'll need to try with peroxide, see if you can take the stain out.

Your brain ignores the corpse lying next to you, but for some reason you can't stop looking at the blood on your elbow.

It isn't until Price cups your face, your grimey, bloody and sunken face. And you look up to him, his blue eyes.

And you let yourself cry.

After two weeks.

You cry.

So hard you can't see nor hear anything.

You cling onto Price, hiding your face on his neck, digging your nails on his back needing to feel him under your skin.

Apologies fly from one to the other.

For shouting, for pushing away, for failing to protect, for not shouting, for being taken away.

You feel two more pairs of arms around you, feeling the fourth person only when you start to leave the building.

Not much longer an ambulance arrives, finally taking you to safety.

The four men in the car right behind.

Recovery is just as slow.

No permanent physical damage.

But not all the wounds are on the skin.

Those heal quite fast.

And soon you are back on your feet.

On your scared, wobbly feet.

The boys are back around, always one of them close.

“I'm never leaving you out of my sight again.” Price says, cupping your face as he kisses your forehead. “I don't care if I sound like a madman.”

They make it easy to get back.

Price finally tells you about the job at base, which you gladly apply for.

Surprisingly you got it, and started working soon.

It was easy.

You got a better flat, easy to pay when four more people chime in for the bills.

You got a better job, with better pay and a better boss.

You got, not only one, but four lovers.

And you have all the time of your life to heal everything that's left.

You still wonder how you managed to get into your garage that night.

But now you're glad you did.

And with this, ladies and gentlemen.

Lift Me Off My Feet comes to an end ❤️.

Thanks for joining along, for all the support that you have given me the last couple of months, for the patience between chapters, special thanks to @darkangel4121 for listening to me complain so much and to everyone who has joined and will join the blog.

I love you, my lovelies 💗

TagList: @whos-fran @thevoidwriting @sklt987659 @kayden666 @dumb12bvtch1212 @thatonepupkai @darkangel4121 @cassiecasluciluce @h0n3y-l3m0n05 @tired-writer04 @evolutionarry @prettykinkysoul @pagesfalling @skyler-loves-rick-grimes @readerofallthingss @onewattson6529 @mynameismothra @renabear88 @lolliepopsicle @reap3erslov3 @tooloudarts @sodavrr @anirok2 @lilliumrorum @ladyxtiger @multy-fandom-lover @thriving-n-jiving @lotionlamp @spicyspicyliving @xxeiraxx @vampirekilmerfic @keiraslayz @risingofjupiter @witchthewriter @soupinasock @phantomly27 @arbesa-mind @multifandomheathenannie @spadekip @cmbghost @herefor-tojis-tits @tooloudarts @panikk-attackkk @reap3erslov3 @mothsdrabbles @ghosts-hoe

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scarletssienna · 2 months

Text

Beggin' for Footnotes

Summary - Some things aren’t meant to last forever. And despite you and Wanda loving each other you’re not sure if it’s going to work out anymore. 4.0k word count

Warnings - Hurt (not much comfort), heavy angst, swearing, mommy Wanda, oral, fingering, face slapping, sub!reader, degradation, praise, begging, dom/sub dynamics, aftercare, hair pulling, mean Wanda, edging, face-sitting, thigh riding

AN - This is my first post on here! I’ve done writings in the past but I thought I’d try a new format and space to post it! :)) I plan on continuing this if I can find the energy lol!

Part 2

18+, minors + men dni

Not every love was supposed to last. No matter how great, how wonderful, sometimes things still end. You knew Wanda like the back of your hand. And she knows you all the same. So when one of her vices came up after one of your worst fights, you could only watch. Wanda stood out on the back porch. Cigarette between her two fingers as she stared off into the darkness. There was this empty sickening in both of your stomachs that this may be the end. At this point, all options and solutions had been exhausted. You knew it was time. You watched out the kitchen window, unable to tear your eyes away as she slowly inhaled before a large cloud of smoke dissipated into the air, the cold temperatures enhancing it. Your fingers squeezed the sponge from the sink as soapy water flooded between your fingers. The dishes had been long forgotten lately as neither of you had had the energy to wash them. This was unusual for Wanda as she liked to keep the house showroom ready at all times. You forcefully ripped your eyes away from her as you began to wash the dishes, trying to make up for anything you could. To fix what you could in this messy situation.

The house that had once been so loud with laughter and joy now lingered in empty silence. Your playlist of every song you two had loved played softly over the speakers around the house. If it had been several months ago you would have pulled her closely in your arms, dancing around the kitchen despite her laughs and teases about how cheesy it was. Her nose would crinkle as you sang along in Sokovian to one of her favorite songs. You butchered the pronunciation, but you would try, she could tell. She would have given in eventually and threaded her hands in your hair as she rested her forehead against yours. You would have kissed her, kissed her as if she was going to leave the second you let go. In this reality, she very well might.

