#they could both be both of these possibilities
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HOW THEY E4T YOU OUT !
feature: choso, nanami, gojo, geto, sukuna, toji
content: 3.3k+ wc — pssy eatin, spnking, degradation, sqrting [request are always open] mdni + not proofread
CHOSO KAMO ꔫ
Devours you every chance he gets as if he’s going to die if he doesn't.
His eyes were tired and his back was slumped when he arrived home like usual. On the days when he needs to leave for work and return once more, his muscle memory always searches for you before anything else.
He came in, forgot to take off his shoes, his phone in hand and an exhausted look on his face.
“Bad day Cho’?” you asked.
“M’just tired.” He hummed out.
“Aww i’m sorry Cho’ how can I make you feel better?”
“Can I see her?”
୨୧
“Mmngh can never get enough of your pretty pussy, baby— please.. she’s sho’ mghn delicious..”
Choso is a man who makes you tremble while he cries as he proceeds to eat your soul out. A man who cums in his pants just by looking at your pussy as if it were his first time seeing it. Because he doesn’t want to do anything but eat your pussy and make you feel good.
It was over the moment you allowed this man to taste you. His only desire now—was to have his face permanently pressed into your folds.
Choso keeps his face inside your pussy as if he were scuba diving, fuck the goggles. He thinks eating you out only ended successfully based on how messy he was when he finished.
With both palms keeping you spread open nice and wide for him. Like there’s a reward beyond the coma inducing orgasm destined to be achieved for the both of you when he’s done. He wants to see your cunt in full view, and access to every nook and cranny possible.
He’s needy and messy, he’ll stuff his face like he lost his house keys in your cervix. And doesn’t see himself done until, your juices are soaking more than just the bedsheets. He aims to see the mixed cum and saliva dripping down his chin and far past his stomach.
He just can’t help it, he wants to make you feel so good he's a pussy pleaser.
“F-fuck baby mmnghm, am i doin’ ghud p-pretty?..” he whines, his eyes hazy and lusted as his tongue makes rounds on your clit. Sucking and mumbling with his mouth full.
“y-yes jus’ like that cho’ so good f’me mmm…” you struggle, your palms ruffling through his hair for support.
“S-so good..thank you–mnuh thank you..” He slobbers sweet nothings to himself as the thousands of taste buds on his tongue individually roam in and out of your folds. Leaving no bare of your skin un-sampled. Tasting everything there is to taste without fail.
“Uhng, cho’ r-right there m’so close..!”
Abusing your clit with ease as he promptly twists and prods his fingers out and back in. “you gonna come? n-not yet, m’ not done—keep going just a little more..baby pleashh~”
NANAMI KENTO ꔫ
Caresses you with one goal in mind, that is the satisfaction that comes with making you finish.
When you knocked on his door and made your way inside, he was in a virtual conference.
The mere sight of him making your pussy excruciatingly wet.
His arms were visibly exposed, and his sleeves were rolled up. His clothing appeared tighter, especially with the veins on his skin throbbing. The buttons on his shirt could have easily burst from the way they were begging to be undone.
He glanced at you and motioned silently for you to come sit on his knee while he muted his call.
"baby, what's wrong?" he asks, sliding a hand to your waist to hold you in place on his thigh.
“Nothinnn’ just miss you is all,” you lie, leaning down to give him a quick kiss to his temple.
“Is that so?” he questions, his glasses slipping down just enough to reveal his content eyes.
“Mhmm I reaaally missed you ken’”
"I can feel you rocking your weight on my thigh, so don't lie to me."
୨୧
“Sit on my face baby—let me take care of you”
Although Kento Nanami is always pent-up, he is able to maintain his composure. He can, has, and will keep going for hours. He will drop to his knees and encircle your thighs with his huge arms the moment you ask him to. With his face burying deeper into your cunt as if he were employed on a graveyard shift from 9 to 5.
After all, he's a gentleman, which means that he's hooked on seeing your body shake just by making out with your cunt. The boulder in his pants twitching with every lustful movement the scene in front of him causes.
He’d never stop until you finish, making sure you emptied all you had on his tongue, before he makes you do it again on his dick.
“Umngh– that feel good sweetheart?” He goes on, your shaky legs being forced apart by his grasp so they are unable to get in the way of his view.
“Mhmm–keep going ken’ feels soo good..” you moan.
Kentos a clit lover. He never concludes these sessions until your clit is puffy and your pussy is gaping from his fingers.
And every time you are at a loss for words, frantically seeking for something to cling onto, he leaves a mental note that makes you whimper when he does it again.
He stones both his middle and ring fingers inside of you despite never once letting go of that puffy clit he deems so tasty. He sucks, strokes, and makes out with your pussy like a natural.
He’s the type to have an area 51 lockdown on your thighs, the type to let you grab a fistful of his hair and let you ride his face at any tempo your little heart desires. His palms rubbing circles on the inside of your thighs—leading you to your final destination.
“You’re doing so good—that's it, make me taste how good im doing love...”
GOJO SATORU ꔫ
Loves the way you give up under his touch, fighting against the orgasm he’s gonna take from you.
“Satoru Gojo, knock it off..!” you huffed out. you had enough of him toying with you all day.
He asked to go with you on your errands and promised not to get in the way.
Yet he’s been teasing you all day, telling you how good he’s gonna fuck your brains out. Putting his hand on your thigh in the car, just to play coy and ‘accidentally’ slip a finger through the hems of your panties.
Even as you were trying to reach an agreement on a new game for you and him to play, he made attempts to grind your ass against him.
"Huuh? Satoru Gojo? Who’s that? M’names toru," he chuckles.
"We’re in public, Satoru. You’re being so annoying." you groan rolling your eyes at him, before moving on to the next row.
"Whattt, a man can’t love on his girlfriend nowadays?” he exaggerates, following immediately behind you, copying your steps.
୨୧
“P-Put it in already toru’…!” you whined.
“You weren't this eager for me earlier…” he gasped dramatically, kissing up your thigh, pulling your panties down in the opposite direction.
“Quit teasing Toru’ jus’ need you in me...”
“If you wan’ it inside, gotta show me how eager you are to cum on my face baby...”
You won't believe how sloppy and vulgar this man is when he's eating you out.
Your eyes will be drawn to the back of your head by him. He'll put his blindfold over your eyes and make you only able to see stars.
His thick and lengthy fingers have enough ability to take the wind right out of your lungs and reach farther than any toy could alone.
“Hah..c-can’t toru’,” struggling to catch your breath, you try to push his face away.
He’s a man who makes sure to pleasure you first. And makes you cum no less than twice on his tongue. He swallows everything he can, and makes you cum again if he didn’t get it all the first time.
"C'monnn baby—mmnm, know your pussy got another one in her, tell her to give it to me.." he laughs.
Satoru loves to watch your body unfold under him. He adores the way your throat reaches the highest octave you can afford to give. The way he pulls countless moans out of your throat, causing your voice to crack. He loves to hear how much your ‘can't take it toru’” fuel his ego just so he can get ready to show you just how much he’ll make you take it.
He finger fucks you like crazy. Maintaining the pad of his thumb on your clit while stuffing your cunt onto his fingers in a rhythmic motion. He never wastes time to put his mouth to work.
“Too much toru’ gonna squ—nghmm..!” you yelp, getting cut off by the way he scoots your ass closer to his face—allowing him to focus on the deep areas within your pussy, causing you to squirt then and there without the ability to stop.
“Good fuckin’ job baby–wouldve mmhp- brought an umbrella if I knew it was gonna rain today,”
“...”
GETO SUGURU ꔫ
He takes his time eating you out, he just wants to see how desperate you can get for him.
"You were moving so much, love. What's the matter? Had a nightmare?" Geto asks out to you.
Gaining consciousness slowly, you watch the strands of his hair fall, concealing his half open eyes, before he pushes them back over his head.
Initially he turned away from you in an attempt to cool down your side of the bed since he believed you could have been feeling too hot. But when you kept shuffling under the blankets, he decided to wake you up.
"Mmm, no, it was more like auhh..." you pause, pondering on what you’re going to say, sitting up to rest against the headboard of the bed.
"Like what?" he inquires, positioning himself to align with your stance.
"You know..." You feel a little ashamed at the thought, but you avoid his gaze until you hear his laugh fill the room.
“Aw my pretty girl havin’ wet dreams about me?”
Throwing a pillow at his face as you huff out, “It’s not funny Sugu’, I genuinely couldn’t sleep…!”
“Why don’t you show me what I did in your dream then, hm?”
୨୧
“Go on uhmngh, let’s make your dream come true–as much as your pretty mmh.. pussy desires,”
Geto wants to see how horny you really are for him. He adores nothing but to see how desperate you really are to get off.
“uhhuhnn r-right there baby..” your breath hitching, while you ride up and down his mouth.
He watches you mindlessly use him like you’re the one in control. He’ll let you fuck his fingers—your nails clenching the strands of his hair, undoing the bun he wrapped up prior.
He feels the way the heels of your feet are snug deep in his broad shoulders. And he doesn’t care, because all Geto can care about is the way you’re haphazardly slamming your pussy in his face without loss.
He’ll agree when you say you need a moment, only to slam you back down on his face when your movement starts to slow. He’ll latch around your waist with the fore of his arms, and shove himself deep between your thighs.
“Sugu’ mnghn—slow down p-please..!” Playing dumb on how your vindications for him slow down fall on stone-deaf ears.
“Mmmnghm you said faster? sure thing baby..” Smirking into your clit while he devours you—his grip only gets tighter, mocking the same way your fingers begin to tighten against his scalp.
“Mmmn sugu’…don’t stop…c-cummin’ nghh-guh!”
Geto damn near inhales your cunt at this point, giving himself no air as he breathes and digests everything that comes out of your pussy, emphasising the slurping noises his lips bring as they're mingled in your folds while you squirt in his mouth.
“Atta girl..Can’t sleep now though, might as well keep goin’ till sunrise.”
SUKUNA RYOMEN ꔫ
He wants to drain the thoughts from your mind and watch you falter under him.
“Why are you ignoring me?” you press, but get an annoyed sigh in response.
You’ve asked him to let you accompany him multiple times so you could watch him box-train, and while usually he says no–today he said yes as an excuse to show off his pretty fiancé. Yet, he was pissed when he watched a group of shirtless scumbags surrounding you with brags about their meager accomplishments.
He saw you giggling up a storm but you weren’t laughing because of him and that thought alone made his blood boil.
"I was just bein’ nice Kuna’, so I'm not sure why you have an attitude."
"Maybe it's caus' you wanna go around flirtin' with every guy in the damn gym." Sukuna scolds, pulling his duffel bag out to put away his gloves—rolling his eyes in advance as he slams his locker door.
"I did not try to flirt! They came up to me, asked about you and then the talk continued. A cordial discussion some might say," you joke.
“Oh yeah? What were they sayin’ then?” he scoffs, raising an eyebrow at your remark, leaning against the locker doors, an action forbidding you to walk away.
୨୧
“t-they we’re just sayingnn t-that you..—you mghn!”
Sukuna either goes all out or doesn’t, and when it comes to you, going all out is just the tip of the iceberg.
He’s a man who hates getting dirty, but when it’s your cunt? You know it’s ate right when your mattress is stained through like a sponge.
“I-I what brat? Spit it out." he spites, making fun of your efforts to speak—his fingers breaking and entering you with ease.
Sukuna's cruel and wicked, if you will. He has your pussy leaking and accessible to him completely. Eating and finger fucking you enduringly.
The filthy squelches and slurps fill both your ears whilst he fingers you till your internal juices coats his fingertips.
“that you–hah…w-win lots mphm…K-kuna pleash..!..can’t breathe..please..” you begin to writhe beneath his lips, swallowing in shock at his ruthless touch.
You can tell him to let you breathe and that you can no longer cum, all you want, but he doesn't bother to listen.
The palms of his hand repeatedly make contact with your ass, torturing the skin below them and causing acute pain on your cheeks, leaving no place for pity.
“Yeah? s’that why you were gigglin’ and given fuck me eyes?”
He makes it his mission every time to eat you so good no matter what you do it’ll never be enough. He’ll make sure those half assed attempts to get off alone don’t result in a happy ending without him.
“Mmgnh n-no! I wasn’t–ah..promise–I p-promise k-kuna’ please it hurts..!”
“You wanna play bimbo while I’m trainin’, but actin’ all innocent when we’re alone?” he hisses.
With his tongue stretching deeper than any man could ever hope to, he gives himself the advantage to tongue-fuck you all over by moving his palms under your lower back, titling your pussy deeper on his face.
“N-no!...g– mmm g-gonna’ cum..! so—close kuna..”
He finds it amusing how sensitive you are. “mnnguh …cum brat—since that's all y’wanna be good for.”
“K-Kuna m-mmmngh—!...”
Only allowing you a few moments to return to consciousness before he's prepared to fold you again like an expert origami master at work.
“Who said I was done? Open your legs n’ give me another one whore.”
TOJI FUSHIGURO ꔫ
Wants to humiliate you as you squirm and watch him violate your folds.
Toji didn’t play when it came to his gym routine and to have you with him every night as his gym partner was even better. He said he would take care of it for you, when you looked into what to wear to the gym, and he did just that.
He got you a matching colored windbreaker and Nike biker shorts. He wasn't giving it any consideration at first, merely noting that it'd be more breathable.
Up until the moment he realised he was staring at your ass each time you got on the treadmill. Addicted to the way the material made your ass appear, as you passed by his station.
His cock tensed because of the way the dark velvety material flaunted every curve of your pussy when you moved.
Sensing you approaching him as he was finishing up a set on the weighted arm raises—he dwelled more on the way your ass seemed to converse with him while he watched you slip into his line of sight.
"Hmm?" he hums, completing his final rep. He goes to get a complimentary wipe from the cleaning station and walks back to wipe down the machine. Leaving it sanitised and ready for it’s next use.
“Toji baby, sorry to interrupt but can you spot me next?”
"Oh, I see," a sneer lifted on his scarred lips as he continues; "finally doin' it today huh?"
You put on a smile and take over his former position. “indeed, I decided to give some new workouts a go today! I’m pretty excited y’know?”
He nods, "there's no rush, jus’ go slow, lemme know if it's too much."
“Yeah yeah yeah…I got this [...] wait Toji, aren’t you supposed to be by my arms?”
୨୧
“Thought you were excited a minute ago, all that energy go to your pussy?”
Toji Fushiguro, experienced and tongue-talented. You'll be cruising to the finish line like a race car thanks to him. He takes good care of your pussy—forcing you to understand how much he will always know your pussy far more than you and anyone else could.
Especially how the tiniest of friction from him that causes your walls to spasm on his taste buds—confirmation in itself.
He’ll force you to keep your eyes open and watch—as he makes love with your cunt.
“Keep your eyes open doll— m’ tryna see them turn white”
“Hmmph! T-Toji…What if someone comes in?...ngh, ah—“
“The only one cummin’ is you,” he retaliates.
With his left hand, he pulls back both of your legs as he utilises his right. Your whole-body quivering amid him from his constant clit assaults.
He finger fucks you swifter than previously, and immediately senses your insides clenching around his fingers, forcing you with no choice but to be filled to the brim, and disoriented due to his tongue.
“The thought of you bein’ caught spread open on a weight bench got ya’ pussy pulsatin’ huh?”
“Mmngh a-absolutleey..not…!”
Studying as a wave of humiliation passes over your expression, he puts a couple harsh palms to your ass with a SMACK. Making the area sting over and over, as the air creeps to irritate the burn.
“Denyin’ with a straight face as if I can’t feel you smotherin’ my fingers? Fuckin’ slut,”
“M’ not a slu-ngh–! Toji’...mmmh”, whimpering—you reach for the edges of the weight bench looking desperate for support.
“Wan’..mmm wanna cum Toji…please,”
“You wanna cum?”
“Mmhm!—” you cry out, your voice wavering in response.
“Only sluts get to cum—mmmh, ptuih—but yer not one of em’ are ya’?” he tests you, spitting on your clit as though your sopping pussy hasn't already caused enough fluids to run down his throat.
“Mm–m’ n-not–nnmugh!"
“You know what I wanna hear ma’ say it.” he demands, adding another finger to the two, fucking you fuller.
“I-Im a s-slut toji…mgnhm a slut—a slut for you, please let me cummmngh!—” you babble out, not even sure if it's for him anymore; the words bring nothing but a warning to anyone who hears—unable to stop. Feeling yourself reach your limit against his tongue.
“So needy—mmngh cum like a good lil’ slut then,”
#@𝗕𝗪𝗘𝗥𝗘 . . 𝗡𝗢 𝗣𝗟𝗔𝗚𝗔𝗥𝗜𝗦𝗜𝗡𝗚#jjk smut#jjk x you#jjk x fem!reader#jjk x reader#jjk x y/n#toji fushiguro x reader#toji fushiguro#toji smut#toji fushiguro smut#choso kamo#choso x reader#choso smut#choso kamo smut#nanami smut#kento smut#kento nanami smut#kamo choso smut#fushiguro toji smut#gojo smut#geto smut#geto suguru smut#gojo satoru smut#sukuna ryomen smut#sukuna smut#gojo x reader#sukuna x reader#toji x reader#kento nanami x reader#gojo x female reader
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Title: Till The Water Boils Over Or The Frog Drowns.
Pairing: Yan!Gojo x Reader x Yan!Geto (JJK).
Word Count: 5.8k.
TW: No Curses AU, Dub/Con -> Non/Con (Revoked Consent), Fem!Reader, Oral Sex, Unprotected Sex, Kidnapping, Financial Abuse, Psychological Abuse, Infantilization, Spanking, Unbalanced Power Dynamics, and Forced Codependency. Dead Dove: Do Not Eat.
It started the day Satoru first introduced the concept of ‘time out’ to your relationship.
He was immature and you were stubborn. You loved him, but without Suguru’s even temper and calming presence, sparks tended to fly in a way that left you at each other’s throats. With your arms crossed over your chest and your eyes narrowed, you’d watched him sigh, roll his eyes, and storm out of your shared bedroom, slamming the door behind him. You gave yourself a second, then another – sucking in a shallow breath and shutting your eyes, talking yourself through all your usual cool-down methods. You were supposed to go out, tonight, to a restaurant you and Satoru had both been talking about for weeks. You still had about an hour before Suguru was supposed to get home, before you were all supposed to leave together. It wasn’t a good day to fight, even if you knew Suguru would smooth everything over as soon as he got home.
When you were done, you moved to the bedroom door. One hour was plenty of time to talk things out. One hour was plenty of time to kiss and make up, even if you would hold a grudge for a—
You pushed gently on the door. It didn’t budge.
You tried the knob. It turned, but the door still didn’t open.
