#shade+light eye contour

[knuckleduster]

the more eye shadow i have the less of it i actually use on my eyes

#every brown shade i use on my eyes is actually contour and ive started using my blush on my eyes now too #only the light shades are eye shadow now which is usually like a single shade

[fairy-hub]

𝐠𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠

𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 • Ever the light sleeper Toji quickly wakes up to you slipping the covers off him. His ire turns to interest when you divulge your lewd intentions of sucking his cock.

𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐠𝐭𝐡 • 2.6k

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 • pwp, cock drunk!reader, pussydrunk!toji, oral (giving), praise, sucking toji's balls, daddy, mama/good girl/princess, thigh riding, some begging, dacryphilia, no prep, light pain kink, heavy size kink - toji is a beefy man with a big daddy cock, some choking, creampie, hints of mind break, squirting, some mirror sex, toji is so soft for you and is fucking you like he hates you

toji-bear all works

Quietly setting down Toji's bitter, black coffee on your side table. You climb into bed, carefully slipping your comforter, revealing Toji’s chiseled, fat pecs, and his deeply contoured abs.

Toji grabs your blanket, grumbling, shifting from his side onto his back. You freezing, waiting for Toji to settle and his grasp to loosen. Seconds trickle by of you freely admiring him.

His thin, dark eyebrows furrowed above narrow, almond-shaped eyes. Which are lightly lined by his ever-present dark circles. Dark, bold hickeys trail between Toji's sharply defined clenching jaw and prominent collarbones. There are more scattered on his pecs.

Loosening his grip, slipping his hand beneath his pillow. Sleep roughens Toji’s deep and otherwise smooth voice. “Whatcha ya want?” Opening his eyes, a beautiful shade of emerald green. Toji's lips scar deepens with his sleepy, cocky half-smirk.

Desperately mewling, “Need you Daddy.” Gliding your fingertips down his hard abdomen. “I’m soaking through my panties, been thinking of your cock since I woke up. Couldn’t keep my hands to myself much longer.” Gathering your comforter to the side by the wall and window.

Toji pushes himself up, stuffing more pillows behind himself. You settle between Toji's muscular thighs, whilst he reaches for his coffee. "How badly does my future baby mama need me? " You push aside the curtains of your bedside window. Showing the forest composing your backyard.

Casting golden light across the bed. Gliding your fingers along the deep middle line of Toji's abdomen. Tracing down towards his v-line, whilst he sips on his coffee. Grasping Toji's heavy cock, too thick for your fingers to wrap around.

You croon, "You've been pressing your naked body against me all night. Been driving me crazy Daddy. Need you so badly I can't think of doing anything else but being your cum-filled cock-sleeve." Holding him upright, kissing the ridged line of Toji's cockhead. Fondling his balls.

Gliding his fat head into your mouth, swirling your tongue. Toji falters, groaning, "That's it princess. You're hot, wet mouth 's so good. Fuckin' take Daddy deeper, know ya can." Bobbing your head, taking most of Toji’s heavy, fat cock. One of his thick veins glides along your flattened tongue.

Relaxing your mouth, deep-throating most of Toji. Swirling your hand around the rest you can't fit. Groaning his hips buck from the vibrations. You gently massage your fingers into his warm, squishy balls.

There's a clink of the mug hitting the side table. Looking up at Toji's handsome face. A crease forms between his thin furrowing brows. His lips form the perfect o. Your pussy throbs from Toji's raw groans, and breathy, deep moans.

"Ngh fuck princess! Deep throat Daddy's cock. Good girl, you're so fucking sexy." Hungrily watching you with emerald eyes.

Jerking his hip, trying to follow your lips as you slide him out with a pop. Gliding, twisting your fist along Toji's veiny, thick cock. Swiping your thumb over his head, smearing his pre-cum.

You croon, "You're leaking so much Daddy, your balls must be full of so much cum." Letting go of Toji's balls, wrapping your lips around him. Swirling your tongue around his fat, warm sack. Pumping your fist faster, as Toji digs his heels into your bed.

Groaning with a mouthful of Toji's balls. "Gonna give you every drop princess. After I finish my coffee I'm going to stuff your beautiful soaking wet, little cunt." You let go of Toji's balls, kissing them.

Protesting, "You haven't even taken more than a few sips." Holding Toji's heavy cock upright, spitting on his cock. Slipping your head between your thighs. Gliding your fingertips through your wet lips. Gathering your slick which you smear on your clit with each stroke.

Toji rests his large, heavy hand on top of your head, rhetorically wondering, "How can I? I'm too busy enjoying your hot, wet, pretty mouth on my cock and balls." You're suckling his cockhead, the salty taste of Toji's pre-cum coating your tongue.

Gliding him deeper into your mouth. Gagging, your throat squeezes his cock. Thrusting his hips up, pushing your head down. Forcing the last two, fat inches of his cock into your mouth.

Rubbing your clit faster, choking on Toji's cock getting you off. Tears blur the sight of Toji's pleasure-drunk expression. Earning a deep, raspy moan from Toji,

"Wanna see those pretty tears, cry for me, princess. Cry 'cause Daddy's cock is too big for your little mouth." Holding your head still with both large hands. Toji splays his fingers out, reaching your temple and your jaw.

Planting his feet on the bed, fervently thrusting his hard cock into the wet, warmth of your mouth. Spit drips down your chin. Trembling from the pleasure of rubbing your clit.

Toji groans, "That's it mama." Whilst fat tears trickle down your face, dripping onto him. Pulling you off his cock, grasping his length, pumping it with his large fist. Your breathing is heavy, as quick as you try to steady before divulging,

"Need you to fuck me till I squirt! I wanna cum so hard on your cock. Daddy you always make my pussy feel so good, it's so much better when you make me cum with your cock." Toji lightly taps his cock on your lips.

"S' that right princess? Do you need to cum on Daddy's cock?" You lightly press one finger after another into his squishy balls. Repeating the process at a steady, smooth pace.

You eagerly plead with Toji, "Wanna be full of Daddy's cock and cum. Please let me cum on your fat, veiny cock." Toji grabs his coffee as you glide his cock deep into your throat. Groaning before he could take a sip.

Pulling you off his cock, insisting, "If you want more of my cock then you're gonna have't be a good girl for me and ride my thigh. Put on a beautiful show n' let me see how stunning you are cumming while I drink my coffee." You slip his cock out, which falls onto his balls with a soft plop.

Leaning forward, kissing his cheek. Splaying your fingers on his chest, groping his fat pecs. You straddle his thigh, whilst reassuring him with,

"I'll be good and clean up my mess afterward." Toji grabs your hip, encouraging you to grind your clit on his brawny thigh, smearing your slick on his thigh. You're mewling and moaning with every shift of your hips.

Toji groping your cheek, letting you set your own zealous pace whilst keeping you steady. "You going to lick my cock clean after I make you squirt mama?" Holding onto Toji's muscular bicep digging in your nails.

Sliding your other hand down his abdomen, towards his cock slipping your hand underneath, cupping his balls. "Cock and balls, won't miss a single spot Daddy." Lightly fondling them in your palm.

Toji kisses your forehead. "That's my good girl." Rocking your hips faster, desperate for that tingling high of cum. Leaning forward putting more pressure on your sensitive clit.

He glides his large hand up from your ass, over your hip. "You're hot grinding your super soaker pussy on my thigh. Can't wait to have your soft little cunt gripping my cock, making such a mess." Caressing up your side to your breasts. Swiping his thumb over your nipple.

There is a pleasurable from the roughness of his finger. Calloused from years of fighting, and labor on your soft nipple pushing you closer towards cumming. "I want your cock right after this, I don't care if it's too much. I need to feel you fucking my cervix. Nnng Daddy fill my soaking cunt with more cock than I can handle." Toji's cock is drooling pre-cum onto your hand.

Grasping his head, swirling your thumb over his wet head, smearing his pre-cum around. Whilst Toji takes a huge gulp of his coffee. Lightly wrapping his thick fingers around your neck.

You mewl one last plea, "I'll be a good girl and take it all! I'm so close please fuck me Daddy!" Pushing the last bit of air out of your lust. Whilst he gradually applies pressure to your neck.

Toji flexes his thigh, the muscles hardening underneath your clit. Any cries you wouldn't he stifles, leaving you soundless with your mouth hanging open. Your eyes roll back as intense ecstasy overwhelms you as you cum.

Roughly setting his mug down, Toji snaps, "Fuck the rest of my coffee. Have't fuck your beautiful ass now." He pushes you off his thighs. Pinning you to the bed as you thoughtlessly, instantly spread your legs for him.

Rutting his hips, rubbing your clit with his fat, warm cockhead. "Good girl, spreading your legs so quickly for me." Lining himself up, "Gonna make you my baby mama." Loosening his grasp as he thrusts his cock past your puffy lips.

Clenching down on him, your pussy barely spreading to let him in. "I fucking love it when she's too tight to let me in, all sensitive and sloppy from cumming." Grabbing your thighs, pressing your folded legs to the mattress in a firm mating press. Toji leans his weight onto you, gliding himself deeper with a harsh push.

Mewling, "Too big, don't stop." Holding onto Toji, scratching his back, pulling his hair.

He grunts, "Your squishy, beautiful little pussy just barely fits me. Want me to fuck her loose with my fat cock till you're dripping my cum?" You can acutely feel every puffy vein, along with the ridged bump of his cockhead. Gliding along your g-spot, the heaviness of his cock gives just the right amount of pressure.

It's too erotic, his raspy, deep groans, your squelching cunt, and the slapping of skin. The weight of his heavy balls hitting your cheeks. Whilst his navel swipes your clit with every thrust.

Squeezing his fat cock with your soaking wet cunt. Toji trembles, his cocky smirk dropping into an o. "Oooohhh fuck! Fuck! Princess your beautiful little cunt is too much." Leaning back, swiping your clit with his thumb. Coaxing you towards cumming towards quickly cumming again. Tingling pleasure spreads from your clit, seeping throughout your body overwhelming you.

Babbling, mewling, "Wanna cum! Wanna cum! Needa cum! Daddy! Don't stop!" Toji keeps his rough, quick pace, steady. "Right there!" You're pussy throbs around him. Bursts of intense ecstasy from his cock head rutting against your squishy cervix building a heavy wet pressure.

"You're getting so close she's quivering around me. Cum on your Daddy's cock like a good girl." Those words have you gushing. "Nng love how I can make your pussy cum so quickly." Stroking your clit, fucking you through your high. As you mewl,

“I love you too Daddy!” Quickly Toji pulls out, his muscular frame trembling. Half smirking at you, his green eyes lush with adoration. Whilst he breaths,

“Shit princess! You can't make me cum just yet. Don’t want to stop fucking your hot, squelching little cunt. I fucking love ya so much princess, gonna make me cum saying that shit to me.” Flipping you over, pulling your hips up, and spreading your legs.

Lining himself up, tightly grasping your throat, pulling you back to meet his harsh thrust. “What did you do to me mama? Got me going all soft for you and your little pretty super soaker.” Slapping both your cheeks, jerking away from every heavy, stinging slap.

His hand around your throat keeps you from running away. "You're gonna be a good girl for me and take it." Wrapping his arm around your waist. "Can't run away from me if I hold your ass in the air and fuck my cock into your sweet little cunt." With ease Toji slips off the bed, holding your body to his, his cock buried deep in your cunt.

Holding you in front of your vanity mirror. "You're going to watch how good your little pretty cock sleeve takes my cock." Your pussy flutters at the blurry sight of your smaller body pinned to Toji's brawny sculpted muscular one.

Air trickles into your lungs as Toji lets go of your neck. He grabs you're the back of your thighs, spreading your legs apart. Your pussy flutters from seeing Toji suspending you in a mating press.

There is a thick ring of your juices gathering at the base of Toji's cock. Your face is wet with tears, whilst the inside of your thighs is slick. Matching Toji's glimmering wet cock and balls.

Admiring Toji fervently fucking his cock into your soaking wet cunt. You're beautiful, trembling in his grasp. Wearing a love-drunk, adoring expression akin to his.

"We look so good together don't we princess? Look at what a beautiful mess you are, drunk on my cock." Quickly you wind your arms around him, slipping a hand into his hair. Holding onto him, as Toji's pace gradually picks up momentum.

Fucking his cockhead into your plushy cervix. As if trying to push past into your guts. Toji is so achingly handsome. Pulling himself out till his head is making your lips puffy with his head. Too fat to slip out easily.

Rocking himself deep into your cunt with a loud squelch. It's mouthwatering watching Toji's veiny, pale cock gliding past your lips. The sight of him is nothing compared to how he feels inside of you.

Heavy, thick, soft, hard you could tell the placement of every thick vein whilst he balls deep inside. The part you can't help but obsess over the most is the soft texture of Toji's cock rubbing your sensitive pussy contrasts with how rock-hard he is when you clamp down.

You mewl, "Harder daddy! Fuck me harder!" Prompting him to pin you to the bed. Grasping your ass, which hangs off the bed. Keeping you in a mating press, trapping your legs with his weight as he leans over you.

Toji plants his feet harshly rutting himself into you. Grabbing your hair, pulling your head back, kissing you roughly. Parting your lips, he slips his tongue past, tasting of bitter coffee.

Groaning into Toji's mouth. Getting off on how primal it is to be pinned, spread, and fucked into, unable to wiggle away. He breaks the kiss, drunken confessing,

"Mmnn princess, I fucking love you so damn much. So beautiful, sweet, soft, and wet, I love you so fucking damn much. That's it princess I got ya, gonna spoil you, give you everything you want." Your bed protests, creaking, threatening to break.

You're drunk on Toji, he's everywhere saturating your senses. "Too much!" Breathing in Toji's musky scent of lingering the Sauvage cologne you bought him with his money.

All you could feel is Toji's warm, muscular body pressing against yours. His large hands are on your hips, sinking into the soft crease of your hip.

His cock is too hard, fucking plush cervix, pain underlining the pleasure. Clawing at the sheets trying to help you psychically comprehend the intensity of Toji. He lets go of your hips, his weight keeping you from running away from his harsh, quick thrusts.

Grabbing your wrists, pinning them above your head. Propping his foot up on the edge of the bed gives Toji a better angle to thrust deeper inside you. His cockhead bruises your cervix with every harsh, quick, bed-rocking thrust.

Toji is fucking you like he hates you and simultaneously groaning sweet nothings. "Princess you're doing so good taking my cock. Relax mama, Daddy 's gonna take care of you. You can take my cock like a good girl." You're squirting on him thick slick trickling down your thighs. Coating Toji's throbbing cock and drenching his heavy balls.

One of his veins pulses seconds before warm creamy cum trickles inside you. Fucking you through his peak, smearing his cum. "Goddamn mama that was a lot for me good girl." Kissing the top of your head, wrapping your arms around him.

Toji insists "Lemme hold ya whilst I go soft, then eat some breakfast.” Toji grabs your hips lifting you off your bed. Which he climbs onto, settling by the window.

#toji smut #toji x reader #toji x you #toji x y/n #toji fushiguro #toji fushiguro x you #toji fushiguro x y/n #toji fushiguro x reader #toji fushiguro smut #toji zenin #daddy toji #jjk toji #jjk smut #jjk #jjk x reader #jjk x you #jjk x y/n #jjk imagines #jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu kaisen smut #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen x you #jujutsu kaisen x y/n #jujutsu kaisen fanfic #jujutsu kaisen imagines #fushiguro toji #fushiguro jjk #fushiguro smut #fushiguro x reader #jjk oneshot

[waterlilydrops]

Jealous Looks Good On You

pairing: Lewis Hamilton x fem!reader

summary: Lewis can’t stand you flirting with other men anymore, even though there isn’t anything real between you two. For now.

word count: 2.1k

warning: angst, fwb to lover, 18+ only, nsfw, explicit sex content, oral sex(f received), dirty talk, slightly Dom/Sub, edging, actress!reader, mentions of film Anatomie D’une Chute

note: That’s inspired by an anon, thx! I really enjoy describing Lewis kneeling down :) As always, advices are welcome.

Tonight marked your debut at the Caesar Awards. Following your recent collaboration on Anatomie D’une Chute with Justine Triet, where you showcased exceptional chemistry, and the film clinched six awards at Cannes, your life took a dramatic turn.

Looked at your publicist, she nodded encouragingly, signaling for you to make your grand entrance.

Stepping out of the limo, your Jimmy Choo stilettos firmly planted on the ground, you exuded confidence. No longer clad in the Zara dress from the roadshow, you donned a perfectly fitted Dior dress, meticulously altered by several experts to your exact measurements. As you emerged from the luxurious car, the dress swayed gracefully, complemented by Cartier jewelry adorning your neck, items you hadn’t dared to look closely even in the most prominent billboards.

As you began walking down the carpet, fans and photographers started calling your name as soon as they recognized you. It was a surreal moment, and you felt overwhelmed with emotion. Never in a million years would you have imagined that people would know you and actually like you.

You smiled and waved at the fans, blew them a kiss to show your appreciation.

Turning to your publicist, you asked if you could go over and sign a couple of autographs, and she nodded in agreement. With her guidance, you made your way over to the fans, ready to meet them up close. You signed autographs, took selfies, and even shared hugs with a few fans.

When you were told to go for the red carpet interviews, you said bye to them and continued walking along the carpet. Standing beside the host was an young actor from a recent blockbuster film.

His mocha-colored skin glowed under the bright lights, accentuating the sharp contours of his jawline. His eyes, a mesmerizing shade of emerald green, sparkled with an enigmatic allure, like hidden depths of a lush forest.

You walked up the steps and gave them a side hug.

“Hello Y/N, how does it feel being at the Caesar Awards?” The host asked you.

“In all honesty, I’m a bit overwhelmed. I grew up watching you interview celebrities, admiring your skill and professionalism, and now I find myself in there interviewing by you — it just doesn’t feel real yet!” you answered with a light laugh.

“We are absolutely thrilled to have you here! Now you’re making me feel old!” He laughed, and you couldn’t help but join in, his easygoing demeanor helping to calm your nervousness. He continued, “Now, about the Anatomie D’une Chute, was it difficult to handle such a complex character?”

“It’s always daunting to step into uncharted territory, especially when tackling such a multifaceted character. Fortunately, having collaborators as gifted as Justine Triet, Sandra Hüller by my side made the journey infinitely more rewarding. They truly were my anchor through it all, and I owe their everything.”

As you were engrossed in conversation, your heart skipped a beat as your fingers brushed against your borrowed necklace, which suddenly slipped off. With a gasp, you watched in horror as it tumbled downward, a shimmering cascade of precious diamonds.

Acting on instinct, the young man standing beside you swiftly sprang into action, his chivalrous instincts kicking in as he intercepted the necklace just before it could kiss the ground.

You let out a breathless sigh of relief, momentarily forgetting the interview as you exclaimed, “Oh my goodness, thank you so much for catching it. Otherwise, Cartier would have my head!”

He gave a small, bashful smile, “Would it be too much if I ask to put it on you?”

“Not at all.” you smiled at him and his smile stretched across his entire face.

And so you turned around and scooped your hair up, allowing him to graze the back of his fingers ever so gently across your skin and secure your jewelry where it once was.

That evening, the video of the young celebrity putting a necklace on you went viral on social media. Everyone marveled at the sparks flying between you two, especially after the almost cheek-to-cheek selfie you took at the afterparty. Among the millions who viewed the clip, one pair of eyes lingered longer than the rest — Lewis Hamilton.

Of course, he followed you and your fan pages on his alternate account; Those videos would certainly appear on his reels. But he truly despised seeing you walking with another man on your arm. You seemed awfully comfortable around him, your hands touching him easily and your body tilted towards his.

“Looks like you were having fun.”

“It’s none of your business, Lew.”

Lewis tried to hold back his scoff. It’s none of your business. As if you were just casual acquaintances. As if you didn’t nuzzle into his chest at night, his arousal awakening to find your legs draped provocatively over his hips. As if you didn’t welcome him with a sultry smile, intertwining their fingers after passionate encounters, your thumb tracing teasing circles on the back of his hand as you share intimate secrets of your past. As if you didn’t prefer his hoodie over your own clothes, the fabric clinging to your curves like a second skin, or eagerly moan his name from the other end of a steamy video call.

But yeah. None of his business.

“Where are you?”

“Home.”

Lewis was driving a sleek silver sports car on the roads of South France. The car zoomed past the twisting roads, its engine emitting a deep roar, leaving a blurry trail of exhaust in the air. The spring breeze brushed against his face, tousling his braids, but it didn’t calm him down. He just wanted to go faster.

As you turned the doorknob and opened the door, Lewis stood before you.

Inviting him inside, his gaze immediately met yours with an intensity that didn’t go unnoticed. Oh. You recognized the familiar signs – the darkening of his eyes, the tightness of his jaw. his knuckles, tightly gripping the edge of his hoodie’s hem, displayed a tension you couldn’t ignore.

He looked god damn handsome.

“Lewis, What’s gotten into you?”

“Do you honestly think it’s none of my business?” he questioned straightly, his frustration evident in his tone.

Raising a brow, you met his gaze steadily.

“I do actually,” you replied, a hint of amusement coloring your words. “Why do you care so much anyway? It's not like we’re in an actual relationship or something.”

The truth between yours was that one day at a premier of your film held in Monte-Carlo, Lewis and you crossed paths and exchanged a few lines.

“Congratulations on your wonderful film”,“Thank you, Mr. Hamilton, I really appreciate it”, “And I must admit, You’re even more stunning in person than you are on screen.” he added with a charming smile.

And just like that, Amidst the glitz and glamour of the event, your encounter marked the beginning of something unexpected. What had started as a casual fuck swiftly evolved into a friends-with-benefits arrangement, two souls found solace in each other’s company, navigating the delicate balance between passion and discretion amidst the azure coastline.

“And what the hell was with you? Do you even know how bad it would be if the media find you were speeding driving—”

“Then let's make this real.”

Lewis interrupted you with a declaration. “I‘m done with this charade.”

His voice tinged as he stood before you, his hands clasped tightly together, “I’d be a better choice than that actors. F1 is a global sport, and I’m a seven-time World Champion.” His eyes were searching for any sign of agreement or understanding. “Plus, We understand each other better, in various ways.” He expressed his points as clearly as if he were speaking at the UN.

“8-time actually.” You corrected him, causing a groan rasped out of him.

“Lewis,” you whispered, inched closer, invaded his personal space and allowed your bodies to touch.

“What?” he grunted roughly, his body betraying him as it relaxed under your touch.

“Are you jealous?” Your hand rested on his, a playful grin dancing on your lips, your voice a seductive murmur grazing his skin.

“Yes. I’m deeply in love with you,” Lewis sighed, his gaze wandering, avoiding your intense stare.

“Hmm, is Lewis Hamilton is asking me to be his... girlfriend? and apparently he is an extremely jealous type.” You feigned innocence with a playful tilt of you head.

He couldn’t take it anymore.

He suddenly gripped your arms, pulling you close against his chest. Before you could react, he fiercely pressed his lips to yours, kissing you passionately as if he wanted to pour all of his emotions into this moment.

“Hey,” when Lewis stopped, you said gently. “Look at me, baby.” You called him by the name reserved for your most intimate moments.

Caught in the warmth of your gaze, Lewis relaxed. With a tender gesture, you leaned in, brushing a feather-light kiss upon his lips, your hands still entwined.

“I know,” you whispered softly. “I’m in love with you too.”

He could feel his heart engulfed in a whirlwind of joy and elation, every beat resonating with an overwhelming sense of happiness.

As your gazes locked, the tension between you ignited, enveloping you in a cocoon of desire.

You wrapped in Lewis’s arms as he initiated a passionate kiss. You could feel the prominence of his erection pressing against you.

As his hands found their place on your hips, you felt a sudden lift, your body effortlessly rising from the floor as he gently deposited you onto the counter.

Moving large tattooed hands up the length of your thighs, Lewis hiked your T-shirt up above your hips and tucked his fingers under the waistband of your panties. A mixture of desire and reverence floods him as he slides them down your legs.

He panted, “fuck, I need to taste you.”

He knelt before you, drawing himself nearer as he firmly grasped the underside of your thighs, his hands spread you open just wide enough that he could lean his face into your mound.

Mere seconds stretched into an eternity as the warmth of his breath caressed your delicate skin.

His tongue gently grazed the sensitive inner thighs, his warm and moist mouth enveloping the lips. And then tongue cunningly explored the slit, alternating between tight purses and sucking, causing juices to flow freely.

You couldn’t make a sound, your thoughts wholly consumed by each flick of his tongue, every firm press against you, and every pass of his hands over your thigh. He were pushing you to the edge of the cliff. Unable to resist, you lightly rubbed against his face, eager for release.

You closed eyes, feeling every tiny current coursing through your body. Just as the sparks were about to ignite, his tongue suddenly leaved.

“Can’t have you cumming yet, baby.” He looked up at you, wicked grin grown.

“Tell me, can he eat you out like this?”

You couldn’t utter a word, shaking your head eagerly. You groaned at the loss of him. You pussy felt open and empty without his tongue.

“So, he’s already tasted your little cunt?”Lewis slapped at your clit relentlessly. His gaze, a mix of jealousy and anger, consumed every inch of you with insatiable hunger, resenting the pleasure you were receiving from someone else.

You gasped sharply, a desperate “never”escaping your lips, reached down and tangled your fingers in his hair, pushing his head into you, with pleading eyes.

“My Good girl.” He lowered his head, the scruff of his beard rubbing against the skin of your sensitive thighs added to the overwhelming sensation of being held into place by his strong hands and that tongue fucking every part of your cunt so thoroughly.

He picking up his pace as he desperately sucked and slurped the folds of your pussy, lapping up your juices as if he were starved and this was the only thing that’d quell his insatiable hunger.

“Let go,” he moaned into you, “come on, baby, let me taste it.”

Your toes curled as you finally gave in to that all too familiar feeling, trembling in his grasp as he brought you to climax with his mouth, and it took every ounce of restraint to not screaming out in pleasure.

As you gradually descended from your euphoric peak, the man followed up with a series of slow, drawn-out licks, gently coaxing you back to reality. Moments later, he rose from the floor, his chin glistening with a sweet combination of drool and your own essence. He pressed one final, tender kiss to your lips.

“Bedroom, babe,” he murmurs, he voice husky with desire. “I’m not finished with you yet.”

“Lew, what’s the deal with this contact and your credit card?”

“My stylist. Maybe she could help with your red carpet look.”

“And the card?”

“Grab yourself a tough necklace that never comes off your neck.”

#lewis hamilton x you #lewis hamilton imagine #lewis hamilton x reader #f1 x you #f1 x reader #f1 fanfic #f1 smut

[morallyinept]

Touch - A Joel Miller One Shot

Summary: Inspired by that GIF. You know the one. Yeah. Nuff' said.

Pairing: Post Outbreak Joel Miller x F!Reader (No name or physical description of reader, however they do have hair - length or colour not defined. Otherwise it’s you, bub.)