You watched out the window again for a moment before getting distracted by the dish you were washing. The knife in your hands harshly tore against your flesh and you quickly dropped the knife into the sink, a soft yelp leaving your lips. You backed away quickly as blood began to drip down your hand. It was a quick scramble for the kitchen towel as you tried to stop the bleeding. Wanda had always been there to comfort you when you were injured in the past. You bit the inside of your cheek trying to stop it as tears quickly began to fall on your face. You let off a soft sob as you abandoned the dishes, heading upstairs to your shared bedroom. Hurrying into the bathroom you discarded the bloodied towel onto the sink countertops and washed the wound before messily bandaging it up. You had never been very good at doing it yourself so Wanda had always insisted on caring for you but you didn't think that was very well an option at this point.

Tears flooded down your face as the events from the night tore your heart into shreds. You were no longer crying due to the injury. It was a different kind of pain. You stumbled over to the bed and threw your pants onto the floor before climbing into your side of the bed. The sheets were quickly pulled up to your chin as your hand covered your mouth in an attempt to muffle the sobs. Quickly, you drifted off into a tired and pained sleep.

When Wanda returned inside she hadn't expected to see dishes washed especially as she investigated further and saw the drops of blood on the floor and a bloody knife in the sink. Despite the fight, she still cared and loved you. She quickly rushed upstairs in an attempt to find you. When she noticed the door slightly ajar and silence in the room she quietly peaked her head in. She sighed relieved when she saw you asleep in bed, seemingly uninjured from her view. The smell of cigarettes covered her and she wandered quietly off to the bathroom to take a shower, shutting the bathroom door behind her. For everyone but you her walls were high. She hardly let anyone in. and when she did, it felt as if it always ended this way. The feeling of being cursed towards relationships had set in. She washed her hair, going over the fight in her head as she wondered what could have gone differently, how she could save it. If it was even worth it at this point.

Tensions had been rising over the past couple of weeks. You both had been working too much recently and had hardly had time for one another. It seemed as if every day was the same. Wake up, go to work, sleep, repeat. It had been killing you both. The littlest things set you both off. It would end up in screaming matches and sleeping alone every time. What set you both over the edge this time was not so little. Natasha, your mutual friend, had begun flirting with you. While she respected your relationship, she had always believed you two were not good for each other. So when you fought last week and you ended up at her house she had done nothing but comfort you. You thought nothing of Natashas' intentions but Wanda knew otherwise. This had sent her into a fit of rage when Natasha dropped you off this morning and kissed your cheek goodbye.

You both fought for hours, arguing about anything that came to mind, but mainly Natasha. Had you understood and been able to read her mind as well, you would have understood her intentions and sided with Wanda, not seeing Natasha anymore. But you couldn't and this frustrated Wanda. When she attempted to control your mind you quickly noticed and this sent you two further down the line of fighting. You hated it when she used her powers on you. When you thought to yourself that you wished you could just forget everything that had happened Wanda broke. She had misunderstood. Thinking you had meant forgetting her. Silence fell over the fight and she went outside to have a cigarette. Her thoughts consumed her as her heart hurt.

With how often the fights had been recently as well as how busy you've been, you'd not been intimate in weeks. The tension begins to tear you both apart. When she finished her shower she pulled on an old t-shirt and shorts before popping her head out the bathroom door to check if you were still sleeping. When she saw you, she had to determine what to do. Did she sleep with you? Or did she go to the guest room? She decided that you wouldn't want her in bed and quietly tip-toed to the guest room based on what she had misunderstood. That night she cried herself to sleep as well.

-ˋˏ ༻❁༺ ˎˊ-

When you woke up the next morning you sat up groggily and sighed to yourself as you didn't see Wanda in bed, the memories of the night prior sinking in. Despite your anger you went to see where she had slept for the night, mostly just wanting to make sure she hadn't ended up locked out on the porch freezing to death. You saw her asleep in the guest room, her makeup smudged and muddled from tears, and her shower. You sighed and went back to your room to get ready for the day. It was unusual for you to be up first and you made use of it, quietly leaving for work before she awoke.

You returned home late that night, having gone to the bar after work with a few co-workers to unwind and relax. All you could think about was Wanda and the ache between your legs grew. You were mad, but maybe you needed that. You quietly entered the house, making a note to lock the door behind you before heading to find Wanda. You weren't extremely intoxicated, but the anger, lack of quality sleep, stress, and tequila were having a bit of an impact. You could tell she had been home for a couple of hours, the discarded takeout garbage by the trash. Suddenly she caught your eye outside on the back porch. Of course, she was smoking again. You thought to yourself before acting on impulse. You went to the door and harshly pulled the sliding door open. She let out a startled gasp that didn't happen often as she always seemed aware of your presence.

“Get inside.” You said firmly in a tone that had been unusual for you to take on with her. You had always been the more submissive in the relationship. The words shocked you both a little. She obliged anyway, out of more surprise than anything. She put the cigarette out before coming inside. You shut the door behind her, looking into her eyes before quickly pressing her against the door in a bruising kiss. She yelped out of surprise before kissing back, her hands tangling into your hair. She ignored the taste of tequila on your lips as she knew she tasted like cigarettes and couldn't defend herself for that.