You pressed your shoulder into the wood, shoving with more force than you ever should’ve had to use. Something shifted – a chair slotted underneath the handle, Satoru’s back leaning against the other side of the thin wood – but didn’t give.
The frustration you’d only just managed to suppress resurfaced immediately. Still pressed against your side of the door, you called out, attempting to keep your tone soft, light. “Satoru? Baby?”
The sweetness in his voice was equally artificial. “I’m right here, angel.”
“I—I think the door might be jammed.” You tried the knob again, rattling the metal for emphasis. Satoru only hummed in response, and you grimaced. “Are you gonna let me out, ‘toru? I really don’t have time to be—”
“Ninety minutes.”
“…ninety minutes?”
“Ninety minutes,” he repeated. You could practically hear the smirk in his voice. “After that, we can check and see if you’re still feelin’ so bratty.”
You were almost thankful there was a door between you. If it hadn’t been there, you might not have been able to stop yourself from throttling him. “Satoru, I really don’t have time to—”
There was an obnoxiously loud hum, the sound of footsteps moving down the hall. You groaned, resting your forehead against the cool wood. Whatever. He was being petty, again. You could do ninety minutes. And, even if you couldn’t, he’d probably be back in ten, tail between his legs and pouting for your attention.
You quickly resigned yourself to passing the time as quickly as possible. You laid face-down on your bed, bemoaning your taste in men and picturing all the ways you could break up with Satoru, once he let you out. You scrolled through your phone, spamming Suguru with half-coherent messages and memes from the very depths of your camera roll. You re-organized your closet, sorting your clothes by color and alphabetizing your shoes. You managed to read a full page of one of the bulky historical fiction novels Suguru kept on the bedside table before deciding you’d be better off breaking up with both your current boyfriends.
You checked the time when you were done, and discovered that you’d managed to kill a whopping fifteen minutes.
God, you were so fucked.
Only half-consciously, you gravitated back to the door, slumping against it. You opened your mouth, ready to call out to Satoru and say whatever you had to say to get out, but another voice cut in before you got the chance. “Baby?”
Suguru. He must’ve gotten back early. You let out a shallow sigh, letting your head fall forward in relief. “Right here,” you said, making no effort to hide your exasperation. “Can you open the door? I think ‘toru blocked me in.”
His deep chuckle was muffled, but still clearly audible. “I’m afraid I can’t. He’s still pretty mad, couldn’t stop talking about how you copped an attitude with him.” There was a pause, a shoulder being rested against the other side of the door. “I think he mentioned something about a dress?”
You were glad he couldn’t see you – he would’ve hated the way you grimaced at the reminder. “It’s a nice restaurant. I wanted to dress up a little, but he’s just so immature, and when he saw the dress I wanted to wear—”
Suguru cut in. “The red one, right?”
“Yeah, with the window on the chest.” You sighed. “Please, Suguru? I really don’t want to spend the next hour of my life locked in my own bedroom.”
Another laugh, this one more stifled than the first. “He just knows how pretty you’d look, babe. Probably doesn’t want anyone else to find out how beautiful our partner is.” When you didn’t respond, he added, “Didn’t he just buy you somethin’ brand new? He can’t complain if he’s the one who picked it out, right?”
You pursed your lips. He had – a pure ivory dress, a little shorter than mid-thigh and sleeveless, not exactly conservative, but not meant to show as much skin as you usually preferred to. It’d come with matching gold jewelry, and you’d politely accepted the gift, kissed him on the cheek, and stashed it under your bed to rot. It wasn’t ugly, nothing so expensive could be, but it suited Satoru’s tastes, not yours.
“I don’t know,” you muttered, trying to soften the harsher edges of your distaste. “You know how Satoru is. Everything he picks out is just so—so him.”
“I’m starting to think you both might be causing problems.” You kicked the base of the door, but Suguru didn’t indulge your outburst with acknowledgement. “Just try it on, alright? If it’s that bad, we can always go without him.”
It took another minute or so of condoling, but soon enough, you were slipping into Satoru’s gifted dress, cursing as you struggled with the tiny, finicky zipper and smoothed wrinkles out of abused silk. You pulled your fingers through your hair once before returning to the bedroom door and knocking defeatedly. As if to add insult to injury, the door swung open in an instant, a smiling Suguru waiting on the threshold.
“See? Absolutely gorgeous, as always.” He leaned forward, cupping your cheek. You let his lips brush over your forehead before pulling away. Thankfully, he wasn’t cruel enough to draw it out any longer – his hand falling to yours and taking it up, tugging you gently towards the living room. “Satoru’s going to forget he was ever mad at all as soon as he sees you.”
You didn’t bother responding, only slumping against his side and letting him guide you forward. Distantly, you heard Suguru calling out to Satoru, but you were already busy – too occupied promising yourself that this would never, ever happen again to care what either of them was saying.
You would, of course, be wrong.
~
Barricaded doors quickly became a weekly inconvenience. You and Satoru fought often (never intensely and never for very long, but often), and he owned the apartment – meaning, despite all your whining, you couldn’t exactly tell him that his doors couldn’t all lock from the outside. Your ‘cool-down sessions’ (Suguru’s words, not yours) lasted anywhere from twenty minutes to a couple of hours, and Suguru was always the one to let you out. When you couldn’t be locked up and left to stew, Satoru would take it upon himself to leave the apartment – if only for as long as he thought it would take for you to forget you’d argued at all. You got used to it quickly. It wasn’t fair, you didn’t enjoy it, but you got used to it. You’d always had more patience than you really should’ve, when it came to Satoru’s antics.
And then, Suguru started showering with you.
Finding time to spend together was an ever-present obstacle in your relationship. Satoru alternated sporadically between planning lectures and grading papers late into the night to rolling his eyes at the concept of due dates and dulling out extra credit on a whim, and trying to guess if Suguru would be free was a pursuit in futility – his sermons were scheduled, but he was almost always being called out on some mysterious errand on behalf of one of his countless, faceless apostles. You didn’t work at all, but you went to school, and you kept yourself busy. You’d never be as busy as Satoru and Suguru, but you did your best to keep up with them.
Currently, you were basking in the afterglow with Suguru, your head resting on his chest and his arms wrapped loosely around his waist. Satoru was already gone, rushed off to some early-morning lecture, but Suguru didn’t have anything to do, and you—well, you could miss a lecture or two if it meant spending time with him. And, even if you couldn’t, it was hard to imagine tearing yourself away from the feeling of his calloused fingers tracing aimless patterns into the small of your back, of his lips pushing warm, open-mouthed kisses into your shoulders, your collarbone, your throat. His hands drifted to your hips, grip tightening ever-so-slightly, and you felt a raspy groan reverberate against the side of your neck, Suguru pulling you close as he—
“Save it,” you said, drawing back. He pouted and you grinned, pecking the corner of his jaw and sitting up, letting his sheets pool around your waist. “Just for a few minutes – I feel gross.” A full groan, this time. You laughed, combing his disheveled hair back and pressing another kiss into his forehead, this one lingering just a beat longer than the first. “You’ll survive a shower, Suguru.”
You felt him shift underneath you. Before you had a chance to pull away, he was sitting up, his arms still around your waist – keeping you messily laid across his lap. “I’ll come with you.”
“You’ll wait your turn.” And then, when he only hummed in response, “I’m being serious. Somebody in this relationship has to wash their hair every now and then.”
His face was already buried in the crook of your neck, and he was moving toward the edge of the mattress with your body still tucked against his chest. He was planning on carrying you, presumably. Sometimes, it felt like if it were up to Suguru, you’d never walk anywhere on your own again. “I know.” His voice was still raspy with sleep, his usual articulation weighed down by the fatigue that came with a morning spent in bed. “I’ll help.”
“That’s really sweet, but—” You strung your arms around his neck as he stood up, taking you with him. “—I think I’ll be alright on my own, Suguru.”
For the first time all morning, his eyes flickered open, wandering idly in your direction. He held your gaze for a beat, then another.
Finally, the edge of his lips quirked upward – the sly, knowing grin you’d fallen in love with soon painted across his lips. When he spoke, it was in a tone to match, all confidence and cloying, calculated sweetness. “No.”
You faltered, at that. “…no?”
“Don’t wanna be away from you for that long,” he mumbled, by way of explanation. “Whatever you need to do, I’ll take care of. Don’t want you to have to worry your pretty little head over anything.”
You tried your best to laugh, but it was a weak effort, better left unacknowledged. “I don’t know how I feel about my boyfriend offering to, I don’t know, shave my legs or something.”
He only soldiered on, as if you hadn’t said anything at all.
~
You felt Satoru’s hands on your waist first, then his chest against your back. His mouth found the curve of your throat as if by instinct, teeth grazing against a bruise Suguru had left in the same spot the day before. You felt him lean against you and dropped the knife you were holding onto a nearby cutting board, bracing yourself on the edge of the counter to compensate.
You glanced over your shoulder as his head bowed, face soon buried in the dip of your shoulder. He must’ve just gotten home – he was still wearing his sunglasses, only the first three buttons on his shirt undone. You grinned, twisting around just far enough to kiss the top of his head before turning back to your ingredients. “Rough lecture?”
“Grad students,” he muttered, the dread in his voice plainly audible. “One more fucking extension request, and I swear, I’ll fail the entire class.”
You hummed, letting him sink further into you. You might’ve let him stay there, too, if one of his hands hadn’t fallen to your ass while the other slipped underneath your loose shirt. Before he could creep upward, you jabbed an elbow into his chest. “Keep it in your pants. You still smell like a college campus.”
Of course, he didn’t budge. “But I missed you,” he whined, as shameless as he was clingy. “I had to leave so early, and I was stuck in my office for so long, and I’m gonna die if I have to wait any longer. Is that what you want? For me to die?”
“You could always go to Suguru, if you’re that insatiable.”
“But I want you.” You felt a thumb slip below the waistband of your sweatpants (or, Suguru’s sweatpants, technically – he’d been unbearable unless you were wearing his clothes, recently) and batted his hand away. Your efforts were, predictably, unsuccessful. “Please, baby?” And then, after a beat. “You don’t care about dinner more than you care about me, do you?”
You felt something delicate inside of you falter, crack, then fall apart entirely. It was strange – how long you could nurse a wound without acknowledging it existed at all. “It’s not that, I just—” You stuttered, then stopped entirely. You deflated underneath Satoru’s weight, and as if in response, he held you that much tighter, keeping you as close as you could be, lest he carve open his chest and force you into the open cavity. “I… I guess I feel like I haven’t really been doing a lot for you two, lately. You pay all the bills, and Suguru goes out of his way to take care of me, and there just… It makes me feel kind of useless.” You tried to punctuate the confession with a smile, a laugh, but both were hollow beyond the point of recognizability. It would’ve been better if you hadn’t tried at all. “You get it, right? I just—I don’t want to be the only one not doing anything.”
There was a beat of silence. You felt Satoru settle against you, his chest pressing into your back before he pulled away, detaching from you entirely. You sighed, letting yourself relax.
And then, just as suddenly, you were off of your feet and in Satoru’s arm, one tucked under the bend of your knees while the other supported your back. You managed a stammered, half-coherent protest, but if Satoru was listening, he wasn’t bothered.
He carried you out of the kitchen and into the living room, your half-finished recipe forgotten in favor of dropping you onto the nearest couch and kneeling over you, already pulling on the collar of his shirt. “Sounds like our baby’s been thinkin’ too much.” He was grinning, his glasses sitting low on the bridge of his nose. “Let me put a stop to that.”
You opened your mouth, but you didn’t have time to respond. His mouth was already crashing into yours; swallowing down anything you might’ve said and replacing it with a breathy moan, a haze over your conscious thoughts.
You didn’t bother trying to talk your way out from underneath Satoru, again.
~
You couldn’t breathe.
It took you a moment to realize what was wrong, another to put together why. You felt the blunt tip of Suguru’s cock hit the back of your throat as Satoru’s chest pressed into yours, the latter pressing the air out of your lungs while the former forced you to choke what little was left up. Satoru had set a relentless pace; his thrusts brutal, his tempo erratic, his hips crashing into yours with enough force to bruise. Two of Suguru’s thick, calloused fingers were lodged between your body and Satoru’s drawing quick, precise patterns into your clit, while both of Satoru’s hands were wrapped around the underside of your thighs, keeping your knees pinned to your chest, your body folded in half and pressed into the mattress. They’d always been taller than you, with Suguru kneeling by your head and Satoru looming over you, they both seemed so much bigger. They both seemed so, so much stronger than they ever had before.
You couldn’t breathe. The lack of oxygen was already rushing to your head, already replacing your sense of logic with a shrill, panicked buzz. Your body hurt everywhere they touched it, the warmth pooling in your core and arousal left behind by previous climaxes not enough to dull the sharp sting of Satoru’s nails against your skin, not enough to soften the harsh edge of the grin you could only barely see spread across Suguru’s lips out of the corner of your eye. It was a struggle just to move your jaw, and even then, any sounds you were able to make were borderline incoherent – your little chants of ‘red, red, red’ so stifled and so garbled by Suguru’s cock that you couldn’t have blamed him for not hearing you at all. It was only when you tried to pull your head back that his eyes fell away from where Satoru’s cock was fucking into your dripping cunt and to your face, tears of distress already beginning to prick at the corners of your eyes. You let out one more panicked cry, hoping beyond hope that he’d be able to see the fear in your expression and know something was wrong, but that grin you had loved so much only widened, sharpened. “Like that, princess?” You felt his free hand on the top of your head, fingers carding through your hair while the patterns being pushed into your sensitive clit sped up, intensified. “Faster,” he cooed to Satoru, his voice laced with something vicious and mocking. “If she can still cry, she can still fuck.”
He didn’t mean it. He couldn’t mean it. Suguru just liked to be mean in bed, and Satoru liked to indulge him. That was the only reason they were doing this to you, that was the only reason Satoru listened; leaning that much more of his weight onto as his cock beat against the walls of your cunt. “Fuck,” Satoru muttered, as Suguru’s cock twitched against the roof of your mouth. “Got tighter when you said that. Is that what you want? For me and him to fuck you unconscious?”
This time, you didn’t try to pull back, you jerked – lurching out of Suguru’s hold, drawing back until you could gasp and pant and fill your aching lungs. “Red,” you half-choked, half-cried. “Red, red, stop, too much, I can’t—”
Satoru cut you off with a throat groan. You felt his form tense against yours, heard a shameless moan spill past his lips, and suddenly, it was like you’d forgotten how to breathe entirely. “Too close for that,” he muttered, his lips close enough to ghost over the shell of your ear. “You can take it for me, angel.”
You couldn’t, but you didn’t have time to tell him that. You opened your mouth, but all you could seem to spit out was a keening, pitiful whine as you felt something deep in your core pull taut and snap, as your cunt clenched around him and you came undone on Satoru’s cock for the nth time. At the same time, he went stiffed above you, forcing his hips flush with yours and filling your abused pussy with something thick and searing. The feeling was alien, strange. You could’ve sworn he said he would wear a condom, tonight.
It felt like you laid there for a small eternity – trapped under Satoru’s limp body, Suguru still petting idly through your hair. You stared unblinkingly at the ceiling until, days later, Satoru pulled himself upright with a raspy grunt, turning to Suguru. You were vaguely aware of his head being lowered into Suguru’s lap, moving to finish the job you hadn’t wanted to, but that seemed distant, unimportant. The room was too small, too closed-off. You weren’t getting enough air. You were too warm. You were too small. You—
You needed to leave.
Your body was on the edge of the mattress before your mind could make the conscious decision to move. You were shaking, despite the damp humidity clinging to your skin, but you tried to ignore that and focus on getting your feet underneath you, on fishing Satoru’s shirt off the floor and pulling it over your head. You’d need pants, too, and your wallet – maybe you’d still have a little cash stowed away, something from before Satoru insisted you start carrying one of his platinum cards. You’d spend the night in a hotel, or better yet, rent a car – get out of Tokyo altogether. You had a friend who lived outside of the city – or, you used to, at least. You couldn’t remember the last time you talked to someone other than Satoru and Suguru.
You made it to the doorway before Suguru called out. “Going somewhere, princess?”
You froze, but didn’t look over your shoulder. You could barely stand. You needed to go. “I just—I think I need a little air.”
“Give us a minute. Me or ‘toru should go with you.” There was a lull to his voice, an airiness just barely audible over the slick, sloppy sound of Satoru’s mouth moving over his shaft. You could remember admiring that about him, once, constantly thinking about how lucky you were to have such a cool, confident boyfriend. Right now, though, it was hard to think of his unfaltering composure as anything but inhuman. “It just wouldn’t be safe to let you—”
“I need air,” you repeated, because it was true, because you did. Little, black spots were already starting to dot your vision, and it felt like someone was trying to wrap their hands around your throat and squeeze. “I… I think I might be gone for a while, too.”
For all his tenderness, Suguru didn’t sound very concerned. “How long?”
“A couple hours,” you tried, and then, much more quietly, when he let out a disbelieving hum. “…a few days?”
This time, Suguru didn’t have to say anything at all. Leaning against the doorway, Satoru’s cum still dripping down the inside of your thigh, it took less than a minute for you to crack on your own. “I think we… I think I might need a little space.”
There was another beat of silence, occupied only by a soft groan from Suguru, the sound of noisy swallowing from Satoru. Finally, he sighed. You didn’t dare to look, but you could picture him shaking his head, smiling as he rolled his eyes. Acting as if you’d just said the stupidest thing in the world. “What do you think, Satoru? Have we waited long enough.”
“—too long.” Satoru’s voice was hoarse, breathy. In your peripheral, you could see him dragging the back of his hand across his lips as he raised his head. “We’ve had everything ready for months, now.”
That was all Suguru needed to hear. He turned back to you, letting his head lull to the side. “Come back to bed, won’t you, princess?”
You didn’t respond. What little air you still had hitched in your collapsing throat as you attempted to move forward, only for a hand to catch your shoulder and hold you in-place. It was Satoru – now standing less than a full step behind you. He didn’t bother with a warning before wrapping his free arm around your waist and dragging you into his chest and off of your feet. You made a weak effort to thrash, to squirm, to dig your nails into the forearm laid over your midriff, but Satoru didn’t make a sound, didn’t let you go, only hauling you back to where Suguru sat on the edge of the mattress. You shouldn’t have felt as betrayed as you did. They’d both always been able to pick you up and throw you around like a kitten, being carried from place to place by its scruff. It was always only going to be a matter of time before they stopped listening to your half-hearted protests entirely.
“Over the knee,” Suguru said with a sort of flippant, beckoning gesture. “I want to make sure we get off on the right foot.”