Word Count: 1.7K

Scoville Smut Rating:🌶️🌶️ “It's the emergence, of."

Check out my Scoville Smut Ratings here.

Warnings/Triggers: Oral M receiving/some belly worship/Joel all wet and in a towel.

NSFW. MINORS DNI! OVER 18’s ONLY. YOU ARE SOLELY RESPONSIBLE FOR WHAT YOU READ.☝🏻Don’t come at me; you’ve been plenty warned.

I write for me, and I share with you. If this story isn't to your taste, that's fine. Just slip quietly out the back door. No need to make a fuss. It's just a work of fiction.

Author’s Note: The brain rot happened when I saw those GIFs floating around again this evening... this is the result of said brain rot. 🫠

MAIN MASTERLIST | JOEL MILLER MASTERLIST

Enjoy! 🖤

As he steps out of the shower, padding barefoot across the floor, a threadbare white towel is wrapped snugly around his waist; its thin cotton fibres absorbing the lingering pelts of water that cling to his skin. 

The towel, worn from years of faithful service, is slightly frayed at the edges and clings to his behind tightly.

Droplets of water cascade from his damp hair, trickling down his skin in rivulets, leaving behind a trail of tiny, glassy tracks that catch the dim light of the dingy room. The air is filled with the ghostly aroma of his soap, a crisp blend of eucalyptus and mint that lingers on his freshly cleansed skin wafting out at you.

Standing before the small, chipped mirror hanging on the wall, Joel lifts a wide-toothed comb, its teeth glistening with tiny diamonds of water caught from his damp hair. With practised precision, he draws the comb through his strands, guiding them back from his forehead in sleek, smooth strokes. 

Each pass of the comb tames usually unruly locks, coaxing them into submission as they cling to the dampness of his scalp. Each stroke brings a sense of order to the chaos, as they yield to the direction of his swift hand.

The dampness of his hair lends it a sleek sheen, accentuating the natural texture and revealing shades of chestnut and mahogany hidden beneath the shimmering silver layers.

As he combs his hair back, the flex of his arm reveals the taut strength that lies beneath the surface, the muscles contracting and releasing with fluid ease. Reflected in the mirror, his image takes shape, the chiselled contours of his bronze, weathered face defined by the stark contrast of wet hair against skin.

There's a sense of cool composure about him, an aura of strength and resilience that radiates from his every pore. Drops of water pool and cling to his temples, tracing a path down the curve of his jawline before disappearing into the recesses of the towel wrapped securely around his waist.

His posture exudes confidence, his towering stance commanding as he gazes intently at his reflection - the determination in his eyes mirrored by the unwavering resolve of his physical presence.

Then, those deep, trenching eyes find yours in the mirror, enticing you to crawl off the end of the bed towards him. Revelling in the feel of your palms sliding up his broad back and over his shoulders as you press ornate kisses into the centre of his spinal column. 

He smells really good; a carbolic free scent of freshly clean skin and musk. You inhale as you run your nose against the expanse of his upper back, cheeks resting against cool, drying skin. 

Joel turns to face you, briefly catching your lips against his whilst your fingers untuck his towel, letting it fall to its death around his feet. And you can’t help but follow as you lower yourself down on your knees, admiring up at him.  

You kiss over the thick shape of his hips, the swell of his paunch, lick over his slotted belly button with a gentle hum. Trace each little freckle and scar and jagged stretch mark.

Kiss over his fingertips as they find your lips, nip gently at his thigh, slip your tongue into the high crease of it; a flurry of damp, fuzzy hairs tickling at your jaw. 

His own thick fingers curl around his hardening cock, holding and stroking himself as your hands run over the soft, downy swell of his belly again. Letting your fingertips circle around the grey, silken hairs and golden, sun-eroded skin that's warm. Splaying your digits to reach wide and far over him; the scent of his cock inches from your face as he gently pumps.

You reach your arm up, stroking over his stacked chest; fingers gliding over puffy nipples and soft hairs that are smattered and patchy with grey. You stroke down his bicep, his forearm as he works his turgid cock inside a hefty calloused palm. Feel how the solid sinew and muscle moves and flexes with every stroke under your touch.

You run your fingers in the dark hairs that cover his arm and watch enthralled at his strength. Joel strokes a thick, weeping cock in his palm as your eyes drop to it and you lick your lips. 

“Ya want it?” Joel entices, his voice a low grizzle of gravel. 

Smirking, you nod up at him as he takes your exploring hand in both of his and slides it down his groin until you’re curling your fingers around his thickness. 

“Have it, darlin’. S’all yours.”

His cock is magnificent, a work of art. Flushed a tanned pink, uncut head swollen and wet. A shaft pebbled with swollen veins and ridges, a small puff of hairs at the base. 

Tongue barely tracing the tip, your breath is a soft tease leaving him hissing in want already. You lick under his length, gentle laps of your tongue from base to tip; end flicking over the frenum and making his thighs buck at that sensitive spot.

You love the way he twitches on your tongue. The way his jaw tightens as he grinds down on his teeth, the strangled little grunts he makes as he breathes.  

You kiss his head like a long lost lover, making out delicately at a pace that is sufficiently cruel in its tease. Lips puckering over him as you suck the bulb in; you circle around the rim, hands free, lips rolling over the tip and tongue still continuing that heady tease. Your hands stroking over his heavy thighs, sculpted with muscle, you can feel them ripple beneath your touch. 

“You taste so good, Joel… So hard for me.” You whine.  

You suck off the crystalised bubble of pre-cum seeping out of him; a simple purse of your lips around his tip, sweet salt flooding on your tongue. 

Thick around your lips, he slowly goes all the way down as you open wider. 

You’re a vision; hollowed cheeks, swirling tongue. Joel gulps; a stray, grey curl falling across his forehead as he stares down at you panting. Wanting.

Wanting nothing more than to pick you up and fuck you senseless; drive you deep into the mattress hollering his name, but his feet stay planted in place, your hands on his thighs and lips sucking around his cock. 

“Look a’me,” he husks as your mouth opens around him further to take him in deeper.

Your eyes flit up to his - two darkening orbs staring down at you, pink velvet lips parted. 

“That damn mouth, darlin’...” he groans looking skyward. Eyes glazing over and neck cords beginning to rise and twist. “Fuck, that’s good. God damn.” 

Massaging his balls as you suck him in deeper, your nose presses into that warm, puffy skin and breathes in the scents of bergamot and flesh. 

He starts to rock his hips, fucking gently into your mouth. His giant palm coming up behind your head as he slides further down your willing throat.

You love the touch of him, fingers tightly wringing at your skull, roots of your hair getting snagged. You work him up and down with your lips clamped tighter around his cock. Tongue massaging against his shaft, fingers massaging around his firm balls.

“Ya so good at sucking my cock.” He grunts.

“My cock, Joel.” You correct, a string of saliva threading from his shiny head to your lips. 

“Always yours, darlin’. So fuckin’ pretty like this for me, ain’t ya? Fuck.” 

You bring him to that point; that moment when he feels like he can’t hang on much longer. Your mouth popping off the end of his head and simply going back to just licking him, enticing a small growl at the back of his throat.

“Darlin’-” he warns. 

“Joel.” You reply coyly with a smirk. 

He likes the agony, you can see it in his eyes, despite his lips curling back. That beautiful excruciation when he’ll not quite leap, but will teeter dangerously on the edge and sway. It’s fucking gorgeous, the precarity of it all. The weakness in his strength, the painful desire in his eyes.

How his hips involuntarily buck and his thighs shudder. How his balls pull tighter in their swell around your fingers. How his cock flinches and throbs as your tongue brushes over sensitive spots. How you bring him to his knees with just your mouth. Tongue swirling around and lips closing over the head as you suck him back in. 

“Bet ya so wet for me, ain’t ya?” He groans, watching himself slide into your hot, wet mouth with a fevered pace now.

You want it, want him. Hard and thick in your mouth like this. Heavy against your tongue. It makes you wet, makes you positively buzz and flare for his fat cock inside your mouth.

You squeeze your thighs together, your slick already dripping out of you.

“Mhm.”

“Fuck.” He feels the vibrations on his head as you hum and murmur.

He always knows. Knows how you’re so wrecked for him. He pops out your mouth as you fist your saliva around him.

“Joel. Come for me. Please. Let me taste you. Let me please you… come for me, Joel.” 

He grunts at your soft compulsion, the way your skilled tongue slides over his tip, teasing into the slit and tasting the glossy liquid that drips silky out of him. 

You pump him faster, palms on either side of his cock, pulling back and forth, as he whines above you; a broad, towering totem of grunts and pants. 

“M’gonna come.” Joel takes his cock and pumps fast. An explicit snarl lacing around his teeth. Flared nostrils and a strained neck.

Roped, veined hand manhandling his cock as your mouth opens and your tongue rests on the underside of his head, waiting for your thick, creamy reward. 

“Lemme see.” He groans.

You open your mouth wider as he spills out in plentiful squirts into that wet flesh. Sweet expletives crack from him, gasps and wheezes tumbling out of his mouth in the giddy frenzy.

Pearly froth on your tongue, you suck and lick him clean, making his legs fully buckle.

A hefty hand brushes through his hair; damp grey curls fluffing up again with the heat coursing over his skin.

You lick your lips, holding his stare as he strokes down the side of your face with a thick finger; deep chocolate eyes melting down his cheeks, he regards you for a few moments looking all the way up at him with a blooming smile. 

Breathing out, Joel juts his chin out at you with a single nod towards the bed.

“Your turn, darlin’.” 

Thank you so much for reading this Joel story. I hope you enjoyed it. Comments are always welcome, as are re-blogs if you liked what you just read. Many thanks! 🖤

MAIN MASTERLIST | JOEL MILLER MASTERLIST

#pedro pascal #pedro pascal x reader #joel miller #joel miller x reader #pedro pascal characters #joel miller x you #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller tlou #joel miller smut #jett's writing

[wyvernest]

oh??my??god??? “midnight cravings” was so good! i’m foaming at the mouth 😩

would you be able to write something about how the reader has never been able to have an orgasm with another person and miguel hears this and changes that 🫣

go easy on me

part 2

pairing: miguel o'hara x afab!reader

warnings: smut, fluff, established relationship, vaginal fingering, sexual tension

The movie you put on is nearing its end. The lights dance over the walls of the dimly lit bedroom, flashing across your tired eyes. You hadn't even registered Miguel turning the volume down halfway.

It's not the first time he's come to visit. Ever since you two have started dating, he has made increasingly more time among his duties and responsibilities to swing by your place, whether to eat dinner, to watch a movie, or just sit and talk about everything and anything.

At some point along the movie, you had cuddled up against his side, head propped on his shoulder, internally surprised at how comfortable it was despite the rigid muscles that adorned his body. The only problems were the butterflies fluttering wildly in your stomach, the way your heart flipped every time he even did as little as readjust his weight on the bed or sigh, in fearful yet giddy hopes that he'd maybe, just maybe, initiate something you're otherwise not bold enough to start.

Suddenly, the movie gets to a low-lit scene, and you make out Miguel's features in the screen's reflection. The contour of his face, the width of his shoulders on the headboard in comparison to your frame, gathered up by his side. And the moment you make out his eyes, it's too late.

He's staring right back at you, but you were too distracted to notice.

Dark, red-shaded eyes, outlined by thick eyebrows, daggers deepening the look on his face.

Maybe he's just lost in thought? Zoned out?

All those suppositions fly out the window faster than your breath when the corners of his mouth curl into a smirk, eyes narrowing ever so slightly. You feel unprepared for whatever he's making out to be the rest of the night in his head.

Nobody's watching whatever's left of the movie anymore.

The hand holding you by his side tightens around your shoulders, and just for a flash of a second you guess that it was all in your head. He wasn't plotting anything, he's just the sweet and caring Miguel you've known for so long, smiling kindly at you and making sure you're comfortable and close to him. All until his other hand travels to your thigh, his whole body shifting so that he sits on his side, all his attention focused on you alone.

Tilting your head up, you meet his gaze. You find it hard to pinpoint the feelings plastered on his face. Affection? Lust? Hesitancy? He's wordlessly asking you for permission to proceed.

His palm moves up, grip stronger and firmer. Your hands naturally find his chest, and you don't quite remember when you've hiked up a leg over his, letting his hand reach the mound of your soft ass, squeezing and groping.

You don't get much time to bask in the pure happiness and excitement of being inches away from his face, eye to eye, breath to breath, before he closes the distance and presses his lips to yours. The kiss is gentle and tender, he tastes you like you're a goddess and he's only ever allowed to kiss you once in a whole lifetime. He cradles your body close to his, allowing himself to indulge in the delicate feeling of your soft skin, parting from your lips and kissing your face wherever he can reach, so lovingly, so carefully, having you melt against him.

You mindlessly let a moan echo in your throat, at which he retracts, as if being presented an undoubtedly green light. He pulls you impossibly close, both hands clutching at the small of your waist. His mouth drops to your neck, growing impatient and needy. He bites down, fangs stinging into your skin before he licks and pecks at the red marks, soothingly. Your breathing fails to keep up with his ministrations, your heart threatening to burst right out of your chest.

You choke on a whimper when you feel the extensive shape of his vigorous thigh push upwards between your parted legs, applying dangerous pressure right on your still clothed clit.

"Miguel." you call breathlessly, the name placed upon a questioning tone.

He stops.

"Mi vida."

"I need to tell you something."

He looks up at you from your chest, almost reverentially. There's a reassurance in his pleading, immensely compassionate eyes that can't possibly be put into words. So you confess. You tell him about your lack of experience, how nobody's brought you to the very heights of ecstasy before. He ponders the information, calculating. His attention darts momentarily between his surroundings, you and your flushed lips.

"You want me to be the first?", he's almost afraid you'll deny him. Not that he wouldn't back off the moment he sensed any sign of discom from you, but he can't deny that he had dreamed of giving you pleasure you haven't felt in your entire life. To have you twist and turn in his arms, writhe and whimper from the intensity of both your feelings and the things he could do to you.

You smile sweetly, certain of the answer.

"I want you to be the last, too."

That's all it takes. In a mere second, he's all over you, clawing and kissing every patch of skin he manages to expose. He travels down to the sides of your waist, sinking his fangs into the tender flesh without puncturing the skin, sending jolts of adrenaline and need pulsing through you. You squirm into his arms, feeling downright devoured. Spread wide open, at his disposal, liquid ready to mould into whatever vessel he offers with his embrace.

He drags your panties down your legs in one swift motion, crawling over your frame and dwarfing you in his shadow. You feel his strong, expert hand make its way down between your legs, parting your lips and rubbing in soft, circular motions.

"You're soaked" he mumbles into your ear, his breaths hot and heavy on your neck. You manage to sob briefly, too overwhelmed to speak.

He pushes a finger into your cunt, swelling with pride when feeling how wet you had gotten for him. You moan at the stretch, as the heat of the heel of his palm digs into your core. You whimper, and he kisses you, swallowing his whispered name.

You liquefy into his embrace, allowing him to add a second finger. He's testing the perimeter, playing and experimenting with angles, watching your reactions intently. He suddenly hits a rough spot that had you bucking your hips, and he flashes you a smug smile, fangs on display. He repeats the motion, rolling his hand into your pelvis, and you can't do anything but grab onto his muscled arm and quicken your already laboured breaths. He starts giving attention to your clit in tandem, rubbing the heel of his palm into the sensitive bud.

You watch the mesmerising way his arm flexes with every movement, every thrust of his thick fingers into your drenched cunt.

Soon enough you feel the unmistakable coil start to form into your lower abdomen, legs tense and face contorted from the pleasure.

"That's it. Dios mío, you're so beautiful when you're about to come.", his voice is low and breathless, echoing into your lust-addled brain and then straight down to your cunt. You reach your peak, gushing on his hand, pulsing around his fingers.

He holds you to his chest while you ride out your high, watching the way your lips struggle to form coherent words that aren't his name.

As your breathing returns to normal, he places a chaste kiss on your forehead, and you mentally swear you could die right then and there.

It's all so intimate, gentle, and romantic until–

"Can't wait to feel you pulse like that around my cock."

a/n: hope this is what you wanted<3

#atsv miguel #miguel o hara #miguel o'hara #miguel o'hara imagine #miguel o'hara smut #miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o'hara x reader one shot #miguel ohara #miguel ohara x reader #miguel o’hara x reader #miguel spiderman #miguel x you #miguel x reader #miguel ohara x y/n

[queer-little-demigod]

i like me better when i’m with you - luke castellan

summary when a new kid comes to camp, luke gets a bit more stressed than usual, and he goes to his safe space—you.

fic type fluff

pairing luke castellan x fem!Apollo!reader

word count 1.2k

warnings stressed!luke, very much fluff

masterlist

dividers from this post of @cafekitsune ! credits to them and do go check out their posts <3

When people thought of the best swordsman in camp, their first thought was Luke Castellan. The calm Hermes cabin counselor, the one who took every unclaimed camper under his wing. It also meant he was thought of as the only one to beat Clarisse in a fight, the one who had better technique than the others by light years.

But for you, Luke was the sweet boy who brought you flowers every other day, the boy who called you ‘sunshine’ to play around, the boy who held you so gently and kissed you so sweet. To you, Luke was just a soft sweetheart who loved you to the ends of the earth.

But ‘only for you’ as a statement held fast and true with him.

He never acted the same way around other campers the way he acted with you. Not only did they never receive even the slightest easy praise as you did, but they never got that blind trust, that unwavering faith he had in you. Maybe the trust bit was a bit exclusive to Annabeth, but even then that was because they were close. Family.

So it did come to you as a shock when Percy came to camp and that side came out in Luke.

After poor Percy’s unfortunately encounter with Clarisse, you had spotted Luke with him and decided to come over. As the counselor of the Apollo cabin, you additionally decided to help your boyfriend and his new little stray.

“Hey Luke,” you smiled, approaching them both as they talked under the shade of the trees. You leaned your arm against his shoulder, smiling at Percy in a friendly way.

Luke took a second to just look at you. He took in the way the dampened sun kissed your hair, making it shine ever so slightly, the way the shadows fell cleanly on your face to highlight the contours of your face, the way you were so at ease around him and the new camper.

He was so used to seeing you that he only had to take a second to appreciate your features and presence.

“Oh, Percy, meet Y/n, Apollo cabin counselor,” Luke said with a slight smile as he looked at the boy.

You put a hand out to Percy. He did really look like a sweet boy with his soft-looking face, blue-green eyes, and curly gold hair.

“Hey Percy, welcome to camp half-blood,” you smiled. “I’m Y/n, Luke’s girlfriend,”

You could practically hear Luke roll his eyes beside you, his hand resting sneakily against the small of your back as it always did.

“Nice to meet you, Y/n,” said Percy with a small smile.

“Aw, he’s so sweet for a kid on his first day,” you said, looking at Luke, who laughed a bit and looked down, running a hand through his dark curly hair. “What’re you two up to?”

“Nothing much, sunshine, just trying to find out who’s this guy’s godly parent,” Luke shrugged, looking back at you.

“Nice,” you laughed, leaning up to kiss his cheek. “I won’t hold you guys up for too long, though. Don’t worry,”

However, once you left, as usual Luke felt your absence instantly. It wasn’t the literal absence, obviously, which everyone felt, but he always felt like a part of him was missing when he wasn’t around you. As if part of his happiness wasn’t there because in truth, it wasn’t.

It also meant his safe space was not around instantly. It meant that his confidant was too many steps away to be immediate, to be accessible.

So he waited, as always.

He waited for the sun to go down, for the time for responsibilities to go down with it. He waited for the moon to rise, for the sky to turn from cornflower to depthless midnight blue.

The camp was quiet, deathly so, with the distant call of owls from the woods and the rustle of leaves when the scarce wind blew. The night was a mask which cloaked his sounds, his footsteps, his presence, as he walked down the mossy stone pathway into the trees, towards the mirroring lake.

There you sat, the daughter of the sun, looking ever-radiant in the moon’s soft glow. Your body was a silhouette against the silver of the ethereal light, your calculating eyes cast towards the lake, where there seemed another world to mirror this.

Lost in your own thoughts, thoughts which were kept at bay during the sun’s time, you didn’t hear the quiet footsteps, the shift of the pebbles on the lakeside, come up behind you and rest his hands on your shoulders.

“Luke, you scared the hell out of me!” You exclaimed, laughing softly, looking up at him with shining eyes.

He shrugged and sat beside you, leaning back on his palms as his long legs stretched out before him, feet a good way away from the water.

“It wasn’t intentional,” he smiled, looking at you.

Your brows quirked up, amused. “Oh, is that right?”

“Yup,”

“Don’t pop the ‘p’ like that you sound ridiculous,”

“I can never sound ridiculous, I’m too good looking for that,”

“Can’t say I agree,”

He looked at you with mock offence and grabbed you around your shoulders, pulling you closer to him as he ruffled your hair, ignoring your hushed protests and struggles.

You finally squirmed out of his grip, laughing softly.

“You’re such an ass!” You laughed, shoving him by the shoulder.

He winked at you, smiling in that same mischievous way that reminded you that despite his responsibilities, he wasn’t quite the adult he portrayed himself as. He was just 19, not even at legal drinking age, for gods’ sake.

But he had to admit that your laugh was the sweetest, most beautiful thing he’d ever heard in his life. It felt like the spring’s first sun—warm, gentle, and comforting. Perhaps even familiar, he would say.

“Now tell me what’s wrong, love,” you said, your e/c falling to rest on his own, holding what looked like concern.

Was he being concerning? At least he must be, for you to look at him as if his puppy just got run over…

‘Safe space, Luke,’ he reminded himself. ‘She knows you too well, she gets you,’

He sighed and nodded, “Well, for starters, Percy’s still unclaimed and will not let the whole ‘where is my dad’ thing go,”

“Baby, he’s 12, of course he’s in shock, he can’t just let things go,” you said.

Of course, Y/n L/n, the voice of straightforward reason.

“I know but…” he sharply let out a breath, trying to find the words which were on the tip of his tongue but were stuck in his throat. “He’s just…he’s not accepting things the way they are. He’s so damn persistent, constantly questioning the way things work.”

You moved closer to him, moving such that you could sit behind him and pull him close to you, letting his back rest against you while your legs stayed on either side. He felt your hands start to play with his curls, fingertips running over his scalp gently.

His whole body tingled, his skin warmed from your touch. Not only was it because you kept your own skin a little warm on cold nights like this but because of how soft you were with him, because of how gentle your touch was. Because he felt a blush creep along his cheeks at the familiarity of the gesture, at how affectionate you were.

“But look, it means that I’m answering questions that no other camper’s asked me before, and I don’t know how I feel about that…unpredictability,” he explained, staring out at the lake. “Plus with day after’s capture the flag and with my training schedule being booked up back to back, I cannot handle those questions because they need time to be thought over and I don’t have that kind of time,”

Your hands in his hair paused as an amused tone came with your words, “…is Luke Castellan admitting to me, Y/n L/n, that he’s stressed? You stressed, baby, is that it?”

He laughed at the way you talked, like he was a child, with that sweet tone, higher pitch, and general air of playfulness.

“No, I’m not,” he protested, looking up at you, a small smile dancing on his lips as he laughed softly.

Gods, his laugh was everything. You enjoyed the rise and fall of it, his deep voice vibrating through your body with how close he was. It wasn’t explosive, nor was it polite. It was just him being a kid, him being himself, unrestrained by the image of a calm and reserved counselor that he had on most of the time.

“That’s a lie,” you smirked, giggling softly, tilting his head back so he could look at you properly.

He smiled a bit, as your finger traced up the line of his scar, and he stuck his tongue out at you jokingly.

“Fine, tell me more. Get it all of your chest,” you winked, leaning down to kiss his forehead softly.

So he talked all his worries away, till the moon rose high and the water stopped rippling. He talked till his throat ran dry and his eyes started to droop as sleep’s staying caress enveloped you both.

“We should get back,” you yawned, feeling him sit up and out of your arms.

He nodded, rubbing at his eyes with his knuckles. “Yeah, we should…”

He, as a gentleman, stood up first and helped you up, smiling at you as you dusted yourself off and followed him back through the quiet woods and to the cabins. You looped your hand through the crook of his elbow, resting your head against his shoulder affectionately every now and then, smiling up at him.

The trees weren’t as quiet as the night, nor was the grass, as the crickets chirped softly amidst the foliage, and the leaves rustled with the slightest bit of wind that danced through them.

“Can I bother you for a little kiss before we go back to our cabins?” You asked, standing in front of him at the split in the road which led to the Apollo cabin and Hermes cabin.

Luke thought about it for a moment just to tease you, earning a whack on the arm from your end and a laugh.

“Obviously,” he chuckled, pulling you closer by your wrist, his other arm coming up to encircle your waist, as your head tilted up for your lips to meet his in a soft kiss.

His hand left your wrist to cup your cheek while your arms rested around his neck, holding him such that he stayed down a bit to your level. Your lips moved in sync, the action already a habit with the number of times you both had kissed in the past two years of you both dating.

Despite that, butterflies erupted in your stomach at the way his lips felt against yours, the way he held you so tenderly.

Once air became a problem you both had to pull away, and a light blush dusted your cheeks.

“I’ll see you tomorrow morning then,” you smiled, winking at him.

“No doubt, sunshine,” he smiled back, ruffling your hair gently, earning a sound of protest from your end as well.

“You know I hate that nickname,”

“Too bad, sunshine,”

All you could do was roll your eyes and press a soft kiss to his cheek before turning back and heading back to the Apollo cabin on soft cat feet, making little noise as you fell into your covers, giggling softly at the ghost feeling of his lips back on yours.

Stuff was better when he was with you.

Hi! I t’s me, Lea! I hope you liked this imagine, feel free to request <3 the ending is a bit eh but otherwise I hope you liked it <3

#Luke Castellan #luke castellan x reader #apollo reader #x fem!reader #fluff #luke x fem!reader #queer little demigod

[0and0its0doctor0]

Heat stroke

Spencer Reid X Fem! Reader

Summary: You are self-conscious about the scars on your arms so you wear long sleeves. And wind up getting heat stroke. Spencer takes care of you.

Warnings: Mentions of Self-Harm/Scars

Word Count: 1,010

“Oh god it’s like standing in front of a blow dryer!” You exclaimed as you stepped off the plane in Phoenix Arizona. It was July and the temperature on your phone read 113 degrees. And you were wearing long sleeves. “Why are you wearing long sleeves?” Derek questioned as he stepped off the plane behind you causing you to shrug.”I’m used to it. Besides, I didn’t know we were coming to Phoenix till I got on the plane..” The lie rolled off your tongue easy enough. “Didn’t you used to live out here? Shouldn’t you know better?” Derek asked and Spencer smacked his arm. “Leave her alone.” He muttered. Thankfully everyone got busy grabbing their bags and making their way to the hotel. Once inside the hotel room you pulled off your long sleeve shirt and your eyes drifted down to your arms. They were covered in cuts in varying degrees of healing. Some dated all the way back to high school and some were as fresh as a couple days ago. It was your secret, the way you dealt with your failures and the harsh reality of the job. It helped ground you. Part of you felt like you deserved it. That had been ingrained into your head from such a young age. That you deserved pain. You didn’t deserve to feel good. At least that was what your parents told you. 