You made quick work of snaking your hand underneath her shirt, groping her chest as your tongues began to fight. She had never seen this level of dominance out of you. While it surprised and intrigued her, she couldn't have it. You both knew you were just trying to get a reaction out of her as it had been entirely too long since you two had done anything together. Her hand tightened with a grip of your hair as she roughly pulled your head back, quickly beginning to kiss and nip at your neck. You let out a moan as she tugged at your hair, stumbling backward slightly as she pushed you off of her.

“Upstairs. “ She muttered firmly. You could see the darkness in her eyes and did not question it, quickly moving upstairs to your room. The past few weeks your dynamic had been shallow and lacking. You both needed rules in life. You need a guideline to follow, and she needs an outlet of control. When you got upstairs you looked around the room, taking several deep breaths before going to crack a window to get some airflow. Your jaw clenched as you took a few deep breaths trying to focus on relaxing. You closed the curtains forcefully, a little too forcefully perhaps as they, along with the curtain rod came tumbling down. Your heart sank as tears filled your eyes, threatening to fall as you knew Wanda would be mad. As you heard her footsteps approach you quickly tugged off your shirt, tossing it in a pile alongside your discarded pants. You had already dug your grave and it was getting deeper. Thoughts raced through your head about what punishment would come. The more you thought the more your legs pressed together for any kind of release you could gain. Just as you sat down on the bed the door swung open. “What the hell was that?” She asked. Her voice was angry and her accent began to peak through her words as she spoke. Her head quickly turned and noticed the window. “Did you do this?” she asked in almost a patronizing tone. She knew you did it, the guilt on your face was obvious.

You pulled your bottom lip into your mouth as she spoke, gnawing on it nervously as you considered your options. Slowly, you shook your head, the hesitation clear as tears brimmed your eyes. She walked over to you, one eyebrow raised in a way that she knew made you weak in the knees. She raised her hand before a loud echoing slap hit your cheek. You let out a moan and pressed your legs together harder as tears finally fell. “Lying gets you nowhere. I'll ask you again, Detka.” she paused, faining tenderness as she wiped a tear away from your face. “Did you do this?” every word she spoke was drawn out and stern as she raised her eyebrow and held your chin in place, forcing you to look into her eyes. Slowly you began to nod, bracing yourself for the slap you knew was about to come. When she raised her hand a slap did not come. Instead, she giggled at your flinch and reached down, snapping your bra snap on your shoulder. “This is what happens when little girls try to do things that are too big for them,” she spoke slowly, making sure each word sunk in. “You didn't even have time to fully undress for Mommy.” she shook her head and snapped your bra strap once again before pushing you to lay back on the bed. She climbed on top of you, straddling one of your thighs as she ground her hips, working herself up.

“Please Mommy,” you whined out softly as your hips raised into her, begging for any amount of pleasure you could get. Another slap fell hard across your cheek and you felt your thoughts slowly drift further into a fuzzy headspace. You moaned at the feeling. Her hand was wet from the tears that had fallen down your face and she made it a point to wipe her hand on your bare stomach.

“I didn’t permit you to speak. Did I?” She asked firmly as she leaned down, kissing and nipping at your neck. You shook your head frantically as you struggled to keep your hands by your sides. She slid her hands back up your stomach and muttered under her breath. “Good girl.” Before pulling your bra down to reveal your breasts. She wasted no time as she quickly kissed down towards your chest, taking the small bud into her mouth. Her tongue swirled around your nipple as her hand snaked down into your panties, finally touching you where you needed it most. She gasped dramatically and pulled her head up, locking eyes with you when she felt your wetness. Your face turned a deep shade of red as she proceeded to tease and taunt you for how wet you had been at her from only just slapping and teasing you. All of your thoughts were consumed by her in a fuzzy bliss.

Without warning she slipped two fingers inside of you easily. Her fingers made quick work of pumping in and out, stretching and curling them just where you needed it most. You moaned loudly and wrapped your arms around her back, pulling her body closer to you as you hid your face in her shoulder, biting down softly on the tender flesh. This depicted a soft moan from Wanda as her hips jerked slowly against your thigh. She pulled her body back with a grin as she began to bite softly across your jaw.

“Let me see your pretty face baby. I want to see you while I fuck you.” She said her fingers worked faster, her thumb reaching up to touch your throbbing clit. You blushed red as you looked into her eyes. The moon was shining through the window casting a moonlit glow across her face, a smirk forming across it. Just as quickly as she worked you up to an orgasm, she stopped. She pulled her hand away quickly and you found yourself frantically reaching for her wrist as your hips jerked underneath her.

“No! Mommy!” You yelled out exasperated as tears fell quickly from your eyes at the loss of sensation. She smirked down at you, her tongue slowly licking her lips.