Wordlessly, unceremoniously, you were dropped face-down into Suguru’s lap – his thighs pressing into your exposed stomach. Satoru lowered himself to the floor in front of you, sitting cross-legged and reaching out, cupping your face delicately. More out of reflex than anything intelligent, you tried to push yourself up, but a hand on the small of your back was enough to keep you paralyzed. Sometime between the doorway and the bed, the shaking had gotten worse. You doubted you’d be able to keep your legs underneath you, anymore. “Twenty-five,” he announced – an executioner reading out his victim’s sentence. “Fifteen for trying to leave us, and ten more for not listening to me. Does that sound fair, Satoru.”
“So mean, Sugu’,” Satoru whined, but you could already see a crooked smirk pulling at the corner of his lips. “The poor thing doesn’t even know what’s going on.”
“Which is why we have to make a strong impression. I want her to know there’ll be consequences for misbehavior.” You felt his hand drifting up the length of your spine, lingering on the sensitive junction between your shoulder blades. “Twenty-five, okay, princess? I’m going to need you to count for me – if you lose track, we’ll have to start over.”
“Suguru, ‘toru, I don’t—I don’t understand what—” You were cut off by a sudden, bruising blow to the plush of your ass – all force, no friction. It took you a second to realize that it was Suguru’s hand, another to consciously acknowledge that he’d spanked you. Like you were some bratty toddler. Like he wanted to hurt you.
It took another lash to know you out of your spell-bound state and send a keening, pitchy cry spilling past your lips. The tears you’d managed to hold back minutes ago were back in full-force, dripping down your cheeks and pooling on your chin, accompanied by the occasional sniffle or ragged sob. Suguru hummed, but any sympathy he might’ve had remained unexpressed, hidden behind a thick veil of strict impassivity. “I need you to count. I know it’s hard, but it’ll only get more difficult if you don’t cooperate.” He paused, clicked his tongue. “We’re still on one. Are you going to be good, or do I have to get the belt?”
“Hurts, Suguru, you’re hurting—”
Another blow, this one to the back of your thighs and twice as harsh as the first two. Meekly, you mumbled a weak “…one.”
You couldn’t see past your own tears by the fifth strike, and by the tenth, you were sobbing openly. Each blow leaves your skin burning and your ass pulsing, but despite everything, he was far from brutal. His pace was measured, precise, and he was strategic – careful to never abuse the same spot to the point of numbness. After the fifteenth, you sniffled and forced yourself to raise your head, meeting Satoru’s eyes and silently pleading for his pity, for his help. Rather than empathy, you found a glassy stare and his hand in his lap, pumping idly over his cock. A few hours ago, you could picture yourself teasing him for not being able to go a full minute without someone touching him, even himself. Right now, the sight alone was enough to make bile rise into the back of your throat.
His thumb ran over your cheek, his palm settling under your chin and tilting your head back. “Don’t give me that look. This is twice as gentle as he’s ever been with me.”
By the time it was over, you were near-inconsolable, every number followed immediately by a string of distorted gibberish, a disjointed plea for him to stop, or be gentle, or let you go. You laid limp across Suguru’s lap as he drew slow, tender patterns into your abused flesh, every little touch sparking a new kind of pain, dragging another ragged sob up from somewhere deep and visceral in your chest. He was talking to you, cooing sweet nothings, but you couldn’t hear him. You didn’t want to hear him. You wanted to leave.
But, you couldn’t, and even if you’d had the strength to try, you wouldn’t have gotten very far. You hadn’t seen him move, but at some point, Satoru must’ve left the room. When your crying began to wane and you could bare the thought of opening your eyes, you found him standing in front of you, holding a glass of water in one hand and three white pills in the other. “Open up,” he said, drawing out each syllable for a beat longer than he really had to. “It’ll help with the pain, promise.”
You pursed your lips, grit your teeth, but Suguru’s thumb pressed into a fresh bruise and fear immediately overwhelmed your sense of caution. Suguru took precious seconds to reposition you – drawing you up by your shoulders to straddle his thigh – and Satoru’s hand found its way back to your cheek, his thumb tapping your bottom lip and slipping onto your tongue as you, reluctantly, opened your mouth. The pills were first, allowed to sit on your tongue until their bitterness reached the back of your throat, then the water, poured sloppily enough for the excess to spill out of the corners of your mouth. The reaction was instantaneous – a wave of nausea, then fatigue, your eyes immediately too heavy to keep open, your body too distant to justify attempting to control. You went slack, falling against Suguru, and he chuckled, bowing his head.
The last thing you felt was his mouth against your throat before everything went numb.
~
You woke up hours later, tucked into a bed that wasn’t yours and in more pain than you’d ever felt before.
Shock and terror startled you into consciousness before you could so much as attempt to fade back into blissful oblivion. You tried to curl up, to make yourself as small and as safe as possible, but your leg caught on something – a leather cuff, discovered after throwing the sheets that’d been laid over you to the side. A shackle, lined in velvet and sitting loosely at the base of your ankle, a silver chain connecting it to an unseen point underneath the bed. You gave it another tug, just to check, and unsurprisingly, it refused to budge. You choose to look away before the pit quickly opening up inside of your chest could deepen any further.
Instead, you turned your attention outward – to the rest of the bedroom. It wasn’t the one you shared with Satoru and Suguru, or the undecorated guestroom Satoru had semi-converted into a home office. The walls were a pale pink, the shelves already stocked with stuffed animals, fairy lights, jewelry boxes that (knowing Satoru) were no doubt filled to the brim. You weren’t wearing Suguru’s shirt anymore, either. Your blood ran cold as you glanced down and found yourself in a pastel blue nightgown – all lace and silk and frills no one could ever hope to actually sleep in. You didn’t know whether to be disgusted that they’d re-dressed you while you were unconscious, without your permission, or thankful they hadn’t waited until you were awake enough to try and stop them.
Seconds seemed to move in thick, dripping clumps. You couldn’t be sure how long passed until your disoriented stillness was interrupted, but by the time the plain, white door (a neat row of undone deadbolts visible above to the knob) swung open, Satoru stepping through with Suguru following shortly behind him. Automatically, you started to move towards them, but caught yourself, pressing you back into the headboard and crossing your arms over your chest, as if that gave you any kind of authority. As if there was any authority you could have, chained to the floor in the bedroom of a pre-schooler.
“You were beginning to worry us,” Suguru started, sitting on the foot of the bed. “But, then again, our little princess was always a delicate one, wasn’t she?”
You stiffened, bristled. You opened your mouth, but closed it as Satoru draped an arm over your shoulders, collapsing next to you. “Here,” he said, holding something out. “Suguru wanted to make you ask, but I’m not that stingy.”
You attempted to shift away from him, but Satoru had never made things that easy. He clung to you that much tighter as your eyes fell to his hand, finding—
A cup.
A sippy cup, pink and plastic and decorated with little, glittering clouds.
The nausea was immediate, nearly overwhelming. You wanted to vomit. You wanted to throw it across the room. You wanted to do anything but accept it, but your throat was bone-dry, a steady throbbing already begging to root in the back of your skull. Wordlessly, you snatched it out of his hand and (with more than a little strain) pulled off the lid, drinking as quickly as you could. Satoru’s nails scraped against your bicep, but neither of them commented.
Suguru waited until you were finished to go on. “You’ll get used to it, after a few weeks. It’s really not that different from our prior relationship, just a few aesthetic changes ‘toru and I thought a—” He paused, grinned. “—softer environment might suit you.”
“We can be more honest now, too.” Satoru sounded too giddy, too happy. “Those last couple of days practically killed me – having to watch you leave the apartment, acting all independent n’ shit. This way, there won’t be anything stopping us from keeping you all to ourselves.”
A beat passed in silence. It took you a moment to realize you were supposed to say something, and another to actually open your mouth, to find your voice when all you wanted to do was shrivel up and shut your eyes. “I don’t really understand what’s going on,” you muttered, like that would make it true. Like enough stuttering, simpering obliviousness would be what made them change their minds. “When are you going to let me go?”
Beside you, you heard Satoru try and fail to suppress a breath of a laugh, and Suguru’s grin only seemed to widen.
#yandere#yandere x reader#yandere x you#yandere imagines#yandere jujutsu kaisen#jujutsu kaisen#jujutsu kaisen imagines#jujutsu kaisen x reader#yandere jjk#jjk x reader#jjk imagines#gojo satoru x reader#yandere gojo satoru#yandere geto suguru#geto suguru x reader
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"So, I talked to Clark today."
"Hm," Bruce grunts, as the voice of his eldest fills the Batcave. He has a brief idea of what this is about.
"What did you do, Bruce?"
Bruce leans back in his seat. "When Superman first created an account on Twitter, Clark figured it would only be a matter of time before Luthor followed suit. So, he approached me for help. He had the idea of taking up every handle that Luthor could possibly use for himself." He pauses. "I thought it was childish and irresponsible."
"Naturally."
"Nevertheless, I helped him out by developing a program that would generate all possible combinations of usernames involving the words "Lex" and "Luthor." It developed all possible combinations by cross-referencing—"
"I get the jist, thanks."
Bruce grunts. "So we generated the usernames, and Clark used the Batcomputer and his superspeed to create all the accounts. That very night, Luthor created his own account without being able to use 'Lex Luthor' in his name."
Dick whistles, and he can hear another voice whooping in the background. "I see Tim is visiting Bludhaven."
Dick ignores the change in subject. "Wait, is that the day I found the Batcomputer keyboard completely annihilated? Because you and Clark wanted to pull a fast one on Luthor?"
"...There were a lot of usernames."
"Well played, B! I didn't know you had it in you! I apologize for all the times I called you humorless."
"Hm."
"So that's why you and Clark were giggling so much that morning, huh?"
Bruce stills. "I didn't... giggle."
Dick laughs on the other side, while Haley's barks and Tim's laughter filter in from the background. "I heard you, Bruce. I was there."
"At 6 in the morning?"
"Yeah, I wanted to use the bars in the cave, but when I showed up, the both of you were bent over the Batcomputer giggling about something." He chuckles lightly. "I didn't say anything because I knew you wouldn't tell me anyway."
"Hn."
"Oh, chill out. So I saw you being a human being, big deal." Dick sounds exasperated, but Bruce can hear the smile in his voice. He allows himself a small one as well.
"Hm."
"So, was it worth it?"
Bruce thinks about the way Luthor's face had turned red with rage, so red that he could make it out with startling clarity even from the heavily pixelated picture Clark had sent him. The picture, of course, had been taken when he'd gone over to LexCorp as Superman to discreetly spy through Luthor's window and enjoy his reaction in real time.
"It was."
Amidst Dick's snickers, Tim's voice pipes up. "For amateurs, it was a solid prank, Bruce. But I think it's time to take it to the next logical step."
Bruce stops. He takes a moment to think about the millions of possible consequences and ramifications that this could lead to. He considers his options. He comes to a definitive decision.
"I'm listening."
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Here's the link to the video Bruce linked if anyone is interested. It's actually really funny, I recommend checking it out.
First <- Part 4 <- Part 5 -> Part 6
#DC#DCU#DC Comics#Dick Grayson#Bruce Wayne#Clark Kent#Jason Todd#Lois Lane#Tim Drake#Batman#Superman#Nightwing#Red Hood#Red Robin#Lex Luthor#Ngl I'm kind of proud of this one. pls don't flop
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Maysara is an amazing young man in Gaza who unfortunately has heart issues and needs both medical attention and the expenses that accompany that as soon as possible. Maysara’s condition has been worsening and he is still farm from his foal
@mahmoudshaqura has been posting the gofundme to help Maysara, but his account has recently been wrongfully labeling posts as “mature content” which hinders their circulation.
If everyone could please read Maysara’s story and consider donating to help
I have just donated €5 if anyone can match it
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cw: pregnancy
“when you said we were sneaking out to go for a ride, i didn't think you meant that,” you sigh, breathless but content as you slump against your husband’s chest.
“deep breaths, darling,” diluc encourages, fingertips brushing down your spine. it makes him think of before, of juvenile fumbling and embarrassment. he’s much less chaste now. confident in his touches and his ability to please you. “why let the horses have all the fun?”
“you’ve been spending too much time with kaeya,” you grumble.
“i agree. it’s why i had to sneak away from his party with you.”
“your party,” you correct, letting him twine your fingers with yours. just like he had earlier, when he’d convinced you to sneak out of the surprise birthday party thrown in his honour. “the guests are likely looking for you.”
diluc’s used to being the center of attention. he doesn't necessarily enjoy it, but his day-to-day is filled with employees searching for his signature or potential clients seeking his participation on new ventures. as the king of the wine industry, he’s possibly the most in-demand person in mondstadt.
but their attention is nothing compared to yours. you’re his favourite person.
“you didn't even make it to the cake,” you add, shifting in his lap. “which means they'll be looking for us soon.”
he brings your hand to his lips, placing a soft kiss upon your knuckles and making your heart flutter. “i've already had dessert.”
your face warms considerably against his skin as he chuckles, releasing your hand in favour of slowly smoothing his palm down your side, resting on your hip. he’s more than content to abandon his birthday party entirely in favour of being here in bed, watching the sunset over the fields of your home and bathing you both in golden light.
“well, it’s your birthday party,” you say softly. “even if your actual birthday is two days away, i still want you to have everything you could possibly want. and if what you want is to sneak away from your party to bed me so thoroughly, who am i to argue?”
his heart starts to thump so loudly in his chest that he fears you can hear it. he does want something else, an answer to a question that’s been stifled by shyness, fear, and uncertainty.
“and if i wanted…something else?”
your fingers trace idle patterns across his arm as you hum. “i’d do my best to give it to you.”
he knows you would. which is why he’s been waiting, making sure you want this just as much as he does.
“kaeya said something to me earlier,” he starts.
“please tell me this doesn't end with you hitting him.”
“of course not.” well, not this time. “he asked when i would make him an uncle.”
your movements pause, and diluc wonders if he'd messed up, if it was too soon–
you sit up immediately, grasping his shoulders. “he told you i was pregnant, didn't he? i knew adelaide wouldn't be able to keep it a secret. she’s been knitting baby socks since last week.”
wait.
wait.
“you’re–”
“i wanted it to be a surprise,” you deflate, a frown tugging on your pretty lips. “on your real birthday. adelinde was the only one i told, only because she’d caught me throwing up in the rose bush she’d just pruned and insisted i get checked…”
diluc’s hardly hearing you, your rambling slowing to a stop as he holds your face in his hands.
he needs to hear you say it.
“we’re having a baby?”
you place your hands atop his, nodding. “we’re having a baby, diluc.”
he presses his lips against yours, one firm kiss before he rests his forehead against yours. you are and will always be his favourite person, the only one who could give him a gift as special as this.
_____
BONUS:
“lavender bisque. whispering peach. sweet potato surprise…” adelinde murmurs, hunched over a few sheets of paper.
“what is that? is that the menu for tomorrow’s party?” kaeya asks, peeking over her shoulder.
adelinde sighs, shaking her head. “they're sample colours i had sent over for the nursery.”
“nursery?”
“yes–” the colour drains from the poor woman’s face as she realizes her slip. “oh dear!”
the realization takes a few moments to sink into the cavalry captain’s “my brother had sex?!”
for @mydiluc aka mrs diluc ragnvindr for listening to my endless rambles...and also diluc bday fic!!!
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[11:05pm]
MDNI, f! reader, established relationship (you’re married), calls you “love”, “baby” + “my beautiful wife”, reader wears a dress, fingering, brief masturbation (satoru, while fingering you), takes you against the wall, unprotected sex, clothed sex, creampie, not proofread, wc: 1.7k
satoru’s been having a hard time keeping his hands off you, looking for ways to get into your pants all day.
but alas, you both have been busy organizing the housewarming party — picking up decorations for your new house, putting them up to create a festive atmosphere, dealing with caterers all day and eventually the party itself and entertaining your guests.
towards the end of the night, he was running out of patience. you could tell by the way his hands were constantly clutched around your waist, pulling you closer against him and subtly rubbing himself on your ass, and also the few hints he gave you here and there (every 5 minutes) to go help him find something (release) in the storage room. to you, he’s always been an open book.
“fucking finally”, closing the door after seeing off the last few guests, satoru sighs with content.
“that’s so rude, satoru”, you nag at him.
stepping closer to you, he grabs your chin and makes you look at him. his other hand circling around your waist and stopping at the small of your back to press your body against him. “what’s rude is making me wait so long. i’ve been hard all day, it hurts”
“my bad”, you grin at him innocently, finally giving in after an entire day of resisting his desperate attempts. you hug your arms around him, “what can i do to atone for my bad behavior?”
“let me think”, he gives you a rascal smile before pulling you in for a kiss. his lips soft but dangerously desperate and yearning for yours, mashing against your mouth as he slowly walks you against the wall. ass and back pressed against it and with him in front of you, it feels like you’re now squished in between two walls with nowhere to run. not that you complain at all, and not that he’d hear you even if you did. all he can think about right now is how badly he wants to be inside your tight pussy, stretching you until he bottoms out.
“lift you dress up for me, baby. i’ll handle the rest”, he whispers, the lust thick in his voice.
“here? in the hallway?”, you blink at him.
“yea”, he swipes his tongue across his lips, “i’m afraid, i can’t wait till we reach the bedroom. we were bound to christen the hallway sooner or later anyway”
scoffing at him, you push him back. slowly riding the dress that’s tightly wrapped around your body up.
the sight of you giving access to your cunt for him to fuck drags a long groan out of him. he always loved watching you get undressed for him, it tranced him. but there was something very, very special about you pulling your little dress or skirt up for him to hit it while you kept the rest on. it was so dirty, but in the best possible way. turned him primal, made him lose his mind every single time.
“s-shit…”, he groans once again, his hands working on unbuckling his own slacks all while watching you rid yourself of the underwear and toss it on the floor. “you’re making me crazy, baby”, he whispers audibly, to which you smile. it was cute to watch him crumble like that.
you lean against the wall, observing the way he slides down his pants to his hips and then, with a quick swift move, whips his swollen cock out and it slaps against his belly. what a beautiful sight, what an obscene sound, you think. it makes you shudder. being painfully familiar with how good and even more massive it feels inside your tight pussy, you find yourself clenching on emptiness, eagerly anticipating him.
he steps close, one hand slowly stroking his cock and the other reaching in between your legs, fingers in seek of your heat. “so pretty. so soft. so wet for me already”, he quietly speaks into your ear as a thick digit slides into your weeping cunt.
“nghh..”, you flinch and step on your toes from the sensation of his finger, squeezing him unintentionally.
“is that not enough for my baby?”, he coos. “then how about another one?”, he pulls his finger out only to return with two of them. “better? mm?”
“stop teasing me, you idiot”, you nuzzle your head against his chest to muffle your moans, hands grabbing at his shoulders.
“does this translate to ‘fuck me properly’, hm? my beautiful wife wants my cock so bad?”, he teases even further, plunging his fingers in and out of your slick pussy. the hallway filled with loud squishing noises from his fingers fucking you. if anyone were to walk by your front door, you’re pretty sure they would hear the inappropriate sounds your pussy made.