The following day you were in long sleeves again and you could feel sweat dripping down the contours of your back, a bead of it trickled down the side of your face. It was hot. You could feel the heat radiating off the sidewalk as you and Spencer questioned a witness. Your face must have been red because Spencer placed his hand carefully on your lower back and pulled a bottle of water from his pocket so he could hand it to you. “Drink.” He commanded lightly and you felt your heart skip a beat. “Yes sir.” You took the bottle and chugged half of it. “Small sips. You chug it, you are just going to throw it back up.” He brushed a curl off your cheek and tucked it behind your ear, the gesture made you smile and you leaned in to the touch on your cheek. You and Spencer weren’t officially dating yet or anything, just a lot of heavy flirting. You finished the water slowly and the two of you went back to talking to witnesses. 

When you watch TV the bullet proof vests look easy and light, like a second shirt. No one told you how ridiculously heavy they were. And uncomfortable. You tugged at your sleeves as you stood behind Hotch with your gun drawn and pointed at the unsub. You guys had him cornered. Why was your vision getting blurry? You blinked several times and wiped the sweat off your forehead with your sleeves not caring if you smeared your makeup. Spencer’s eyes were on you and not the unsub. “She’s gonna drop.” He called out and as soon as he did your knees buckled and you hit the ground. Spencer wanted to run to you but he couldn’t. They had to leave you on the ground for a few minutes as everyone subdued the unsub. Once Spencer was free he had Derek help him drag you into the shade. He carefully took off your vest and tried to cool you off by fanning you with his hand. 

Emily tossed Spencer a bottle of water and he apologized before pouring it on your face. The shock of the cold water had you sitting up quickly which just made your head spin. “Easy now.” Spencer guided you to lay back down with your head in his lap. “We need to take off your shirt. You are overheated.” He informed you and you shook your head. “I can’t.” You mumbled and he looked down at you concerned. “Look whatever you are hiding we can work with okay? We can’t work with you if you are dead. Either I get you cooled down or you go to the hospital and they cool you down.” Spencer brushed some of the hair that was sticking to your forehead back and you sighed heavily. “Fine.” 

You pulled off your shirt which left you in a sports bra and Spencer’s eyes immediately went to your arms causing you to feel extremely self-conscious. He bit his lip and helped you sit up a little so you could take small sips of water. After your 4th sip you leaned over and threw up, Spencer held your hair back. His hand rubbing circles lightly on your back helped calm you down a bit. You looked up as Hotch walked over and looked down at you. “Is she going to be okay?” He asked, looking at Spencer. “Yeah I think she will be okay. It can take just 45 minutes to rehydrate. A study by The Journal of Strength and Conditioning Research found that after mildly dehydrated men consumed just 2 bottles of water, it took under one hour for their bodies to function in a perfectly healthy and hydrated state.” Spencer rattled off the facts easily, his hand continuing to brush your hair back as he spoke making you smile a little. “Alright well she’s your responsibility now.” Hotch nodded and Spencer grinned. “Wouldn’t want it any other way.” He said happily. 

You sat there with Spencer talking about nothing important while he nursed you back to health. When you got back to the hotel he insisted on staying with you to make sure you didn’t have any lasting problems from passing out. That was how you wound up curled up in bed with your head resting on Spencer’s chest, his fingers running through your hair and you listening to his steady heart beat had you quickly falling asleep. He kissed the top of your head and managed to fall asleep himself. Maybe things would be okay. Maybe you did deserve love. Spencer was going to make sure you felt that love.

#criminal minds #criminal minds fanfic #criminal minds gen fic #criminal minds fluff #spencer reid #dr spencer reid #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid one shot #spencer reid x reader #spencer x reader #criminalminds #criminal minds imagine #dr reid #criminal minds fandom

[willowbelle]

A Doctor's Cure

❤︎ trafalgar law x fem reader ❤︎

༉‧₊˚✧ (nsfw, afab!reader, 18+ only) ༉‧₊˚✧

cw: established relationship, doctor-patient dynamics, breast play, oral (f receiving), dom!law, sub!reader, law is a tease, lots of teasing, edging, begging, praise, reassurance, piv sex, exam-room-sex (hehe), use of “doctor”, "good girl", "sweetheart", "tell me what you want", etc.

summary: law and reader have a double-sided relationship: patient and doctor, & lovers. They aim to keep the two partnerships separate, but Law's work has him neglecting reader's needs, making her resort to rather drastic measures to get her partner/doctor's undivided attention. ;)

word count: ~4,000

tagging: @bby-deerling @risenwrites @strawheart-pirate @uchihabbynic @nina-ya @mandiemegatron@shamblespirate@eelnoise@maddddstuff @throwmethroughawindow @mariihzoka @basedbogwizard

A Doctor's Cure

You and Law shared an understanding. 

Work is professional; must always be kept that way, and private life is exactly that:

private.

The two must never intertwine. 

------

The office is cold, frigid, uninviting. 

The room exudes an aura of sterile austerity, its walls painted in a clinical shade of white that seemed to swallow any hint of warmth or comfort. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead, casting a harsh, unforgiving glow that accentuated the starkness of the room. The air is heavy with the scent of antiseptic, mingling with the faint tang of ink from the doctor's neatly stacked files.

Against one wall stands a row of cabinets, their metal surfaces gleaming dully in the artificial light. Each drawer is meticulously labeled, a testament to its owner’s penchant for order and precision. A single window, obscured by heavy blinds, offers a glimpse of the outside depths of the sea, but the view is obscured by the grime of neglect.

In the center of the room sits the doctor's desk, a polished slab of dark wood that seems out of place amidst the clinical surroundings. Behind it, a high-backed chair looms, its leather upholstery cracked and worn from years of use. On the desk itself lies an array of instruments - a stethoscope coiled neatly beside a stack of paperwork, a computer monitor flickering silently in the corner.

-----

The doctor is the same; silent, calculated, meticulous. 

He commands the room with a towering presence; his tall, lean frame exuding an aura of quiet strength. Despite his slim build, there’s an unmistakable muscularity to his physique, hinted at by the subtle contours visible beneath his crisp, white coat. 

Dark hair, swept beneath his speckled hat, frames a face weathered by years of dedication. His features are chiseled, a strong jawline, softened only by the hint of a tired smile that plays at the corners of his lips. It’s his eyes that hold the most intrigue – tired grey orbs, rimmed with heavy bags that speak volumes of sleepless nights.

Despite the weariness that etches lines upon his face, there’s an undeniable intensity to his gaze. 

-----

As you pad into the room, the frigid air tickles your spine, climbs up your back, sinks its claws in. It’s not just from the temperature, there’s a palpable aura of detachment that fills the room, too, leaving you uneasy. 

Law sits behind the desk, framed by sterile white walls, his expression inscrutable. His gaze, sharp and penetrating, eyes you up and down, seeming to dissect you even before words left your lips. 

You clear your throat, the nervous noise echohing in the stillness of the room as you take a seat on the exam table. 

You didn’t need to be here. You weren’t sick. Law had simply grown neglectful, consumed by his work. And so, driven by desperation for his attention, you resort to a lie.

"La-,” you begin, but swiftly correct yourself, “Doctor, I've been experiencing these persistent headaches..."

Maintaining a romantic relationship with your doctor requires a delicate balancing-act. In the privacy of your shared moments, away from the sterile confines of the doctor's office, your relationship is beautiful, intense, passionate. But here, you are nothing more than a patient, and for professional reasons, behind these doors, it must be kept that way.

His response is measured, delivered with the precision of a well-practiced routine.

"Describe the nature of your headaches," he says, voice devoid of any warmth.

Your interactions take on a dual nature; each appointment serving as both a professional consultation and an opportunity to revel in the comfort of each other's presence. However, away from this room, the professional barriers dissolve, replaced by an intimacy that transcends the confines of your roles.

“Well, they've been getting worse," you speak softly, glancing at the floor as you anxiously play with your fingers, "It's like a constant pressure behind my eyes, and sometimes it feels like my vision is blurry."

As you recount your symptoms, his eyes never waver from yours, his silence almost suffocating. Each word you utter seem to be met with a calculated pause, as if he were processing every detail, every nuance.

As Law listens to your fabricated symptoms, his brow furrows in concern, his demeanor shifting subtly as he leans forward, attentive to your every word. Despite the guilt gnawing at your conscience, you press on with your deceit,

“It just hurts so badly,” you rasp, “I’m desperate for something, anything, to help me.” 

You weren’t talking about your head. Your skull didn’t hurt. His neglect did. 

He reaches forwards, tattooed fingers rubbing reassuring circles into your kneecap. His touch lingers a moment longer than necessary, a silent reassurance that spoke volumes of the things you shared. Despite its cold, calculating exterior, his gaze offers a of something that transcends the confines of your doctor-patient relationship, understanding, love, devotion. 

The familiar warmth of his fingers seems to seep into your skin, dismissing the chill that had clung to your flesh the moment you entered the office. 

"I know, baby," he murmurs, his gaze dropping to the floor as he speaks. "I'm so sorry."

“Baby?” your throat feels dry, making the word catch in your mouth. “Doctor…” you regift his title, but instead of accepting it, he places a reassuring palm on your thigh. 

"I know I've been busy lately, I've overlooked you," he admits, his voice heavy with regret. "I'm so sorry."

"B-But, we had an agreement," you finally manage to whisper, your voice barely above a breath. “In here,” you glance around the room as you speak, “I’m just your patient.” 

His gaze softens, a flicker of understanding crossing his features. 

"I know," he says gently, his voice tinged with regret. "But sometimes lines blur,” he gulps, “And it's impossible to ignore what's truly important."

You swallow hard, the weight of his words sinking in. For so long, you had clung to the illusion of professionalism, hiding behind the guise of patient and doctor to shield yourself from this very moment of vulnerability.

But now, faced with his unwavering sincerity, you realize that the walls you had built around your heart were no match for the depth of your love for Trafalgar Law. 

“Law,” you say softly, abandoning his professional title, “Just kiss me.” 

And he listens, immediately closing the distance between you, his lips meeting yours in a tender kiss. 

It's a kiss filled with pent-up longing, a culmination of the emotions that have simmered beneath the surface for far too long.

His free hand rests gently on your face as his lips meld with yours, rubbing gentle circles into the apple of your cheek. 

You let out a shaky breath into his mouth, and he takes the opportunity to slip his tongue between your open lips. 

A wave of conflicting emotions washes over you. Relief mingles with lingering hurt, and the weight of his apology hangs heavy in the air. 

But as his tongue dances with yours, the clinical walls of the exam room dissolve into nothingness, and in that moment, you transcend the roles of patient and doctor. The world around you fades into insignificance as you lose yourself in the sensation of his lips against yours. You are no longer merely his patient; you are his lover once more, entwined in an embrace that knows no bounds.

He wastes no time in moving atop you, shrugging his labcoat off his toned, tattooed shoulders, letting the fabric fall to the tile. 

As he advances, you recline against the crisp, white paper that lines the examination table, yielding to his presence. He leans over you, his weight enveloping you, strong arms framing your head as he cages you in.

His inked hands travel up and down your needy body, making you shiver beneath his touch. 

“Law,” you whine weakly, taking his bottom lip between your teeth, tugging gently on the tender flesh, “Doctor,���

The doctor simply groans in response to your desperate plea, a deep blush rushing to his cheeks at your intimate use of his professional title. 

A smirk tugs at his lips,

“Tell me where it hurts,” the doctor rasps, “Tell me what you need, sweetheart.” 

To your surprise, he's fully engaged, playing along with a fervor that electrifies you to your core.

He slides a hand down, carefully spreading your thighs to allow his torso to slot between your legs. You allow you head to fall back, moaning softly at the sensation of his crotch meeting yours. 

His hips immediately get to work, skillfully grinding his throbbing erection against your aching cunt as his hands tangle themselves in your hair. 

Although you’ve only just begun, your face is already flushed and your chest is heaving. Desire pricks at your skin and leaves you trembling for more. 

“Doctor,” you whine.

Your needy state ignites something within your doctor, and he picks up the pace, making you whine and tilt your head upwards to nip at his ear. 

“Please, help me.”

“How do you want me to help you, love?” he teases, tilting back to allow his slender fingers to snake in between your crotches, slowing rubbing tight circles into your clothed clit. 

“F-Fuck,” you softly curse, twitching instinctively at the long-awaited sensation of his hands finally meeting the place you needed them most. 

But to your dismay, he stops, bringing the hand up again to hold your chin, tilting your face to look at him. 

“That doesn’t tell me anything, dear. I can’t cure you if you don’t tell me what’s got you so bothered.” 

You’re losing your composure now, head growing fuzzy frim his relentless teasing. 

“Mm, Lawww,” you whine weakly at the loss, instantly reaching down to grasp his wrist and bring it back to your aching sex, “Please-” 

“Please?” he questions, a smug look decorating his usually-stoic face, “Please what?” he begins kissing down your neck, causing your breath to hitch in your throat. “Oh, and I don’t believe we’re on a first name basis just quite yet, so that’s doctor to you.” 

He nips at your delicate skin as he continues to kiss down the column of your neck, “Let's try that again.”

“P-Please, doctor,” you correct yourself, “Fuck me.”

“Mmm,” the tall man hums, “That’s not a very professional request, but since you asked so nicely, I guess I’ll let it slide.” 

With one arm supporting his weight above you, he begins working on his belt with the other, his gaze fixed upon you with an intensity that sends shivers down your spine. The predatory gleam in his eyes makes you feel small, vulnerable, yet oddly exhilarated by the primal desire that courses between you.

Before long, his belt hits the tile floor with a resounding clang, causing you to startle slightly as he looms over you.

He chuckles softly, amused by your vulnerability. 

“Why don’t you do us both a favor and strip?” he mumbles softly, voice tinted with lust, “It’ll allow me to properly cure you.” 

His dedication to this roleplay elicits a soft, playful giggle from you, yet beneath the surface of amusement, there lies a greater sensation; a tingling arousal that spreads through your limbs and makes your head spin.

“Of course, doctor,” you play along, promptly obeying his orders and peeling your clothes from your needy body. 

As you gradually raise your blouse over your head, Law's unwavering gaze remains fixed on you, stripping away any pretense or barrier. Even before your clothes are fully removed, his intense stare leaves you feeling utterly exposed, vulnerable, and entirely at his mercy.

As his eyes travel up and down your naked form, something new dances beneath his steel irises, admiration, completely enthralled by the sight before him. 

His lingering gaze sends a flush of warmth rushing to your cheeks, and you find yourself instinctively turning your head to the side, a shy smile playing at the corners of your lips as a bit of embarrassment washes over you.

He gently tilts your face back towards him, his touch tender yet confident, 

“Beautiful,” he says simply. 

He opts to help you unclasp your bra, making you lean forwards slightly so he can snake his arm around you. 

You let out a shaky breath against his chest, allowing him to strip you. 

The cool air hitting your breasts causes your nipples to harden instantly, earning a pleased groan from Law’s mouth. 

“I suppose I should join you,” he smirks, referring to your nakedness. 

And so he does, inked fingers curling around the hem of his undershirt as he leisurely peels it over his head. Your eyes widen at the sight of his exposed torso; while you've seen it before, of course, the unexpected setting amplifies its allure. Beneath these foreign fluorescent lights, in this room where you never imagined seeing him this way, the contours of his muscles glimmered like something new, forbidden, enticing. 

Once shirtless, he moves atop you again, lips swiftly attaching to the soft flesh of your chest. You let out a moan as his mouth slowly makes its way towards your breast.

You lean yoiur head back, letting a few gaspy moans escape your throat as his hot tongue swirls around your erect nipple. 

“L-La-” you whine, “Doctor-”

He groans against your breast before gently nipping at it, his tongue continuing its efforts as it lazily swirls around the needy bud. 

“Yeah?” he rasps, his other hand coming up to grasp onto your neglected breast, “Tell me, how does that feel? Does it feel good, sweetheart?” 

“M-Mhmm,” you mewl in agreement, reaching down to tug at his strands of dark hair, “B-But I need more-”

“Oh?” the doctor groans, tilting his head to glance up at you, dark grey irises seeming to dissect you as they bore into your face, “What more do you need?”

You pause for a moment, meeting his gaze with a hint of hesitation, torn between yielding to his request and remaining illusive. 

Noticing your hesitation, Law’s gaze darkens, and pinches your nipple between his slender fingers, gently tugging at it, determined to pry the answer from you. 

“If you can’t tell me what you need,” he smirks, “Then I can’t help you feel better.”

Sensing the threat in his tone, you let out a shaky sigh, abandoning all dignity as you open your mouth to speak,

“You,” you whine, reaching down to place a delicate palm on the growing bulge beneath his pants, “I need you inside me, doctor.” 

And with that, Law’s lips are on yours again, pressing his flesh against yours with a newfound passion, his tongue exploring your mouth as if it was oxygen and he was suffocating; his lifeline. 

“Mm-mm!” you whine, instinctively bucking your hips up to reward yourself the euphoric sensation of his crotch rubbing against yours. 

He wastes no time in pulling his pants down, tossing the garmet to the side as he works on peeling his boxers off, too. 

Your breath hitches in your throat as he steadies himself above you, one arm holding himself up, caging you in as he reaches his free hand down to grip his cock. 

The white paper crinkles beneath you as Law begins rubbing is weeping tip along your folds, earning a pleased sigh from your mouth. 

“Are you ready for me?” he leans down to whisper in your ear. 

You take a deep inhale, reaching upwards to grip onto his muscular, tattooed back, grounding yourself. 

“I’m ready, doctor.” 

He begins to push inside you, a low groan rumbling out of his chest as he stretches out your entrance with each forward movement. 

“Fuck, you’re so tight,” he rasps, “Need to stretch you out.” 

You whine weakly as Law continues to push his cock inside you, his impressive length forcing your insides to open up, accepting him greedily. 

“M-mm, sh-shit,” you curse, throwing your head back as Law finally bottoms out, the tip of his cock granting your cervix with a gentle kiss as he’s now fully engulfed within you. 

He gives you time to adjust, peppering reassuring kisses onto your face until you give him the “Okay” to start moving. 

"I've got you," he reassures you, his voice a soothing balm against the pain between your legs. It's a stark contrast to the cold, professional tone he had maintained before, his words now infused with warmth and genuine concern.

Before long, your body relaxes beneath him, around him, and you glance upwards to meet his gaze with a gentle nod,

“Doctor, you can start,” you whine softly. 

And with your permission, Law begins, bringing his hips back to thrust into you slowly, carefully, testing the waters to see how much you can take. 

“Fuck,” you moan, the noise exciting the man above you, causing him to smirk as he glances down at your trembling form. 

“You’re doing so good, y/n,” he praises, groaning as he picks up the pace a bit, “You take me so good-” 

“O-Oh, d-doctor,” you whimper, stumbling over your words, glancing downwards to watch his cock disappear in and out of you over and over again. 

“Yeah?” he groans, “Like what you see, baby?” he grins wolfishly, bringing both hands down to grip your waist so he can pummel his length into your needy cunt. 

“Y-Yes-!” you whine sheepishly, your face flushed red and beading with sweat. 

His newfound roughness ignites something within you; singes your blood with a desperate, euphoric type thing. You rake your nails down the doctor’s back, whimpering and writhing beneath him as the pace of his thrusts never falters. 

His skilled cock is meeting all the right places; battering your sweet spot, making you see stars. But just as you’re approaching your orgasm, he pulls out, raising himself up and stepping off the exam table. 

Your breath catches in your lungs and you’re trembling, propping yourself up on your elbows to look at the man who so devilishly deprived you of reaching your peak. 

“L-La-” you begin to whine, but before you can finish, he’s on his knees in front of the exam table, slotting his head between your legs to grant your aching slit with hot, skillful licks. 

He groans into your cunt, sending vibrations through your body as his steel irises glare up at you from between your trembling thighs. 

You shake beneath him, letting out a trembling vibrato of a moan as you collapse back onto the crisp paper of the exam table, allowing your doctor’s gifted tongue to have its way with you. 

“Mm, fuck,” he groans in between licks, “You taste so fucking good.” 

“A-Ah!” you cry out, back arching off the table as your hand shoots down to tangle itself in Law’s thick scalp of dark hair. 

Law places a palm on your stomach, gently pressing your back down into the table, 

“Stay still, baby,” he rasps, “This will help, I promise.” 

With a few more stripes of his tongue, he latches onto your clit, forcing a loud moan to escape your lips. 

“O-Oh, doctor!” you cry out, eyes screwing shut from pleasure as he sucks greedily on your aching nub. 

“Mmm,” he moans, lazily shaking his head back and forth, his hot tongue dancing skillfully over your needy clit. 

You lace your fingers in his hair, desperately tugging on the strands, eager for release.

Before you can even comprehend it, he’s up again, towering over you as you shake and whimper on the exam table. 

He smirks at he gazes down at you, offering you no remorse, just a simple command, 

“Flip over for me.” 

Knowing better than to disobey your doctor, you do just as you’re told, turning over so your stomach is pressed against the table and your ass is in the air. 

You can’t see his face, but you know he’s smirking as he chuckles darkly, “Good girl,” he praises, completely enthralled by your unwavering obedience. 

In an instant, he’s behind you, palm resting on the small of your back as he lines his cock up with your entrance, teasing you by merely rubbing his tip along your folds. 

“Doctorrr-” you whimper, bucking your hips to earn more stimulation from his throbbing cock.

Although he wants to tease you more, you’re deserate, and he’s no better, so he relinquishes control, immediately grasping your hips and thrusting himself into you fully. 

The intrusion is sudden, but welcomed, making you throw your head back and cry out in both pleasure and a hint of pain. 

Sensing your discomfort, Law uses his fingertips to rub comforting circles into your flesh as he grips your hips, 

“Don’t you worry, I’ll take good care of you, sweetheart,” he reassures you, his hips meeting the flesh of your ass with lewd smacking sounds as he thrusts in and out of you. 

“Fuck-!” you moan loudly, your cunt greedily accepting his length with tight, hot squeezes as he moves in and out. 

He reaches forwards, inked fingers tangling themselves in your hair as he tugs on the strands, forcing your head back to give himself access to your neck. He leans forwards, forcing himself deeper inside you and making you let out a weak whine as he places passionate kisses along your newly-exposed neck. 

“Sh-Shit,” he curses in your ear as he groans, “That pussy’s so fucking good to me.”

Your face flushes at the lewness of his words, letting more moans escape your lips as his twitching cock greets your sweetspot with a euphoric nudge.

Your head starts to spin as Law’s thrusts begin to grow sloppy; he’s close and you’re not far behind. 

He’s gaining momentum but losing his rhythm as he thrusts in and out of you, desperately chasing his orgasm, groaning through gritted teeth. 

“Y/n,” the doctor groans, throwing his head back,  “S-So close," he stumbles on his words, thrusting more feverishly now, making you cry out beneath him. 

“Law-!” you whimper shakily, abandoning his professional title as euphoria washes over you, your white-hot orgasm clouding your vision as it courses through your veins. 

He finishes in time with you, unapologetically painting your insides white as he moans heartily, granting you with a few more weak thrusts before he leans forwards to collapse on your back. 

You're both panting, the echo of your shared climax still lingering in the air, sweat glistening on your skin as you simultaneously come down from your highs. 

As the clouds of pleasure that had circled your brain finally begin to dissipate, you’re met with reality again; Law planting gentle kisses to your face as he whispers sweet praises into your ear. 

But even as you lay here together, only one thing consumes your mind. 

"Law," you begin weakly, stealing a glance at the man behind you.

"Hm?" he responds, his tone curious and attentive. "What is it, love?"

"How did you know I was lying?" you ask, your voice tinged with laughter, still catching your breath. "About being sick?"

He chuckles gently, his lips grazing your nape with a soft kiss before he answers, his voice laced with both amusement and affection.

"I've spent enough time with you to know when something's off," he murmurs, his breath warm against your skin. "And besides," he adds, his tone playful, "I could never resist the opportunity to give you a little extra treatment.”

𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧 𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧 𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧 𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.

#trafalgar law one shot #trafalgar law #trafalgar law x reader #law x reader #trafalgar law imagine #one piece imagine #one piece one shot #one piece #one piece smut #one piece x reader #one piece fanfiction #trafalgar law fanfiction #one piece fic #trafalgar law fic #trafalgar law headcanons #trafalgar law headcanon #law headcanons #one piece headcanons #law one piece #one piece law #trafalgar law one piece #trafalgar d water law #one piece fluff #Trafalgar law x reader #Law x reader #Trafalgar law imagine #Trafalgar law one shot #One piece imagine #One piece fanfiction

[syneilesis]

[fic] if only for a moment

if only for a moment

Love and Deepspace | Rafayel (Qi Yu) x Main-Character!Reader | T | 3.6k words | ao3 link (with correct formatting)

Rafayel waits. And waits. And waits.

A/N: Another LaD fic!! This time it's Rafayel. Several elements of this fic are inspired by and loosely based on his story anecdotes and bond story, plus that Deep Sea card line backdrop. So more spoilers in this one, I'm afraid. I think you need to be aware of them in order to follow the flow of the fic. But if not, here's what you need to know: basically Rafayel accepts a visiting professorship at the University of Linkon to reunite with the MC/you. And the prose poetry interspersed are loosely situated in the Deep Sea card lineup setting (you can search in YouTube for the scenes. This one is a brief glimpse of the scene). That princess/knight(??) dynamic is yum yum.

If possible, please read the version on AO3. I formatted the prose poems there as if they're really prose poetry, so I'd appreciate it if you check that out. (Though there isn't too much difference between the formatting here and there, I did make the effort of coding a little 🥺)

Anyhoo, hope you enjoy, and I am sO STOKED FOR THE OFFICIAL RELEASE. rip my wallet 💸😭

JUST LOOK AT THIS MAN AND BELIEVE

There’s a type of berry in a distant land that produces a rare shade of ink that matches the color of your eyes. It takes a hundred of them to create the right hue and volume for the art that he wants to make. It comes to him in a dream: endless desert, then fireworks of verdant sparks that coalesce into stem, leaf, and, finally, fruit. Rafayel remembers that land, so much different from the iridescent blue of ocean underwater, and the acrid gold of the barren desert. His mouth filled with the succulent sweetness of the dream, the lingering sandpaper roughness of the berries on his fingers. He already knows the name of the artwork even before he’s begun—Waiting, Missing. The ache in his bones gaining form, an intangible thing taking flesh.

+

Under the ocean surface, time is muted, a deafening thickness that surrounds you with its ambiguity. On land, however, it is linear, and fast, and in a matter of blinks, Rafayel’s visiting professorship nearly wraps up.