“You didn't think I'd let you cum that quickly after what a brat you've been the past few weeks little girl?” She asked in a patronizing manner as she pulled her hand out of your panties and brought her fingers to her lips. You moaned at the sight, her tongue licking her fingers clean, making a show of the process. Her fingers then slid into your mouth and you groaned at the taste of your arousal mixed with her. Your tongue swirled around her fingers as you proceeded to suck her fingers.

“Please Mommy.” was all you could seem to muster out after she pulled her fingers out of your mouth. Your mind was clouded and fogged and just where Wanda wanted it.

“Silly me,” she smiled as she looked down. “Mommy has been giving you all the pleasure, she completely forgot to undress.” she motioned towards her clothes before standing up. You groaned and reached for her when she stood, no longer touching you. You let out a soft murmur as your hands grabbed at her shirt, pressing your legs together. She stripped before walking back towards you. She tugged your panties down your legs and tossed them towards the pile of clothes before doing the same with your bra. You couldn't help but notice the wetness that had soaked Wanda's panties and now glistened her thighs. Your mouth watered at the sight as all you wanted to do was taste her.

You knew how often you had fought lately and how the arguments left you due for punishment. You just weren't exactly sure what form it would take. Anticipation flooded through your body as you looked up into her eyes, your eyes wide and innocent.

“You're going to eat me out until I cum, maybe then I'll give you what you want,” she stated firmly as she squeezed at your hips. Her touches were not gentle. Her fingers dug into your tender flesh, all of her anger, stress, and tension coming out onto you. You moaned at the touch, more sensitive and aware with each touch and mark she left across your body. She let go with a slap to your thigh and you groaned at the loss of her. You sat up and watched as she moved around the room, sitting on the bed in the middle, spreading her legs for you as she watched with dark eyes. “Come make Mommy feel good.” Her voice dripped with arousal as her words of encouragement enticed you further, not that it took much at this point though.

Quickly you moved and settled yourself between her legs. You slowly began kissing up her thighs, licking the path of arousal she had left for you. She grumbled impatiently above you, clearly already ready for attention where she needed it. Her hand snaked through your hair, gently at first as it stroked your scalp. She then grabbed a fistful, tugging your hair harshly as she forced you up higher, pushing your head between her legs. At the tug, you let out a loud moan as you cursed under your breath. You got the hint and stuck out your tongue quickly getting work between her legs. Your tongue licked up her slit before it brought fast attention to her clit. You brought your fingers up and slipped two fingers inside of her. You were kinder than Wanda had been to you, moving your fingers less harshly and aggressively. It worked nonetheless as she quickly rose to an orgasm with the combination of both your fingers and tongue. Her grip on your hair did not loosen as her hips began to jerk against your face. As she reached her peak she let out a loud moan, her hips moving frantically as she tugged harshly at your hair. The taste that hit your tongue made you moan as you quickly lapped up as much as she would allow before pulling your head away.

Her chest rose and fell heavily as she caught her breath, a gentler hand moving to your neck. You leaned up her body as you kissed her passionately. When her tongue slid across your bottom lip and your mouth you eagerly allowed it entrance. A smile grew across her face as she pulled away. You whined at the loss but it was quickly relieved when she pressed a singular finger to your lips.

“Mommy.” You moaned out as your hips began to grind against her stomach. Her hand snaked down her stomach to touch you, her fingers ghosting over your clit.

“Come sit on my face Detka.” She said firmly as she adjusted her positioning, letting your thighs rest next to her head. You were hesitant yet eager as you slowly lowered yourself down, moaning loudly as her tongue finally made contact. Your hips jerked against her face as you ground against her tongue. You were worked up quickly, faster than ever as she seemed to know exactly where you needed it. She mumbled out from underneath you as she worked you up towards an orgasm. “Beg for it, Malyshka.”

Quickly words began to tumble out of your mouth as desperation to cum was needed. “Please, Mommy. Please!” You practically yelled as your hips jerked more, her nails digging into your thighs. “Please let me cum.” You begged. She complied with a grin.

“Cum for Mommy, Detka.” She said as her tongue moved rapidly beneath you. Instantly you reached your peak, reaching for the bead frame in front of you to steady yourself as you moaned loudly. When Wanda felt you had settled enough she gently pulled you down next to her and into her arms. You shook a little in Wanda's arms as she held you for the first time in weeks. Her fingers tangled in your hair as she slowly combed through the mess she had made, taking time to massage your scalp. All the thoughts of your fights had completely melted away and you were consumed by her and her embrace.

“Mommy.” You murmured as tears began to fall on your cheeks again, your face nuzzling closely in the crook of her neck.

“You did so good baby, so good.” She praised quietly as she kissed behind your ear. Her fingertips found a gentle pattern of scratching up and down your back with one hand while the other massaged where she pulled your hair. Praise was whispered into your ear as she held you closely, not wanting to let go. Never wanting to let go. Slowly your sobs calmed and you settled into her embrace, slowly lifting your head to leave soft kisses across her jaw and neck.