“don’t act all high and mighty on me now”, you tap on his shoulder, then grab him harder to support yourself as you press and hump against his hand. “i know you want to fuck me properly too, you’ve been yearning all day. no?”, you lift you head to look up at him. “just look at yourself — so desperate for it that you’re wanking off both of us yourself”
he chuckles at your words. true. as his fingers fucked themselves deep inside you, his other hand moved in slow strokes around his cock. he had to go slow, because he was way too aroused. if he were to pick up the pace, he’d unload his balls and blow his cum right then and there.
“it’d be such a waste if you finished now…”, you stroke his cheek, “while you have the option to stuff me full”, knowing well he wouldn’t resist your words.
“you’re so manipulative, love”, his fingers slam harder for one last time, making your whole body jerk forward, before he pulls them out, covered and glistening with your arousal that he cleans with his mouth. “always getting under my skin…”
you shoot him a victorious smile which he wipes off with his lips. part of him embarrassed that he caved in so quickly, falling weak to his desire of you. he wanted to tease you a little bit longer, but you always had your way with him. making his resolve crumble with a single word.
“…but i’ll get under yours now”, breaking the kiss, he whispers. then bends a little to catch your leg in the crook of his arm, stands straight and lifts it, opening your thighs wider while your leg dangles in the air. the head of his cock taps against your belly and you feel the pulse throbbing in it.
the only support you have right now is your other leg, the wall behind you and satoru who holds you in place. both of your hands wrap around his neck, pulling him in for a kiss, as he starts guiding his cock towards your entrance, his head slowly slipping inside.
“oh god” — you both simultaneously moan out. a deep groan follows shortly after and vibrates through his throat and into your mouth from feeling you open inch by inch for him as he slides it almost entirely in. he needed to go deeper though, the root of his cock still out and uncovered by your walls.
he pulls out and grabs your other leg into his arms, hoisting you into the air and pressing you harder against the wall while you hold on tight to his shoulders. after looking down and catching a glimpse of your dewy pussy lips pouting open for his cock, he throws his head back and curses under his breath, desperately trying to hold in the load in his balls. he shuts his eyes close and counts to ten, then looks back at you. eyes lovesick, yearning and a little bit watery. “what you do to me is not humane at all”
“hmm, don’t you love it?”, you crane your neck enough to press your forehead against his, looking deep into your favorite pair of eyes.
“oh, i do. i so do love it”, he breathes out, staring back at yours. then takes a deep breath before he enters you again. spreading your lips and diving deep until he bottoms out in you in a single thrust. you’re so wet and welcoming, his cock goes all the way in effortlessly. the position being perfect, too, to fully hide himself in you.
your legs lock around his back as his pelvis starts rolling and jarring against you, panting breaths of pleasure and skin slapping against each other echoing throughout the hallway of your house. satoru’s hips were charging with such desperation, slamming against you so hard, that you were sure the places where his flesh met yours were already red.
“nghh…”, you mewl through gritted teeth, feeling yourself starting to cum as you suck him as deeply as possible, your wetness increasing now and bathing his cock in it. “…d-don’t stop, d-don’t…augh”
“f-fuck…you say that as if it’s easy, baby. do you have any idea how good you feel?”, he barely drags out. your added slickness making it hard for him to control his thrusts now, too difficult to adapt and stop his cock from sliding in and out of you too quickly that his legs start shaking.
seeing him so desperate and sloppy with his movements was such a turn-on, it was really doing it for you. not that his cock wasn’t hitting the sweetest of your spots. but that was the last push you needed towards your climax.
“i’m— ah, i’m cumming”, you stutter, your orgasm coming onto you hard. head falling in the crook of his neck, nails digging into his clothed shoulders, eyes rolling back as he keeps hitting his cock into your sore cunt, chasing his own release.
“s-shit—“, he grunts throatily. his cock feeling bigger, more bloated and harder than ever as he pounds a few more times into you before burying himself still and emptying his balls into your sopping hole. hot spurts of cum gush inside you, his body jerking after each load.
both of you stand there for a few minutes, trying to catch your breaths — you’re still wrapped around him while his cock’s got you nailed against the wall.
“you think i can carry you to the bedroom without pulling out? it should work, right? my cock’s big enough, won’t slip out”, satoru breaks the silence.
“you flexing now?”, you chuckle. “why don’t you give it a try? i don’t feel my legs anyway”
“oh my, did i make it hard for you to walk?”, he sneers at you proudly.
“oh shut up and carry me”
#ઈઉ — ai writes#[ ♡ ] — satoru#gojo x reader#gojo satoru x reader#gojo smut#gojo satoru smut#jjk x reader#jjk smut
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Hello there baby, are your parents bakers? Cause you're a cutie pie lol sorry couldn't resist the urge to flirt with my favorite writer💕How have you been? How was your day? I wish you a wonderful day and a lovely night💕
It's my first time here sending an ask but lately I've been thinking about shy!Spencer x flirty!reader, I just think is such a cute couple.
So if you're taking requests, I was thinking about early seasons Spencer completely falling for the reader and the way she's so flirty but sweet and kind, the way he'd be blushing hard at anything she says and how he'd like the way she's always touching him cause he felt cherised and desired.
It could be fluff or smut or both cause I can picture them going slow with the relationship but Spencer being eager to please her and show how much he loves everything about her.
You said about choosing a emoji, so can I be the 🐇anon?
A/N: Thanks for the request! Shy Spencer is the best because he's so dumb and silly and doesn't realize when people are attracted to him. I've said it before, but he's basically every nerdy main character in 00s romcoms that are "unattractive" because they wear glasses. I hope you enjoy the fic~♡
Warnings: mentions of case details, slight spoilers for upto s5
With a degree in law and a deep-rooted hatred of businessmen, you'd certainly found your calling in one of the FBI White Collar divisions. Putting away the sleazy bastards was easily one of the biggest perks of the job, but every coin had a second side, and yours was you actually had to interact with the cretins before you could take them down.
You'd dealt with bribes, dinner invites, and sexual propositions more than a time or two, and had to remind yourself that kicking anyone of them clean in the balls was most likely a firing offense, if not legally off the table.
The man in the case you were currently working - possibly Bill Hodges, possibly Daniel Brady, possibly so many more men - had been a typical white collar freak until he'd moved on to murder. And when you'd been so close to nailing his ass for fraud, too.
You'd had no choice but to call in whatever unit it was that actually got to put bullets in the bastards, sure that you were going to be strong-armed out of months of work for the glory of taking down a spree killer.
Instead, you got Spencer Reid, delivered freshly to your desk like a lamb to slaughter.
“Sorry, you're the agent from the BAU?” You asked, raking your eyes across his body, smiling at his obvious discomfort with the attention.
“Yes, Doctor Reid. I'm here for more information on the Hodges files.”
You dusted your skirt off as you stood, moving around the desk to grab the file. You held it out to him but pulled it back when he reached for it.
“I'm sorry, you're really in the BAU?” An embarrassed look fell across his face, and you instantly felt shitty.
“Do you want to see my credentials?”
“No, I'm sorry, it's just - I wasn't expecting someone so…pretty?”
The embarrassed look deepened to a flush, and you brightened at the sight. You weren't lying. He really was pretty, and you hoped your comment hadn't come off as patronizing.
“You're adorable. Here's the file, I’ll be at your team briefing in half an hour. Spencer, right?”
He nodded, finally waking up and taking the files as you pushed it against his chest, using the movement to step slightly closer.
“I'll see you later then,” you trailed your look down, getting a good look at all of him before meeting his eyes again. “Save me a seat?”
“I should… I'll, uh, go now. Thanks for the-” he stammered, pointing to the file, backing out of your space slowly, like an animal trying not to show its back to a predator.
Unlike the long line of scumbags filling the halls and case files of your floor, Spencer was without bravado or ego. His lack of both meant that you were interested. You were very interested.
Half an hour later, you practically sprinted to the 6th floor, bouncing up the stairs to the office where you'd take your meeting like a giddy school girl.
“Hello, sorry, I'm not late, am I?” You asked, quietly opening the door and letting yourself in.
“Agent Y/N, no, perfect timing, Penelope was just about to brief us on your case,” Hotch said, rising and giving your hand a firm shake. He looked around to find a seat to usher you into, but you quickly dropped yourself into the seat right beside Spencer Reid, grin deepening as he flushed and offered you an awkward yet endearing smile.
Unconsciously, you shifted closer, shooting him your own smile before the meeting officially began, and you were forced to keep a straight, serious face.
The entire case progressed in much the same way, with you doing everything you could to fluster Spencer Reid and him doing everything in his power to convince himself you were being friendly.
“Spencer, do you have a phone number?” You asked after slipping out of the meeting, trailing him back to his desk.
“Yeah, we have to keep connected for cases, so I have a phone.”
“Great. Your number - what is it?”
He rattled off the digital as you scribbled them down on a notepad.
“And Hotch's number is-”
“Oh, I won't need that. Thanks, Spencer.” You said waving as you left to slink back to your desk. You could hear him calling out behind you, confused.
“Y/N… Y/N, we split up on cases often, if there's an incident and you need to contact us it's better to have all of the team members numbers,” he panted, jogging to catch up with your focused pace.
“If I need to contact you, I'll take myself to Agent Garcia’s office and use her direct line,” you said, finally stopping yourself at the elevator and pressing the button.
He caught up, and stopped abruptly next to you.
“Oh… oh, yeah that's… that's efficient.”
You stepped onto the elevator when it arrived, leaving Spencer hesitating whether or not to climb in himself, desperately wondering why you'd ask for his number then.
“Goodbye, Doctor Reid,” you said, pressing the door close button and blowing him a kiss just before the doors blocked you from sight.
To tell the truth, you'd had a lot of fun flirting with Spencer on the phone from Penelope’s office during the case. The woman was an inspiration, even if her flirting had a completely different purpose and meaning than your own. Her friendship with Derek Morgan was admirable, but you didn't want to be friends with Spencer Reid.
“Hello, handsome, what can I do for you today?” You asked, picking up the phone and basking in the stammers that answered you down the line.
“D-Do you need me to get Morgan for you?” He said, his voice treading lightly.
“Unless Derek Morgan has, overnight, managed to turn into a 6’1 Doctor with a penchant for cardigans and leather satchels and an IQ of 187, then I am absolutely not looking for him. I have case details.”
He brushed past your comment, but he kept the slight stammer through the conversation, right until you signed off.
“Until next time, sexy.”
“Um, yeah… thanks…beautiful?” he signed off, and you guffawed in laughter even as Penelope stared wide-eyed in your direction, not believing her ears.
“Please forgive our little test tube genius. We forgot to add flirting skills to his childhood curriculum, and now, alas, the poor thing doesn't know a damn thing.”
He'd called back a few hours later, and you'd purred more compliments down the line, but this time with the team surrounding him as they closed in on your unsub.
“Hello, this is beautiful speaking. How may I help you?” You giggled down the line, picking up the call after only a single ring.
“Y/N,” he breathed, catching his breath awkwardly as he struggled to remember why it was you were needed.
“So… um, like… Hotch has a question about the files you sent earlier. He needs Penelope to… do something as well.”
You could almost see the awkward nod through the phone.
“Great. Pass me over to Hotch, then, hot stuff.”
You heard the tell-tale sound of Derek Morgan’s cackle in the background, and you couldn't help but let another giggle slip out. You were a gonner, and, hopefully, so was he.
The case wrapped quickly after that, spree killing being a quick game of cat and mouse out of necessity. You weren't happy with three bodies, but it sure as hell was preferable to more.
You greeted the BAU team at the jet hanger as they returned, reclaiming your fraud files for paperwork and using that simple chore as a reason to get close to Spencer again.
“Good work out there, Doctor Reid.”
“What, he's not hot stuff anymore now he's in front of you?” Emily Prentiss laughed, throwing her go bag onto her shoulder and trailing behind where you'd started strolling alongside Spencer.
“Oh, he's still hot stuff. He's just hot stuff with three PhDs that just stopped a spree killer,” you said, sighing dreamily. “How do you do it?”
“We were all there too, you know,” the other woman chuckled as you made it inside the building and to the elevator.
“Yeah, well,” you said, taking a second to reach out and straighten out Spencer's skewed tie, smoothing his jacket and generally just touching him in whatever way you could, respectfully.
You didn't even bother to finish your sentence, just leaning closer to his ears and whispering directly into them.
“You're very cute when you're flustered, Doctor Reid.”
You stepped away for a second while the rest of his team teased him, stepping to the back of the elevator to ascend to your floor while the others departed on theirs.
They filed out one by one and you sent them off with a smile and a wave, signing in defeat as you realized there was no longer a reason for you to interact with the good doctor ever again.
If you weren't so stupidly aware of him, you'd almost have missed the fact that Spencer didn't leave the elevator when his teammates did. He instead turned to you and, with the brightest red you'd seen on his face to date, stammered out half a sentence.
“I.. Y/N, I was just… curious, if you, by any chance…”
Your eyes widened in joy as you anticipated his question, silently begging him just to spit it out.
“I was wondering, i-if you had… a boyfriend?” By the end of his sentence, even he seemed unsure of whether that was a question he should really be asking.
You'd been throwing heart eyes at him for says, and he was asking if you were in a committed relationship.
“No,” you said slightly breathily, as if your body were trying to expel all the anticipation it had stupidly built up. “No, I don't have a boyfriend, Spencer.”
“Great okay,” he smiled, a boyish grin if you'd ever seen one, before backtracking quickly.
“Well not great for you, great for me. Not that you can't be happy alone, I don't know how you feel about…romantic entanglements and I-I-I’m not saying that your life isn't,” he searched for the words with his hands, as of he could grasp them as a life line while he was sinking fast. “-Great without a boyfriend or anything like that, I'm just - really - pleased that position is currently… vacant?”
“Spencer?” You said, feeling like a cat who got the cream as a smile twitched at your lips, pulling the corners up as you listened to him ramble.
“Yes?”
“Do you want to be my boyfriend or are you asking for a friend?”
You'd meant the words as a joke but he stood contemplating for a second. You pushed a hand against your mouth to suppress the childish squeal from popping out.
“It would be a bit presumptuous to shoot straight for boyfriend, right? How about date ....partner?”
You couldn't stop yourself from closing in on him then, practically cornering him in the elevator as the floors passed you by.
“Presumptuous would be thinking I could have a boyfriend when I've been begging you to stick your tongue down my throat with my eyes for the last half hour. I thought they taught you body language at the BAU?”
“They teach us how to catch criminals, not how to see when someone is giving us…fuck me eyes, Y/N.” The curse left you a little dizzy - this was it, this was what you'd been trying to do all week, to get under his skin and get him to let his guard down so you could capture him.
“Doctor Reid, I'm a little scandalized! I didn't know you swore. What a dirty mouth you have.” You reached up with both hands, letting your thumb on his lips before pretending to wipe something away at the corner of his mouth. You were in the perfect position to notice his throat bob as he swallowed.
The elevator pinged at your floor, and you left him behind you with one last swipe of your fingers at his chin. You weren't expecting him to follow, but he did.
“Y/N…please, Y/N…. Can we just…?” You relished the awkwardness in his voice as he trailed you again, a satisfied smile settling onto your face.
You just kept walking. Or you did until you felt a large hand wrap around your wrist and pull you sideways into the nearest storage cupboard.
You gasped as he pinned you to the wall, close not, but his eyes still hesitant on what to do next.
“Spen-” He cut you off with his lips on yours, silencing you before you could get the final word. His lips were clumsy at first, but you felt hot under his touch arching yourself up into him. His tongue pushed into your mouth as he found his stride, your hands tangling in his hair as you held on for dear life.
This was it. This was what you'd been waiting for.
Reluctantly, he pulled away, both of you gasping for breath to fill your suddenly empty lungs.
“Was that….what… you wanted?” He panted, resting his head on yours.
There were no words. It was what you wanted but now you wanted more, needed more. You settled for a quick nod as your tongue flamed, unable to say anything helpful.
“Good. Great…” he removed his hands from you and scratched at the back of his neck, putting a more respectful distance between the two of you as he cleared his throat.
“I'll just-” he pointed to the door and started making his way out. You sighed again, watching him walk away down the hall, his hair a mess, his tie askew, and a whole lot of your lipstick staining his lips.
Surely, he'd notice by the time anyone else did. If not, you'd just effectively staked your claim on Doctor Spencer Reid, and you couldn't be happier about it.
#spencer reid#criminal minds#spencer reid x reader#spencer reid fanfic#mgg#criminal minds fanfiction#criminal minds fandom#spencer reid fluff#spencer reid fandom#spencer reid x reader fluff#spencer reid x you#spencer reid x y/n#spencer reid x self insert#🐇 anon
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Born of Confusion and Quiet Collusion | (joel miller x reader) (18+)
pairing: stepfather!joel miller x fem!reader
summary: he’s been in your life since you were fourteen, the first reliable father figure you’ve had in your life. but you’re not a child anymore. and you’re not the only one who’s noticed that.
warnings/tags: [18+ MINORS DNI] sleazy/deadbeat stepdad!joel, age gap (joel is 51, reader is 20), stepcest (v self-referential), daddy!kink, size!kink, fingering, oral (m&f receiving), unprotected piv, deepthroating, cum-eating, marking, ball-sucking, angst!!! a lot of it!!!, smoking, drinking, infidelity, v brief mentions of past domestic abuse and past impregnation of a minor (16) via statutory r*pe (neither apply to joel or reader), too many religious metaphors, reader has a landing strip because…I said so
word count: ~10.6K | ao3
a/n: I had such a good time writing this. it didn’t turn out as PWP as initially intended, but I love it just the same. this is definitely not your mother’s stepcest fic (it’s her husband’s 🤪) but it’s still horny and sick and twisted and I hope you cry or cum or both ❤️ if people like this, there is a possibility of a part 2! title from lana my queen ♥️
thanks to @saradika-graphics for the dividers <3
Masterlist | Kofi
Blinding sun has begun to streak across the sidewalks in your childhood neighborhood. Patches of grass and wildflowers sprout from the cracks in the pavement. Vibrant chalk drawings smear from trekking feet. Sprinklers stutter and hiss for giggling children — a picturesque snapshot of youthful frivolity, submerged in the ephemeral gloss of summer vacation.
In a way, it feels like you’ve never left. For the past two years, you’ve only come home for the summer from college. Which is unfortunate considering how beautiful New England is in the summer. Instead your thighs are sticking to plastic benches at fast-casual restaurants in Texas, where it feels like the devil himself has his head between your legs anywhere you sit.