He’s only glimpsed you once or twice. Thrice at most. The university is big, but not big enough to warrant a dearth of fateful encounters. The first time he saw you it was at a coffee shop: walking along with your friends outside, your voice mellifluous and festive wafting through the trellis of the café entrance. You were talking about him—well, about Lemuria to be specific, but these days any talk of Lemuria inevitably draws in his name.

He’s committed your schedule to memory, and yet it just seems impossible to capture a moment with you. Even just a brush of shoulders, or of sleeves—an asymptote of contact. Just navigating around your orbit, but never truly meeting.

What would it be like—finally talking to you? You in front of him, face to face? Rafayel imagines the ache of waiting fading into the background until it’s completely gone. He yearns for that feeling, the release of it. A conclusion—or maybe even a beginning.

+

i. take my hand, he told you under the glow of the lustrous moon, the only source of light that contoured the secretive valleys of his face. i want to show your highness something. there was a country, he said, beyond the undulating monochrome of the desert, blanketed by lush trees and shrubberies and flowers that buildings were made in betwixt and around them—a nation of trailing and winding architecture, a marriage of the natural and the manmade. you wanted to ask why he’d planned on taking you there, and the only answer you got was a curt turn of his head and the profile of a masked man layered by shadows and distance. it would have been nice, you thought, if the moon poured light upon his hooded gaze.

+

Eventually he begins to frequent the café. Twice a week at first—he doesn’t want to come off strong right away, of course—and then making his way up until he’s hanging out there more than his own studio. He schedules his visits around your classes, always during the ones when the probability of you dropping by the café is high and he can ‘coincidentally’ be around the same area. It’s gotten to a point that Thomas calls him out on it, and nags at him to focus more on his painting. The next exhibit is immediately after his visiting professorship after all.

“From where I’m standing,” Thomas says, “you’re not painting at all.”

Rafayel ignores him.

Five minutes later, he says, “Not painting is part of the painting process.”

Thomas rolls his eyes, but he leaves him to it.

At the café, Rafayel attracts curious looks. A few attempt to approach him, but he pretends not to see them. They linger around the periphery, like moths to flame.

And then something happens: the entrance door chimes, and you swan into the coffee shop, earphones and denim overall skirt, the kind of rosy-cheeked image Rafayel finds on teen magazines, wide-eyed and earnest. You fall in line and order when it’s your turn, and your eyes sweep across the packed café searching for a vacant seat until they finally land on him.

Rafayel’s heart stumbles.

Up close, the baby fat on your cheeks still gives you the appearance of being younger than you actually look. You turn a polite smile his way, and his heart stutters again—but this time it is taken as a warning.

“Hi,” you say, tentative. Any hint of recognition absent. “Do you mind if I sit here?”

+

ii. you're counting the steps of your inevitable parting. you're at the edge of the desert, far away from your home and its familiar scents, oriented towards a direction that promised a future sad memory, the gentle warmth of his hand, the downward denial of his gaze. this longing that grew out of your bones, aching during cold, aching during heat, aching when he looked at you with such tenderness he had to hide it through the sharp tug of your joined hands, the long strides that opened up a lonely distance. intimacy was dangerous, knowing was dangerous, the bowels of his heart like a solitary flower on a high peak. what would you do to such loneliness?

+

Memory isn't always an infallible thing. The human brain cannot hang on to every moment of your life, though Rafayel wishes it were so. But still—to think that you would forget him, and it hasn’t even been a century. You were like a phantom thief stealing his heart in the night—no recourse, no resolution.

To wait is to be in agony, the burn of yearning locked within the heart. Rafayel has been waiting for a long time, and the only memory scorched in his heart is fire, the blaze and its blinding, all-consuming want.

What would you do to such want?

+

You have a blurry childhood, Rafayel discovers. After the first Wanderer descended on Earth, the incident strummed your memories like a stringed instrument that tired of the same chord, over and over. It had bothered you at first—not being in control of your own memories—but eventually you had learned to live with it.

“Grandma and Caleb—my childhood friend—helped me through the process,” you tell him, stirring your iced mocha with its straw. “I owe them a lot.”

Eyes cast down, but still the melancholy shadows remain in your expression. Rafayel folds his arms on the table, and leans closer.

Around them only a few people occupy the coffee shop at this time. How fortunate for Rafayel to catch you during your break while every other student is trapped in class lectures.

“There’s no use in dwelling upon what's already happened. Even sharks have to give up when their prey escapes. When you remember, it will be all the more joyous, no?”

The smile you give him is crooked, disbelieving.

“If I remember.”

“You’ll remember.” Because there’s no other choice, for you and for him. Rafayel cannot bear being shelved in the history of your smile and happiness. Waiting can only be endurable if there’s an endpoint.

+

In his studio, Rafayel begins his next painting.

+

iii. the berries tasted sweet, with an edge of sourness that clung to the bottom of the tongue. it had the exact shade of your eyes, a detail that rafayel brought up the moment he plucked it from the shrub. raising it to align with your eyes, comparing them with his artist's meticulous gaze. maybe when this is all over, i'll go back here again to extract ink from these berries, and paint a portrait of your highness using these to color your eyes. he never showed you any of his paintings, merely mentioned them in passing, and you constructed a dream of him from the throwaway words that left his covered lips. i'm not used to sitting for so long, you reminded him, and he glanced at you, then at the berry between his fingers. my memory is enough, then handed you the fruit.

+

In the few weeks of meeting with you Rafayel forgets that his visiting professorship is ending soon and he has to give out his last lecture. Thomas had asked him what his topic would be. At that point Rafayel had no answer. But now he has.

“I’ve been hearing you talk about Lemuria every now and then with your friends.” He props his cheek on his hand, tilting his head slightly and giving you a charming smile. “Interested?”

You blink. “How did you know?”

“Oh, I’ve seen you a couple of times here, and I happened to hear your friends chat about my lecture. Your points were almost accurate, I’m in awe.”

“The visiting professor—that’s you?!”

Rafayel pauses, the slosh of his drink nearly spilling on his frozen hand.

“You didn’t know?”

Sheepish, you say, “Honestly, I didn’t make the connection. Is that why plenty of people have been glaring at me as of late?”

He releases a frustrated sigh, eyes rolling heavenward.

“In any case, my final lecture is on Friday next week. It’s titled “Memory and Meaning in Lemurian Art”. Why don’t you drop by and listen, and you can tell me what you think afterwards.”

You retrieve your bullet journal to check your schedule. It’s colorful, filled with stickers and doodles that Rafayel finds endearing. Then the excited moue on your face drops into a frown, and Rafayel can foresee the next words that will come out of your downturned lips.

“I’m sorry,” you say guiltily, “but I have a major test that day, and I need to get a high score in order to pass the course.”

Rafayel exhales, long and weary, but ultimately shrugs off the apology. “What a shame, but I forgive you. Just don’t fail your exam or else my magnanimity would be all for nothing.”

+

He calls Thomas that night.

“I’ll disappear for a while once the professorship is over.”

“Hey, wait, what do you me—”

“You’ll be happy to know that this is for my next painting.”

A beat. “Okay … but for how long?”

“That’s the question, isn’t it?”

Then he hangs up.

+

He’s trying, he really does. The lecture ends to a resounding applause, and it’s mechanical how he answers the questions posed by the audience. But he’s trying, he’s trying. There’s no specter of you in the sea of faces in the auditorium. You’re at the other end of the university compound, sweating your way through your exam. He genuinely hopes you’d pass, for your sake.

Thomas had booked his flight to another country, where he’ll traverse to a land that he’d visited many times in his dreams and had woken up with a filmy, sweet-sour tang at the roof of his mouth. He’ll leave the morning after the closing dinner party the faculty has prepared for him. There isn’t time to pack much, and no time to tell you goodbye.

Rafayel guesses that it’s only fair: how would you feel waiting for him at that café, the chair across you empty, only the sunlight pooling from the window as your companion?

+

iv. parting, somebody once said, is such a sweet sorrow. much like those berries in that ever-green nation, a lingering sourness remained underneath, the sting of it reminding you every now and then. he was already mourned for even before he left. tell me what it's like—the ocean. he was elusive, untouchable in his grief. you'd heard through whispers, the story of his migration, the drowning before the drying, the unwanted journey. grief brought him to you and grief would steal him away from you, you knew, down to the cells of your body and the hopelessness in your blood. —and yet. and yet you wanted to have a taste of it, anyway.

+

The ever-green land is no longer green, or lush, or alive. Time corroded it into memory, sepia-faded, wizened. Past. The berries he’s searching for don’t grow here anymore. Everything here is empty, barren, helplessly so.

Rafayel hasn’t accounted for such development, but he should have known. Disappointment stings at his chest, and bitterly he turns away and stays at the next town over. At a family-run restaurant situated near the outskirts, he looks over the wide windows, across the highway road, beyond the jagged horizon. The painting won’t be finished, then. Another tragedy, pressed flat next to the forgetting, to the waiting, and his home.

The chef personally serves him his order and, after a shuffle of hesitation, brings up a question.

“Young man, you came from the direction of the old country, yeah?”

Rafayel meets his inquisitive gaze. “Yes, why?”

“It’s been a while since we had someone visiting that place. There’s nothing in there anymore, it’s been that way for years. Why did you go there?”

Rafayel is reluctant to say, but at the guileless set of the older man’s face, he concedes.

“I was looking for berries. The ones native there. They produce a shade that I need for my painting.”

At the mention of the fruit, the chef’s expression lights up. “Oh! I see, I see. You’re in luck, son. We grow them here at the farm. Plenty of those for everyone. How about I give you some? It’s rare meeting someone who still remembers the old country, it’s almost fate. How many did you say you need?”

Fate. Just like the time of your first meeting, as if the universe had gifted you to him. Just like the time of your parting, of your forgetting, of his waiting. Fate as a connection from you to him, red and burning brightly.

He doesn’t want to seem eager, but he knows he’s failed from the way the chef toothily grins at him.

“A hundred or so.”

The chef falters at that, jerking slightly back. But he accepts it with a nod, an avuncular smile making its way across his kind, powdery features.

“That sure is a huge number, but I think we can work something out.”

+

His painting takes a month to complete, inclusive of the time spent making the ink from the acquired berries. Sometimes, Thomas watches him paint, quiet in the background. His stays usually don’t last—a quick flash that Rafayel nearly misses, or deliberately ignores. But during the final stages of the painting process, Thomas hands him the exhibit details.

“I’m just thankful you’re on time for this one.” He sighs, relieved, then leaves.

Alone, Rafayel creates. Brushstroke after careful brushstroke, each varying by pressure and angle. He lets each layer of paint dry before moving onto the next. The berry ink—the color of your eyes—the solely different element of this painting. Center, central. The focal point. The beating heart. The years and years of waiting and longing. The form and the flesh. Alive.

This, too, is an endpoint.

+

v. can i see your face, just this once? your hands grazed his mask like a ghost wanting to touch. rafayel stayed still beneath your desirous fingers, observing, waiting, his own fingers twitching towards his dagger. even in the parting he could not let go of this distance. hopeless, hopeless. your highness would get nothing out of seeing my face. he's wrong, his eyes never left your face, and he's wrong. he didn't stop you from your grasping of his mask, and him—finally—bare and beautiful yet a little sad. you're wrong, you said, tracing his slightly parted lips with a trembling finger, you're wrong. it is everything to me.

+

The gallery is packed. No surprise there. It’s almost boring, in a way. Waiting, Missing hangs at the farthest hall in the floor, special and intimate as it should be. Thomas knows him well; otherwise, Rafayel would have whined at him to hell and back just so he could be granted this demand that is in reality a mandate.

He’s hiding from the throngs of journalists and art critics alike and sequesters himself in a corner that has a clear view of the painting. Loosening his collar and tie, Rafayel breathes and closes his eyes, leans tiredly against the wall. A few more minutes, and he’ll slink out of the building, reputation be damned.

He melts into the shadows whenever somebody passes by. He has neither time nor energy interacting with people today. Watching them through half-mast eyes, Rafayel stays in his secret place and studies with weightless detachment the people looking at the painting.

He’s made a bet with himself about the opinions of his followers and admirers. Who thinks what and why. It makes for great entertainment. The last time, a fresh-faced critic praised Rafayel’s technique as “innovative and a soul-rending reflection of the prodigy’s character.” He had laughed and laughed for hours until he couldn’t breathe any longer.

Another walks by, and before Rafayel retreats further into the corner, he glimpses a familiar gait and a familiar face.

His heartbeat races. He’s never told you that he’s holding an exhibit today. After the professorship Rafayel failed to maintain communication with you, convincing himself that it’s for the best that he protect you from afar that day onwards. It didn’t help that he had to leave as well. At the same time, you never made an effort of reaching out, and Rafayel thought that it was back to square one again, that waiting, that yearning.

But here you are right now, elegantly dressed, like someone gliding out of a dream. Rafayel swallows, his hands shake. You do not have someone else with you, and your eyes are brightly focused on Waiting, Missing, and for a fleeting moment your expression flickers into longing, strange and old and battered and sad, that it compels Rafayel to take a step forward—to you.

“Hey.”

The curious look vanishes; left no traces in your delighted face, as if it wasn’t there in the first place. “Rafayel!” you exclaim. “Long time no see! Congratulations on the exhibit; these are all beautiful.”

Outwardly he smirks, belying the torrential emotions he’s currently going through. He cants his head a little, works his charm on you. “Impressed? No need to hold back your compliments.”

Laughter, prismatic and crystalline. “Yes, yes. Especially this one—Waiting, Missing. What an interesting title. At the center, what paint did you use?”

Ah. Rafayel inhales before answering. “It’s actually ink. I had to make it from a hundred berries. It was a tedious process, but I wouldn’t use anything else. It has to be this, you see.”

“Whoa, no wonder you’d been radio silent all this time. You were creating this masterpiece.”

He hums, afraid that, if he speaks, he’d reveal too much.

“Well …” You throw a playful glance at him. “Shouldn’t we celebrate your success?”

His breath catches. “I—”

Before he manages to finish the sentence, a journalist calls out to him and that summons plenty more, swarming him with no chance of escape. It pushes you out of his peripheral vision, and Rafayel wants to shout your name, but you smile and gesture at him to entertain them first. You mouth, I’ll be back, and wander around other paintings some more.

When he finally succeeds in shaking the journalists off, he seeks you out and stumbles upon you near the exit, where there’s fewer people to pile on him.

“Excellent,” he says, sidling up beside you. You turn to him and smile, and there’s that lightning-flash of something again. For one unbelievably surreal instant, Rafayel thinks that despite your hazy memories, maybe you’d been waiting for him all this time, too.

And that thought emboldens him, moving closer and closer until your bodies almost touch. An asymptote of contact. But this time, he has mustered the courage to close that unbridgeable gap.

Rafayel offers you his hand. “Let’s get out of here?”

You stare at his hand then at his face, his eyes, and a meaningful moment stretches between you and him. But even before the idea of retracting enters his mind, you grab his hand joyfully, grinning ear to ear. His heart warms, full with everything.

You squeeze his hand, ready to go. “Lead the way, then!”

+

vi. a kiss is a greeting and a goodbye, and rafayel tasted of ferocious tides even if you'd seen them only in dreams. his eyes closed, as though savoring his last moments with you, guarded till the bitter end. would that i could ask you to stay—with me. but he shook his head—a final rejection. maybe in another life. there was nobody to watch you cry, in the after.

+

Rafayel is working on a new painting—a portrait this time. The model squirms on his couch, obvious about the discomfort of posing for too long. He huffs a laugh to himself, hidden by the canvas strategically placed between them.

“I heard that,” you grumble.

“Shush, you’re breaking my concentration.”

“If that already breaks your focus then I pity the rest of the art community.” A beat, then: “Is it done?”

“Patience, my dear muse. You need endure it a little more.”

“Hmph, fine. But after this you’re treating me to an all-you-can-eat buffet.”

“All right, all right.” He shakes his head, fond. “My muse, so demanding.”

Something sweet touches the edge of his tongue, succulent with a hint of tartness. Like longing. Except now, it’s layered with something new and exciting. Something like a new beginning.

In the far distance, the sea murmurs, lit fire by the setting sun.

#love and deepspace #love and deepspace fic #lad rafayel #lad qi yu #love and deepspace rafayel #love and deepspace qi yu #fic #my fic #rafayel x reader #qi yu x reader #lad rafayel x reader #lad qi yu x reader #love and deepspace x reader #love and deepspace spoilers #it's near midnight again i shall now sleep

[kiwisbell]

helen ; chapter five

be seeing you

Si vis pacem, para bellum. Or, the choice.

series masterlist | my masterlist pairing: joel miller x f!reader tags/warnings: 18+ (MDNI), john wick AU, hitman!joel, husband!joel, established relationship, artist!reader, love as worship, sacrilege in the name of romance, flashbacks, graphic violence, guns, blood + injuries, tess cameo, childhood/religious trauma, criminal underworld, secrecy/lies, betrayal, ANGST, bamf miller bros, smut, fingering, joel is an emotional munch, shower sex, unprotected PIV, handjob, male whimpering, conflicting emotions, orgasms aplenty, Big Angst and Big Sad but also Big Epiphanies, ambiguous ending, i'm getting emotional writing these tags, it feels so final, the typical alcohol/smoking/profanity, dividers by @/saradika word count: ~ 9.3k a/n: hi, friends. i can't believe we're already at the end of the main story, and tbh if i think about it too much i'll probably cry. i want to thank @cavillscurls for beta reading this chapter as always and giving me the guidance and support i need. we'll have an epilogue after this chapter, so there's still more to look forward to, but nonetheless, i hope you enjoy and thank you so so much for reading. xoxo prev | next

Her eyes are so sad, you think, stepping back to take in the full scope of the canvas. It’s doused in paint from corner to corner, still wet to the touch, the woman and her lover intertwined so thoroughly that it’s difficult to tell where they both end. It’s in shades of glum blue and flecks of angry red and brown where his eye watches you. But it’s her eyes that cannot lift to meet yours. It’s her lashes that fan across her cheeks as she casts her gaze toward the bottom edge where the canvas is wrapped taut around the wood. 

The sun will soon rise, but you haven’t slept. The contours of the sky are washed in a haze of greys and pale blues and light pink and the air smells warm, heavy—a storm about to roll in. The clouds on the horizon are thick with a blackening rage. You sit in the alcove by the window and put your temple to the cool glass. You yawn. Joel does not come back.

“Do you think it's true,” you asked him one night, your head on his chest, hand on his heart, “that art makes nothing happen?”

Joel, drawing shapes on your back, dozing off in the golden light of the sunrise, frowned. “Someone tell you that?”

“It's something my art teacher used to say,” you told him. “No matter how much it moves people, it doesn't do anything.”

“Your art teacher sounds like a fuckin’ downer.”

You laughed, hiking your thigh up over his hip and playfully biting his jaw. “So it's bullshit?”

“I think,” said Joel, tucking his chin to kiss the top of your head, “that your art makes people feel. It brings ‘em together. It's important because it's yours.”

You propped your head up on his chest and threaded your fingers through his too-long hair, overdue for a trim. A curl draped over his forehead, his beard patchy and soft under the pads of your fingers. “Sometimes I wonder why you chose me,” you said. “I wonder why the universe brought you to me.”

Joel shook his head, guiding his rough, callused fingers up your arm, curling them around your wrist, gently prodding your veins. “Wasn't the universe,” he said quietly. “Wasn’t a choice. I was yours the second I saw you. So, I guess it's your fault.”

You just rolled your eyes and kissed him, mouth to smiling mouth. 

Your paintings may be yours, made with life and energy and colour, but when they are finished, they don’t move. They are stagnant as a heavy rock beneath a cliffside, washed over and over again by the cresting waves, its salt stolen for the water, eternal damnation to a fate of non-movement. And sometimes an artist will walk under the cliff, shove their easel into the fleshy ground the way a man erects his country’s flag in the earth he has stolen, and paint the rock. The artist is moved by the breathtaking colours of the shore and the way the wind flutters through the grass. But the rock does not budge. It never will. 

Your art will never erupt from the boundaries of the canvas and tell you what it means. The lovers in your painting will not tear open their mouths like the seams holding a wound together. They will not tell you what they want, need, crave. They are you, and that is what you hate—because dimpled flesh and lustful fingers and the press of his mouth to her throat cannot tell you what you’re supposed to do. 

You had become complacent in his love for you. You had let him press his worn hands to your body and pull your soul out through his mouth and you had been a wife, while all the time there was a stranger who occupied his heart, a spirit in an abandoned body. All the time, he'd been haunted. And although you had loved him, your love had not been enough to exorcise the guilt and trauma, pecking at him, an eagle at his liver. 

Crossing the room and sitting back down in front of the easel, you press your fingers to the corner of the canvas. The paint is cool to the touch, and you leave behind fingerprints where your signature should be. Pulling your hand back, you examine the accumulation of colour, the blues and reds swirling into the deep purple of a bruise, the bodies on a canvas that may only ever mean something to you, and you wonder, Is this all I am? A cautionary tale, a love lost? A fucking footnote at the end of a clause that reads: “See, for example, the one who never loved deeply enough to make it count”?

You bring your hand to your face to wipe away the tears beneath your eyes and blink hard at the sting, realising you’ve smeared paint across your cheekbones. 

In the bathroom, you scrub furiously, the cloying scent of it clinging to your throat and your tear ducts, washing away the evidence of their entwined bodies, their love, your pain. 

Once, you tried to get Joel to paint. You sat behind him on your bench, your legs bracketing his hips, your paintbrush in his hand. 

“I don’t know where to start,” he said.

Your lips brushed the shell of his ear as you spoke. “There’s no rulebook.”

He tried to turn his head and kiss you, but you nipped his ear in reproach. “Remember when you took me out driving at the airstrip because you wanted me to feel the road? Think of this like feeling the canvas. Go on, cowboy. Make nothing happen.”

Joel’s painting still hangs over your shared bed. The intruders never found it, or never cared enough to destroy it. It’s a candle, just a candle, its lines imprecise, the paint unevenly applied in places, the shine of the flame more orange than yellow. But it’s a painting, so the candle always burns. He titled it Love. 

The pain still sits low in your chest, pulling down your heart as if tied to it by a string. But Joel is still out there, fighting his way back to you, the way he always has, always will. You look down at your left hand, clutching the edge of the marble vanity, and decide to clean your wedding ring. 

“I’m sorry, brother,” says Tommy, turning the gun on Joel. 

“What the fuck are you doing?” growls Joel, struggling against his bonds. The clip rattles faintly in his brother’s hand as a tremor courses through him. 

“He’s following my orders,” says Cabrera, clapping his hand down on Tommy’s shoulder. “Fascinating what a man will do when he must consider his family’s well-being.”

Joel sucks on his teeth, his eyes not once leaving his brother. 

“It's my son,” Tommy says through his teeth. “It's Maria. If I don't do this—”

“Yeah? You gonna kill me, Tommy? Is that why your hand’s shakin’?”

“Shut your goddamn mouth,” his brother snaps. “You think I want to do this? I gotta save my family, Joel. You know what that's like.”

“All I’ve done for you,” says Joel, his hands curling into fists behind his back, “and you put a bullet in my head?”

“Not just your head, Joel,” says Cabrera. “When we're done with you, we’ll take your pretty girl as payment for my son’s life.”

Joel growls like a dog, blood roaring in his ears. “Kill me yourself, you goddamned coward. Kill me yourself and don’t you mention my wife again, or I swear to Christ—”

“You take His name in vain a lot for a nonbeliever,” says Cabrera, pulling his sleeves through his coat and setting his teeth as he looks toward Tommy once more. “Do it.”

“Yeah, brother,” Joel says darkly, “do it.”

Tommy nods once, planting his foot and pivoting. Five distinct sounds of handguns cocking echo throughout the warehouse as Tommy points the barrel between Manuel Cabrera’s eyes.

“Now that I’ve got a gun to your head,” he says evenly, “you can go ahead and pull that contract.”

Joel at last twists his wrists free of the ropes that bind them and shucks down the sleeves of his jacket to rub the raw skin. Not one soul does a goddamn thing to stop him as he rises to his feet. His chest heaves, his open lungs coarse and wet with a brittle rage, his exposed heart throbbing red, transparent as the stained glass windows of the church.

God does not tolerate anger, said the Sisters, again and again, bringing down the whip across his back. Sinew and bone and skin peeling back to lay bare some tender part of him they sought to rot out. Put your energy into His worship.

Slowly, Cabrera lifts his hands, sneering. “Your wife,” he warns, “and your unborn son—”

“Are family,” says Tommy. “Just like my brother. Now tell your guys to put down their guns and I won't kill you where you stand.”

Joel joins Tommy at his side. “Took you long enough,” he says under his breath. 

“Got held up,” he says. “Your wife’s a good artist.”

“Yeah, whatever. You bring me a gun?”

“I’m sure you can find one yourself.”

“Jesus, Tommy. I’m too old for this.” Joel turns to Cabrera and glares at the same stubborn arrogance that once gleamed in his son’s eye. “You pull the contract, and I’ll leave for good.”

Cabrera’s laugh weans out in the air like rings of smoke. “You think you can really leave, Joel? You think that there won't be consequences for what you've done to my son?”

“Yeah,” says Joel, “I think I’ll take my chances.”

“And you?” Cabrera’s lip curls up at Tommy, whose gun no longer wavers in his grasp. “I promised your wife and child security. You’re willing to throw that away?”

“My wife and child are safe because I don’t take deals from men like you,” says Tommy. “You trusted a Miller to turn on his own blood, Manuel. That was stupid. Now pull the contract.”

“So this is your great suicide mission.” Cabrera smiles, a man who knows he has lost or a man who still expects not to. “A man who has seen Hell does not willingly descend back into its depths—not unless he likes the taste.”

Joel feels the corner of his mouth twitch, a wound on his cheek reopening. “Maybe I do,” he says plainly. “Maybe it’ll taste even better when I take you down with me.”

The gleam in Cabrera’s eye shifts as his gaze flickers behind Tommy. Night has since descended, and yet the predator’s eye glints in anticipation of the hunt. Joel turns and shoves his brother out of the way—just as the shot rings out. 

He hears Tommy’s breath punch out of him as they both hit the concrete hard. Joel tears the handgun from his brother’s grasp and puts a bullet between each of the two men behind them. He rolls behind one of the hulking bodies and holds up his weight as a shield against the incoming bullets. Tommy takes the dead man’s gun and fires at the remaining three assailants. Only one shot misses, but Joel sends his brother a look anyway and finishes the job. 

“Rusty,” grunts Tommy, pushing himself to his feet. 

Joel grimaces as he accepts his brother’s outstretched hand, his wrists bleeding from the relentless rub of the ropes. “He ran,” he says, grinding his teeth. “Goddamn coward. Just like his son.”

“Yeah, you’re welcome, by the way,” says Tommy, giving Joel the dead man’s gun and snatching back his own. “Saved your ass.”

“And he got away.” Joel kicks his chair, and the clattering echo of metal reverberates like a choir off the cavernous walls. His hands flex, open, closed, open, closed, until they make tight fists and he can see nothing but red and the silver moon mocking him through the broken windows high above. 