“I love you, Wanda.” The words left your mouth for the first time in weeks and a soft smile crept across your lips. Wandas' face glimmered with love as she pulled you into a kiss.

“I love you too, Detka.” She whispered through kisses as she could only hold you closer. After a while of the silent embraces Wanda's thoughts of the fights crept back into memory. “We’re going to be okay.” She hesitated and looked towards you. “Right?” She spoke softly, her voice filled with fear at the thought of losing you. You nodded and kissed her softly, your mind foggy and cloudy as all you wanted was to be close to her. That night you slept close, tangled up in each other's love, neither wanting to pull away.

-ˋˏ ༻❁༺ ˎˊ-

The next morning when you woke up snuggled up in Wanda's arms felt different. The bliss that usually followed had dissipated and all you could think about was the pain of being with her. You gained a sinking pit in your stomach as guilt and fear coursed through your body. The flight response kicked in. You couldn't be with her, not now. Tears began to fall as you quickly but carefully left the bed and Wanda's embrace. Hurriedly you moved for some clothes as you threw on the closest things you could find without waking her. You reached for the door handle but paused. One glance back to Wanda confirmed it. You couldn't be here. So where did you go? Who greeted you with open arms? Natasha.

#wanda maximoff #wanda marvel #marvel #wanda #mommy wanda #smut #hurt/comfort #angst #wanda x reader #wandavision #natasha romanoff #natasha x reader #wanda x you #wanda x y/n #wandanat #wanda maximoff x reader #wanda maximoff x you #wanda maximoff x natasha romanoff #wanda maxmoff x y/n

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nmakii · 2 months

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DOMESTIC LIFE WAS NEVER QUITE MY STYLE…

— married life with alastor back in 1925, louisiana

— is this ooc :(? ive been in a ooc rut ever since school ended i miss my pookies n like i cried so much that day 😔 BTW THIS IS THE FIC I HSED THE ALASTOR AI TEXTS :>

lord above! you have to be some kind of gem to secure a man such as alastor. to be that woman, it’s almost certain that you’re someone who understands alastor in ways no one else has.

he doesn’t tend to express his affections physically, but more than makes up for it through his sweet nothings and lavish gifts

he’s most definitely the type to spoil his wife, but only if you ask him for it yourself. he doesn’t want to buy things you have no use for

has a trust fund in his will set for you if, god forbid, he died before you. he doesnt want his love to worry about money, just let him take care of it.

unlike many households at the time, alastor would help with the chores. despite his full-time job, he’d sorta understand that taking care of a house is a full-time job in itself since he’d spent his childhood watching how hard his mother works so, he agrees to always split chores with you.

because of his work, and his popularity, his boss asks that he comes in early to host the morning segment of the show. because of this, it’s not often that you two share a morning together. but, he still remembers to kiss your pretty head good morning, occasionally adding a request for dinner

his mother is MORE than happy to welcome you into the family. she’s just glad that her son found someone that makes him happy.

honestly on the fence about kids. on one hand, it’d make his mother really happy, as well as how it’s expected at the time period. but, he isn’t too interested in physically showing his desires. and, he is quite busy as well with his job and the whole murdering thing. it’s only if you ask him explicitly that he’d decide to look into it, maybe adoption? :>

quite good at putting your insecurities at ease. sweet nothings for days on end can come out of his mouth and he’s still not done.

as you sob into alastor’s chest, his arms wrap around your body warmly as he plays with your hair. "whenever you’re ready to talk, my love.” he held you close, wiping your tears until you were ready to talk.

alastor listened silently as you told him of all your doubts; that you weren’t a good wife, the whispers of every woman in town, everything. “my love, i’ll love you no matter what. it’s the woman inside that i am in love with.” he says as he brushes the hair out of your face, gazing down at you lovingly. “i won’t lie, there are times when you are… feisty. but, it’s your passion and intelligence that always bring me back to you.”

your lips quiver as you try to quell your tears. “can… can you swear that? that you’ll love me no matter what..?” his gaze became gentle as he saw the genuine doubt in your expression. “you have my word, dear. no matter what happens, i’d never stop loving you. even if we fought everyday, i would still be a fool for you. because, well… i suppose the heart wants what the heart wants. and, it is you that my heart yearns for, love.” alastor assured you, his eyes falling as he spoke.

as the sweet nothings fell from his lips, your tears ceased, finding the warmth in his touch. “thank you, dear… you always know how to make me feel better, i love you so much…” you sighed, curling into his touch. “mmh, i love you as well, my pretty girl.” he grinned, kissing your forehead.

as stated above, alastor is not particularly attracted to your looks, but moreso your intelligence and your ability to see right through that charming facade of his. funnily enough, it started a healthy relationship for one of the most deranged men out there.