Of course, it’s always nice to see your mother. Never without a pitcher of sweet ice tea in the fridge, never without a pasted-on Southern debutante smile, and never a single hair that’s not bleached to hell on her head. Frazzled and air-headed as they come, flighty as a hummingbird, but easily reined and tethered to the earth with one hand by…Joel.
Oh, what could you say about Joel?
He loves your mother, you’ll say that much. You’ve never seen a man as drawn to his wife as you have him. The touches are constant, the compliments doled out like those strawberry bonbons on your grandmother’s coffee table. It’s been seven years and he still acts like your living room is the lobby heading to the honeymoon suite they call a bedroom.
As a result, you wouldn’t be caught dead without headphones at any given time in your home. You’ve heard far too much over these seven years to not know to be prepared.
But what Joel makes up for in physical affection, he severely lacks in any other form of decorum. His recliner is perfectly molded to his body, his side table littered with cigarette butts and empty Pabst cans. The blare of NASCAR is ever-present, and you swear you can see the outline of an ad-riddled Camaro burned into the television screen.
On any given Saturday you hear “Beer, baby,” about a dozen times.
Beer, baby.
Beer, baby.
‘Nother beer, baby.
They almost don’t sound like real words after the first several. Just a nonsensical pattern of plosives spewing into the air that your mother is conditioned to respond to like a dog.
Beer, baby.
and then,
Snick. Crack. Fizz.
And she never complains, as far as you’ve heard.
You’d tried one time to yank her out of the trance.
“Mom, you don’t have to be his little barmaid, you know. He can get his own beer,” you’d said.
She just smiled that plastic smile, slid her hands down his chest from behind his chair, kissed his sweaty temple, and said, “‘Least I can do for my white knight. Ain’t never no skin off my nose.”
“White knight with the biggest sword in the land,” Joel had tacked on for his own benefit, grabbing his crotch lewdly with a filthy grin before your mother swatted him playfully and gathered his empty beer cans.
The thing about your mother’s current questionable standards is that your biological father was a shitbag, to put it lightly. He’d gotten your mom pregnant when she was just short of seventeen, and he was thirty-five. And that’s just the beginning. He’s locked up now, but he’d had about fourteen years to do damage to her in this very home that he bought for your little family to maintain appearances of family values.
To her, Joel is her white knight. She was a single mother of a teenage girl with an ex-husband in the slammer and a dead-end receptionist job at a local travel agency.
Joel showered her with love and praise without the shadow of the back of his hand just behind. And maybe he was still fifteen years her senior. Maybe he didn’t have money. Maybe he was a deadbeat, beer-bellied local with a million excuses as to why jobs never work out for him (a “Type A” personality, he likes to blame it on. Which you’re unsure he even knows what that means given that the only Type A you’ve observed in him that he could credibly claim is his blood type).
But he loved your mother when she needed it the most. And he loved her enough that he accepted the package deal the two of you came as. So there’s only so much you could hold against him.
And not that this would ever matter, in any universe, but in spite of his dirty undershirts, his ratty sweatpants, his prominent beer gut…Joel is not an unattractive man. He cleans up very well on the rare occasion your mother has required him to, and you see a sparkle of what your mother sees in him on a daily basis.
A sparkle that, for reasons unbeknownst to you, had your hand sliding into your panties once or twice or more growing up when you were still discovering your own sexuality in your twin bed with your headphones in.
You haven’t done that for years now. You barely even remember it happened. But you don’t think of Joel that way. Joel is just…Joel. He’s your stepfather. Love of your mother’s life. The stability she needed. For seven years, that’s how it’s stayed.
When you return to your house in the evening of a hot Summer night, ear freshly talked off by your old friend from high school and a stomach satiated with your favorite local spot, your mother is working on dinner for her and Joel at the stove, still dressed in her work attire.
“Looks good, sexy mama,” Joel says, slapping her ass and gripping a handful of it as he kisses her neck.
She giggles and bats him away. “Oh, shoo. Go sit and it’ll be ready in about twenty minutes.”
He fits in one final grope before plodding over to his recliner and powering on the television, eyeing you as you slip your sandals off by the front door.
“How’s Nancy?” He asks in his deep drawl, pulling the arm of the recliner until the footrest pops up for him to prop his socked feet.
“Francie,” you correct, tossing your keys into the dish on the antique wooden console table by the door. One your mother and you had spotted at an estate sale when you were seven, and one you’ve made a mental note to make sure none of your sticky-finger relatives get their hands on before you have a solid place of your own to furnish and you can take a piece of your childhood home with you.
“Francie. That’s right. How’s Francie?”
“She’s good. She thinks Josh is gonna propose soon.”
“Oh, that’s wonderful,” your mom pipes in, plopping a hand over her heart as she stirs. “I always liked that Josh. Always holds the door open for me when I stop by Sal’s.”
“Yeah, he’s alright,” you say dismissively. What you don’t say is how he’s already cheated on Francie twice in as many years, but she keeps going back. But that’s none of your business in the end. Francie’s always been one to do what she’s going to do.
“Well, what about that boy you been seein’ every goddamn night?” Joel asks, leaning back in his chair.
“Hasn’t been every goddamn night,” you sass back, propping your hand on your hip in front of him. “We’ve been on four dates.”
“Been real long dates,” Joel says, a clear inclination in his voice.
“They have not been real long dates, Joel. They’ve been normal dates.”
“Oh, leave her be, J,” your mom scolds lightly. “She’s just havin’ fun, aren’t you, blossom?”
“I guess,” you mutter, studying the old magazines on the coffee table. “Hoping it becomes something a little more serious than ‘just fun’ soon.”
“Caught your eye, didn’t he? He’d be a dumbass to throw that away,” Joel says with surety. “Knew that the second I looked at your mama. You girls are a prize. Beautiful as all get-out.”
“Thanks,” you mumble, shifting your weight a little uncomfortably at the compliment.
Joel’s mouth falls into a smirk as he taps his side table. “You wanna make like your mama and grab me a beer, sweet girl?”
You scoff, giving him a look of disgust. “Fuck off.”
Joel gives an upside-down smile and shrugs before hollering at your mother, “Beer, baby.”
You let out an annoyed sigh and head off toward the kitchen. “I’ll fucking get it, mom. Lazy ass,” you mutter the last two words under your breath.
“Thank you, doll,” your mom says, a wide smile on her face as you pull open the fridge and retrieve his drink. You slam it down on his tiny table with thinly-veiled irritation, flourishing your hands towards it in a facetious “ta-da” gesture.
Joel looks at the can, then up at you. “Ain’t gonna open it?”
“For fuck’s sake,” you bite out incredulously, turning on your heel toward your bedroom. “Open it yourself,” you yell over your shoulder as you head down the hall.
“Thank you, sweet girl,” you hear him bellow to you with a laugh in his voice as you shut your door.
—
Your mom is acting different lately. Pushing Joel away more when he becomes affectionate. More short-tempered at random moments with him. You’ve already witnessed her going off on him once since you’ve been home about him not doing the simplest things. Tidying up the table, forgetting to run errands for her while she’s at work, emptying his own ashtray. Her patience is much thinner the last several weeks since you’ve been home, and you’re not sure for how long prior.
But you see her smiling at her phone one evening when Joel is out at a bar with his friends. It’s a certain kind of smile. Less plastered on, more secretive in its delight. Forty minutes later she tells you she’s playing some late-night pinochle at a friend’s and to not wait up for her. She looks awful dolled up for a card game night with “friends”, but you say nothing.
She’s playing some “late-night pinochle” with someone, alright, you think.
Joel stumbles in at 2 AM, clattering loudly around in the kitchen. You pad out of your room in your sleep shorts and tank top, squinting into the bright kitchen lights.
“The fuck are you doing, Joel?”
His head whips around, hand frozen on the handle of an open kitchen drawer. “Shit, sweetheart. Sorry, didn’t know I’d wake ya.”
“You’re being noisy as fuck. What are you rooting around in here for?”
“Ran outta smokes. I know I got a spare pack stashed in here.”
You sigh tiredly, resting your chin on your hand on the counter. “Junk drawer on the right.”
Joel follows your instructions and emerges victorious, waggling the pack in the air. “Thank you, sweet girl.”
“Yeah, yeah,” you wave off, pushing yourself off the counter to head back to your slumber.
“Wanna have a smoke with me out back?”
You stare at him blankly for a moment. “I don’t really smoke.”
Joel fixes you with a telling look, eyebrows raised. “Mama’s not home. You wanna have a smoke with me?”
You stand quiet for a pause, but then roll your eyes and tilt your head to the back door in a silent acquiescence. Joel smiles lightly and follows your gesture, slipping a cigarette into your hand as he passes.
The night air is still balmy, but there is a light breeze. You hunker down on the porch steps and Joel flicks his lighter for the both of you.
You’re not a habitual smoker. It’s purely social and for the occasional nerves. Your mom hates smoking, even hates that Joel does it. But she really doesn’t want you to get trapped in it. And as far as she knows, you’ve never had nicotine in your life. She definitely doesn’t know that you’d surreptitiously coerced Joel into offering you your first cigarette at sixteen. On these exact same steps.
You smoke in relative silence for several minutes, the cicadas chirping around you and the wood creaking underneath.
Then, into the dark, “She’s steppin’ out on me.”
You look over at him, legs spread, half-smoked cigarette dangling between them, and looking a little more haggard than you remember seeing him before.
Something about the softness in his face, the puffiness under his eyes, has you looking at him in a more sympathetic light that has nothing to do with the dying glow of the bulb above the doorway.
“Don’t talk about my mom like that,” you mutter gently. But he’s right and you know it. You don’t know the details, but she’s not being the most subtle about it.
“Don’t want to,” Joel replies, taking another pull from his smoke. “But the signs’ve been there for a while.”
You nod silently in understanding, feeling the burn of the smoke in your throat.
Joel sighs, tendrils of smoke billowing from his mouth. “Happens, I guess. I’m sure it’ll blow over.”
“Yeah. It’ll blow over,” you agree. Joel doesn’t respond again, just stares out at the overgrown, weed-infested back lawn. You knock your knee against his until you have his attention. You reassure him, “It’ll blow over.”
Joel stares at you for a prolonged minute, then bumps your knee back. A heavy palm falls low onto your bare thigh, stroking gently with a thick thumb. Goosebumps flare up under it immediately, a strange feeling in your stomach ramping up at the graze of him. You blink and take another drag.
Joel’s hand slides off your leg, leaving a bizarre chill in its wake. He pulls himself up and taps out the smoldering butt onto the railing.
“It’ll blow over,” he confirms, pushing open the door and disappearing inside.
Tightness constricts in your chest as you desperately suck down to the filter on your cigarette, jettisoning the smoke into the air pensively.
A lot has changed since you were sixteen.
—
The night had not gone as planned. Six dates and you really thought this would be the one. You knew it would be long distance, but you thought he liked you.
You hadn’t even gone on Tinder with the intent of finding a relationship, but then you went on a few dates and you thought, maybe you could do it. He’s cute, sweet, makes you come and then fucks you well. You had thought this would be the night. The “Will you be my girlfriend” night, not the “This isn’t going to work” night. So you’re fighting back tears as he awkwardly drives you home.
Joel is in his chair, beer in hand, when you walk through the door. You’re really not in the mood, so you beeline it for the hallway.
“Hey, what’s wrong sweet girl?” Joel calls after you as you sequester yourself in your room, chuck your heels at your closet, and hurl yourself onto your bed.
Not two minutes go by before a light knock sounds at your door. “You okay, sweet girl?”
“Fuck off,” you yell back at him through the closed door. But the door opens, and Joel is there, leaning against the doorway.
“Date go to shit?”
“How tactful,” you grumble, wringing the pillow in your lap with your hands and dropping your head back against your headboard.
Joel chuckles, but he looks earnest in his interest. “Come on, darlin’. What happened?”
You shrug dismissively, throat thick with your restrained emotions.
Joel knocks on the doorway in an awkward fidget, before ultimately crossing the barrier into your room and sitting on the bed at your feet, looking at you expectantly.
You bite your lower lip, doing your damndest to stave off the tears. “He broke things off.”
“Dumbass,” Joel mutters.
“I’m the dumbass.”
“You’re not a dumbass. I would know, wouldn’t I?” Joel teases, jostling your foot lightly.
A hint of a smile forms on your face. “Yeah, you would. Dumbass extraordinaire.”
Joel matches your smile with an upturn of the corner of his mouth. He tugs at your ankle. “Come ‘ere.”
You groan, but toss the pillow aside and scoot down the bed next to him, folding your legs to the side in your wrinkled dress. Joel wraps an arm around you and pulls you into him. You sigh and lower your head onto his shoulder.
“It’s fucking stupid, but I liked him,” you say quietly.
“He don’t deserve you,” he says, hugging around your waist.
“Apparently no boy does, at this point,” you sniffle. The scent of Joel fills your nostrils — beer, cigarettes, a thin sheen of sweat. It should be off-putting, but it smells like growing up. Like maturity.
“You’re right. No boy does.”
The arm around you shifts, and once again, a hand. Warm on your thigh. Midway up this time, just below the hem of your dress. You stare down at it, conflicted.
“What do you mean?” You ask, fearing you already know the answer.
“I think you need a man,” Joel rumbles, squeezing at your thigh.
You swallow thickly, unable to look away from the masculine hand clamped onto your leg, a little less than innocently.
“Joel? Where’s my mom?”
When Joel doesn’t reply, you pry your eyes from his hand to study his face. You see his expression and the answer passes between you wordlessly.
She’s not here. You both know where she is. And you both know she won’t be back for a good while.
Joel’s gaze fixes on yours as his hand slips up a single inch, pinky dipping just under your skirt.
“Joel…” you whisper, but you don’t think he quite hears it. His eyes drop down to your mouth and stay there, watch as your tongue flicks over your suddenly very dry lips. “What are you doing?”
A casual smile twitches onto his lips as another inch is lost between him and a ticking time bomb. He just repeats, “You deserve a man.”
Your breath hitches in your throat as his hand closes the distance, dress dragging up your thigh until his pinky brushes the soft fabric of your panties. Your eyes drift closed at the feather-light touch, a war waging in your head.
Joel was not the one meant to discover the type of underwear that’s under this dress tonight. He’s the very last person you expected. As he should be. He’s your stepfather. You’ve overheard him fucking your mother countless times.
Overheard how good he is. How big he is. How thorough he is.
Your leg quivers under his palm, your jaw clenching with the discordance in your mind.
“I don’t think we should be doing this,” you say shakily, fingers gripping the sheets under you. “I don’t think you should be doing this.”
Joel’s gaze bounces between your eyes and your lips. Then he gives you a sultry look and speaks the forbidden words.
“I won’t tell if you won’t.”
Your fingers dance anxiously as Joel’s pinky grazes up the crotch of your panties again, where you’re terrified he’s going to find you responding favorably to this scenario.
“You want me to keep it a secret from my mother that her husband fucked her only daughter?” You burst out in a single breath. You feel lightheaded and tingly. You can’t parse your thoughts and they’re starting to get crowded.
“Already usin’ the past tense, huh?” Joel says huskily, and you feel his hand burrowing in between your thighs until two fingers press at the seam of your pussy over your underwear. “Seems like your mind’s already made up, sweet girl.”
You whimper quietly, the clouds in your brain growing denser by the second. Then, without ever actively deciding on a course of action, your legs are resituating themselves into a position much less concerned with modesty. Your thighs are spreading with zero input from your critical thinking skills, and a stifled groan slips out of Joel.
“Feels like it, too,” Joel moans, fingers rubbing over what must be a prominent wet spot on your panties.
You release your first moan, and it seems to echo around your room and back into your ears, spearing through the overcast in your head. You finally vocalize what you really should keep inside at this point, but it needs to be said.
“Joel, I-I’m your stepdaughter. Y-you’re my stepfather. We can’t.”
Joel’s nose ghosts up your jaw, nuzzling into the curve of your neck. “Grown woman, aren’t ya? Ain’t my blood, neither.”
“My mom…”
“Your mama ain’t gonna find out. I sure as shit ain’t gonna tell her.”
“I can’t lie to her,” you insist, but your mouth drops open as one of his fingers strokes at the crease of your thigh and your pussy, shaved smooth mere hours ago for your date. His skin on your skin, in a place where it should never fucking be.
“You’re so goddamn sexy,” Joel breathes into your neck, and his lips land just after, shoving your concerns to the side. You jump at the stroke of his tongue over your throat, the scrape of his teeth, and all at once you’re slave to it.
You fall onto your back and he follows you down, straddling your hips and cupping your jaw, pushing it upward as he sucks at your neck. If you don’t stop him, he’s going to leave a mark. As if he hasn’t already. The deed is as good as done.
“Joel, be carefu—”
“Don’t call me Joel,” he growls, nipping below your ear.
“What do I call you?”
Joel’s mouth halts on you, exhaling over his saliva on your skin. “Daddy. Call me daddy,” he instructs, latching onto you again.
“Fuck,” you sigh, craning your neck up for his enjoyment. “That’s so fucked.”
Joel’s laugh borders on unhinged as he presses his lips to your ear and whispers, “We’re already fucked. Would be a waste to half-ass it.”
He hooks a finger into the gusset of your underwear and tugs it to the side, and you can sense him watching your expressions as your eyes clench shut in disbelief that this is actually happening, while not even dreaming of telling him to stop.
Air rushes out your chest as a thick finger glides through the folds of your cunt, confirming your arousal with damning evidence.
“Jesus, you’re juicy as a fuckin’ peach, darlin’,” Joel groans, sounding almost pained at the discovery.
“Not the first time. I used to think about you,” you admit, a runaway train, brakes shot. “When I was younger.”
“Fuck, you can’t say shit like that,” Joel moans, forehead pressing against your temple. “Give people the wrong idea.”
“Never telling anyone else. Just you. Besides, I’m all woman now…daddy,” you coo, testing the waters.
“Fuck,” he swears loudly again, another finger joining the first to massage at your clit. “Nasty, naughty girl. You take after your mama.”
You whine and wriggle under him at the comparison, but by some inexplicable, Freudian twist of fate, a distant, previously obscured light in your chest begins to beam. “Keep touching me, daddy. I’ll be a good girl.”
“Yes, you will,” Joel says in response. Not like an order or an expectation. But like it’s a given. Like you’d ever behave any other way beneath him. As if he’d known all along, all seven years, that you would end up right here. Disheveled and heartbroken on your twin-sized, pastel pink duvet, with paternal fingers that have biblically, intimately known the inside of your creator, the site of your creation, now acquainting themselves with the life she created.
Do you feel like her? Do you have her lips like you have her mouth? Has this man successfully sown and reaped the benefits of a distressingly similar — kindred — octet of lips? Matching horizontal and vertical smiles all thirsting, parched, yet drooling for him under a single roof? If he closes his eyes, could he tell the difference?