“Joel…”

For a moment, he hears the young boy his brother once was, whispering across their shared bedroom to him in the middle of the night when they were both meant to be asleep. 

Joel… Are we going to be okay?

“I gotta finish it, Tommy,” he says quietly, his hands shaking loose. Parts of him bite and sting, touched by new and old wounds alike, and he wants to come crawling home to you. He wants to curl into your side and wash away the blood in your cleansing pool, daisy and honeysuckle, some faraway field where you are the warden, where he knocks on the door to be let in, to be gathered, covered in white, buried, unearthed. 

“Was he right?” asks Tommy. “Do you… enjoy this?”

Joel casts his eyes toward the ground, his trembling hand, the gleaming band on his ring finger, his skin speckled with blood but the metal pristine. “I don’t know,” he says. 

This is who you are, Cabrera would tell him. The Sisters: Your place is here, under God, under His word. And God Himself, silent as the air, the ringing in his ears only ever quieted by the soft brush of your knuckle across his cheek, the whisper of My Joel in his ear. 

“Think hard on it,” says Tommy, “because you may like it, but you’ve gotta consider if your revenge is worth more than what you’ve already got. And if you choose wrong, Joel, you’re gonna lose no matter what.”

A figure leans stone-still against the wall by the hotel room door, the gleam of a blade in the soft light the only indication that it is not a mere shadow. 

“Hey, kid,” says the apparition. 

Joel nods in greeting. “Tess. Could get in trouble with that knife out in the open.”

“You expect me to keep your girl safe with just my fists?”

“You make it sound like you couldn’t.” Tess snorts, and Joel places fifteen gold coins in her waiting palm. “I appreciate you doing this.”

Tess peels away from the wall. “You and your brother are paying me good money to babysit a door. I think I can live without the thanks.”

“Still,” he says, “you did us a solid.”

Tess, who itches at the prospect of gratitude as much as any other gun-for-hire, shrugs. “Everyone’s saying you’re coming back. That true?”

“Just visiting,” says Joel. “On my way out soon.”

Tess flips one of the coins and turns it over and over across her knuckles, evidence of a restless energy that’s always made Joel’s eye twitch. “One way or another, huh?” she says.

“One way or another.” He shakes her hand and watches her retreat down the hall, still twirling the godforsaken coin, before he turns toward the door. Joel presses his forehead briefly to the cool wood and turns the key to seek the field that awaits him.

A key rustles in the door and Joel steps through, closing it gently behind him. Judging by the quiet click of the lock, he expects you to be asleep, but you jolt upright from your seat in the alcove and cross the room toward him.

He meets you halfway, his right hand flexing at his side. You inspect him: the gash on his cheek, the bruise on his jaw, the blood splattered on his white shirt. He makes no footfalls as he walks but you can hear every stride like thunder between your ears. You feel his hand at the back of your neck, cool from the night air, rough as the underside of a shark’s belly.

The moment coils taut between you as your hand reaches up to grab the lapel of his jacket, and he smells of iron, cologne, Joel, some paint. Maybe that smell is you, stuck underneath your fingernails, embedded in your blood. Maybe this is a mistake, maybe you could never help but fall, maybe it never mattered anyway, and you’re already snipping the final thread, unwinding the spool, and kissing Joel Miller like it’s the first time. 

He let out a small groan, tasting the first drop of water in a drought, steadying you with his arm around your waist, his hand cradling your head. He’s gentle, exploratory, careful not to jostle, to shock you out of it. You feel his heartbeat thud, strong, calm, steady behind his clothing and skin and muscle, and your body caves.

It’s coming home, you realise, your arms snaking around his neck, fingers tousling the messy curls on his head. It's the warm press of his hand to your spine where it begins to curve inward. It's a soft mouth, a plush lower lip, made for slow mornings and black coffee, for the aching release of a thumb pressing deep into a muscle knot, a wound. Old aches soothed in the space where bodies meet, beginning to colour the slate-grey world. 

It’s the exchange of gasping breaths when you pull apart, his mouth still vaguely chasing yours, opposite charge. 

You hold him tighter, swallowing the lump in your throat, your hands squeezing his shoulders. "Are you…"

Joel inclines his head. "Yeah."

"Did he..."

"Yeah."

Need pulses. Supernova. Bright as the moment of obliteration. "Can you—"

He nods vigorously. "Yeah."

Joel’s kisses are like raindrops: velvet-soft to the touch—his hands bringing the hem of your shirt up over your head, his fingertips scorching, branding, grazing the supple swells of your breasts—before the crescendo roars in your ears and he loses himself to the storm. He always does. 

There is nothing reserved about the way he shows his love. Lightning crackles across your skin where he touches you, baring you to him, his lips making a map of you, mouthing at your jaw, your throat. You hear yourself hum at the press of his lips to the spot beneath your ear, detaching from your own body, absconding with the pleasure of being close to him and leaving the fucking world behind. 

Joel staggers forward so he can press you to the wall and begins to sink to his knees. Your breath catches as he pulls down your ratty bottoms, your cotton panties, his mouth burning into your hips and your belly and the ring on your finger. 

“Joel,” you say brokenly as he clutches your fingers. Tears prickle, pressure building behind your nose, and he shakes his head, unfurling your palm like a bud in bloom and kissing its heel. Wordlessly, you watch him, your eyes shuttering, blood singing. 

Don't hurt me again. 

He understands even though the words cannot come alive on your tongue. He squeezes your hips, his thumbs dumpling your flesh, his forehead falling to your belly. 

“I’m yours,” he says. “I’m whatever you want.”

Your legs haven't forgotten the way they part so easily for him, one thigh on his shoulder, opening the core of you to his waiting mouth. His lips part, his tongue wetting them, glistening, and your stomach tightens at the sight of his eyes so black. 

You could easily cower. His hands are stained with blood. His knuckles are split. But your terror has become an arid thing, no kindling to burn, no oil to ignite. Watching him now, as eager to please as he always has been or maybe more so, on his knees like a supplicant, the hairs on your arms do not rise in apprehension. Your body does not squirm in fear. You see a broad horizon, the sun outside spilling its golden blood over the city, and you see all of him in a way you never did before. 

He’s Joel, who grew up in darkness, lashed and beaten for not believing in a false god. He’s a man who has lied and killed and yet he is no liar, no killer. He holds you as he always has, your body liquid in his hands, your mouth proclaiming the word he will follow. You're the truth he's always told. 

It still unsettles you to see the dark eclipse that warm brown, to watch his desire consume the hypnotic shapes in his irises, and wonder if that cavernous black was the last thing so many men saw before he snuffed out their lives. But there's nothing of the death shudder in the way you guide your fingers through his hair and beg him—

“Please.”

He brings his mouth to your core and parts your folds with his thumbs, slowly gliding his warm, wet tongue through your slit. You die a hundred little deaths in the split-second of that first touch, that first agony.

You sigh, your head thudding against the wall as he licks through you, his hands holding your hips in place, keeping you from writhing. Joel flicks his tongue over the sensitive pearl of your clit, the pleasure searing, and you tug at his curls to push him away even as you cry out, More, please, please. God, I need more.

He obeys you as easily as breathing, though you suspect he can barely hear your pleas, opening his mouth and flattening his hot tongue to your clit. You gasp, your core pulling taut, your eyes locking with his as the muscle undulates over, over, and over again. 

“Oh,” you whimper, your hips bucking to meet his face. He groans, his mouth working your clit, closing his lips over it and sucking. You cry out, your leg kicking, the sounds of the world muffled in his stifling closeness. Your thighs begin to ache, tensing and relaxing a hundred times over in the throes of his attention. 

And his fingers are gliding across your hip, seeking the warmth between your legs. You gasp his name, your hips flexing, as he collects your wetness on two fingers. 

“Let me in, baby,” he says softly, pressing a kiss to your puffy clit. It relaxes you enough to welcome the press of his fingers inside you, sinking to the knuckle, curling up against the spot he would know in his sleep. 

You whine, your body keening toward him, tugging his face back toward your pussy. He obliges with a quiet moan, and you think he needs this just as badly. 

The obscene squelch of his fingers inside you rings in your ears as he licks and sucks at your clit, his free hand grabbing desperately at your ass to keep you fixed to him. You’re crying, “Yesyesyes, Joel, please—fuck, that's it,” the pleasure stuck in the grooves of your brain. Absentmindedly, you reach for his hand and clasp it tight, your engagement ring digging into his palm. He holds you with the same fervour as he coaxes you higher, his face buried in your pussy. He grunts and groans like it's his own pleasure he seeks, his battered knuckles stinging. 

“Joel… Joel, oh, I’m…”

He knows, of course, from the telltale squeeze of your thighs around his head, the relentless crushing of his fingers in your own, your body tightening for him, cavitating, unwinding—

You come with a shout, your throat raw, writhing in his grasp as he keeps sucking, keeps licking, rubbing, pressing. You're dizzy by the time your head lolls to the side, your muscles twitching, eyes glazed, and Joel is there, pulling his fingers out just to place them on his tongue and swallow you down. 

Your breath rattles through your lungs. Joel presses his lips to your inner thigh, beard soaked in your arousal, moustache glistening. His mouth soothes your sore muscles and your eyes begin to droop. 

“You need a shower,” you say, your tongue like lead in your mouth. You gently pass your thumb over a cut on his cheek and frown. “You're all bloody.”

He nuzzles his face against your thigh, inhaling you. “I know.”

“You were gone so long.” Your voice quivers, pressure prickling behind the bridge of your nose. “I thought…”

Joel rises to his feet, his hands cradling your face. “I’m all right,” he says. “I’m here, and I’m safe, and I’m so goddamn sorry.”

You shake your head, pressing your lips together so the sob will not escape. Tracing his face with your fingers, broken in places, healing in others, you see the echo of a boy who didn't know his place in the world. You see the haunt of days gone by. A ghost still occupies the cage of his ribs. 

“I think you should tell the little boy that still lives here,” you say, putting your hand on his chest. “Tell him he’s alive. Tell him that he made it.”

Joel lowers his head, watching the way your fingers splay over his heart. He puts his hand on yours and pushes, and you feel the strong thump-thump-thump of his heartbeat. 

“He knows.”

You lean forward and put your mouth to his temple. “Shower, Joel,” comes your whisper in his ear. 

He nods, wrapping his arm around your waist and guiding you into the bathroom. The water hits you both true, scalding, the drain circled with red. He’s naked, his back to you as he sets his hair and lets his wounds bleed what they need to. 

You lift your hands and trail them down his broad shoulders, your forehead dropping between his shoulder blades where your name is inked into his back. Joel’s muscles idly flex, his palm flat against the shower wall. His body shudders when you press your lips to the name on his back. 

Wordlessly, you bring your arms around him, caressing his side, careful of the new bruises. Your other hand drops to his steel-hard cock and you begin to slowly stroke him. The noise that wrenches free from his throat is half pleasure, half agony, his hips bucking into your fist. You bump your nose against his back, your years-old sign to Just relax, and Joel hides his face in his bicep as you work your hand over him.

“G—fuck,” he grunts. “Goddamn… honey, I—”

You squeeze him at the base and twist your hand up and down the length of him, the weight warm and heavy, your thumb coaxing out a bead of precum. Your cheek is warm on his back, your arm struggling to reach around the width of him, your chest humming at the sound of his gruff moans. 

“Let me…” He cuts himself off as you speed up your strokes, and you can feel his abdomen tense. “Fuck, let me make you feel good. Shit… let me…”

“Joel,” you say, “for once, stop trying to be my hero.”

His head falls back and you press your lips to his throat, nibbling the sensitive spot behind his ear: the old scar, that tiny circle, that hairless patch. He groans your name, and you’re smiling despite yourself, your mouth curling against his warm, tender skin. 

“Inside me,” you whisper, the pace of your fingers over his length slowing to a crawl. “Remind me how it feels.”

He turns his head to look into your eyes, his lashes dewy, blinking hard to flick away the water, brow furrowed. His moustache bristles as his lips part in a question he does not (or maybe cannot) articulate, and you’re fractured into pieces by the intricate curve of his nose, the freckles on his jaw, the silver strands in his beard. A rough hand cups the back of your neck and another takes you by the waist, and you’re flattened to the wall, your hand braced on the glass next to you as he kisses you deeply. 

Consuming, heady, warm—you give in, your hands avoiding the delicate skin of his wrists where he’s been bound, helpless. Sighing softly into his mouth, you let his kiss humble the part of you that still needs the walls you’ve built from the marrow of your anger. It circles the drain, lead-filled paint, as you remember under his hands how it feels to live.

You reach between your bodies, your leg wrapping around his waist, and slide the head of his cock through your weeping slit. Joel sucks in air through his teeth, the water lashing his back like a whip, and he surges forward, grasping you by the waist and sinking his cock into your tight hole. 

You cry out his name, burying your face in his throat and baring your teeth. Your name leaves his mouth in kind, an apparition, sounds you barely recognise anymore. As you take him inside you, the memory of who you were with him pounds at your ribcage, begging to be let out. And you covet them, selfish as you are now for fucking him this way, needy and impatient, your fingers tugging his wet locks. 

You see no point in scooping out the marrow; there is still sweetness stuck to the bones of your old life with him. Instead, you coat your teeth in this, the slow drag of his cock, the depths he reaches so easily, so knowingly. His fingers prod the bruised flesh of your hurt and yet you still guide him inside. You still pull his hair and kiss his throat where his Adam’s apple bobs and you still let him hold you close enough to splinter. 

He’s grabbing fistfuls of your ass and sucking on your throat, his thrusts sloppy as he tries to hold back, to make you come first, but you tighten, clenching down on him, making his groans pitch up into whines. 

“Joel,” you gasp, your needy fingers prickling his scalp where you pull his hair. His teeth graze your throat and you want him to bite, you want him to sink in deep, you want his jaws to latch onto your skin. You want him never to leave again. 

He comes hard. His hips buck, pushing so deep he disappears into your body, and you see the blues, browns, reds of your painting as he empties all he has left inside you. 

Panting, he drops his head to your breast, his open mouth still scattering weak, worn kisses over your skin. Your lungs expand under his palms, fingers stuck in the grooves between your ribs, his body an offshoot of yours, not the other way around. In the ringing afterlife of your pleasure, you vaguely feel him mouthing words you cannot hear. You run your fingers through his hair and enjoy the battering of the scorching water as it melts you both into one.

Later, in the sticky, humid silence of the bathroom, steam still swirling around your heads, fogging the glass, you trim Joel’s hair.

"Do you ever get scared?" you ask him, the shhhick of the scissors gliding across a chunk of his hair. "Do you ever go out on a job and think to yourself, What if I slip? What if this is it?"

Joel huffs. "It's not so much about myself as making sure the other guy goes down first."

“I think I’d be scared.” You twirl a lock of hair around your finger and let it fall over his forehead. “I don’t think I’d be able to look into someone’s eyes and take their life.”

He casts his eyes to his lap, flicking off some hair from his thigh. “One time, I thought it was over. I wasn’t quite seventeen yet, runnin’ drugs for some gangster. He sent me to El Sauzal to discreetly transport a couple kilos out of the city; someone had snitched and he didn’t want any rival gangs to find his stash. But the people there, they… They didn’t know any better. There were mothers, kids. Innocent people, y’know? Just strays. I decided I’d come back for ‘em.”

Your stomach twists. “What happened?”

A muscle in his jaw ticks. “I was too late. By the time I got back, the whole goddamn city was on fire. The people were either dead in the streets or close to it. They didn’t do anythin’ wrong. They didn’t ask for any of it. But they were weaker, slower. I couldn’t walk ten feet without seein’ some kid wrapped up his mother’s arms, burned to a fucking crisp. So, I came back with weapons, marched into the gang’s territory, and I killed ‘em all.”

Days ago, you’d be afraid of the man whose back warms your belly where you stand just behind him. You would hesitate to reach out and put your hand on his shoulder the way you do now. But you curl your fingers over the muscled curve of his arm and his head falls back against you, spidering open, his gooey molten centre bared for you.

Joel. Just Joel. 

“Did you see the painting?” you ask him quietly. 

“I see everything you do,” he says. “It's beautiful, baby.”

You drop your gaze from his face in the mirror and set down the scissors on the vanity. “I can't pretend to understand what you've been through, Joel, and that makes things even harder. All I've ever wanted is to love you, to take your pain, and all this time there's been so much I never even knew about. And I’m sorry.”

Joel’s hand comes to cover yours, clasping your fingers. They’re warm, rough, but you do not sense the phantom blood. “If I’d told you from the beginning,” he says, “maybe I never would've hurt you in the first place. All those years I thought I was protecting you from myself, I was hurting you—the one thing I swore I would never fuckin’ do.”

“Joel…”

“Baby, don't apologise to me,” he says firmly, putting his lips to your knuckles. “Never apologise to me. And don't you let me off easy.”

“Have I ever?” you say with a halfhearted smile. 

“Yeah,” he says, “the day you let me marry you.”

You scoff. “Oh, please. Wedding planning was hell on earth for you.”

“Just because I didn't like the photographer—”

“You didn't not like the photographer, Joel. You wanted to draw and quarter the photographer.” 

He huffs like an angry dog, frowning at you in the mirror. “He kept puttin’ his goddamn hands on you.”

You laugh, brushing your thumb over the patch in his beard to indicate you're finished. “He was posing us, cowboy.”

Joel rises to his feet and closes the scissors away inside the drawer. “Posin’ you, sure.”

“He was afraid to touch you. Probably thought you’d take off his hand. And the pictures turned out great.”

“Yeah,” he says, a smirk twitching at the corner of his mouth. “Way the sunlight caught in your hair, your eyes… I don't know. Beautiful.”

He was so shy the first time you kissed him. Cheeks flushed, eyes cast toward the ground, the wind ruffling his curls where it blew over the water. He was made in an artist’s image, you thought that night, the details pored over like paperwork, the sparkle in his eyes something the painter covets. But the portrait has never wilted in the years you've known him. It's grown older, sure, but it is not old. He's still shy sometimes; he still looks down when he smiles, and he still turns his cheek when you tell him he's beautiful. 

“Do you…” He rubs his palms over his thighs, looking up at you through his lashes. “Do you wish you could go back?”

It's your turn to sit. You drop into his chair, your arms curling over the back of the seat, and watch him on his journey to his knees. “I don't know, Joel,” you tell him. “I think about that day and part of me wants the magic of it back. I want the breeze and the sun and the white canopy and I want you sliding this ring on my finger. But knowing what I know now…”

“You wouldn't have married me,” he says like it's the only answer. His eyes are wet and sad and they sparkle so bright in the day. 

“I wish I’d known,” you say plainly, bringing his hand to your cheek and resting it over the cool wedding band. “I wish you would have told me everything. I wish you didn't make me question your love, even for a second. I wish you could have spared me all this anger I have—all this pain.”

He’s stone-still, a figure in a portrait, and you brush your fingers across his cheek. “But killing isn't what you are, Joel. It’s what you do. And I’m so tired of being angry.”

You say it fiercely, your tongue sticking to the roof of your mouth, your throat tightening. You swipe your thumbs under your eyes and meet your husband’s eye. “I love you more than my anger and my hurt have room for. And if I can love you this hard, if I can feel all this pain and still be that same girl who fell for the guy from the restaurant, then I can let myself get hurt all over again.”

Joel shakes his head, cupping your face in his hands as his eyes brim with tears. “Oh, baby…” 

“I know it's never been an easy marriage,” you say, your voice breaking, “and I’m always travelling, and I know that I can get snippy and we bicker, but I wouldn't go back to that day, Joel, because I wouldn't change anything. Even if I have to feel all of this again, I wouldn't take it all back.”

His inhale shudders through him and your heart lurches out of your chest. “I don’t deserve that,” he whispers, his thumb stroking your cheek, catching a tear that falls. “I’ve hurt you too much to ever be worthy of what you've given me, sweetheart. I ain't a good man, or even a decent one. But fuck, if I can be good for you, I’ll pray to whatever God they want me to. I’ll scrape my knees and put my hands together and fake it ‘til I’m someone you want. I swear it, baby.”

“Joel.” You gently pry his hands away. “The life you've lived, the things you've been through… I can't change any of it. I can't be what you need all the time, and fuck, I want to be. I do, Joel. But this life is something you have to figure out yourself. Nobody should force you to believe in something that's only ever caused you pain.”

He never told you about the tattoo; you had to find it yourself. Shucking the hem of his shirt up over his head, two weeks separating the last time you’d been able to indulge in his body, you trailed your fingers up his back and paused at the sound of him hissing through his teeth. 

“Easy, cowboy,” you cooed. “Are you all right?”

Wordlessly, he turned, taking your hand and lifting it to the reddish skin around the black ink. You gasped, your fingers jolting backward as if struck by a feeler of lightning. 

“Joel,” you said tremulously, “please don't tell me you were drunk and this was an impulse decision.”

“Guys in the Marines would get tattoos that meant somethin’ to them. Easier to carry around with you when you're away.” Joel met your gaze again, your tearful eyes, and brought your knuckles to his mouth. “Tell me you want it gone, and it's gone.”

You shook your head, a laugh snaking past the lump in your throat. “Selfishly, I think it’s very sexy.”

He chuckled, kissing the breath from your lungs. 

The memory is heavy in your stomach. It's something you'll have to roll around in your mouth a thousand times before the taste begins to dissolve. 

“I need time, Joel,” you tell him. “I need to wrap my head around things. I… I can't be the girl you want right now.”

Joel brushes his thumb over your chin. “You have always been the girl I want,” he says. “If you need time, you have it. If you need a warm body, you have it. I’m whoever you want me to be. And if it ain't a husband, then… then that's okay. But I can’t promise you that I won't stop tryin’ to get my wife back. That’s not who I am.”

You sniffle, twirling the ring on his finger. “You’ll get sick of it. The waiting.”

He smiles so softly that you can feel a bud begin to bloom in the core of you, nourished by the way he keeps his hand on your thigh, absently rubbing the sore muscles there.  “I waited my whole life for someone like you to come along—someone who could give me the purpose I’d been lookin’ for. I can wait another lifetime. I can wait a thousand.” 

“You’ll resent me. You’ll start to hate me.” You don't know why it comes pouring out of you, but the gates are brittle wood and they snapped in the torrent. “I’m an angry drunk. I smell like paint half the time. I travel for work.”

Joel just studies your face, some inexplicable calm etching out the agony. “You take your coffee with milk and sugar and you can't stand it black, but you make it that way for me anyway. You sleep until noon when you're jet lagged and I sit up in bed just to watch you dream. You lie in my arms on the couch at home and ask me about my day even when you're noddin’ off. You dreamed about love when you were a little girl, the way it happens in books. You told me in your wedding vows that you'd found it with me. You think I could resent a girl like that?”

He smiles like it hurts and heals all at once, like it's a foregone conclusion, like you were meant to be loved by him. 

“Time doesn't mean a goddamn thing. I know the girl I see in front of me now. Time won't change how much I love her.”

Flipping through the list of potential venues, Joel tucked into your side, you said, “We’ll have an outdoor ceremony. No churches.”

“Baby, I won't burst into flames if I step inside a church.” Joel playfully flicked his tongue over your nipple, obscured by his T-shirt. “Tommy, on the other hand… things he's done…”

You laughed, gently pushing at his head. “No churches,” you said again. “I don't care how much more we’ll have to pay or travel to get around it. You're my husband. You're my comfort, and I want to be what's comfortable for you. Understood?”

He looked up at you, his lips parted as if on the precipice of speech. You beamed, bringing his face to yours and kissing him deeply. 

“But if the wind knocks over the gazebo, you're not getting your dick inside me on our wedding night,” you said against his mouth. Joel shook his head, yanking you on top of him and tearing the shirt from your body. Your binder landed with a flutter of loose pages to the floor. 

“You didn't kill Cabrera.”

Joel lowers his eyes. “No. He got away.”

“So there's still a contract on your head.”

“For now.”

“So,” you say with a sigh, crossing the room and digging through your bag, “you have to go.”

“I have to go,” he echoes, following you like a shadow. “No matter what… I’m finishing it. Tonight.”

You pull the switchblade from your bag, open Joel’s fist, and place the cool wood hilt in his palm. 

“Goddammit, Tommy,” he says under his breath. “He shouldn't have…”

“But he did,” you say. “He said I should be the one to have it. I think it should be yours.”

He curls his fingers over the hilt and flicks open the blade. It's light, but it seems to weigh him down. You rest your hand over his. 

“Do what you need to do.”

He drops his forehead to yours and closes his eyes, soaking in this final breath exchanged between your silent bodies, dipping his fingers in the sanctified waters and coming out unscalded. 

Bill calls Joel not a moment after he steps onto the street outside the Continental. 

“That's a heavy price on your head.”

“Yeah, Bill, I know.” He breathes in the cool air, like cigarette smoke, his nostrils stinging. Trash and a new, fresh breeze carried into the city. Nothing that stays here ever thrives. “Stayed alive so far.”

“So I hear,” grunts the Manager, “and leaving behind a hell of a lot of cleanup.”

“I won't stick you with the check,” says Joel. “It's my business.”

“I don't conduct business inside this hotel,” says Bill, “which is why I won't tell you that a certain helicopter at a certain helipad is refuelling as we speak.”

Joel smirks, flicking out his cuff to check the time. “Any reason why you aren't tellin’ me this?”

“I like you, Joel. Despite myself.” 

Silent, he waits for more. 

“Besides,” Bill continues, “we live and die by honour. And you've saved my ass more than once.”

Joel snorts. “Which time are you thankin’ me for?”

“Just take my goddamn advice and leave this world. For good this time.”

“I will,” says Joel. “One way or another. Thanks, Bill.”

High above the ground, sitting in the alcove by the window, you watch storm clouds gather over the city, darkening the sky, the sun, and your Joel, so far away, slouching calmly toward whatever end he will choose. 

It's raining. 

The first time you kissed him, a downpour suddenly swept up the both of you and you'd scrambled underneath a bridge by the water. You both laughed until your ribs were sore, holding hands as you ran, a soaking wet playbill above each of your heads for cover. 

“At least the show was good,” you shouted over the roar of the rainfall. 

Joel was mesmerised into stillness by the colours of the traffic lights in your eyes, how they shifted over the planes of your face. Starting to think like an artist, you'd tease, and he'd lean into it, a planet circling its sun. 

“It was all right,” he said, taking the playbill from your hand. “You could catch a cold. We should get a cab.”

“Always my hero.” You grinned up at him, your eyes scanning his face in that particular way they did, as if ingesting the sight of him to later put the lines to a canvas. “Did you have a good time, Joel? I mean, really. You won't offend me.”

He grimaced. “I, uh… well, see, I’m not the best judge, and… I guess—”

“Joel.”

There was a gleam in your eyes that could have been amusement or could have been hunger. He doesn't remember. He only saw you tilt your chin and lower your eyes to his mouth, to that one place the Sisters always called vulgar, obscene, a place meant only for His word—

“Can I kiss you, Joel Miller, or will you keep being all heroic?”