he’d also be quite attracted to you if you joined him one night. nothing’s more attractive than your beautiful wife in a pretty dress he bought for you all bloodied up with a knife in your hand.

he loves to show you off to the newspapers as his pretty doll, not only because you’re quite the eye candy, but to also make you confident in yourself

he’d still get jealous whenever he’d catch someone staring too long though. ironically enough, he thinks it’s adorable when you get jealous and pout your face. he’s your’s after all, body and soul! why fuss over something that’s not gonna happen?

arguments are quite rare since alastor doesn’t tend to do things that are argument worthy. one of the few reasons you tend to argue is when alastor heads to the club after work and comes home drunk and much later than he intended to. and, after all that, he still apologizes for coming home late, probably tries to come home early so he can cook dinner the next day as an apology :>

#hazbin hotel x reader #hazbin hotel #alastor #alastor x reader #alastor hazbin hotel #hazbin alastor #hazbin hotel alastor #hasbin alastor #alastor hazbin x reader #alastor hc #alastor headcanons #alastor the radio demon #human alastor

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victoria-grimesss · 9 months

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Call the Doctor, I'm in Love

masterlist

->Paring: Johnny ‘Soap’ MacTavish x Medic!Fem!Reader

->Words: 2.9k

->Warning: fluff & angst, mentions of injury/wounds

->Summary: Soap has a big ol crush on you, he’s not sneaky or quiet about it. Here are the many times he’s fantasized about you and the one time you answered his dreams.

->A/N: a little something because I love Foap!

Johnny ‘Soap’ Mactavish is a pretty guy, a hunk if you will and he knows it. He has no troubles with the ladies and is highly experienced but he always feels like he’s lacking something, someone. Until you came along, pretty new medic. You’re his favorite. He always goes to you for a patch up even waiting for medical help until you come back from break. Johnny is a saint, he is a patient and giving man.

But he wants you, desperately. He’s got a big fat crush and he’s not quiet about it. The 141 is exhausted hearing about what you did today and that Soap thinks you looked dreamy today, stitching up his arm. He saw you look at him a little extra that means you want to be with him right? They can’t wait until you either reject the poor fool or take him on a bloody date. Here are the times poor Mactavish has swooned over you:

The 1st Time: Your Introduction

Soap has found himself head over heels for you. He first saw you in the medical tent after him and an enemy went headfirst over a steep rockwall, he was fine of course, seems like that guy can bounce back from anything, you had nursed him back to health and he was done for. Your caring words and gentle hands were all he wanted now. And imagine his surprise and excitement when you became the team's new task-force medic.

“Alright team I hope you read over the file, we got a new member to our team. She's going to be our medic but don’t worry she can hold our own on the field. She’s reliable and damn good at her job. We’ve had too many close calls lately and I don’t want anyone dying of something that could have been prevented.”

Price ends his introduction and you greet your way around the room, everyone is nice enough for tuff military men. You find yourself sitting next to John, or Soap, or sometimes Johnny depending on who you ask. He’s a good looking guy, as are the rest in the room but you have a job to do so you don’t plan on messing up your place on the team by intermingling with one of them.

“Aye lass, do you carry one of those stethoscope things around with ya?”

He’s leaning on one arm, checking out the equipment you had brought with you.

“I usually keep it in the office, why is something wrong?”

You’re looking him over for anything obvious but nothing sounds any alarm.

“Ah no, it’s just my heart… it’s acting funny, beats a little faster when you come around.”

He’s smiling and you laugh not expecting a bad pick-up line but seems like he’s that kind of guy.

“I see. Well might want to try working on your cardio then that’ll improve that heart rate of yours.”

He pauses, thinking of what to say next to lure you in.

“You like bars doctor?”

“Not particularly..”

“Would ya mind joining me, I hate drinking alone.”

You smile, amused.

“Why not one of the other boys, someone you’re more familiar with.”

You’re looking into your bag and he drops his head lower so you’ll look him in the eyes.

“I’d like to be more familiar with you bonnie.”

You stop and put your hands on your hips pretending to think.

“Well I’m not so interesting, just a doctor after all. I’m sure Gaz would love to join you, you two seem the best of friends.”

He seems a little discouraged when you don’t play into his game but he looks at the small smile that plays on your lips and knows he’s just gotta keep trying. You won’t shake him off that easily.

—

The 2nd Time: The Flu Incident

Flu season. Your favorite time of the year, your inner monologue drips with sarcasm as you scrub your hands raw for the sixth time today. It’s late afternoon and the sun dips over the horizon as the rooms are casted with a honey soaked orange glow. The murmurs from the outside hallway peak your interest and you dry your hands and exit to the hall.

“I told you MacTavish I can help you just as easily as any other nurse or doctor, just come into my office and we’ll get you fixed up.”

An older more seasoned nurse has her hands on her hips, gaze pointed at Soap with a motherly disapproved look at her face. You step out of the room tossing the paper towel into the bin.

“Troubled patient?”