Joel’s breath is at your ear, sending chills over your flesh from head to toe, muddying your mind.
“Take off your dress.”
A full-body shudder wracks through you at the order, a traitorous flood of wetness flowing from your opening as Joel continues to explore you with his touch. You begin shrugging out of your dress straps until steadying fingers cling to your thigh.
Joel pulls your focus with damp fingers perched on the underside of your chin, your own slick marring your skin at the hand of your father figure. Your lip trembles as he commands your attention.
“Stand up. And take it off. For me,” he instructs measuredly, bringing his thumb down to stroke the point of your chin softly.
A burning starts in your throat, like the smolder of one of his cigarettes slipped into your mouth. “Y-you want me to strip for you?”
Joel’s lips slant upwards and he says, “I wanna see everything you have to offer your daddy.”
You nod, the blaze in your throat sizzling to your chest as you long to reveal all you have to him.
You extract from the cage of his limbs to upright yourself, smoothing the line of your dress down to its full length, hitting you mid-thigh. Your hand twists back to capture your zipper, and with torturous patience, you work it downward. Your straps droop down your shoulders with the slack, and you’re quick to wrap an arm around your breasts to prevent too premature an exposure. You get the feeling that a man like Joel appreciates the delay of gratification, if his ask of you putting on a show for him is any indication.
The zipper ends precariously at the top of your ass, the sides of your dress falling open to show the expanse of your back to him along with the band of your bra.
“Fuck,” you hear him say under his breath, the squeak of your mattress springs sounding as he moves behind you into an unknown position on the bed.
You languidly slip your arms from the straps entirely, pressing the dress to your tits for a moment longer before letting the top of the garment fall at the waist, holding it to your stomach instead.
“Just like that, sweetheart. That’s right,” Joel grinds out, the springs squealing again, but this time accompanied by the rasp of a different zipper.
Curiosity, eagerness get the better of you, and you start to turn. But you’re instantly met with a hard, “Uh-uh. Keep lookin’ forward. You’ll get an eyeful soon enough.”
You fix your gaze forward again, struggling to keep up this glacial charade when you have good reason to believe what you long to see is now just behind you. So you bring your hands to the side of your dress and shift it down, bending at the waist to put your ass on display in your lacy thong you’d worn for your date, until the dress at last crumples to the floor.
A low whistle sings behind you as you stay bent for a decent few seconds before standing at full height again. Your fingers fiddle with the clasps of your bra at your back, coming apart with practiced ease. The article hits the floor as well, your tits free to the air and your nipples hardening at the exposure.
“God, you’re such a good girl, aren’t ya? Finish the picture for daddy.”
You whimper, your fingers dipping beneath the waistband of your thong on either side. With a final flair of showmanship, you shimmy the elastic strap of your panties up and down with a slight sway in your hips, before bending at the waist again as the last stitch of clothing on your body sounds a silent death knell as it hits the carpet of your childhood bedroom.
The air feels thick and weighty as the quiet stretches. You can hear the hum of voices from the television Joel didn’t shut off before he sought to damn the both of you. You could wrestle with the reality that the soundtrack to your irredeemable sin is a King of the Hill rerun, but Joel is still on your bed, and you’re still hands-to-ankles, laying waste to each and every ounce of sense you’ve accrued in your twenty years.
A resounding groan shatters your trance as Joel thrusts you back into the situation at hand. “Fuckin’ Christ,” you hear, and then the loud thump of Joel’s knees crashing to the ground, rough hands startling you as they take hold of your hips. Your palms slam to the carpet to maintain your balance as wet lips suck open-mouthed kisses onto your asscheek.
“Oh, fuck,” you sigh loudly, your feet arching onto your tip-toes as the kisses close in on your aching core. Two thumbs part the split of your pussy from behind, and Joel doesn’t waste another second diving in. A large, flattened tongue licks a line up the length of your pussy, clit to entrance, leaving your legs shaking.
Another deep, gratuitous moan rings out, and Joel’s mouth is stroking over you with rigorous passion. Joel comes up for air, but only to take an aggressive bite into the globe of your ass, one sure to leave behind unmistakable, irrefutable physical evidence of exactly who had been there.
It’s foreboding.
But why does it feel like sanctuary?
A tug at your hips, and you’re at last spinning back around to face him.
And his eyes are ravenous. Ruinous.
His mouth descends onto your mound, slobbering up the small strip of hair you left as a guiding path to whoever sought to grant you pleasure.
An almost-boyfriend.
Or a stepfather.
But he goes against the grain, kissing further and further north of your throbbing cunt, over your stomach, up your sternum. Your spit-slick tits find refuge in the confines of his hands, groping, pushing, pulling at them as your nipples drag against his palms.
You manage to steal a glimpse between you, fiending for a sneak peek of that sword he constantly boasts about. He hasn’t revealed much, other than a sizeable bulge and a red, shining head poking out from the band of his boxers. It’s enough to have you imagining what it will feel like inside you, crying out for it to become reality.
His lips claim your neck with purpose as he steers you toward your bed, the backs of your legs giving way and cascading the both of you into a sea of bedding. Your head nestles among your pillows as Joel works his way south again.
Joel looks up at you as he approaches the seam of your pussy. Heated exhales tease at your clit as he says, “You always screamin’ about why your mama keeps me around? Lemme show you why.”
You prop yourself up on your elbows to take in the sight of your stepfather’s mouth sinking down onto your pussy and dancing his tongue over the bundle of nerves that has been throbbing for him. The first sucking pull of his mouth on you has your head tipping back in an entirely unhindered moan, and you have to flop it back down, your chin colliding with your chest in your haste to view the bob of his head between your legs.
Joel’s work is impressive to say the least. His tongue drags up and down the length of you, stopping to circle your clit with a pointed tip and suck you back into the wet warmth of him. Your entrance leaks in excessive excitement as he riles you up with gusto, hands framing you at the inside of your thighs and spreading you wide for his consumption.
He breaks away, not allowing himself to go far, to croon over your soaked core, “Such a sweet pussy on such a sweet girl.”
You exhale heavily, browns furrowing in overwhelming pleasure as he directs his attention back to your clit. A finger tests the bounds of your opening, stroking the perimeter of the point of no return.
He knows the outside of you now. He’s familiarized himself with every inch of the surface of your skin, either with his eyes, or with the aid of his mouth. Inside is foreign territory. Inside is unforgivable.
He slides in so easily, it’s like you rolled out a welcome mat and propped open the door. He’s filled you to the webbing of his fingers in a manner of a half-second, and you feel dizzy with it.
Then he’s fucking you with it, and it’s like you’re floating. The grip of your cunt around his finger has him moaning around your clit, sending vibrations throughout your body.
He crooks his finger, stroking at the softest part of you, and you feel yourself unraveling at an alarming pace.
“Daddy…daddy…” you call out desperately, hands thrusting into the sheets to scramble for something to keep you earth-bound.
“You gonna come for me?” Joel says, hovering only for a brief moment above your clit to ensure you maintain your high. “Come on, come for your daddy,” he finishes, diving right back onto your clit and thrusting a second finger into you along with the first, honing in on your blessed g-spot like he had it marked on a map of you from the second he met you.
All said and done, it takes him minutes to bring you to the brink of destruction, where you’re squeezing around his practiced fingers and arching for the sky, screaming exactly what he’d instructed you to call him.
His mouth remains warm and diligent against you as you work through the throes, pulling the full extent of your pleasure to its frayed ends, until you’re pushing him away with trembling hands to get some reprieve.
Joel’s head falls against your thigh as he levels his breathing, soaked fingers streaking your hip. The bed frame wobbles as he starts to grind against the mattress.
“Goddamn. I usually make your mama come at least three times before I even stick my dick inside her. But feelin' how tight your little cunt is clenching on my fingers I’d be a damn fool not to take a test drive right fuckin’ now. One’ll have to be enough.”
You whimper, your legs falling open to accommodate his broadness as he moves up your body. Your fist tugs at his shirt as you say, “Wanna see you too.”
Joel glances down at himself and gives a little wince. “Not nearly as pretty as you are, sweet girl.”
“I don’t care.”
Joel sighs, sitting back on his haunches. “Alright, but you ain’t gettin’ the whole rigmarole,” he says, reaching behind him to grab the back collar of his shirt and pull it over his head, damning it with the rest of your clothes on the floor. His cock is quickly freed of its confines as the godforsaken pile builds, and you get your first real look at him.
And for all the little white lies Joel tells, you have to give him credit. The boasting was not borne of a necessity for overcompensation.
Joel is big.
You should have guessed. In every passing gloat from Joel, your mother has never argued the opposite. She only ever grows embarrassed, smacks him lightly for being crass.
Apparently his doting compliments and pussy-eating prowess are not the only reasons she’s kept him around.
“‘M I what you expected, sweet girl?” Joel asks, his eyes hooded as a hand strokes down the length of himself with a casual, justified pride that only exists in men who are impressively sized and they know it.
The dumbfounded expression on your face refuses to dissipate as you shake your head “no”, followed by a flurry of rapid blinking as you nod your head “yes”. Then a confounded response sputters out, “I-I didn’t know what to expect. You always said…but I didn’t….”
“‘S okay, darlin’. Normal for a girl to go cockdumb when she sees a dick like this for the first time.”
You just nod, a woman possessed by her deepest, darkest desires, regardless of how sick and depraved they may be to the sound mind.
And, god help you, you are not currently of sound mind. Maybe you couldn’t prove that in a court of law, but in your own psyche, you certainly are clearly lacking in the logic sector at the moment.
Joel really has nothing to be concerned with in the looks department. Your eyes are transfixed on one thing only, up until your field of view is robbed of it, replaced by the glassy-eyed lust on Joel’s face as he drapes over you.
“Fuck,” Joel groans, his expression nearly pained as he takes in the enraptured silence of you. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. I just can’t stop thinkin’ about how your mama must’ve felt before she pushed you out. This is the closest I’ll ever get to feelin’ that for myself.”
A whine escapes you as you wrap your arms under the backs of your knees, deliberately spreading yourself as wide as you can for him with blatant intentions. Let him feel it for himself. You’re so hungry for him, you feel fit to burst over it. You’ll be the newer model of her. You’ll be a tight, young hole for him. You’ll give him what she hasn’t been giving him, what you haven’t overheard in weeks from their bedroom.
“Fuck yeah, sweet girl,” Joel moans, positioning his cock at your waiting entrance. “Show me how your mama felt twenty years ago.”
You’re certain your own fall from grace should not feel so heavenly. But the first shove of Joel’s cock inside you toes a line dangerously close to a reckoning. The stretch of your walls around him, the death grip you have on your assured destruction, the fullness he’s wrought upon you nothing short of gluttonous satisfaction.
“Daddy, that’s so good,” you sigh into his ear, and it earns you a rumbling grunt as he bottoms out.
“Jesus, baby,” he moans, burying his face into your neck. “She teach you how to keep it this tight for me?”
She.
He sinks inside you, makes room inside his wife’s daughter for himself, and how thoughtlessly her identity is reduced to…she.
Your breath hitches as Joel pulls out to the head and he slams the full length of him into you, your ankles locking at the small of his back, your wrists around his neck.
You’ve heard Joel’s sex noises countless times before across the hall, muffled by closed doors. He’s an entirely different animal when you’re mainlining his sounds, his words directly into your ear. The scratch of thirty years of cigarettes in his moans, the chant of the devil in his terms of endearment, the authoritative intonation of a guardian.
He beats inside you like a drum, a deafening reverberation, punching air out of your lungs with every punitive thrust. His balls slap against the split of your ass like the muted clap of hi-hat cymbals, keeping tempo for you as your mind drifts away.
Flashes of reality wade through your hedonistic bliss, like they’re desperate to haul you to shore, save you from this entirely avoidable fate, resuscitate your suffocated sanity. Your brain beseeches you to notice your glaringly exposed circumstances. Your bedroom door as ajar as your mouth moaning for him, your window curtains spread wide as your legs, your ceiling light as illuminated as your soul emitting the final streaks of vibrancy before the sun sets at dusk.
You’re recklessly laid bare for Joel and the world around you. A single rogue pair of eyes could end that world as you know it. Your mother could walk through the front door, down the hall at any moment. Even still, your heels dig into his flesh to hold him inside you, your skin yearns for the drag of his hair-spattered potbelly against your soft stomach.
You long to be full of more than just his cock.
Through hiccuping breaths you say, “Come inside me.”
Joel lets out a conflicted keen as the pendulum of his hips swing. “I can’t, baby. We can’t.”
Your fingers tug at his hair as you whine like a child in protest. “I’m on birth control. I promise.”
Joel’s breath grows labored as his orgasm looms over him, a strain in his voice as he wrestles with your pleading request.
“Fuck,” he yells out, his hips stilling inside you as you moan on his cock, high on the prospect of his spend painting your insides with sin.
But you don’t feel him throbbing, pulsing within your walls. He’s not winded and gasping from a climax wrung from your clutch.
“Daddy…?”
“I can’t, baby.”
“Please. I need it inside me.”
Joel groans, but his cock drags free of your pussy, leaving you empty and fundamentally altered. Joel’s hand brushes across your forehead, a boundless devotion in his eyes. “How about I shoot my load inside your mouth, huh? So you can have part of me in your belly. You wanna suck your sloppy cunt off daddy’s cock?”
A broken moan slips out of you as you stare down the layers of what seems a lot like love in his gaze. Maybe more than one kind of love. Something more akin to a convoluted amalgamation of parental, platonic, sexual, worshipful love and affection.
A warm hand cups your cheek and you nod in compliance to his suggestion. Joel’s lips press a kiss against your forehead, leaving a burn in its wake. He takes your hand and leads you off the bed with him. He doesn’t have to ask, you just drop to your knees in a showing of submission.
“You felt how big daddy is. Think you can fit him?”
“I can,” you state assuredly. You take initiative, gripping the base of him and gliding up and down your stepfather’s cock with your own slick.
“You sure? She’s able to take all of it, but it’s a struggle. So be real positive.”
“I can do it,” you say confidently, poising his tip at your mouth.
“Go ahead and show me, then.”
You take him into your mouth and you half expect him to dissolve on your tongue. A Eucharist to tide you over until he spills his wine, heady and white across your supplicant taste buds.
But he’s solid, hefty as he slides deeper, a presence unignorable.
“That’s it, sweet girl. All the way back,” he coaxes, and a whimper seeps out from you around his girth. His hand strokes over your hair in blessing as he knocks at the back of your throat, your face screwing up as your reflexes activate. You stave off the worst of them, eyes watery as they gaze up at him. “Still got more to go.”
You nod as gently as you can, feeling the strain in your jaw.
“Daddy’s gonna fuck your face. Loosen you up a bit, okay?”
A greedy noise of approval from you and Joel’s fingers are entwining in your hair, gripping hard enough to pleasantly sting. Your mouth is wet and drooling when Joel pulls your head off of him, until just the tip weighs down your tongue.
“She digs her fingernails into her palm to make it easier. Don’t know if that helps.”
You whimper and glance down at your hand. You’ve already got half-moon crescents piercing the heel of it. Timidly, you open it up to reveal it to him.
A throaty growl fills your ears as he tightens his hold on your hair. “Like mother, like daughter, I guess.”
Like mother, like daughter.
There’s a loud grunt and Joel is fucking into your mouth with little mercy. Your dry lips crack to accommodate the size of him, your cheeks concaving to maximize his sensation, and the back of your throat taking a beating as his head punches the tender flesh with impeccable rhythm.
As your one hand threatens to prick blood under the pressure of your nails, the other seeks to draw it from Joel’s hip. You’re not trying to stop him, or even harm him, but you need him to feel what he’s doing to you. How certifiably insane he has you, a puppet with holes for him to fill and control. You’re a living, breathing creature, but he fucks your mouth like you have no need to breathe at all.
You’d inhale through your nose, but it’s clogged with snot and running in rivulets down to your lips, servicing him with further lubrication for your debasement. The salty wet cascading down your cheeks blurs your vision as you force yourself to maintain precious eye contact with him.
There’s a divine burst of air in your lungs as your head is wrenched from Joel’s cock, and you cough and sputter, willing yourself to suck in the sex-tainted oxygen around you.
Joel’s hand cups your jaw, smearing the mixture of snot, saliva, and tears on your skin. “You’re gonna take me deeper this time. All the fuckin’ way back. Wanna feel your goddamn nose smashed against my belly button.”
You sniffle your congested nostrils, but nod. You’re not sure why you say it, but you whisper, your voice distorted by stuffiness, “Fix me.”
A pitying noise falls from his throat as he slides his thumb into your mouth for you to suck in pacification. “Ain’t nothin’ need fixin’. You just needed a better daddy. ‘N that’s what I’m here for.”
A muted sob puffs around his finger, and you think you might see glistening in Joel’s eyes for a passing second. But he clears his throat and it’s gone, his hand around the base of his cock again and his thumb prying open your mouth.
When the head of him pushes past the block of your throat, Joel’s grunt could probably be heard by the neighbors. Nevermind that where you now stand is in perfect frame of your first floor window, a glowing halo at the side of your house. The alarm on your bedside table blinks 12:35 AM, so the Christensens are likely fast asleep. But although you may have a fence, Douglas and Cheryl have a second floor, where their bedroom window could peer right into yours.
And yet you stay on your knees, unhinging your jaw for the eight, maybe nine, inches of cock your stepfather is feeding down your throat while your mother is absent, getting reamed by her boss or coworker or friend's friend ten miles away. You’re sure the view is remarkable. A perfect, vignetted cameo portrait of familial implosion.
Your mother most certainly did not raise a quitter, that much is evident when the last inch of Joel’s length is seated in your mouth and your nose contorts at the prominent curve of his stomach, just like he wished. Joel’s arms are secured around your head, holding you to his gut in a manner that might be endearing and benign if you weren’t simultaneously choking around his entire cock.
Instead he’s cutting off your air supply and using his unyielding embrace to rutt into your throat in short bursts as you fight not to eject him.
The mess when you resurface is notable. If you were still trapped in that dress, the front of it would be sodden, soaked through with spit. You’re not sure there’s a spot on your face that isn’t coated in some form of your own fluids — the slobber from your mouth smearing over Joel’s hairy abdomen and transferring to your forehead and temples, and even more rivers of saliva dripping onto the carpet.
You feel debauched and torn apart, and you still croak, “Again.”
Nails in your palms do nothing for you now. You've already crucified yourself.
Once he’s buried deep again, he secures the back of your head with a single arm, and then you feel the breadth of his other hand around your throat.
“God fuckin’ dammit,” Joel groans out, nearly as wrecked as you’ve been all evening. “Can feel my cock in there.”
Joel’s hips move in staccato jabs, just to feel the glide of his fat head demolishing your throat through the skin of your neck pressed against his hand. If you hadn’t tapped rapidly at his hip, gasping for air, you fear he may have been content to die there.