It was soft, gentle, exploratory. Your mouth opened his like a wound, setting the scorching blade of your lips to the gash, staunching the blood. You healed and burned him, one hand on his back beneath his jacket, the other cupping his face. It reminded him of the statue that lived in the theatre underneath the church where all the boys and girls trained. An angel cast in white marble, cradling the face of Saint Eustace. The statue was chipped where his eye was meant to be. 

He remembers the way he shuddered when you touched him like that. He remembers the chill that started in his feet and crept up his spine. Something like coming alive, settling back into his own body—no longer a spirit haunting the shell of a home but a man. 

You pulled back, but Joel curled his hand around the back of your neck and kissed you again, deeper, maybe a little too eager, too inexperienced—but you gasped, fingers curling in his hair, your body curving into his. Your noses bumped when you separated, and he remembers laughing. 

The rain is nothing like that night. It's the lash of a whip across his face, seeping colour from the world instead of infusing it with light and movement. The water by the docks slaps against the concrete and boats rock and groan against their mooring. The lights of the city are distant now. 

Joel steps out of the car. 

He marches toward his target, cocking the pistol in his hand, and calls out a name. It gets lost in the roll of thunder across the sky and lodges in his chest. 

Cabrera waits on the landing pad, looking wraithlike in a long black coat and a pair of leather gloves. His pilot fuels the helicopter nearby. Neither of them hear Joel’s voice in the air. The rising sun is what gives him away—or maybe the gunshot, as he lifts his arm and pulls the trigger. 

It does not pierce flesh. It ricochets off one of the rotor blades. He had aimed slightly to the left. 

The pilot scampers off into hiding, but the slash of the bullet through the rainfall is enough to get the attention Joel wants. Cabrera reaches inside the lining of his jacket and fires a single shot. Joel can feel it tear through skin and muscle, but it doesn't hurt. 

“Joel,” greets Cabrera. 

“Manuel.” 

His chest heaves, his jacket soaked through, the cold sinking bone-deep. 

“Let's finish this.”

The glimmer in those depthless black eyes is the panther at the hunt, relentless in its hunger, licking its chops at the sight of a challenge. For all the coward’s blood in his veins, it still pulses at the prospect of winning. 

“Like men,” says Cabrera, tossing his gun aside at the same time Joel does. “With honour. No more guns.”

And it's laughable: the thought that there is any honour left in a world like this. A world where children are beaten and lashed and trained to hold a weapon too big for their hands. A world that burns villages, butchers families, and still claims that without rules, we live with the animals. 

A world as unruly as this cannot be ruled. He never truly considered it until he saw the sad gleam in your eye, felt the empathetic touch of your hand on his face, and began to realise that maybe he should be furious. 

But because he already knows he's going to win, Joel lets his opponent land the first blow. 

The blood is tangy, near-sweet, as he swipes his forearm over his mouth and smears crimson on his shirtsleeve. It tingles faintly on his lips and crackles, warm as the melt from a late-winter snow. He feels it settle in the grooves of his palms, the hairs of his beard. He’s drowning in it. 

Cabrera hits hard, but he’s slow. He’ll take five punches in the time it takes to wind up for one. Joel brings his arm up to block the next and delivers a blow to the sternum with his knee as his opponent’s guard drops. Wide open, Cabrera stumbles a few steps back, choking down the telltale wheeze of being winded. Joel marches forward, relentless in his crusade, grasping him by the scruff of his neck, teeth bared like a mad wild dog, and bears his skull down on the side of the railing. Around them, the wind howls and lashes at his clothes, but he still hears the pained scream as if it were poured into his ears. 

Cabrera drops to his knees, and Joel grabs him again, bashing his head repeatedly against the steel bar, the lapel of an Italian leather coat bunching between his fingers, tainted by rainwater and the fist of the man who's come to take his life. 

And fuck, Joel wants to make it last. 

But there's a knife in his opponent’s hand, conjured from the darkness of his coat pocket, and Joel must release him to avoid the lethal slash of the blade. Blinking blood and lashing rain from his eyes, the man lunges with a snarl, and Joel recovers from his lost victory, stopping him with his fingers curled around his opponent’s wrist. He brings his hand to the crook of Cabrera’s elbow and uses his leverage to snap the bone.

Yowling, Cabrera drops to his haunches, the knife clattering to the ground. Joel, chest heaving, stands over him, flexing his fingers as he readies his fist for the killing blow.

His name leaves Cabrera’s bloodied mouth, accompanied by a mouthful of crimson-tainted saliva spat on the ground at Joel’s feet. 

“Joel…” He lifts his head, cradling his broken arm, and sneers. There’s a chilling glow of satisfaction in it. “Did you get your perfect life, Joel? Do you really think you’ve won? It won’t ever stop. Not after you’ve killed me, not after you’ve killed all of them. Is that what you’re going to do? Kill them all?”

He could. He has done far worse. He has spilled blood for gold coins and superficial alliances and someone else's revenge. He has stalked, stolen, lied, killed, and he could finish this now, so easily, with the flick of a blade. 

But the song of death does not call to him now. 

For so long he had trudged, unmoored, through heavy crimson blood. Like pulling at the seams of velvet, he'd sewn more lives into the sea of red and he never looked behind him to see the souls trying to pull him down at the ankles. He didn't know purpose until he saw the way the candlelight flickered in your eyes, until he tilted his head to the side and realised your smile was a new kind of beautiful from each angle. 

The rain sticks to his lashes and he thinks of an old song of prayer the Sisters used to chant. He remembers curling his fingers around one of the rosaries that hung from the large cross in the cathedral and wincing in anticipation. He thought he would burn—that the metal would leave a red stain on his palm. It never did. 

Maybe that's why he never believed. Surely, if there was a God, Joel Miller would have burned by now. 

He thinks of shopping for furniture and date nights and lazy mornings, tangled in bedsheets. Your mouth, smiling against his, whispering I love you across the breakfast table. Dancing—or swaying, more like—under the kitchen light. Loving easily, never feeling as if he must grab hold of the cross and burn himself upon it just to feel. 

Joel turns the switchblade in his hand, lurches forward, and plunges the knife into Cabrera’s chest. 

There is no noise but a faint gurgle from his mouth, his hand weakly rising to grasp the hilt. Joel drops to his knees and fishes Cabrera’s cell phone from his pocket. 

“The blade is stuck in your aorta,” he says. “If you pull it out, you’ll bleed out and die.” He puts the rain-slick screen in front of Cabrera’s face. “Pull the contract.”

A few feeble taps are all it takes, and Joel Miller is no longer a target. His name glares back at him on the screen, from two million to nothing, not the boogeyman any longer but something akin to a civilian. Joel tosses the phone into the water and turns to leave. 

“See you in hell, Joel,” Cabrera chokes, still grasping the shiny wooden hilt of the blade.

He barely hauls himself into the car, which chokes to a rumbling start. There's blood seeping through his shirt where Cabrera shot him, and his fingers shake as they pull away from the wound, the red so bright, so alive. Joel grits his teeth and squeezes his eyes shut. 

If there’s a God, he thinks, I hope you fucking hear me now. 

Tell me that we don’t get what we deserve. Because there is nothing I deserve in this world if I cannot keep what I’ve found.

His fingers trembling, smearing blood across the screen, he makes a call. 

And your voice on the line, soft, sticky with sleep, whispering his name—just his name: Joel?—is what wrenches the first sob from his throat. 

Joel, you say, like it means something, like it's precious. A jewel pressed from dusty black coal. Come back to me. Come home. 

So he does. 

#fic: helen #kiwisbell's fics #pedro pascal #joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller smut #joel miller x you #the last of us #the last of us hbo #tlou fic #joel miller angst #joel miller au #joel miller x female reader #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller fic #john wick au

[hearts4golbach]

Hi! can you write a Johnnie x fem reader fluff to smut? 🙏🏼

Blushed.

Johnnie Guilbert x Fem!Reader.

Authors note: I have seen this idea used a few times on tumblr from a few different people, so this is unoriginal, but I've really wanted to write this.

warning: smut.

"What's up guys, welcome back to my channel!" I hollered, imitating certain YouTubers. I had always found intros to be hilarious. "Today, I'm with my boyfriend, Johnnie Guilbert." I wrapped my arm around his shoulders. "I'm going to be making him normal."

Johnnie rolled his eyes and smiled. "Yippee. I'm being tortured." he made jazz hands.

I covered his mouth quickly, attempting to act suspiciously. "This was his idea.. anyway!" I pushed him so he was sitting on my bed. I pulled the first product out of my makeup bag. "This is primer, which you know about, obviously. so there's nothing new there."

I stood in between his legs and began to apply the primer, smearing it all over his face. he gripped my waist softly, looking up at me with a sweet smile. I glanced away, trying not to get too worked up over a simple gesture. I smiled to myself and finished rubbing it all in.

"Great!" I said sarcastically, moving so the camera could see. "shit, I have to pin up your bangs." I grabbed two clips from my dresser. I parted his hair in the middle, clipping his midnight black hair on either side of his face.

he slapped his hand over his forehead, "Not the six head." he snorted before removing his hand.

"You do not have a six head," I rolled my eyes, placing a kiss on his forehead before moving on. I pulled the next product out of the bag. "Funny story, I had to go out and buy Johnnie a whole different foundation because he's too pale for mine."

Johnnie made a finger gun, pointing it at the camera and sticking his tongue out with a laugh. "it's because all I do is play fortnite." he smirked.

"I know." I retorted as I wet my beauty blender. I placed dots of foundation around his face, fighting the urge to kiss him as I did so. "Okay, cute! perfect shade match." I moved put of the cameras view.

Johnnie checked himself out in the mirror, raising and dropping his eyebrows. "Uncanny Valley."

"Okay, well, I've barely done anything yet, so.." I trailed off, digging through the bag. "Next, concealer. Which, you also know of because I'm sure you go through a lot of it." I teased, tapping his nose before standing in front of him again.

his hands made their way to my waist as I focused on putting the liquid in the right place to highlight his face. he slowly moved his hands down, so they were on my ass.

"johnnie!" I scolded, "im going to have to edit that out."

he smirked, laughing at my comment. "I'd leave it in."

"Yeah, I'm sure you would." I retorted, going back to blending the concealer.

he had moved his hands back up, and now they were on my hips. his thumbs rubbed circles into my skin, making me shiver under his touch. I cleared my throat awkwardly as he laughed under his breath at my reaction.

I pulled away, revealing his face to the camera. I tapped his cheeks before moving on. "Next, we have blush, contour, and bronzer." I picked up the 3 products, showing the camera.

I began working on his face once more as he hummed, I wasn't sure what song. I stuck my finger under his chin, "Look up at me." he did as told, gazing into my eyes. "Thank you, baby." I smiled before getting to work on his contour. his cheekbones contoured nicely, making me grow more eager for him by the second.

I turned around, clearly distracted. "uh, next step." I stuttered, reaching into the bag. "highlighter."

my brush grazed over his cheeks and nose before gently tapping the inner corner of his eyes. "ah! my eye clit!" johnnie blinked rapidly.

"oh my god." I rolled my eyes, "okay, the last couple steps are mascara, eyeliner, and eyeshadow."

using a light pink eyeshadow, I colored in Johnnie's eyelids. I did a small wing before curling his lashed and putting mascara on them.

"what if I put lashes on you?" I pondered, putting up the mascara.

"oh, god." he replied dreadfully. "can I see myself now?"

I sighed before grinning at him. "I guess." I handed him a mirror and impatiently waited for his reaction.

"damn, would I fuck myself?" he pondered, furrowing his eyebrows.

"I mean, its how I do my makeup every day so..." I joked. "wait! I forgot your lipstick, how could I be so stupid?" I pulled out a musty pink lipstick and quickly applied it. "okay, now youre done."

I recorded my outro, desperate to shut the damn camera off. after turning it off, I grabbed the makeup wipes.

"you ready to take it off?" I asked him.

he eagerly nodded. "yes, please."

I climbed into his lap, "you did so good, thank you for recording that with me."

he hummed at the praise, I felt his member grow slightly under me. "anytime." his hands moved down to my ass once more, gently squeezing.

I bucked into him, trying not to make any noises as I wiped off the rest of the makeup. "shit, johnnie."

he smirked and kissed me softly, his hands moving down my thighs. I leaned into the kiss. Johnnie's hand made its way up my shirt, gently massaging my boob while the other kneaded my inner thigh. "you're such a tease." he whispered onto my lips.

I hummed in response. he quietly groaned into the kiss, his body pressed against mine. my hands flew up to his head, getting tangled in his hair. I began to deepen the kiss, wanting more. I moaned quietly, making his hips roll up against me. "God, you're so hot." I say breathlessly before smashing my lips onto his.

his tongue danced with mine as his hands explored my body. "you're killing me, I need you. now." he said desperately.

I nodded eagerly, "please, johnnie." I pleaded, moaning as he began kissing down my neck.

he trailed kisses along my collar bone, nipping and sucking at the tender skin. he left light hickeys all over, groaning into my skin. "I'm so crazy for you."

"johnnie, i-" I was cut off by a moan as he went back to attacking my neck.

I felt him smirk against my skin. "I love it when you say my name like that." I felt his erection pressed against my clothed pussy. "lay down for me, babe."

I did as told, crawling off his lap and laying back on the bed. he slipped off my shirt, leaving me in my bra as he kissed down my stomach. I wiggled under his touch, wanting more. he undid my jeans and pulled them off, tossing them somewhere in the room. he kicked off his own pants and shirt aswell, leaving both of us in our underwear. I bit my lip, moaning softly at the sight of his erection.

"you're so beautiful," he whispered, tucking my hair out of my face before kissing me again. "you ready?"

I nodded eagerly. "please, johnnie. I need you so bad." I whimpered as he positioned himself between my legs.

"tell me what you need, baby." he whispered, lust burning in his eyes. I tried to pull him closer, but he pulled away. "use your words."

"fuck, I want your cock, johnnie." I whimpered.

"atta girl." he smirked, pulling my panties off and tossing them along with my jeans. "Jesus, you're so beautiful."

I moaned quietly as he nibbled at my neck. I clawed at his back, pulling him closer. "stop teasing." I pleaded.

he nodded, listening to my request. I felt his hard tip press against my entrance. he slowly pushed inside of me, groaning at the feeling of filling me up. "so fucking tight." he muttered.

"oh my god, yes." I moan quietly.

johnnie groaned, pushing the rest of the way inside of me. I gasped as he began to thrust slowly, making my walls grip tightly around him. "God, I love the pretty sounds you make."

his words made my jaw fall, letting a low moan escape. he picked up his speed, his hips slapping against my wetness as he thrusted deeper. "jesus- oh, shit." I stuttered.

johnnie groaned, rolling his eyes back as he lost himself in pleasure. "oh, fuck- thats it. give it to me."

"keep going, oh shit!" I moaned into his neck. he moved sweaty hair out of my face before kissing me roughly.

his thrusts became harder and faster, his hips slammed against mine as he took me roughly. "fuck, you're amazing." he whimpered onto my lips.

"fuck, give it to me, baby." I moaned, digging my hands into his back. he growled softly as he pushed deeper inside of me, pausing for a moment before pulling out and slamming back into me.

his thrusts became ever more forceful, his cock hitting my cervix with each powerful thrust. "does this feel good, baby? fuck, you're so good." he kissed my neck.

"yes, o-oh my god, yes. don't stop. i-im close!" I panted.

his thrusts became more erratic, his hips slapping into me one last time before he released inside of me. I came along with him, my orgasm rushing through my whole body. I went limp, watching as he collapsed next to me.

"Oh my god." he whispered, kissing me softly. "I love you so much."

"I love you more."

#fanfiction #fanfic #smut #johnnie guilbert x you #johnnie guilbert x reader #johnnie guilbert

[catfern]

she will destroy you.

pairing: abby anderson x afab!reader

music: crack baby or bag of bones ( or anything from puberty 2 ) - mitski

word count: 3.3k (i'm exhausted)

summary: rumours are swirling, fighting their way through your front door. you hope to keep your work and private life separate, but your proximity with your boss threatens to catch up with you.

warnings: mean!toxic!abby, cheating, porn with a LOT of plot, swearing, tipsy sex, fingering, oral (r!receiving), zero ( i mean ZERO ) aftercare, angst-ish

an: a quick intermission from cowboy!ellie because LORD. i read one page from one book abt a butch teacher yearning for the headmaster's wife and suddenly I NEED AFFAIRS!! I NEED YEARNING!! I NEED SECRECY!! and who better to do that with than a rlly mean ceo!abby who has a PhD in fucking bitches.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

“Shit.”

A line of scarlet trickles onto the warm printer paper and settles. You drop your paperwork on an unknown desk and suck your finger, hissing through your teeth at the sting. Your phone buzzes impatiently in the back pocket of your work pants, and you fumble with your non-bleeding fingers to pull it out.

we’ll talk abt this when u get home

see u after ur party i guess

A shit fucking day.

You hall back to your desk, defeat slumping heavy on your shoulders. The Office makes an effort not to stare as you walk by, low whispers hot on your feet like coals in a firewalk. You pretend very poorly not to see the half-lidded, secretive looks shared between your old work friends by the water cooler. Water off a duck’s back, your mom used to say in a nonchalant way when you cried to her about mean girls at school. Not that you ever really knew what that meant.

You were never really thankful to be shut off from the rest of the cubicles, until now. A fortress of frosted glass and a heavy door, your desk was the secluded gateway to a place dreaded. Just you and The Boss, which you guess didn’t help the flying tongues of the old, bored fucks in accounting, but it kept people away. Away from you, with their knowing looks and unknowing laughs.

You huff, settling into your uncomfortable desk chair and digging out a small first aid kit your dad bought you when you first started. Pulling the seal off the small tin, you eye its contents. Disinfectant, thermometer, some loose aspirin and bandaids. You whine lightly as you wrap one tightly around your ring finger, feeling it throb and pulse, like a complaint. Get over yourself, you tell your body.

A sharp - ahem - breaks through your mumbling silence. She’s never sick, she never coughs. It’s a bodiless beckoning, a call into the wild, it’s the wordless agreement you have with her. You pick up your notebook, and the nearest working pen, and shuffle quickly through the open door into her office.

The opaque shades are drawn, the natural light greying and dying on the dark, decaying herringbone floor. 

Abby is bathed in the orange light of her desk lamp. With impeccable, almost effortless posture, she’s resting her forearms on her desk, one hand scratching notes into her diary, the other distractedly tapping on the leather top. You follow the shadows that the folds in her dress shirt create, your eyes falling on the contour of her body. 

You know she frequents a few gyms. You’re the one who schedules late night international calls around her evening runs, and her weights sessions, and her triweekly spin class. But now, the results of her efforts are on display, tightly wrapped in expensive cotton, perfectly tailored, down to the very last stitch, to her existence. You swallow an uncomfortable feeling when she deigns to meet your eye.

She looks you over in the way she always does, an uncaring, but judgemental once-over, like an army sergeant inspecting a uniform. she hones in on the bandaid,

“Workplace injury?”

Her voice has the warmth of a dying cigarette, rolling like well-spoken honey off her lips. You almost feel ashamed, your finger so offensive to her you could chop it off. You almost feel like you wouldn’t even mind. You start picking at the ends of the bandaid with your thumb.

“Paper cut.” Your voice is always so out of place here. An echo of something that does not belong. She nods her head, ever so slightly, as if she understood.

“Don’t think you can go claiming compensation for that.” It’s a joke you’re not allowed to laugh at. You smile lightly instead. It’s short-lived, “I need you to correct some seating arrangements for tonight.”

Yes, of course. No problem. In wordless agreement, Abby starts listing off adjustments, complaints and warnings from guests about not being seated next to their five ex-husbands, or their whining step-children, or ex-business partners fallen from grace. your pen fingers begin to ache as the whole process draws out.

“And I’m going to need you seated at my table, to keep track of my evening itinerary.”

Uncertainty quickly sows its seeds in your stomach. The unopened messages from your girlfriend burn their way through pocket, searing at your legs like a brand on cattle. Everyone knows, everyone will know. Every detail of your life will be laid bare, and you’ll be tried publicly and without mercy. Your bandaid begins to unravel as you rub anxiously at the glue underneath.

You need to do something, something to get things back under control.

“Actually,” You start, unsure. Abby meets your eye quickly, without hesitation, “I don’t think I’ll be able to make it tonight.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” It’s quick, and condescending. Undercutting any sudden courage you may have had, she meets your eye and stares you down, pinning you under ice, almost imploring you to feel terrified. And then she looks away, busy packing away the seating chart, and you wonder if she even looked at you at all.

She stands, and you try to meet her, your hands clutching your notebook.

“Your attendance tonight is mandatory.” She says it slowly, harshly, like it’s hard for you to understand. Her eyes chase quickly over your outfit, “It’s a black tie event.”

You’re left alone in a dark office, hyperventilating.

The apartment is empty and cold when you arrive home. 7 unanswered texts to your girlfriend tell you she doesn’t want you near her, but she isn’t packed. You expect her to come home, hopefully in the hour you have before you have to go again, and you contemplate just blowing the gala off to wait.

Abby’s voice is sharp in your head, a familiar dedication wringing your body. You can’t leave her. She needs you there.

You put off the conversation with your girlfriend into the furthest parts of your mind, allowing yourself to be swallowed in the minor decisions of clothes and hair and accessories. It’s not until you’re throwing your shoes on, and three times you think you hear her keys in the door, that you give up.

The phone rings 5 times before going to voicemail.

Hey. Listen. I know we said we weren’t going to talk until we were face to face but..

Whatever Maria told you wasn’t true, okay? I promise-I fucking promise you, nothings happened. Baby, okay? People are fucking bored, and I love you, so so much. I’ve gotta go to this one thing tonight - i tried to get out of it i swear -, and i’ll come home and we can talk, and we can fix this. Okay? Jus-Just, gimme some time to explain. Okay. I love you. Bye.

Echoes of quiet chatter uncomfortably ebb and flow off the walls of the ballroom. Too many people. Shoes scuff the cheap marble as the rich make their rounds, with light touches and reused laughter. They all hate each other.

Abby is a familiar sight. Wearing the same thing she has all day, she looks staggering. Hands just breaching her suit pockets, comfortably falling at her side, her hair in a calculated braid, designed to make her look approachable. 

 The air here agrees with her, her smile wide and effortless. You know she’s come straight from a meeting, and you suppose that adds to her charm. The Working Woman, a success story. Her rich friends, who spend their inheritances on shares and indoor tennis courts, lap it up. She’s a foreign object, something unfamiliar and wild.

You don’t interrupt, skimming the sidelines to get to your table. You can feel her glance, without substance, before returning to her conversation. Your event planner ( a shitty flip notebook that fits in every small clutch you own ) sits on the tablecloth at your seat, and you wait. Eyeing the glasses at the placemats next you, you can tell a few drinks has been shared, raking your eyes over Abby’s looser disposition.

She’s happy, and charming. She’s been drinking bourbon. Mint, with ice and syrup, the way you serve it to her in her office, when the occasion calls for celebration. 

Her conversation finishes, her soft hands bidding gentle, kind goodbyes to the couple as they move on. She’s a friend to the people that matter.

“I expected you here before me.”

She doesn’t bother to look at you as she sits, instead fixing her napkin to her lap. You watch as the veins in her neck rise and fall as she talks, “Doesn’t matter now. Run me through everything.”

Right, fuck. You open your notebook and run your fingers over the scratchy writing. Your days leading up to this were spent copying details from obscure emails, tidbits you thought Abby needed to remember. Late nights at the office, life abandoned, deciphering biographies and 2 hour youtube deep dives. You can watch yourself fall asleep from the future, your handwriting slipping, long and longer strokes, spelling dissolving, long words abandoned. your pen fell to the floor, and you slept at your desk. Twenty missed calls. You argued when you came home in the morning.

“The Ambassador is arriving around 8:00pm with his new wife, also named Rebecca. Oh, Old Rebecca emailed asking why she didn’t receive an invitation.”

She’s slowly sipping at another whiskey, a different cocktail she ordered just as you’d arrived. The orange peel brushes her nose as she tilts the glass, her jaw tightens as she swallows, “Tell her the venue was at capacity. Send some flowers.”

It continues like this for a bit. Quiet and attentive, she listens to what you have to say, as her eyes follow the crowd. You too, spy people that you know, a few slimy execs that share a whisper and a boisterous laugh as they look your way. You order gin.

Soon enough, Abby checks her watch. An inexpensive, vintage piece of leather and quartz. She excuses herself with a measure of politeness. It’s time for an hour of speeches that don’t matter, before you’re finally allowed to eat. You sigh.

A quiet buzz rips through the growing silence. You open your clutch and hide your phone under the silk tablecloth, away from the disapproving elderly eyes.

i told u to leave me alone

jesus christ

A pit in your stomach. Dark, pressing, ever present. Your saliva is heavy in your mouth, and you feel like shrinking away. Luckily, the waiter isn’t far. Drinks are discounted for the company staff.

Finally, speeches finish. Abby looked nice on the stage, effervescent under the lights. Her hair catches warm light nicely in the strands.

The food comes, but people disregard it for shallow conversations. Plates are taken away full, apart from slim, polite pickings. Your table orders more drinks, and syrupy laughter echoes as anecdotes about private schools and hedge funds are shared. You don’t belong here. Your body becomes unsteady, restless. Your legs shaking, a hand finds you thigh in the veiled secrecy of the table cloth.

Abby’s not looking at you, too engaged in tipsy conversation to draw attention. A nice gesture, but it’s not. It’s wordless agreement. Her thumb traces the outside of your thigh mindlessly, her jaw clenching as she feels your gaze.

You hesitate.

What else did you have to do? Apart from go home and wait for an argument.

You let her touch you a little longer, soft, ghostly. It’s kind, unmistakably. You let yourself revel in it, in her uncommon affection, before excusing yourself to the bathroom.

Abby follows not long after. She’s confident, her position charismatic, not unlike the other times she finds a drink, and then goes to find you. She doesn’t stop, so sure that you’ll follow her trail as you’ve done so often before. But you hesitate, again.

She turns back to you, a look on her face that’s hard to decipher. You stumble in your reasoning.

“It’s just-, my girlfrien-“

“Are you coming? Or not?”

Your palms itch, you swallow.

What kind of sick sacrifice. Unfair to have both, some would say, but some don’t know you. How wicked it is to taste both fruit and have to choose the sweeter. Fuck. The drinks settle in your stomach.

Your girlfriend wasn’t coming home tonight anyway, not really.

She’s leading you up the stairs, hands flush to her body. You grip the cold handrail to hold you steady. She’s already steps ahead, the appropriate distance. 

A quiet corner doesn’t need to be found. She’s been here before. You’ve been here before. The holy emptiness of the second floor is an accustomed comfort.