Soap lifts his head at your voice and he smiles, voice nasally and strained.

“Ah there ya are bonnie, been waiting for you. Think you can fix me?”

“You’d be in better hands with her you know? Unlike me she knows what she’s doing.”

Your tone is playful and Johnny stands weakly, hand on the wall.

“Yea but you’re my favorite, can’t feel better unless it’s you.”

The other nurse is called away shooting you a good luck look with her eyes, no doubt happy to not have to deal with the sickly man.

“Alright Johnny whatever you say. Let’s get you to a bed.”

“You’re a real saint hen.”

You place a steady hand on his back leading him to the bed in your office, away from the overflow so he can hopefully get some rest.

“Alright Johnny go ahead and lay down I’ll get your temp and let’s see if we can break that fever alright?”

He groans as he lays down obviously dealing with joint pain from the flu, it’s a nasty one that’s hit the base this time.

You run a washcloth under cool water, grab your thermometer, and sit next to him making sure he’s comfortable. You take his temp and frown,

“Give it to me straight doctor, am I going to make it?”

He grips your hand dramatically and you laugh while patting his hand.

“I think you’ll just scrape by, it’ll be close though.”

“Oh thank heavens. Guess you’ll just have to take extra close care of me right?”

He’s giving you those stupid puppy dog eyes again as you place the washcloth on his forehead and place the back of your hand on his cheek to feel the temp there as well.

“I guess since I’m part of your team now I’ll have to make sure you live, so yes. I will take extra good care of you.”

You smile at him softly, you don’t like seeing anyone sick but sick Soap reminds you of a kicked puppy.

You miss the way his eyes shine up at you as you chart his info. How the thoughts in his head are those of you and him on dates, what ring he will propose to you with, where you’ll honeymoon and various other daydreams he has swirling around. He would do anything for you to be his, he would capture the stars for you.

You get up from your chair to put his info into the computer and he looks at the sad flowers on the side table, shriveled and needing to be tossed.

“These flowers aren't lookin so good.”

You glance over and frown.

“Oh yeah, it’s been so busy lately I haven't had a chance to replace them yet.”

He hums and you walk back over to him and give him some painkillers and electrolyte drink mix.

“Take these and get some rest please, it’ll do you good.”

He sits up, eyes on you as he takes the pills, handing you the little cup back.

“I’ll get you some new flowers, take you out too.”

You’re facing away from him, a smile gracing your features.

“Johnny, I-”

“You don’t have to say yes now lass, just please, for the sake of my well-being think on it.”

You move over to him and dab the cloth onto his cheeks and cool down his pulse points, heart growing slightly as you reply.

“Sure Johnny, I’ll think about it. Now sleep, doctor's orders.”

He sleeps quietly next to you as you finish your charting. The sight of him so calm warms your heart and it scares you a little bit, you wouldn't want to throw off the balance of the team or make any weird power dynamics by falling for him but he makes it harder and harder.

The next week fresh flowers are left on the side table.

—

The 3rd Time: Award Ceremony Ball

Dressed to the nines each of you are. A very successful mission rewarded the whole team with a variety of medals and everyone was looking very nice all cleaned up.

Your dress was a floor gown with a slip up the leg and your back was exposed, the dress felt so silky and it was nice to not be covered in blood for once. Although you did manage to spill some kind of fancy jam on it and you were frantically dabbing at it with water when you were interrupted with Soap meeting up with you.

“Well don’t you look nice.”

He’s lively tonight, eyes bright with optimism after the job and sporting brand new chest candy to show off.

Your eyes drift up from the new stain on your dress to him and he, well he looks damn good. A new pink scar graces his jawline but it looks good on him, he can wear scars well.

“Thank you, you clean up well yourself too.”

“Ah bonnie don’t make me blush now.”

The rest of the team is chatting at a nearby table, Price is nursing a short glass of something dark, Gaz is going to town on the amazing food, and Ghost is engaged in conversation with the two of them.

“You wanna head back to the table?”

You offer, he shakes his head and offers his hand.

“I ask the fine lady to a dance.”

You blush, never asked to dance before, the ballroom floor filled with experts, couples swirling to the melody in the air.

You stew on it for a moment, and put your hand in his.

“Ok but if I fall you fall with me okay?”

“Always.”

Your hands are intertwined, one of his is on your waist and yours is on his shoulder. You both try to copy what the others do and the messy dance combined with the flutes of champagne you both consumed makes for quite the site. The mess of bumping feet and unsteady movements.

“For a sergeant you’re rather uncoordinated MacTavish.” Your laugh is light.

“I didn’t go to fuckin dance school, certainly didn’t learn this in the marines that’s for sure. What, did they teach this in medical school?”

“Does it look like they did? I can stitch up a bullet wound but lord help me I can't dance for shit.”

You bump into him again and his grip tightens slightly.

“I got ya bonnie.”