You collapse onto your hands and knees, rasping and pulling air into your deprived lungs, cheek colliding with the dampened carpet as you catch your breath.
“What a fuckin’ trooper. You are a one-of-a-kind wonder, sweet girl,” Joel pants out, hands on his knees and his cock angry and purpling as it bobs and jerks in denial of its orgasm.
Through your slouching to find your breath, you smile.
“Let’s give you a little break, huh? Come and give daddy’s balls a little kiss.”
He clasps a hand on your bicep, helping you back up onto your knees as you regain composure. You’re a bit wobbly, but you ground yourself with hands on his thighs, resting your forehead just to the side of the root of him. Your tongue lolls out and swipes up his sack in a languid stroke.
Joel hums his approval above you, his hand reclaiming its place on the back of your head lightly. With his guidance you dip down, slipping one of his balls into your mouth as he moans out praises.
His balls are large and lush with hair, on par with the rest of him. They hang low, dangling inches down into the space between his thighs. You cradle them in your hand as you caress them with your tongue, sinuses slowly draining as his concentrated musk penetrates your nostrils, filling your olfactory senses with him. You pop one of his balls out of your mouth to pamper the other in equal measure.
Joel begins to pull at his cock with long, tempered strokes. “Fuck, that’s right sweet girl. Treat ‘em real gentle. Might have a little brother or sister in there.”
You whine as you widen your mouth, succeeding in fitting the pair of them inside thanks to your sufficiently stretched jaw, properly warmed up from his dick.
“Shit,” Joel says, the faintest hint of laughter in his voice as he gasps, branding at the waist slightly at the overwhelm of your hot mouth encasing him. “‘F that greedy pussy ever clamps around me again like this filthy mouth is…might even be a son or daughter in there too.”
You moan a little too passionately at that, your mouth packed full of possibilities, and Joel’s hips jolt forward at the sensation, a pleasurable noise of his own spilling out.
“Jesus, can’t moan when I say shit like that. You’re gonna make me…” Joel groans again flexing around his cock. “Gonna have to hit it from the back next time. ‘Lot easier to not just blow my load up that cunt when I don’t got you lookin’ up at me with them puppy dog eyes, beggin’ your daddy to come inside you.”
Next time.
How do you feel about a next time?
You don’t even know what’s going to greet you come daylight.
Joel’s fingers yank on your hair as your mouth works dutifully on his balls, finally saying, “Fuck, daddy needs to come, sweet girl.”
He slips from your mouth, but it opens again for him instantly as he starts to jack himself in earnest. He lays the trickling head on your tongue as he grunts and gasps, and you raise a hand to tease at his balls, squeezing them tenderly as you see his eyes roll in response.
“Fuck, fuck, open up for me, little mama,” he groans, signaling the first thick burst of spend shooting to the back of your raw throat. Joel growls his way through his climax, rope after never-ending rope of come pooling on your tongue until it overflows the corners of your lips and down your chin and neck.
Joel swears as his pulses slow to a stop, taking the tip of his cock and dragging it over the puddle of him on your tongue, spilling more from your mouth and down your tits. “Good girl,” he pants, finally withdrawing his dick. “Swallow for daddy.”
You obey eagerly, pushing all he gave you to the back of your throat to join where the rest of him had already been. You present your clean tongue, preening slightly, and Joel returns a sleepy, immensely proud grin.
There’s a scraping at the front door, and you both dart your heads to the open doorway.
“Shit!” Joel bites out panicked under his breath, shattering what you both have built as he bolts out the door, pulling yours shut as well as his own in his marathon back to the bedroom he shares with your mother.
You hear the front door open and you’re snapped out of your daydream of a night, lunging for your light switch to kill any suspicions of you being conscious. You flatten your hands against the back of your door, pressing an ear to the wood as you stifle your breathing.
You hear the noise on the television cut to silence, then footsteps. The door across the hall squeaks open and…nothing, save for the faint sound of fabricated snoring. You hear your mother sigh, the two thumps of her heels kicking off, and then, “Might as well be right where I left you.”
A stretch of silence, then you hear the low hum of her voice in a string of words that sounds like, “‘F I could, I’d probably just leave you altogether.”
You hear her feet padding down the hall, then the snick of the fridge in the kitchen.
As quiet as you possibly can, you twist the handle of your door and peek through a small gap. Joel lays naked on his stomach on top of their sheets, back rising and falling with his breath, facing you as his head dents his pillow on the bedside closest to the door.
The protector’s side.
And as silent as you tried to be, you see Joel’s eyes squint open directly at you as your door opens. You stare each other down, and you feel your heart begin to pound.
When your lip starts trembling, you close the door.
It’s not until you’re nestled under your covers that you realized what he had called you when he’d come across your tongue.
—
The morning comes uneventful, despite your entire world shifting on its axis. A normal Saturday. You exit your room just as your mother is tidying the kitchen table of breakfast and Joel is starting up the shower in their bedroom.
“Mornin’, blossom. You want some eggs?”
She seems as chipper as ever, scraping off plates and putting them in the dishwasher.
“Uh, no. Thanks,” you dismiss, heading straight for the couch and curling up as you grab the remote.
She joins you shortly after, folding her legs up under her in a frightening mirror of your own.
“I’m sorry about that boy, sweet pea.”
“Hmm?” You ask, looking away from the TV to observe her.
“J told me about what happened with the boy. He’s definitely a dummy.”
“Oh,” you say once you realize what she’s talking about. Truth be told, you haven’t spared that boy a second thought since Joel wrapped his arm around you last night. “It’s whatever. Boys come and go, right?”
“Some of ‘em stay,” she says, glancing down the hall to the sounds of the shower.
You follow her gaze, undoubtedly battling the dissonance in her head of what she’d done last night, and who was waiting for her back at home.
Only she doesn’t know that he wasn’t up pacing over her. He wasn’t waiting for her at all. And it might just be in your own head, but you hope he was maybe the slightest bit…disappointed at the sound of the front door.
You probably shouldn’t be thinking that.
You see the confliction swimming in her eyes, and you place a hand over hers.
“But some of them aren’t going to stay forever if you’re giving them a good reason to leave, mom.”
Her eyes meet yours, tears brimming and threatening to break. “How do you…?”
“You could see it from space, mom. And he can too.”
She brings a knuckle to her waterline, dabbing at the tears before they can fall and muddy her mascara. She sniffles and shrugs with a raised hand, letting it fall back down in a helpless gesture.
“I don’t know what the hell I’m doin’, sweet pea,” she says, letting out a small, pitiful sob. You clasp your hand over hers and squeeze, feeling your own eyes begin to prick at seeing your mother choked up. “You ever…like you get so comfortable, things are goin’ so good, that you start to get anxious? And before you know it…you’re…you’re sabotagin’ yourself. Throwin’ stones, tearin’ down everythin’ that ever brought you a lick’a happiness. Like…like you need to destroy it before it destroys you?”
A lump forms in your throat as she speaks, and you clench your hand a little harder than you intend to. It hits you pretty hard, the reality of it all. Joel is in the shower, washing your dried spit and slick from his cock. Maybe even with your mother’s soap. Wiping away what didn’t already rub off on their shared sheets.
“Yeah, mom,” you say, your throat scratchy from more than just the emotional influx. “I know exactly what you mean.”
The memories come back in succession. Joel’s hand on your bare thigh. Your dress dropping to the floor. Coming on his mouth, his fingers. His cock pushing inside for the first time. His hand feeling his length down your throat. His spend dribbling from your lips.
You deserve a man.
Good girl.
Swallow for daddy.
Why did you do it? That safety, that security Joel has been for you since you were a teenager. The reliable presence, always sitting in that chair three feet to your right. Sipping his beer, spilling on the remote, losing potato chips in the couch cushions.
It’s all twisted up now with memories of his naked body, his satanic tongue and devilish grin, the stretch of his cock that you’ve now felt inside you — still feel inside you, if you’re honest. The soreness persists in the entrance of your pussy, the wall of your cervix, the column of your throat. Evidence of your betrayal to the one who gave you life.
She granted you breath, and you used it to moan “daddy” beneath her husband. Allowed him to take that breath from you as you gagged on the very flesh that makes your mother gasp his name in the sanctity of their marriage bed.
Maybe your mother desecrated it first, but he and you…he and you incinerated it. Rolled around and fucked in the ashes.
She may have gathered her train, lifted her dress for someone else. But the veil hasn’t been removed yet. And you’re nowhere near ready to admit to her that she no longer has somewhere to sleep. She can remain blind for now.
A tear finally drips free down your cheek.
“Yeah, mama. You…you have no idea. How well I know.”
A watery smile crosses her face and she leans toward you, cupping your face in her hands. “We’re gonna be okay, blossom. We get through shit, don’t we? Can’t take us down.”
You nod in her hands, the lump in your throat closer to a golf ball now. “Yeah, mama.”
She strokes the plush of your cheek, wiping at your lone tear track. Then something captures her interest, and she draws back, tilting her head.
“You let him do that to you before he dumped you?”
You furrow your brows, unable to follow her line of sight where it lands at your neck. “Let him do what?”
“Got a hickey the size of Texas there, sweet pea,” your mother giggles, brushing her thumb over your throat.
Your stomach lurches, your eyes masking panic. You’d flown too close to the sun. Reckless, stupid, irresponsible. Let him defile your skin with nicotine-yellowed teeth and a thick, adulatory tongue.
It’s written on your face, on your neck, plain as day. How does she not know? How does she not see?
Because her only daughter, a child sprung from her womb when she was just a mere child herself, would never do that to her. An act so treasonous is unthinkable. Laughable. Not worth a fleeting thought.
To her.
To you…that very thought has been brewing since you were fourteen, alone in your room, the pads of your fingers pruned and your mutinous mind alive.
What if it wasn’t her? What if it was me? What would he say to me?
You deserve a man. Good girl. Swallow for daddy.
Your mother just smiles, oblivious to the context of her observation and the wretchedness within you.
“It’s okay! Nothin’ a little makeup can’t cover, huh?”
Your palms sweat as you nod.
“Come on,” she says, gripping your hand in hers as she stands, guiding you along with her. “I’ll help you. It’ll be like old times when I used to give you makeovers.”
You are hyper-aware of the slickness of your hand in hers.
She has to know, she has to know, she has to know.
But she doesn’t.
Words jam in your ravaged throat, no longer loosened by your stepfather’s brutal misconduct, as you silently follow after her into her room. She ushers you on the bed as she gathers her makeup from her vanity.
She sits beside you, smiling as she begins to tap concealer onto the bruise. “Cover it up, and it’s as good as gone. Never gotta see the boy who gave it to you again.”
You nod again lightly, your eyes falling closed as she pats at your skin. The shower turns off in the bathroom, and the sickness in your stomach roils again.
He’s washed you off now, smelling of her eucalyptus shower steamers. He bears no marks. He shares no burden. Honor by marriage is not honor by blood.
Hence why your mother’s affair can blow over. It can be fixed. Swept under the rug, forgiven in confessionals and late-night whispers during love-making.
But betrayal like this? Of daughter to mother at the hands of a father and husband? That’s Armageddon. And you didn’t pay much attention in church growing up, but you listened enough to know…the apostates are destined to lose.
Rummaging noises bleed from the bathroom, and your mother glances toward the door.
“Joel Miller, you stay in that bathroom for a minute. We’re havin’ a mother-daughter bondin’ moment in here,” she calls out to him with a broad grin, loud enough for him to hear it through the closed door.
Bonding. Oh, yes, you’re very bonded now.
“Should just attach you two at the hip while we’re at it,” he calls back. “You share damn near everythin’ with each other.”
You can't decide if he said that on purpose. If he’s twisted enough to joke about your circumstances to your mother’s naïve listening ear, or if he really is just a dense-headed dumbass, ignorant of the magnitude of his words and actions.
Regardless of how he meant it, the blush pink gossamer blur smoothing over the events from last night is beginning to slip away, the images sharpening each passing moment that you spend with your mother. What your mind was attempting to bang down your door over, grabbing hold of your thoughts to try and thrust you into reality, is finally coming into focus.
You can’t come back from this.
And what was it all for?
The sun shines through the open drapes of the window onto your mother’s back as she smiles and shakes her head at Joel’s comment, the shade cast over you shifting gently with her movement. She rolls her eyes in good-natured jest as she unknowingly conceals the mark of the devil on your neck.
Both her devil and your own.
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hii! i love your writing so much! So can i request Joost x fellow artist!reader with one bed trope? Something like - Joost and reader have tour together, but hotel staff messes up their reservation and instead of two different rooms they get one and maybe reader is all shy with the whole situation bc she has feelings for him idunno 😭🙏
Awkward Situations
Joost Klein x artist!reader
summarry: ..one bed in the hotel room, how does that go when both of you just want to go to sleep after a tiring day from touring
genre: fluff!
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“I’m very sorry, but all rooms are booked for the night so there is nothing I can do for you other then give you the card to the room we booked for you.” The receptionist says to you, looking at you with a sympathetic look. You’ve been trying to bargain with her for the past 15 minutes, telling her you booked a totally different room but the hotel was full since it was summer and most people are on holiday at this time. You sigh, rubbing the sleep from your eyes and take the key card, thanking her quietly before grabbing your suitcase and leaving. Joost trailed quietly behind you, letting you cool down since you were a bit upset from the situation. Anyone would be since you were tired from performing all day and couldn’t wait to have some tine for yourself but the hotel just had to mess something up. You didn’t try and cause a scene, it was mostly just going back and forth trying to find a solution but without success.
You walked down the hall, dragging your luggage with you and open the door, setting your stuff down and grabbing important stuff before running off to the bathroom. Meanwhile Joost looked around the room. It had a lot of space, the balcony giving you a great view of Frankfurt, the place you performed tonight. He lit a cigarette and snapped a quick photo before putting his phone away and admiring the view. He watched the cars pass by, music softly playing somewhere across the street and laughing could be heard just a few streets away. He threw the cigarette away, walking back into the warm atmosphere of the hotel. You were already done with getting yourself ready for the bed, laying down on your stomach and watching something on your laptop. You edited some footage your crew took from the concert and tried to get as much done as possible before deciding to watch a movie. You put on a random shitty comedy movie, getting comfortable under the covers. You were on the side of the bed where the nightstand was, leaving Joost to sleep on the side near the wall. You heard him get out the bathroom and feel the bed sink, a strong smell of some random shampoo hitting you like a truck. You got some butterflies in your stomach, trying to focus on the movie.
You were half asleep at around 2:29 AM, yawning and putting on a different movie. You closed your eyes, Joost already asleep and snoring softly. He was the type to always toss and turn in his sleep, but tonight he was suspiciously still. You were falling in and out of consciousness, seconds feeling like hours when you suddenly feel him moving around. He put a hand on your waist, a quiet yelp escaping your mouth. He pulled you a bit closer, his back only a few inched away from you. Sighing, you accept your fate and try to fall asleep, succeeding just after a few seconds.
In the morning, you felt trapped. You couldn’t move, eyes shooting open. You were faced with someone’s chest.. Joosts chest. Your face felt hot but you chose to ignore it, admiring his morning features. You didn’t dare move, knowing Joost wasn’t really the biggest fan of mornings, practically having to drag him out of bed every time you were on tour. He started shifting, his eyes slowly opening so you quickly close yours, trying to act like you’re asleep. He loosened his grip on you, you could feel his intense gaze on you before feeling lips on your forehead. “Morning..” He says in his groggy, morning voice before getting up, probably to shower or change. After what felt like hours, you open your eyes, grabbing your phone and checking the plans you had for today. The next concert was next week in Switzerland, then two days after that concert you were going to Italy. You were excited, always having the dream to travel the world someday which was finally becoming a reality. You shiver slightly, standing up to grab a hoodie from your suitcase and skin care, sitting down and grab a small mirror you brought so you could get ready. After finishing, you put your hair in a hairstyle you thought would fit your outfit for the day. Standing up you go on the balcony, getting some fresh air. You let your mind wander, thinking about all kinds of things before feeling a pressence beside you. Of course it was Joost, who else would it be? He stood there besidde you quietly, coffee in hand and handing you your usual. You thank him quietly, letting the warm drink heat your hands up.
It was a comfortable silence, something you usually had on mornings like these before Joost spoke up. “Slept well?” You look in his direction and nod, siping on your drink.He also nodded, the soft and comfortable atmosphere turning tense. He cleared his throat, trying his best to come up with a topic which wasn’t usually this hard for him, so why was it now? “Are you.. okay? Were you uncomfortable?” He asks, his tone being more worried then anything.
You shook your head, finally sparing him a glance. “It felt nice.” You say, awkwardly and he just nods, letting the silence engulf you once more. You went inside, mentally slapping yourself for being so awkward around your best friend. You get changed and decide to go look around Frankfurt. You and Joost talked like nothing ever happened, leaving the morning incident behind. You went inside a museum you found interesting, paying for everything and going inside to explore. It was nice, a lot of things took your interest but Joost seemed like he was in his own world, just walking around and looking dazed. Once you decided it was time to head back, you made your way to the hotel once more. You met a few fans, most of them being thirsty for Joost anyway but finally you got to your destination. Joost looked pretty annoyed about something, sparing you a few glances and pouts. You sat down next to him on the bed, deciding to get the information out of him. “What’s wrong?” You ask, making him chuckle. “Being blunt, are we?” You shrug and raise a brow, your leg bouncing impatiently. “Joost, what’s bothering you hm? You haven’t started a random topic for 15 minutes. Which is very unlike you might I add.” He stares at you dumbfounded but shakes his head. He shrugs and looks like he is trying to find the right words to explain his sour mood. “Well, last night..” He starts and you mentally curse. You really were hoping this wasn’t mentioned but it had to be at some point.
“I liked.. what happened and I’m pretty sure you did too because you would’ve spoken up about it, I know you enough to know you speak up about things when you’re uncomfortable with something.” He starts and you try your best to not break eye contact with him, letting him speak his mind. “I didn’t only like that, I like you and have for almost a year and I thought we could.. try?” You smirk, deciding to tease him; “Try..?” You smile and he looks at you with a ‘really?’ face. “You want me to spell it out for you? I want us, to be together, at least try. We can work something out I know we can.” He says and you nod, inching closer to him. “I’d love to Joost.” You say and he stands up spinning you around making you giggle like a child. The rest of the night was just you two making fun of the situation and what convinced Joost to confess. It really was funny that one bed made you get together with the most amazing person on earth.
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#joost klein requests#joost klein x y/n#joost klein x you#joost klein x reader#joost klein#joostice for joost#joost x reader#justice for joost#joostice#free joost#stand with joost#joost klein fanfiction#eurovision requests#eurovision x reader#eurovision fanfiction
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don't know if any of y'all noticed but the way that pure vanilla and cacao already lose their minds when they encounter is like, I really hope the Dev continue this just
Pure vanilla - losing his mind and sanity.