She’s quick and calculated, despite the mix of drinks on her breath. One hand pushing you to the wall, the other finding the zipper for your dress. It falls off you like it never belonged to you, kicked away and piled into a corner, forgotten.

Gripping you like you’d run away, she palms your tits and presses crescent moons into your hips. She holds her head away from you, watching you down her nose as you squirm. Abby has always remained detached, carefully groomed a distance between you that now feels too sacred to break. You long to feel her kiss you, to feel her intimately, to run your hands along her arms and feel every curve, every outline. You’ve needed to touch her since the moment you met her. Craved it.

Abby is disrespectful, impatient. She cups your pussy, still hidden in slick panties, letting the rough ball of her palm grind against your clit. It sets you on fire, and she chases it with a hand on your mouth to keep you quiet.

“Get rid of them.”

You strip fast, in a very unflattering way, you’re certain, and throw your underwear close to the ghost of your dress. She moves against you again, her hand softer as it wraps around your lips and cheeks. You look at her, hoping to see that softness echoed on her face, but her eyes are elsewhere, too focused on the movement your tits make as she holds you against the wall. 

Painstakingly, her fingers slide inside you, her hand pressing down on your mouth as you moan around the feeling of her, the intoxication. Your hands lock and unlock, your nails digging at scratching at the wood boards on the wall as you try to balance yourself.

Merciless. She rocks into you, letting you fall into step with her, find her pace, a relentless one. You feel her melting into your core, her fingers curling and stretching your walls as she pounds into you, again, again, again. You sound pathetic, behind the mask of her hand, whining as she leaves, and nearly screaming when she returns.

Abby watches as your face contorts around her fingers, feels you wrap around her. If she feels even a fraction of what she gives you, you wouldn't know. Her eyes remain unkind, left at a distance, but her breathing is staggered. short, laboured. she looks over you, you feel it, feel as her eyelashes rise as she rakes over your body.

You need it to be desire in her eyes. You need her to starve. To crave, like you do. Desperation.

Her hand moves from your mouth, your whimpering breath filling the room fast, the quiet broken. Her pace slows, and you almost rest on her fingers, left to wonder what she’s playing at. Instead, it comes down on your shoulder, still warm and wet with your breath, and she pushes you down onto her fingers, deep, deep. you feel her at the very centre of yourself, your eyes wide as the pressure builds inside you, her fingernails leaving a trail, evidence of her in your walls. She lets your ragged moans echo, hurt and pleasure. It’s an unkind end to things.

You don’t want to let it to end. You can’t.

The distance is broken. You reach out and grasp flesh, firm under your nails. You’re still riding the ecstasy pulse, the heat in your pussy, and Abby lets you stay, holding onto her as if you would fade otherwise. Your cheeks are almost touching, her breath hot on your ear, you hear her for the first time, raspy groans as you squeeze around her. She’s been holding back.

Damn it all.

“Everybody knows. Please. Please, fuck me like you know you should.”

You meet her gaze. Everything is foreign now. Her skin feels different to how you had imagined it. Softer. Her eyes are more uncertain, more than you’d ever seen before. Hesitance.

“Fuck it.”

Whiskey, and a sip of your gin, and tobacco. You didn’t even know she smoked, but you taste it on her like its the only thing she ever did. The smell of pine came in a wave as she moved, hooking her hands under your legs and hoisting you up. For months, you’ve yearned for her to kiss you, begged for it even. And now, her lips are rough, and bloody, and everywhere. Ghosts tracing your neck, unkind, stinging, exhilarating. 

She moves you to the floor without fuss, holding herself over you, your legs spread around her. She’s smiling, and you become so sure that there’s something not quite right with this side of Abby. You’re quickly aware that you’ve landed in hostile territory, vulnerable, needy.

She usually didn’t like it when you begged.

Her tongue is like the rapture on your clit, spitting fire through your veins, in your nerves. You feel it creep up in your body, twisting and tightening through you like something invasive, moans and prayers dripping from your lips that only push her. her name a curse, fallen on your body. You feel her laugh against your slick walls and it jolts you.

Abby, suddenly so aware of you, so kind, so attentive, shifts her posture, “Oh, you’re so needy.” A hand grabs your face, pulling it up from the floor in a dead lull. Her name rolls off your pretty lips once more, “What? You beg for me, and now you can’t take me?” Her tone is mocking, “Which is it? Hm?”

A cacophony. You, you, you. Your head foggy, unsure of what she wants to hear, you beg for again, telling her you can it take it. I can, please, abby.

Her laugh is cruel, mocking as her mouth finds you again, sending cold vibrations up your legs. Slut echoes against your clit.

Inside of you, she feels like a god. Her fingers stretching your walls, pressing deep against your centre at an excruciating pace, and her tongue lazily laps up all that you give her. 

“Fuck! Fu-uck, fuck!”

It’s clear to Abby that the caution she so carefully designed was useless now. People knew, and fuck it if they knew. Fuck it if they heard you dripping on her fingers, calling out her name. Fuck it if they stop the music, and turn to listen - fucking perverts - because it’s her. And you’re the one begging for her.

Stars creep in through the haze in your vision, and Abby’s trying to ask you something harsh, but you don’t hear it. You’re tethered to the feeling of her fingers, your whole body knotting around her like a planet in orbit of the sun. 

You’d burn if she wanted you to, happily.

You’re so fucking tight around her fingers, your legs shaking and a vicious call ripping through your body. Her Name.

The warmth from your body is too much, and the cool of the floor is lulling, soothing, as you collapse. Abby’s fingers leave you empty, incomplete. You whine as she leaves you, your walls tightening around the absence of her. She wipes your cotton slick on your leg.

She stands, and rolls her shoulders. Fixes the few hairs that fall out of place. Guiltless.

“Get dressed, before someone sees you.”

#i'm gonna get back to cowboy!ellie i swear #i have so many people in my inbox begging for her I HEAR U!! #i just needed a change of pace bc writers block yk #idk what it is w me and mean women but cowboy!ellie is also going to be a bit mean i fear #also i was going to write this w ellie as the gf but i couldn't fit it in #but it is implied!! #abby anderson x reader #abby anderson smut #abby tlou #abby anderson x female reader #abby anderson #abby anderson x y/n #abby anderson x you #tlou abby #abby x reader #abby the last of us

[girlbossagenda]

How to be pretty on a lazy day pt.2

This is the make up edition! I'm glad y'all enjoyed the first part about the clothing! We know make up it's a form of art, expression and a ticket to gain easy access to pretty privilege, but what if you're a newbie or you're feeling lazy? Well this is the right place for you! Sit on your vanity! So here is how to be pretty on a lazy day and spend less time on your flawless make up.

౨ৎthe look౨ৎ

Are you going for a more matte look or glittery look? Let's focus on the natural era make up, which is basically the 90s make up and the early 2010s(late 2000s) make up, here the main colors are: brown, beige and anything neutral, the 90s one it's more cool toned, so if you have a cool toned skin color I suggest you this one, for warm toned skin, I suggest the Early 2010s one, so let's go for a more bronze look!

౨ৎconsider your ethnicity౨ৎ

When you're in a hurry or have low energy you must focus into doing a make up that embraces your natural features, and give your that exotic look, like "I woke up this way".

౨ৎbye bye eyeliner and welcome lip liner౨ৎ

We are not trying to get that 2020 type of look, don't we?, and doing your eyeliner takes so much time and can it literally destroy your make up, especially if the wings look like sisters instead of twins.

Try to use a eye pencil, it's better to go for a more balanced look!

౨ৎbase౨ৎ

I suggest you to just use concealer as a base,since foundation can be of the wrong color, and concealer has a very wide coverage.

౨ৎblush౨ৎ

I suggest you to use the under blushing technique or just place your blush high in you cheekbones and not on you apple/cheek, to give you a more fresh and lifted look, or just don't use it, as it's not the main focus, also avoid an overly pink shade.

౨ৎlips౨ৎ

For the lips I suggest you something simple, like lip liner + clear lip gloss or those super pretty nyx butter glosses, or if you are more into that a more simple a metallic lip gloss + lip liner of the same color.

I also suggest a more blushy look to your lips if you are going for the "I just woke up this way" look!

౨ৎeyeshadow౨ৎ

Go for neutral colors, like brown, unless you're going to do and ageyo sal, avoid going underneath with it.

౨ৎeyebrows౨ৎ

This.is.so.important. I'm telling you eyebrows change your whole face, in this look you need defined eyebrows, and I mean that you should add high beneath them!

౨ৎnose౨ৎ

Avoid heavy contour on your nose as it can make it look uncanny and more relevant.

౨ৎcontouring౨ৎ

It's your choice to use a cream or powder one, but I suggest you to not use it or to use it very lightly and to do a short "wing" with it!

౨ৎlashes౨ৎ

Unless you have light lashes or light colored eyes, I won't suggest you to use black mascara, use a clear or brown one.

Hi bonitas! This is my guide for today, it's my first time describing how to do make up, I really wanted to make a guide like this one the male up here really focuses on you lips and eyes and less on the cheeks!Next time we're going to talk about hair! If you want more reference just go on my Pinterest: GIRLBOSSAGENDA See you soon gorgeous

xoxo

-𝓐

#girlblogging #just girly things #girly tumblr #it girl #hyper feminine #just girly posts #dream girl #self care #pink text #self love #goddess tips avenue #goddess sorority #beauty tips #girlhood #manic pixie dream girl #girly #tumblr girls #2014 tumblr #dream girl tips #girl tumblr #girl things #girl thoughts #girl talk #hyperfeminine #hyperfemininity #wonyoungism #wonyoung #beauty affirmations #girly tips #this is what makes us girls

[omertasmoon]

An act of submission

(Emperor Zhongli x gn reader)

"They say that a good servant reflects the personality of its master…" Zhongli chuckled as he traced the brim of his cup with his finger. Despite maintaining a calm facade, the corners of his lips occasionally twitched upwards into a smirk, yet he was trying so hard to hide it—a futile exercise in suppression.

"Erm… excuse me, what?" You replied. Was he complimenting your guzheng or was he throwing shade at you for imitating him? It wasn't your fault, but you couldn't help but think that it was the result of being by his side for a long time. Putting on a private solo concert for the Emperor was nerve-wracking: one wrong mistake and there goes your wrist. One thing you didn't know was that you had managed to plant the first seeds of obsession in his heart which resulted in keeping you by his side and dragging you along everywhere he went. Too bad the amount of love he shows you is just the surface of it. You never know how deep the ocean is, hm? During the time spent with him, your brain had subconsciously picked up his habits, resulting in you emulating him sometimes. How very bold of you to assume that he hadn't noticed it.

"Erm…" A small, soft sound slipped out of your mouth. It was really obvious that you were trying to ease the awkward tension between you two.

Upon hearing the soft sound of your voice, Zhongli paused and gently lifted his gaze from his cup. His eyes full of adoration and love wandered across your features. Such beautiful features which he wished to preserve forever. If his mind were a room, you would undoubtedly be the wallpaper, your presence permeating every space, reflecting the depths of his fascination for you.

There it was, the reaction he was hoping for. That expression which was akin to a baby deer in the headlights. Your eyes were wide in confusion and your lips were slightly parted but wide enough to let out an ‘eh?’ sound. Zhongli chuckled, amused by how your face had gone red. Possibly because of the steam from the tea or him making advances on you- oh, how he wished that he was the reason of you being so shy and flustered. The soft glow of the red lanterns cast a warm light on your face highlighting the contours of your profile, giving him the opportunity to observe your facial expressions in detail. To be frank, he was proud of himself for bringing a reaction out of you. He may have experienced joy and pleasure throughout his life but they all were nothing compared to the happiness he gets from your smile. He was slowly plunging himself into the spiral of obsession but he didn't know it.

"Ah, nothing. According to what I said earlier, I put the musical instrument in the position of the servant while you are its master. The strings of it bend to the will of your hands to produce such beautiful sounds… Not to mention, the songs produced by it are as gentle and soothing as you. It reflects your personality, don’t you think so?" Zhongli replied in a genuine voice but the predatory glint in his eyes gave it away.

“Thank you…” Your voice trailed off at the end as you were unsure of what to reply

“No need to thank me, I was just stating facts” He brought his cup to his lips as he said so. Zhongli’s gaze fell upon your hand wrapped around your tea cup. “Do you mind if I take a look at it?” He raised an eyebrow, his eyes lingering on your left hand. Even though it seemed like a request, you knew that it was an order. Your hand shot up immediately even though you were praying desperately that he wouldn’t chop it off for accidentally playing the wrong note earlier that day. A soft hum left his lips as he lifted your hand higher to the level of his mouth.

“Do you only plan on plucking the strings of your instrument for the rest of your life?” The emperor caressed the back of your hand with his thumb.

“Erm… maybe. What’s there to pluc-”

“There are many things you can pluck, my dear. For example… my heart. You can pluck it out and I would thank you for it” The way he said it so casually shocked you for a moment. Zhongli eyed the ring on your index finger which you inherited from your mother. Your heart was thumping loudly that his words were drown out. “Y-Your majesty…” Your face was as red as the lanterns hanging above both of you.

His lips hovered above your ring for a while to toy with your conflicting feelings at the moment. After what seemed like an eternity, he brought his mouth down to leave a kiss on it. “A jade wrist loses to a golden cup, so slender, so slender, it’s the passing of youth…”

-Irene Callista

#yandere zhongli #zhongli x reader #HELPP I'M NEW TO TUMBLR #SOMEONE TEACH ME HOW TO ADD PICTURES 😭 #I have a test in like 14 hours and here I am on my knees for this mf #My first fanfic so uh.. pls don't mind any possible mistake one could detect 😅 #IreneCallista

[theambitiouswoman]

Everyday Makeup Routine 💄🪞💋✨

Primer: Apply a lightweight, mattifying primer to create a smooth base for your makeup and control excess oil.

Foundation or Tinted Moisturizer: Even out your skin tone with a light layer of foundation or a tinted moisturizer that matches your skin shade. (You don't always need foundation. I only wear foundation if I am going for a full glam look. Other wise, I use concealer and tinted moisturizer on days my skin is not cooperating.)

Concealer: Use a creamy concealer to cover any blemishes, redness, or under-eye circles.

Setting Powder: Gently dust a translucent setting powder to lock in your base and reduce shine.

Blush: Add a natural flush to your cheeks with a soft blush in a shade that complements your skin tone.

Eyebrows: Fill in and shape your eyebrows using a brow pencil or powder for a polished look.

Eyeshadow: Apply neutral eyeshadow shades for a subtle enhancement of your eyelids.

Eyeliner: A thin line of brown or black eyeliner along the upper lash line can define your eyes.

Mascara: Coat your lashes with mascara to open up your eyes and give them a more awake appearance.

Lip Color: Choose a lip color that suits your style, whether it's a nude shade, a soft pink, or a subtle berry.

Additional Steps for a Polished Makeup Look:

Contour and Highlight: Use a contour powder to define your cheekbones, jawline, and nose. Then, apply a subtle highlighter to the high points of your face for a radiant glow.

Setting Spray: Finish your makeup by spritzing a setting spray to lock everything in place and give your skin a fresh, dewy finish.

Lip Liner: To enhance the shape of your lips and prevent lipstick from feathering, use a lip liner that matches your chosen lip color.

Lipstick or Lip Gloss: Apply your preferred lip product, whether it's a classic lipstick for a bold look or a lip gloss for a more natural shine.

Finishing Touch: Take a moment to blend everything together and ensure there are no harsh lines or uneven patches.

Product Suggestions:

Primer: "Mattifying Pore Minimizer" - Helps create a smooth canvas and control shine.

Foundation or Tinted Moisturizer: "Natural Glow Tinted Moisturizer" - Provides light coverage and a healthy radiance.

Concealer: "Creamy Conceal & Correct" - Covers imperfections while remaining blendable.

Setting Powder: "Translucent Setting Powder" - Sets makeup and reduces oiliness without adding color.

Blush: "Soft Rosy Blush" - Adds a natural flush to your cheeks.

Eyebrows: "Brow Sculpting Pencil" - Defines and shapes your brows for a put-together look.

Eyeshadow: "Everyday Neutrals Eyeshadow Palette" - Offers versatile shades for subtle eye enhancement.

Eyeliner: "Precision Eye Liner" - Provides a defined line along the lash line.

Mascara: "Lengthening Lash Mascara" - Gives your lashes a longer and fuller appearance.

Lip Color: "Nude Lip Crème" - Choose a shade that complements your style and skin tone.

Contour and Highlight: "Sculpt & Glow Contour Kit" - Comes with contour shades and a shimmering highlight for dimension.

Setting Spray: "Hydrating Setting Mist" - Sets makeup and provides a luminous finish.

Lip Liner: "Precision Lip Liner" - Defines your lips and extends the wear of your lip color.

Lipstick or Lip Gloss: "Creamy Matte Lipstick" - Offers rich color and a velvety finish. "Glossy Lip Shine" - Adds a touch of shine and moisture.

Finishing Touch: "Blending Brush Duo" - Helps seamlessly blend and soften your makeup for a polished result.

Let me know if you guys want me to do a post with my personal product recommendations :)

#makeup #beauty tips #beauty #level up journey #dream girl guide #dream girl journey #dream girl tips #dream girl #it girl #clean girl #soft girl #girlblogging #glow up tips #glow up #rebranding #self improvement #personal development #feminine energy #femininity #divine feminine #elegant woman

[starrierknight]

𝟎𝟎𝟕. 𝐠𝐥𝐮𝐭𝐭𝐨𝐧 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐩𝐮𝐧𝐢𝐬𝐡𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭

✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ 'Cause I'm all that you want, boy / All that you can have, boy / Got me spread like a buffet / Bon a—, bon appétit, baby — Katy Perry, Bon Appétit

MASTERLIST | KINKTOBER 23' | AO3

wc— 7.2k

pairing— rough!dom!gn!reader x needy!sub!gojo

cws/tags— flatmates to fuckers, foodplay (melted chocolate), masochist satoru, finger sucking/face fucking, oral fixation, biting & gagging, petnames (“sweet thing” & “sugar”), spit kink, semi-clothed sex, reader is AFAB & wears a skirt + panties but isn’t gendered, oral (reader receiving), unprotected p in v

You stood in the dimly lit apartment's kitchen, a soft glow emanating from the pendant lights overhead, casting a warm ambience over the space. Positioned in front of the sleek, marble-topped island, you rested your hands on your hips, frustration evident in your furrowed brow.

In the midst of this culinary battlefield, three small bowls sat before you, each containing once-promising chocolate that had succumbed to the unpredictable art of tempering. The rich aroma still lingered in the air, mingling with the subtle notes of vanilla from earlier attempts. The chocolate, normally a delight, now seemed to mock your culinary ambitions.

As you peered down at the bowls a sense of disappointment washed over you, knowing that the dream of presenting homemade Halloween chocolates had met an untimely demise. A heavy sigh escaped your lips, a mixture of frustration and resignation, as you brought your hand up to rub the tense muscles at the back of your neck. The dream of crafting perfect, glossy chocolates for the spooky season had slipped through your fingers. 

Satoru, your affable and easygoing flatmate, stepped into the room, the soft fabric of his customary loungewear draped loosely over his athletic frame. The dim lighting of the apartment accentuated the subdued tones of his grey sweatpants and the way the black compression t-shirt clung to his physique, emphasising the sinewy contours of his muscled form. Each movement he made seemed to embody a sort of graceful confidence, a testament to his inherent athleticism.

However, as he crossed the threshold into the kitchen, an air of concern etched itself onto his handsome features. His normally unwavering composure faltered upon encountering your sour expression, directed toward the trio of pitiable bowls harbouring the remnants of your chocolaty struggle.

The scent, thick and enveloping, wafted through the room, a bittersweet reminder of the culinary clash that had taken place. He chose to remain still, absorbing the atmosphere and discerning the unspoken frustration that hung in the air.

You managed an awkward smile, a mixture of sheepishness and embarrassment colouring your expression.

"A failed experiment," you clarified, attempting to lighten the mood. "Any chance you have a sweet tooth?"

Satoru hesitated for a brief moment, contemplating the question. His curiosity got the better of him as he stepped closer to the kitchen island to inspect the unfortunate outcome of your chocolate endeavour. Extending a hand, he scooped a bit of the still-warm milk chocolate with his finger, eyeing it thoughtfully.

After a few contemplative moments, he turned to you with a playful yet polite inquiry, "D'you mind?"

You shrugged, your gaze shifting back to the three bowls with a resigned acceptance.

"Have at it. I can't have all of this by myself," you conceded, gesturing toward the bowls.

Finding a sense of shared amusement in the situation, you followed suit and dipped your own finger into the bowl containing the melted dark chocolate. Bringing it to your lips, you sampled the richness of the chocolate, the bittersweet taste momentarily distracting you from the earlier disappointment. 

Satoru's eyes, a vivid shade of blue that often held a sense of calm and composure, suddenly lit up with a spark of excitement—He had been granted permission to indulge in a long-awaited craving. Without hesitation, he dipped his fingers into the velvety pool of melted dark chocolate, his movements deliberate yet filled with a childlike enthusiasm.

As he brought his chocolate-coated fingers to his lips, his tongue skillfully sweeping away the decadent layer, the rosy hue of his lips contrasted beautifully with the rich darkness of the chocolate. 

He froze.

His sapphire eyes widened, locking onto the sight of you licking your own finger clean of the dark chocolate. A curious realisation washed over his expression, and a flicker of something deeper, something like a revelation, danced in his gaze.

Seizing the last remnants of the dark chocolate, you adeptly licked your finger clean, sampling the taste before moving on to the bowl of melted white chocolate. With a dip of your finger, you retrieved a dollop and raised it to your lips, tasting the creamy sweetness.

A hum escaped you, followed by a subtle wrinkling of your nose. "I'm not a big fan of white chocolate. Too sweet," you remarked, your taste buds delivering their verdict.

Satoru, still fixated on observing this simple act, the way you interacted with the chocolate, nodded in acknowledgement at your assessment. His face carried an intense curiosity, as if a peculiar notion was taking shape within his mind. However, he chose to keep it unspoken, opting to silently study you.

You shifted your position, perching on the kitchen island near the array of chocolate-filled bowls, anticipating that this impromptu chocolate-tasting session might extend for a while.

"D'you like white chocolate?" you inquired.

Satoru paused his indulgence for a moment, his lips still adorned with a delicate coat of chocolate. He nodded in response to your question, a hint of a smile playing on his lips, though his unwavering gaze remained locked onto you. With a casual ease, he delved into the white chocolate, his eyes staying fixed on you as he licked his finger clean.

"Y'know, since I moved in, I've noticed that you have a bit of a sweet tooth," you remarked, beginning to ramble. "I'm not surprised you like white chocolate. I mean, it has so little cocoa in it... Can it even be called chocolate, d'you think?"

Satoru's attention remained steadfastly fixed on you, his expression pensive as if pondering your words. His gentle smile conveyed an understanding, and his fingers absentmindedly weaved through his fluffy white hair while he took in your observations.

In a moment of quiet contemplation, he finally broke the silence, his voice soft but purposeful in its delivery. "Do you... Do that a lot?"

You looked at him, the question catching you slightly off guard. "Do what?" you inquired, a hint of amusement in your tone, as you dipped your finger into the inviting bowl of melted milk chocolate this time.

"Licking your fingers," he clarified, his voice carrying a subtle playfulness accompanied by a knowing smile. "Licking your fingers clean."

Your laughter danced through the air. "Sure, when there's melted chocolate involved... You'd be crazy not to, y'know?" 

Satoru continued to gaze at you with a gentle, almost dreamy smile, as if captivated by the act of you enjoying the chocolate. His demeanour carried a sense of reverence, akin to admiring a work of art. However, suddenly snapping out of this trance-like reverie, a subtle blush adorned his cheeks as he averted his gaze.

He cleared his throat and hummed, the sound breaking the quietness that had settled between you two. "Is that a habit of yours?"

You tilted your head to the side, considering his question as you had the remnants of chocolate, culminating in a soft 'pop' as you removed your finger from your mouth.

"If I had enough melted chocolate, then I could make it one," you mused.

Satoru's interest visibly piqued, and with a deliberate movement, he drew closer, inching towards you. His gaze remained fixed on you, observing with a gentle intensity as you continued to enjoy the chocolate. As he reached your side, he leaned with self-conscious nonchalance against the kitchen island.

Caught in the allure of the moment, Satoru's gaze remained fixed on your lips, captivated by the simple act of you licking your finger. The gentle rise of heat within him went unnoticed, overshadowed by his complete and unwavering focus on you, and the delicate sound of that 'pop’.

With a deep breath, drawn slow and deliberate, he collected his thoughts, grappling with a desire to express something that lay just beyond the surface. His voice, almost a whisper, emerged from within, barely audible but charged with unspoken sentiment. "Your tongue."

"Hm?"

Satoru nodded towards your lips, his words carrying a delicate weight, almost as if he were posing a question. 

"Your tongue," he whispered again, this time as if gently seeking understanding, his hand tentatively lifting toward your face, but hesitated mid-motion.

Your bemused expression remained intact as you pushed the bowl of white chocolate towards Satoru, ignoring the subtle undercurrents of the moment. "Yeah, I have one. Eat up, I can't finish all this by myself.”

Satoru's gaze shifted from the yearning in his eyes to one of unadulterated delight, like a child left unattended in a sweet shop. 

"Thanks," he said. With the same childlike enthusiasm, he dipped his finger into the white chocolate and licked it clean, relishing the creamy sweetness.

With a subtle shift, he moved the bowl closer to your side. His finger then dipped into the dark chocolate bowl, and he held it out to you, looking up with a gentle, inviting expression. Your smile remained genuine as you dipped your finger into the dark chocolate, indulging in its rich taste. As you licked your finger clean, indulging in the chocolatey delight, you noticed Satoru's presence, his gaze focused on the act with a kind of intensity that sent a shiver down your spine. His deep hum of pleasure only added to the charged atmosphere, making you acutely aware of his fixation on your lips, your tongue, the movement of every gesture.

For Satoru, this innocent act held a captivating allure, his eyes ensnared by the graceful motion of your tongue, the way your finger was slowly inserted into your mouth, coated by a mix of saliva and chocolate. The heat within him surged, the internal struggle to maintain composure becoming more challenging with each passing moment. 

You dipped the corner of your thumb into the white chocolate bowl and confirmed your earlier assessment with a wrinkled nose.

"Nope. Still far too sweet," you murmured in good-natured complaint, aiming an accusatory glare at the offending bowl.

Satoru's focus remained intense, the proximity between the two of you forgotten. He took a deep breath, attempting to steady the rising tide of emotions that threatened to betray his composure. In a soft, barely audible whisper, he let out his unspoken admiration, a phrase that held a tenderness akin to an awe-filled sigh. 

"So pretty," he breathed, his lips forming a gentle, almost childlike smile.

"Did you say something?" you asked, momentarily distracted by your thoughts.

Satoru tore his gaze away from you and mumbled an apologetic, "Nothing."