He could be living in a dream right now, you in such a pretty dress adorned in your well deserved medals, him with his. You’re gripping his shoulder and he’s got you in his arms, he can smell your perfume and see the small hairs out of place as the two of you spin but he loves it all the same. He wants it all the same.

“Johnny. Can you hear me?”

He blinks harshly, really sinking back in. You’re not his right now, he can’t take you back to his place after this and kiss each part of you, unzip the dress and let his fingers graze over the skin that's revealed to him. Watch how you move under the moonlight as he touches you just as he imagined. Not yet.

“Yea?”

“I said I think Gaz just devoured his fourth bowl of that dip I wanted to try.”

“Must be good then, should we head over before he finishes it all?”

You laugh and agree.

“Thank you for the dance MacTavish, you made me feel less silly for not knowing what I’m doing.”

His eyes sparkle at your admiration.

“I’m always happy to help.”

—

The 4th Time: Yes

This mission could not have been more fucked up. Shrapnel flies and bullets whiz by. The air is cold but your body is so hot, on fire from the adrenaline.

The coms are staticy and choppy but you can make out the team.

An undercover mission with Soap had you outside a pretty nice villa at dusk. It was meant to pose as a couple on a retreat to gain intel from an organization nearby but all hell had broken loose. You're cornered and Soap had been down to three bullets and you at two until you were able to take down someone else and gain the upper hand.

Communication with the team was hard, they had sent for backup now you just had to wait.

And Soap is shot.

He has taken a bullet for you and you’re frantic.

“Fuck Johnny, shit.”

He grimaces as you rip your bag off of your back to grab for first aid. It’s not enough though, you had to pack light and it’s not enough.

“Stupid ass job, told them to find a way to get more equipment.”

You’re more muttering to yourself, ripping things out of the small bag you were allotted to patch him up.

“You’re cute when you’re frustrated.”

Johnny laughs and it sends him into a coughing fit, the bullet is in his side. You pray it hasn't done permanent damage but the gravel in his cough scares the hell out of you.

“Hold on Johnny, I’m gonna get you fixed up alright, just stay still.”

A bullet nearly misses your head and he shoots back hitting the guy before clutching his side again.

“You think that’s all of them?”

“Fucking hope so, I need- I have to clean it.”

He’s strong, so strong and sweet and kind and nice and charming and you can’t lose him.

Not when you know you want him now. That you need him now.

“Gonna lift your shirt ok? Just watch your breathing.”

“Aye, not even going to take me to dinner first.”

Your eyes are blurry as tears slip down, first one the two.

He wipes them away, his blood smearing onto your face and you choke back a sob.

“C’mon bonnie, don't cry. I hate seeing you cry.”

His voice grows weaker the more he speaks and you beg him to stop, but he rambles.

He talks about how each morning he wakes up to see if you’re up yet. He waits for you at the gym, always goes to you when he feels unwell, gushes to the rest of the team about you when you’re not around.

He flirts openly with you and what a fool you’ve been to not reciprocate fully, to reel into him.

The needle breaks his skin and his eyes grow heavy, the blood is still flowing freely and you almost feel it rushing out of you as well.

“I’m so sorry Johnny.”

You stitch and wipe and repeat. It’s a gaping wound and it makes you sick seeing it on him.

You’re so focused on stitching him you don’t notice when his eyes close. His breathing is shallower now.

Your eyes race around his face, head now slumped to the side.

You wipe the wound, it’s not good but it should be ok. Heavy on should.

Your hand, coated in blood cups his cheek, shaking.

“Johnny?”

You move his head, it's heavy in your hands and your breathing hurts now.

You get closer, enough to press his forehead to yours and you inhale his smell.

You hold cloth to his wound to try to stop the bleeding and you whisper promises to him if he will just pull through.

Your lips are so close to his that when your tears roll down your face they roll off your nose onto his lips.

The hand that cups his cheek feels his pulse on his neck and it’s quiet and slow. It’s so silent here now.

“I’m so sorry Johnny. I love you. Fuck I love you so much I just didn’t want to mess anything up. Please don’t leave yet.

You lips touch his softly, like if you pressed any harder he would shatter.

“Could have- could have told me all that before I was dying yea?”

He laughs weakly, his smile cracking the corner of his lips. You cup his face fully now, careful to remove your hand from the wound but you applied enough pressure by now the blood has coagulated some.

“You mean all that?” His eyes are heavy but he still looks at you with that same shining he always did.

“Yes, god yes. I just didn't want to mess up the team dynamic but I don’t care anymore, you just have to pull through alright then let's go out.”

“I like the sound of that.”

Blades of the helicopter sound nearby cutting through the silence.

“Just hold on Johnny we’re gonna get you patched up. Then I want to see you in that suit again.”

“Anything for you bonnie.”

—

He recovered well with you by his side of course. You dressed his wound properly and gave him a kiss to make it heal faster he would say. Then two weeks later he showed up in a suit with flowers at your office door. The rest is history, but the team is much happier not listening to Soap’s rambling about you but they are happy nonetheless.

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