He sought solace in the act of dipping his finger into the milk chocolate. The taste of chocolate melted on his taste buds, prompting a soft sigh of satisfaction as he closed his eyes. After a brief hesitation, he whispered, "Can I have more?"

His attention still captured by the subtle movements of your lips, he wrestled with the longing to taste your smile. The internal flames of desire roared, the struggle to maintain restraint growing more intense, and it was a miracle he hadn’t melted into a puddle of lust-sick goo.

"Sure, go ahead. I've got too much, and I don't wanna waste it," you replied casually, "I was gonna make some chocolates for Halloween, but I messed up tempering the chocolate, so they wouldn't come out right."

Satoru's attention was entranced, his senses consumed by the choreography of your speech. The movement of your lips, the delicate dance of your tongue against your teeth, the mesmerising gestures of your fingers—every nuance held a captivating allure for him. His gaze lingered on your lips, caught in the magnetic pull of your eyes and the subtle curves of your mouth as you spoke. Each syllable seemed to ripple through the air, carrying a delicate beauty that intoxicated him. Oh, how he yearned to draw closer and drink you in, to taste you and to feel you.

You dipped two fingers into the bowl of dark chocolate, the rich, velvety substance clinging to your digits as you simultaneously lifted them to your lips and expertly licked them clean with the graceful sweep of your tongue.

You broke the silence that had enveloped the kitchen. "Are you more of a sweets person or a chocolate person?"

As Satoru reflected on your question, his mind wandered back to a distant memory, a recollection of a fateful evening many years ago. It was the night his parents had finally allowed him to venture outside the Gojo family estate to experience the joy of Trick-or-Treating for the first time. That night had left an indelible mark on him, igniting a lifelong love for sweets of all kinds, and the memory of that sugar rush had stayed with him throughout the years. Satoru had always been known for his adoration of sweets; The answer was sweets.

"Chocolate," he said softly, his gaze remaining fixated on your lips.

"Yeah, same here. Nothing beats chocolate, y'know?" 

Satoru's attention remained captivated by the mesmerising movements of your tongue and lips. He observed the way your lips puckered subtly as you cleaned some milk chocolate from your thumb, the simple act imbued with an unintentional allure. So engrossed was he in this subtle spectacle that he leaned closer to you, drawn in by the magnetic pull of you.

As Satoru leaned closer, your laughter, soft and delightful, broke through the air, the sound music to his ears.

"You have a little somethin'," you pointed out, your grin warm and inviting as you nodded towards him.

He felt a pleasant warmth surge through him as he absorbed your cute smile, the contours of it, and the way it seemed to brighten the room. Realising what you meant, he couldn't help but form a small line with his lips, a faint blush gracing his cheeks. Stepping back slightly, a hint of bashfulness crept into his demeanour, though his fascination with you lingered.

"Aren't you gonna clean it off, or is it a new look for you?" you teased with a chuckle, pointing to the corner of his mouth where a smudge of milk chocolate remained.

Satoru's face flushed with a mix of embarrassment and amusement as he quickly wiped the corner of his mouth clean.

"New look," he mumbled, trying to maintain a playful demeanour despite the warmth that had crept into his face.

Suppressing a laugh, you couldn't help but add: "You missed a spot."

His embarrassment grew as he hurriedly wiped his mouth again, and his response carried a slightly sharp tone. "There. Happy now?"

As his gaze met yours again, it travelled down your neck, fixating on the curve of your shoulder with an undeniable longing. 

A gasp of surprise escaped Satoru as you took matters into your own hands, or rather, your thumb. Feeling the soft pad of your thumb brushing against the corner of his lips, he momentarily lost himself in the sensation, the brief touch sending a shiver through his body. A soft, quiet moan that escaped him.

You efficiently cleaned the melted chocolate, and then with a playful flair, brought your thumb to your mouth, licking it clean. "There. Now you're all good."

Satoru was left slightly breathless, the warmth of the interaction lingering on his lips.

The air in the kitchen crackled with a newfound energy as you dipped your finger into the white chocolate, purposefully smearing a bit onto your lips, a playful innuendo that hung in the air. 

Satoru chuckled, his eyes fixated on the white chocolate smeared across your lips, the sight igniting a fiery heat within him. His gaze was intense, captivated by the way you licked your lips clean, a soft hum of awe escaping him.

He raised his own finger, dipping it into the white chocolate. Instead of smearing, he chose a different path, bringing his finger to his lips and licking the chocolate clean with deliberate precision. His eyes remained locked onto yours, the intensity of his gaze reflecting the overwhelming desire to be closer to you, to taste your sweetness, to let his tongue be a messenger of longing. 

Satoru's anticipation was palpable as he watched you dip your thumb into the dark chocolate bowl. A smile gracing his lips as you cupped his jaw in your hand, the connection between you growing more profound with each passing moment. He closed his eyes, surrendering.

As the tip of your chocolate-coated thumb brushed against his mouth, a deep, shaky breath escaped him, his body trembling. With eyes still closed, he opened his mouth, inviting the sweet temptation within. Your thumb slipped between his lips, and his tongue curled around it, sending a jolt of pleasure through his body.

His eyes snapped open, locking onto yours with an intensity that mirrored the rising desire within him. He sucked on your thumb, a soft, low moan escaping his parted lips as he savoured the taste of the dark chocolate. His mouth remained wrapped around your thumb, your fingers caressing the back of his head, adding to the intoxicating sensations that enveloped him. His body quivered with a fervour, his tongue darting out to lick away the chocolate, creating a soft, wet sensation that sent waves of pleasure coursing through both of you.

Satoru tilted his head, his tongue wrapping around your thumb with a gentle intensity. The sensations that coursed through you were titillating, the intimacy of the moment leaving you both breathless. He continued to suck, using his tongue to expertly remove the melted dark chocolate, the soft, wet sucking noise adding a seductive cadence to the air. As your thumb emerged clean, a rush of satisfaction swept over him.

You delicately slid your thumb out of his mouth, and in a hushed murmur, you inquired, "How'd it taste?"

Satoru's eyes remained fixed on your thumb, still moist from the encounter. A slight smile of satisfaction graced his lips as he studied the string of saliva between his lips and your thumb. He inhaled the lingering aroma. Swallowing, his voice emerged as a quiet rasp, carrying a raw honesty. "Like you."

"Good, then?"

"Good," he murmured as he swallowed again.

As Satoru gently pressed your thumb against his lips, letting it rest there, a gentle sigh escaped him. The touch was a buzz, the taste of chocolate mingled with the essence of you.

Your thumb brushed against his lower lip. The desire within him surged, and the restraint he held onto began to slip. His swirling blue eyes, intense and craving, remained locked onto yours. Unable to resist the allure, Satoru softly sucked on your thumb, the pleasure of the act unmistakable. A soft moan escaped him, his body trembling.

With your free hand, you dipped your fingers into the melted dark chocolate, smearing the rich, velvety substance against Satoru's pale cheek. The contrast between the dark chocolate and his fair skin was a strinking sight—though, rather than marring him, it only made him look all the more mouth-watering. Leaning closer, your tongue pressed to his cheek, tracing a deliberate stripe across the soft skin. The taste of him mingled with the bitter chocolate—a sensual fusion. 

He felt an earnest heat surge through him as your tongue left a searing mark on his cheek, his eyes closing once more. With a growing hunger, he pulled your thumb deeper into his mouth, savouring the taste. His arms wrapped around your waist, and he drew closer, standing between your legs as you sat on the kitchen island. 

He released small sounds of pleasure as you pushed your thumb deeper into his mouth, the taste and sensation overwhelming. The tightness of his embrace around your waist conveyed the intensity of his hunger, his starvation.

A moan escaped him, the pleasure and desire spiralling, but it was swiftly followed by a quiet, choked sound as the sensations grew more potent. His breath quickened, and as his eyes fluttered open, he sought to communicate his need for a moment to breathe. Despite this, he eagerly accepted your thumb once more, craving the taste and the connection it offered.

Sensing his state, you displayed a playful smirk against his cheek, acknowledging the effect you had on him. The soft kiss against his cheek and the withdrawal of your thumb granted him the ability to breathe properly, a relief he welcomed.

With Satoru standing so close, you nuzzled his neck, your words murmured against his skin. "You taste amazing."

"You taste perfect," he responded, laden with longing. The soft, hungry moans escaped him.

As he leaned his head forward, exposing his neck, the invitation was clear, and you gladly accepted. Your tongue swirled and pressed against his neck, your teeth grazing his skin, each touch and sensation eliciting pretty moans and pants from him. The proximity, the taste of you, and the closeness between you had his body trembling.

His fingers clutched at your waist, a silent plea for more, for the delicious torment to continue. The line between flatmate and something else was blurred, replaced by a yearning that begged for fulfilment.

The intensity of the moment reached its peak as Satoru's body betrayed him, his knees beginning to buckle against the kitchen island. His heart raced, his breath quickened, and soft sighs of pleasure escaped him, each exhalation laden with desire. The sensations coursing through him were overwhelming, and he surrendered to the pleasure that enveloped him.

Your touch, cradling his head and pressing him closer to your body, ignited a fire within him that burned away his self-restraint. His breaths came in short, sharp gulps, his eyes tightly closed as he continued to moan, the sounds a testament to the exquisite torment he was experiencing. His fingers, which had initially clung to your waist, transformed into a desperate grip—a plea for more, more, more. He yearned for you to devour him in the sweetest way possible.

The sensation of your teeth sinking into his neck sent a jolt through Satoru's body, his eyes snapping open as his breath hitched in response. The vibrations of your satisfied hum resonated down his spine straight to his loins, to that more primal hunger. Your legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him even closer, causing his breath to catch in his throat.

Cute whimpers escaped him as you continued to sink your teeth into his neck, the dark purplish bruises forming under the ravenous caress of your lips. The indulgent torment left him trembling with need and longing. As you soothed the bite marks with your tongue, sucking and kissing them, his body shivered with pleasure. 

"Are you trying to make me like a dessert...?" Satoru whispered in playful anticipation.

"I might eat you like one," you mused, laughter dancing through your words.

Satoru chuckled softly, his hand tenderly running along the back of your neck, the gentle strokes sending waves of pleasure through you.

"Please?" he hoarsely pleaded for a taste that would satiate more than just a physical hunger.

Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath, revelling in the intoxicating closeness. Nuzzling against your neck, his face brushed against your skin with a gentle touch, a platter of kisses, licks, and nibbles that sent ripples of pleasure through you.

His fingers continued their tender exploration, stroking your hair and tracing a slow, deliberate path down your back. Each touch felt like a caress, mapping the curves and contours of your body, as if he were committing the sensation to memory, an artist tenderly tracing the lines of a masterpiece.

You played your part, dipping your fingers into the bowl of milk chocolate with a deliberate laziness, making a show of it, relishing in the decadent act. With a flourish, you sucked the melted chocolate off your fingers, the sound deliberate and loud, a performance that filled the air. Your moans of pleasure, meant for the chocolate but echoing sensually, added to the provocative display. All the while, Satoru was there, an edacious audience to the mesmerising act.

His soft whine of pleasure resonated with the sounds and sights before him. His eyes fluttered open, capturing the eniticing sight of you licking your lips, the taste and aroma of chocolate lingering in the air. His breath caught in his throat, and he let out soft, whining noises of his own, growing louder with each passing moment.

"Open," you whispered, and he obeyed without a moment's hesitation. His mouth slightly parted, pupils dilated with thirst, his gaze locked onto yours.

You leaned closer, the distance between your lips mere inches. The world seemed to hold its breath.

You allowed your milk chocolate-flavoured saliva to drip into his waiting mouth. It was a blend of your essence and the sweetness of chocolate, a taste that sent shivers down his spine. Satoru's grip on your skin tightened as he welcomed the sensation, his mouth opening wider to take in every precious drop. A loud, moan escaped him as he drank in your saliva, the taste of you leaving an indelible mark—trembling with the insatiable craving for you.

"Swallow," you commanded, and he obeyed, swallowing with a soft moan. The pleasure it elicited was evident, his grip on your neck tightening as he continued to make soft, whimpering noises, his gaze fixed on you with an unquenchable thirst.

You leaned in closer, "You like that, don't you?" you whispered, a smugness colouring your tone, gorging on the effect you had on him.

"I love it," Satoru murmured, his voice laced with desire and desperation. "I need more," he confessed, the yearning in his words palpable.

You laughed. "Hungry for more of me?"

"Starving.”

The intimate tension in the air was palpable, a force that left Satoru's features adorned with a flush of the most captivating shade of red. His blue eyes, half-lidded and filled with desire, were fixated on you, a thirst burning within them that yearned to devour you.

With a rapaciousness that knew no bounds, Satoru's hands grabbed your waist, pulling you closer to him. Soft, whimpering escaped him as your hips rolled against his, setting his senses ablaze. The press of your body against his was a sensation he craved, and his eyes pleaded with a famished longing, begging for more.

You smeared chocolate against his neck, the tactile sensation adding to the symphony of pleasure that enveloped the room. Satoru's body trembled as he ground against you, the sounds of his moans and whimpers filling the kitchen. He moaned louder as you bit down on his neck, the sensation shooting a wave of electrifying pleasure through him. His teeth ached in response, his mouth watering for you. 

"D'you wanna kiss me, sugar? You wanna taste me for real?" Your lips then found his earlobe, nibbling and licking, a promise of the sensations that could be.

Satoru, overcome with longing, nodded eagerly, a trickle of sweat tracing the line of his flushed face. His grip on your waist tightened, his body moving against yours with a growing urgency, fueled by an insatiable need to be closer, to taste the reality of this desire.

“Then beg,” you commanded.

Satoru's voice, hoarse and raw with desire, quivered as he responded, his moans merging with the symphony of the moment. He pressed his nose into your neck, your proximity overwhelming his senses. 

"Please… Please, I need to feel you. I need to taste you. I need you," he mumbled, his words a desperate plea for the intimacy he craved.

You didn't hold back, the smugness of your laughter giving way to a ravenous kiss. He trembled in your embrace, his mouth opening to welcome the invasion of your tongue. The taste of chocolate and the essence of you mingled, a heady combination that sent his senses into a whirlwind. His tongue writhed against yours, a desperate attempt to enjoy every bit of you. He was a man starved, and he groaned into the kiss.

"Please, I need more," he breathed into your mouth—a chant of desire.

His body quaked with the intensity of his yearning, grinding against you. Your fingernails dug into his neck, making him hiss through gritted teeth. He whimpered as he sucked on your tongue, every moan and every swallow consuming him, the taste of you imprinted on his senses, an imprint he never wanted to fade. He squirmed against your body, wanting more. 

As you pulled away, a thin string of saliva connecting your lips, you could feel the boiling energy in the room.

You wasted no time, plunging your hand into the bowl of melted white chocolate, your fingers finding their way into his greedy mouth. The accidental smear down his chin only added to the intensity, as his eyes closed in pure pleasure. His mouth welcomed your fingers, allowing them to slide in, savouring the taste of the chocolate that spilled down his throat. Each swallow was accompanied by a moan and a whine, the chocolate causing his body to shiver.

Satoru's own grip tightened, his fingers pressing against the back of your head as he sucked and licked, his tongue exploring for every last drop of the chocolate. The desire in his eyes was palpable, the hunger for both of you consuming every waking thought.

You pushed your fingers even deeper into his mouth, eliciting his gag reflex, and his eyes fluttered. "Aw, aren't you so cute?" you teased, your hips rolling in a tantalising rhythm that added to the mounting desire.

Satoru pressed his hips against yours with fervour, driven by the craving to taste every precious drop of the chocolate and your essence.

"I'll do anything to taste you," he whined.

You met his desire with a challenge, arching an eyebrow and pulling your fingers out of his mouth, the same hand covered in the glistening trail of spit that connected you moments ago. Gripping his jaw with determination, you presented him with the opportunity to fulfil his longing.

"Taste me, then."

Satoru's eyes widened with hunger as your spit hit his mouth, his anticipation palpable. Before he could react, you thrust your fingers into his mouth, pushing them down his throat. He gagged and moaned, the sensations both overwhelming and exhilarating. Your saliva mixed with the chocolate was a unique flavour, a taste he craved to savour. As he swallowed your saliva, he choked and whimpered loudly, the feeling of your fingers pressing deeper down his throat.

The wicked grin on your face mirrored the intensity of the moment, a dance of desire that showed no signs of slowing down. One of his own hands gripped your wrist, forcing your fingers to stay shoved down his throat. With determination, you pumped your fingers in and out of his mouth, pushing him to experience the full extent of his cravings.

"Taste all you can," you snickered.

Satoru responded with a loud, girlish whine of desire, his pretty eyes rolling back as he tried to gulp and swallow your spit. The mixture of pleasure, anticipation, and need had him in a trance, and he couldn't get enough. Drool spilt from his rosy lips down his chin, a visible testament to his craving for you. He wrapped an arm around your waist, his moans filling the kitchen as he devoured you. His body writhed against your fingers, the need to taste, to consume, to gorge, to ravage… He couldn’t think.

"Yeah, that's it. That's it, sweet thing. Good, keep going," you chuckled, urging him on.

He responded with a loud, lustful squeak of pleasure. His body pressed against yours with all his weight, the kitchen island providing support as he ground against you. Slick with a layer of your sweet saliva, his tongue was a tantalising instrument, pressing against your fingers with a desperate need. The sensation of his teeth and tongue exploring your fingers was trilling, and he gorged on every moment, wanting to taste all of you at once.

"Alright, that's enough," you said with a teasing click of your teeth.

As you tugged on his fluffy white hair and withdrew your fingers from his mouth, wiping them against his cheek, Satoru let out a loud whine of disappointment. He was left in a state of famine—wanting more, needing more, craving more—your very own Tantalus.

Moaning and looking at you with pleading eyes, saliva dripping down the corner of his mouth, his cheeks pink and lips parted, he whimpered your name softly. His breath came in ragged gasps as he tried to regain his composure.

“But I… I want... I want more,” he whined breathily, desire consuming him.

You leaned in, your lips finding his jaw, and whispered enticingly in his ear, "But I'm impressed, sugar... I think you deserve more of me." 

You softly bit his earlobe, sending a jolt of pleasure through him. Your hands moved with purpose, sliding down to his waist and undoing his belt. The sound of it hitting the floor filled the kitchen, the noise accentuating the anticipation that hung heavily in the air. Satoru shivered with excitement, his eyes rolling back into his head as his fingers dug into your back.

"Please, please, please…”

With trembling hands, his fingers working eagerly to remove the fabric that stood between him and you. He slid his fingers under the hem of your skirt, the touch against the smooth, soft fabric of your underwear making him whine with longing. The lace against his fingertips was a sensation that drove him wild, his fingers writhing in response to the intoxicating touch.

As you leaned in and bit his neck, the pleasure intensified, his breath catching in his throat as he moaned. Every touch, every instruction was a step further into the Third Circle.

"Go on, take them off for me," you whispered, the urgency in your voice coaxing him to act. 

Satoru's obedience was instant. His trembling hands slid your panties down your legs, the quiet rustling noise filling the charged air. As the fabric was removed, his eyes were fixated on you, the hunger in his gaze undeniable. Lifting your leg to rest against his hip, he was granted a provocative view of your body. Desire burned brightly in his eyes as he took in the sight, captivated by the allure before him. 

Your playful smirk spurred you to make a spectacle, a teasing display that left nothing to the imagination. You opened your legs, presenting yourself like a meal on a silver platter being served to a starving man. Satoru's eyes were fixated on you, drinking in the sight of your form, eyes latched onto how your cunt was slick and needy with the arousal that had gathered from him gagging on your fingers. 

With a teasing confidence, your hands moved to undo the strings of Satoru's grey sweatpants, where you could very clearly see the aching hard-on he sported. His heaving breaths filled the air, as your hand pressed against his leg and your skirt was hoisted up further, exposing more of your tempting form.

As your fingers explored his skin, tracing the contours of his thigh, his body quivered with longing. Your hands moved freely up and down the meat of his thighs, gripping and squeezing his flesh.

"Like what you see, sweet thing?" 

Every fibre of his being yearned to taste you, to devour you whole until you could offer no more. His whines grew louder, his desperation palpable as your fingers danced along his thigh, your touch inching to his throbbing cock that dripped with precum and was flushed a pretty red.

“Love what I see.”

Lust hung in the dense air, hung between Satoru’s legs, between your thighs. He leaned in, his intent clear, and his tongue traced a path along your thigh. As his skilled fingers explored every curve, every contour of your being, his lips kissed and suckled on your inner thighs, leaving trails of desire in their wake. You could sense his hunger, a ravenous appetite for the taste of you.

Your lips curled into a coy, lustful smile as you lifted his chin with your fingers, meeting the depth of his hungry gaze. His face was a portrait of desire, the scorching flames of longing reflected in his eyes. 

"Please. I'm starving," he breathed out, his plea shivering with yearning.

"Starving, huh? I guess I shouldn't let you go hungry," you drawled. You dipped your fingers into the bowl of melted milk chocolate and smeared some across your inner thigh. "Are you a messy eater, sugar?"

"I… I’m…" he stammered with a bright blush.

Your fingers laced into his hair as you pulled his head closer, and he was lost in the intoxicating embrace of your thighs. His tongue danced and swirled, relishing the sweet taste of the milk chocolate and the essence of you.

"Eat your heart out," you purred, your nails grazing his scalp—a delicious torment.

The sensations coursing through your body were electrifying, and Satoru's pious ministrations between your thighs left you gasping and trembling with pleasure. His strong hands gripped your hips, urging you to press harder against his face as he explored every inch of dripping your cunt.

His mouth moved with rhythmic precision, his lips slick with your wetness and his saliva as he lavished you. Each deliberate nudge of his nose against your clit sent waves of pleasure cascading through your body, making you arch your back and moan in ecstasy. 

Satoru's half-lidded eyes, dark with hunger and desire, bore into yours, and his whimpers of praise only made your desire consume you more. He yearned to taste and devour every drop of your essence, relishing the thought of making it run down your thighs so he could eagerly lap it up—or even better, make it squirt straight into his mouth for his desperate taste buds.

Your moans grew louder and more urgent, your fingers digging into his hair as you surrendered to the overwhelming pleasure building within you. 

Satoru's tongue delved deeper, and the sensations intensified as he explored your most sensitive depths. Your gasps and moans filled the air as he continued to pleasure you. He maintained a steady rhythm, his movements deliberate and measured, aiming to drive you to the peak of ecstasy. With each thrust of his tongue and gentle exploration of your inner walls, your breath quickened and your body quivered with anticipation. He watched you hungrily, his eyes locked on yours, seeking the signs of your pleasure. 

Satoru's mouth found its way back to your clit, and his skilled tongue traced precise circles around the tender bundle of nerves. The wet, warm sensation sent ripples through you, each flicker of contact causing your body to tremble with delight. The vibrations from his moans spurred on your own ravenous hunger.

Your body responded involuntarily, hips arching towards him in a silent plea for more. He picked up the pace, increasing the intensity of his movements, fully immersing himself in the art of pleasuring you. Every motion of his tongue, every gasp and moan that escaped your lips, only made him devour and drink you in more.

Just before you could cum on his tongue, and much to Satoru’s dismay, you wrenched his head away.

As your lips crashed together in a desperate, passionate kiss, your bodies moulded against each other in a frenzied dance of desire. Satoru's surprised yelp transformed into a moan of pleasure, the taste of you on his tongue heightening his longing. You felt him slide inside you, the sensation making your breath hitch and a loud moan escape your lips. Your legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him closer, seeking the intimate closeness that only heightened the pleasure you both craved. With each thrust, every movement, your bodies consumed each other as fully as you could.

His moans merged with yours, a harmonious blend of pleasure and satisfaction that echoed in the room. The sounds of your passionate union filled the air, a sweet melody of ecstasy that enveloped you both. The world faded away, and in that moment, it was just the two of you, consumed by the intense connection and unyielding desire that drove you closer to the edge.

Satoru's desire and urgency radiated through every touch, every thrust, driving you both closer to the brink. Each movement of his body brought a symphony of pleasure, filling the kitchen with the sounds of your shared desire. Your cries of delight mingled with his, deepening with every thrust, as he pressed against you with increasing urgency born of the overwhelming desire that ravished you both. As Satoru's cock delved deeper inside you, the sensation of your wet pussy contracting and fluttering around him sent ripples of pleasure through his body, amplifying the intensity of his movements. 

He just couldn’t help himself.

In that moment of release, the world seemed to fade away, leaving only the intensity of pleasure and the shared ecstasy that enveloped you both. Your bodies moved as one, driven by an insatiable hunger and aching desire for each other. Satoru's cries of bliss mingled with your own, a symphony of pleasure as he spilled into you, a torrent of warmth that further heightened your climax. Satoru's fervent thrusts reached a crescendo, his voice echoing through the room as he spilled his essence into your waiting warmth.

His release triggered a cascade of sensations, the intensity of which was almost overwhelming. His cries of ecstasy and the way he clung to you, his body trembling with the power of his climax, were etched into your memory. Thick spurts of cum filled you as he continued to pound into you.

Your body quaked and convulsed, the sensation of his cum filling you only amplifying the intensity of your own orgasm. The pleasure rippled through you, coursing through every nerve and fibre, leaving you gasping and shivering in the aftermath. It was a moment of pure abandon, where all that mattered was the pleasure you both had ignited within each other.

As the waves of ecstasy subsided, you found yourselves entwined, chests heaving, and breaths mingling in the air. The kitchen was filled with a heady mix of desire and still, although faintly, of chocolate.

The two of you slumped against the kitchen island, completely exhausted. The silence between you is thick. Neither of you says anything to each other and you can hear your panting breathing. You can feel Satoru’s chest rapidly rising and falling as he stayed pressed to you, and he reluctantly pulled out.

Satoru breathed shakily, but was still unable to speak coherently. His face was flushed and still recovering. He looked at you and you could see the glazed-over look of afterglow in his eyes. He looks like a panting mess of exhaustion, forcing out the next few words.

“I need you,” he whispered.

Satoru's lips found yours in a soft, wet kiss before you could respond. A passionate kiss, his mouth searching and seeking, taking in every taste, every curve and caress of your lips. Soft, gentle. Hungry and relentless. His hands moved into your hair, his fingertips pressing against the bare skin of your neck, tracing every curve. His lips pressed and retreated, press… Retreat… Press… There was an undeniable hunger to it—a hunger you now understood, and now shared.

“I need you, too.”

a/n: peep the five stars. peep the Tantalus reference. peep the Dante's Inferno reference. Happy Kinktober! :3

this work belongs to STARRIERKNIGHT . please refrain from plagiarising any of my works and do not repost/translate/modify/copy onto any platforms.

#꒰ ✎ ꒱ — tongues in trees #꒰ ✑ ꒱ — they kiss consume #꒰ 🝮 ꒱ — kt 23 #gojo satoru smut #gojo satoru x reader #gojo satoru x reader smut #sub gojo satoru x reader #sub gojo satoru #gojo satoru x you #gojo satoru x y/n