Cacao - Fallen into despair watching everybody who he swore to protect just got thanos snapped into dust
Holly - I have a prediction that she stand hopeless to do anything and watching Pitaya become slave
( like, eternal sugar is sloth, so I guess she using creatures and monsters to do her fighting and bidding.)
Golden cheese - yeah I can see her witnesses her trauma or witness everything she own and care are nothing but dust again. Or Burning spice could just destroy everything she love infront of her, could be both
White lily - seeing cookies murdered one by one.
(Somehow had an idea where she kept on blaming Silent salt for the murders, until in the end, she slowly learned that the one who been killing cookies and bringing war and despair is her and only herself. Not silent salt at all. He just there to watch her broken down and destroying herself without him having to do anything at all.) Or see elder fairy die again infront of her and disappointed. Possibilities on her and lots of it
#pure vanilla#pure vanilla crk#pure vanilla cookie#shadow milk cookie#dark cacao crk#dark cacao cookie#holly berry#holly berry cookie#golden cheese crk#golden cheese cookie#white lily cookie#white lily crk#cookie run#cookie run kingdom#crk#cr kingdom#kingdom#some idea#some ideas#kinda guessing what would happen to the ancient cookies in the future
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meet me in the city where we won't sleep
javier peña x f!reader | main masterlist
summary: home: a place where we feel most comfortable, loved, and protected — where we most feel at home. except javi, who has returned from colombia and feels his home is living miles away.
wordcount: 9k (i'm so sorry)warnings: childhood best friend!javi. flirting. 18+ - although just a little smutty with fingers. brief mention of drunkenness years ago. emotions (ugh) and feelings (yuk) and idiots who just don't wanna confess things but really should. javi calls you flor and you call him a pineapple. alternating times.
an: originally started for april showers, it's taken me an age to get this done because i wanted it to be perfect. i really hope it is. the biggest thank you to @thetriumphantpanda who read all of this and gave me a gold star. it would have stayed in my drafts if not for you. thank you to @rhoorl for checking my spanish.
It would have been cliche to say he fell for you in a field of bluebonnets—your dress white, face glum, hands ripping up blooms from the soil that you clutched in your hand.
Lost, aimless, both in the blue of the petals and in your thoughts as you continued to yank stems up and bring bunches to your nose, unaware of him watching from the tree. His legs swung, and a smile slid into one cheek as the leaves rustled above in the warm breeze.
It took a while before you noticed him, practically half a field’s worth in your hands, hands wound around them as your dress swished at your ankles.
“What do you want, Piña?”
He supposed, for kids, that was an insult.
“What you doing in my field, Flor?”
Javi didn’t know your name then. Now he struggled to go a minute without thinking it.
Sitting still hadn’t seemed a possibility in the days since he’d been back.
And then, that’s all he’d done for the last eight hours before he was greeted by rain.
It’s relentless, an onslaught that blurs the world into a watery haze. The kind that soaks through every layer of clothing like a challenge; the type that drips from everything, making pools in the streets and turning them into dark mirrors, reflecting the grey and full clouds from above.
Not that Javi cares.
If anything, he likes it. Finds it cleansing, like the world is being washed clean, even if he knows how untrue that actually is as his eyes follow a bead rushes across the glass of the cab.
The driver has been mumbling about the weather for the entire journey—a thing he’s barely listened to since he’d recommended waiting for a break in the weather. It was likely they just didn’t wish to drop him where he’d described, rather hoping Javi would opt for someplace warmer, most likely smokier, so that he could call it a day too.
Javi doesn't do that now—smoking, that is.
Hasn’t done since he left that apartment that never felt like his, in a city that he’d spent years in that never felt like home. Threw them in the trashcan before his Pop had picked him up, craved and wanted all the way through dinner. He’d done it once, he’d do it again.
When the cab screeches to a halt, he pays, steps out (bag in hand) and spots the phone booth all in one fluid motion. It’s barely lit, front weathered by time and neglect. Smirk curling into his cheek as he remembers you telling him about it—that on cloudless days you can see it, likes to make stories about it as you enjoy a meal-for-one or crunches down cereal.
It hadn’t been a thing he’d thought much about.
Then, it was all he had thought about.
Standing there, making a story that could become real. A gesture, kind and deserving of someone who had put up with his shit since they were children. You’d always liked those big moments in the movies—his eyes glancing over at you, finding yours big, wide and shimmering with tears that wish to glide down your cheek.
Although, that had been well over a decade ago—the two of you had remained in touch, close, or as much as he could allow. Your visit to Colombia had still felt like the sunniest day, a bright spot in a sea of dark; a day that coloured his world in shades he hadn’t known existed, that dulled the moment he’d had to bid farewell at the airport.
It hadn’t been safe for you to do another, pleading in fact to not risk it. A thing, he suspects, is not a thing he’s been easily forgiven for.
He supposes it’s why he hasn’t told you he was coming. The flight had been booked, bag packed—fingers tapping, soul hoping you wouldn’t turn him away once he’d gotten here. To the phone box over the bridge from your place—the one obscured from view by the downpour that seemed never-ending.
Because, as soon as two weeks had racked up at him being home, he found himself itching to move, to be somewhere other than surrounded by fields and the watchful stare of his Pop. Parental worry a hard thing to hide from in a home washed in memories.
Sliding open the door, cramming himself into the booth, Javi had no concern about remembering your number. It was burned into him, etched into him with a blunt tool—almost studied, committed to memory while he ticked over godfathers and the weight of right and wrong.
He remembers when you’d changed it, when your voice informed him of the move, the chance—all excited tone, a pitch closer to a squeak than your voice: no more roommates, just me, myself and I.
He also remembers the ember inside of him pleased that Tom joined the underserving list, slid under Mia and Rich as you informed him you were single again.
Sliding quarters in, finger punching the numbers—he hopes you’re home. A niggling feeling threatens to unwind inside of him as the tone drills into his skull—attempts to drown out the rain rapping against the glass booth he’s standing in.
“Hello?”
“Flor?”
It kisses his ear, your snort. Light. Sweet. “Javier Piña, what do you want?”
You sound like you did in Colombia. Having half-expected the crackle meeting his ear to be down to the distance, rather than your shoddy home phone.
Pressing the receiver to his head, a smile there—desperate to flow out across his lips and exhausted face, he moves it back. “Tal vez te extrañé.”
“Mierda. I don’t believe you.”
Even amidst the noise of passing cars and the relentless drumming of raindrops, he catches the melody of your laughter—a symphony of joy that unravels a part of his soul. It releases it, unlocks it, beckons it to be free—metaphorically makes him release his shoulders, and take a breath. The part of him hidden away, floods back through him—no longer fearful of being taken, clawed or wormed from him as he handed other parts of himself to the job, the task, the goal.
Not you, though. Javi would never surrender you.
A pocket of sunshine he’d kept close to him like your chicken-scratch letters and your tipsy phone calls when he’d caught you coming in after a night with friends.
“Where are you, Piña?”
Wiping his mouth with his thumb, he pauses. Traces his index along the hair growing above his lip, glancing out through the rain-smeared glass, the one cracked in places. Not sure if any of the lights on the other side are hers, but lingering on each just in case.
“In a phone booth on a bridge…”
He hears you swallow, loud, almost difficult.
“…right across from your place.”
“Shut the fuck up.” Smirking, teeth nibbling at his bottom lip. “Are you lying to me?”
Smirking, he stares out again. “No.”
Because he couldn’t, not if he tried. Not just because you see through it, but because it wounds him to do so. Picks at him, and makes him bleed in ways that don’t ruin him in scarlet.
“Give me five minutes.”
The call ends before he can get in a bye.
The receiver placed back, bag straps cutting into his palms again as he exits, the heavens lashing against him as he slowly walks. Taking his time. Nervousness bubbling like a broth inside of him with each step, coming up to the top curve of the bridge, trying to look up, spot you—
Then he does.
Running, coat billowing behind—flapping in the wind as it breaks out over your face: that smile. The one that lit fires inside of him, the one first doing so at the time his bedroom at home had its last lick of paint, it now peeling, cracked.
Dropping his bag, Javi isn’t sure whether to brace or not—taking three more steps forward before you collide with him. Arms around him, chest to chest, your wet cheek sliding past his as your soaked clothes marry to his.
It would be odd to say it felt like home hugging you, but it does. It feels right, safe—a piece completing him as he digs his chin into your head.
“You smell the same,” you muffle into his chest.
Javi smiles, knowing the bottle on his dresser is the one from his younger years. Sun-ruined and likely faded, yet managing to linger on his skin enough to cause recollection.
Pushing past lilies, excusing himself through swarms of bodies adorned in black fabric, Javi found you sitting cross-legged between two tall stands of flowers.
Your eyes were puffy—red, swollen—and your dress was as black as his suit; your fingers were balled around a single lily and a scrunched-up tissue, the skirt of your dress skated over your bent knees.
“What d-do you want, Piña?”
But it didn’t land with the tone he had come to know.
Instead, he extended a hand you thankfully took, pulling you up from the ground before he opened his arms—letting you move in, slot yourself between them as they enveloped you close.
Letting his best friend fall apart at the back of the church, your sobs vibrated against his bones and his chin rested on your head as he whispered he had you, over and over again.
A thing you repaid when his mother passed a few years later.
Talking had always been a skill—unless he had to discuss feelings.
It wasn’t that it was easy to lie, or that he found the idea of feeling difficult—if anything, it was as though he felt too much. Guilt. Affection. Righteousness. Protection. Each one a little harder to carry, to wear.
More so around you. The walls had to be tighter, or they’d crumble into ruin, the dust spilling all his secrets before he’d confess whatever wasn’t already written over his face. But, you don’t needle him—instead, you make him a plate from leftovers, tell him about some gossip your mom had informed you of, until you offer him your shower, your sofa and bid him goodnight.
“You’ll be here in the morning?”
“Not going anywhere.”
Lingering in the doorway to your bedroom, fingers playing the piano on the wood. “You’ve said that before.”
He knows he has.
It rises up in him like a storm, whipping around his organs, making his chest tighten as he lies down in comfort but stares up at the unfamiliar. He can hear the rain, how it pitters and patters—how it likely streams down the windows behind your curtains.
He should find it odd that he'd rather fall asleep here, than in his bed back where he grew up. A strange solace in the unknown here, a quiet surrender to the whispers he usually has to hear when the night comes.
But, they're not here.
At some stage, he must sleep, before he wakes to the scent of coffee and soft sunshine. His ears catch the sound of you calling in sick—a cough, a put-on voice, one all removed when you throw a throw cushion at him and ask him what he wants for breakfast.
That’s how he finds his knee kissing yours under the small table as your spoon scoops cereal before letting it drop back into the bowl. Just like when you were kids. Just like when you were all excitable, too in a rush to sit for a moment, stomach likely fluttering with agitation.
“You keep staring.”
“Don’t flatter yourself, Flor.”
The thing is, you’re not wrong.
Each time he has a second, he lingers—gazes. Metaphorically pinching himself as he forgoes digging a nail into his skin under the cuff of his shirt, just to make sure he isn’t dreaming. A thing he finds he’s doing now, after a night of laughing until you couldn’t keep your eyes open and a full day of exploring, you walk a little ahead before spinning on your heel to smile at him.
“I have to show you my favourite place—before you go.”
He hates that there’s an end date on this. Bought himself a few days of normal, before returning to something that feels anything but.
Scratching his jaw, brows raised and eyes wide. “You’ve replaced our spot?”
Rolling your eyes, you take his hand—fingers slotting, palm pressing against his. For a moment, a reflex, he thinks of pulling away. Thinking of what else sat as perfectly in his palm as you—a thing that took, but never gave. A thing that he held more than he had ever held a woman.
“My favourite place here.”
He expects a lot of things, maybe flowers, maybe a bar, but he finds himself inside a bookshop. One with floor-to-ceiling shelves, dark wood, the large window letting in light that barely reaches the back. He supposes it’s good they have a chandelier, one that sparkles, shines—like it’s as well maintained as the shelves.
“Books?”
“Books.”
Your finger prodding into him, facing him, body fully twisted. That smile there, the one which slides into one of your cheeks and makes his eyes flick from it to your eyes and then back.
It’s there when you turn on your heel down an aisle, it remaining when he follows—when he hovers close, so easily able to pin you, cage you in between his palms.
“Which do you recommend?”
Shooting him a look, you trail your finger over spines, over the shelf they sit on. “Didn't know you could read?”
“Funny.”
Grinning, you pull on one, handing it to him. His eyes take it in, the cover, the name, the author.
“I think you’ll like the characters,” you explain, eyes lighting up as you lean. “They're flawed but resilient.”
Chewing his cheek, he swallows. Listening, hearing you read the blurb after you lift the book in his hands so you can read it, word for word as he focuses on you. Noticing the way your eyes shine when talking about something you love, the way one of your hands begins to move as you describe the plot, and the characters. Realising, that he could listen to you talk about anything all day.
“You should read it,” you suggest, as he flips through the pages. Having never been much of a reader, time being a factor, his job has been the reason.
“Alright,” he nods, tucking the book under his arm. “I'll read it.”
Your smile brightens even more if that's possible.
“Chucho is gonna be so shocked when I tell him you bought a book.”
Frowning, he follows you, leading him down another aisle. “You talk to my pop?”
Shrugging, like it’s nothing. Like the words that are about to tumble out of your mouth don’t matter like they won’t stitch themselves to him and make him feel like pulling you to his chest.
“I check in—make sure he’s okay. Done it weekly since you left the first time.”
His face falls, descends slowly. He feels it—watches you take it in as yours slowly mirrors him. And, even if he’s been thinking it, it bubbling at the back of his throat, he finds himself unable to stuff it back down—to shove it between other regrets and unsaid words.
“I’ve really missed you.”
Each word lands, your eyes widening as your nose does a little twitch as they do, before you whisper, resting against the edge of a bookcase, “I’ve missed you too.”
Sat on the rock, the sound of a car door slamming disturbed the peace. Not needing to look, knowing that gait, that little kick of the ground as you stopped in front of him.
Hand shielding your eyes from the sun, flower tucked behind your ear.
“Hello, Flor.”
“Piña. Heard you were cursing Laredo.”
Smirking, you sat next to him, nudging him over. The two perched on a rock overlooking part of the city—as his head turned but his eyes stared at you from the corner of them.
“I give it a month and someone else will do something bad enough that people cross the street.”
Swallowing, he exhaled. “Thanks.”
“Did you love her?”
Turning his head, staring at you—eyes flicking from yours to a place on your face he shouldn’t look. “Not enough to marry her.”
“Then you did the right thing.”
A thing he only believed when your hand slid over his, hooking your little finger over his.
“It’s because you’re in love with me, isn’t it?”
Snorting, head shaking, your words washed back over him and he broke into a laugh. “Shut up, Flor.”
Nudging him, taking the flower from your hair and handing it to him. “It’s okay if you do, I know I’m a catch.”
He's embarrassed that it isn't until the second day that Javi finds the chance to really admire your place.
How it’s exactly what he imagined. So very you, all cosy, muted, with spots of colour. Plants and throw cushions, blankets and wicker baskets stuffed with things he suspects you have no recollection of.
What catches his eyes are the photographs, the memories frozen in time around your walls and on shelves. His eyes sweep over them, in a trance still from the scent of your perfume mixing with vanilla from a lit candle.
Each time he sweeps his sight over, he spots new things, remembering brief conversations, smirking to himself until his eyes land on a frame that makes his mouth part and his heart clench.
Him and you; you and him. Sunglasses far too big for your face, staring up at him as he beams at the camera. The backdrop of his ranch, his home, the one he so often left behind like it hadn’t mattered.
Done it weekly since you left the first time.
The words roll around his head now. All metal and round, bouncing against other thoughts, trying to dig his heels into the present and not wonder about what kind of calls you make—whether they’d be about him, whether you’d confess things you’d never admit to him.
Your clanging around is what pulls him to the present. The bangs of cupboards and pans clattering as he stares at it—as he notices how different his build is, how many years have passed. The occasional cursing from you is a rather nice anchor that keeps him in the present.
“Flor?” He waits until he hears you hum. “Order in again, I’ll pay.”
It’s here within the hour.
A favourite, you had told him. A quick apology that you’ll be messier than last night, that you’re dying of hunger. He reminds you he doesn’t care. Not as you slide the triangle slice out, the tip kissing your chin before it’s absorbed by your mouth, sauce lingering on your lips—dust from the crust resting on your nose.
He’s not sure what’s better, the taste of the pizza or the sight of watching you. Having the chance to watch you.
“So I have to ask.”
Grumbling, he pulls at the topping on his slice. “Here we fucking go.”
“Did you like the tie I sent you?”
Half-scowling, swallowing the mouthful of pizza—recalling the box on his desk, atop files and paperwork with a note attached: One down, three to go. Written in that same handwriting he could spot in a lineup—the one he had wished there and then would be etched into him, a mark left, a thing he could brush his thumb over when his heart ached and he felt lost.
“I was disappointed not to see you photographed in it.”
“You knew damn well I wasn’t going to wear a fucking pineapple tie to a press conference.”
Pouting, you smirk. Picking at another slice, staring up at him from the floor, all cross-legged. “Thought you might have for me.”
It’s there, ebbing—words that feel far more intimate than they should—crystallising, burning upon his tongue.
I’d do anything for you.
It’s there, unwritten, pulsating and breathing in the space between you and him, existing, never diminished. Memories where it’s been all but similar rising like lava, singeing him, threatening to burn away the walls he throws up for the sake of friendship.
Because he knows what people think. Saw it hung in his pop’s eyes at his Tia’s wedding when you came as a guest, an uninvited plus one that was welcomed like you were already part of the family. Heard it, in the wind between the grass before he’d left the first time, a farewell outdoor thing, your parents crestfallen, as though they’d assumed—like he imagined a lot of them—the two of you would have figured it out by now.
Watching you stand, hand outstretched for his plate, you take it with a smile. A shout of two options for drinks, an unsurprising one chosen by him—it bubbling in the glass when you hand it to him, settling in beside him.
“Not sure I told you, but you have a nice couch.”
“Most expensive thing in this place—probably better than my own bed,” you smirk, sipping your drink. Head rolling towards him, brows raised, eyes that bit wider. “So, are you okay?”
You’re the only one who could ask and get a reply, he supposes. Those same words were said to him a handful of times, down the phone from Murphy, over the table from Pop, even on aisles of the supermarket when he’d been staring between brands he hadn’t heard of.
“I gave you a day to tell me, and since you won’t, I’m gonna ask. Are you okay, Javier Peña?” you continue, body shifting, thigh pressing against his—heat radiating from between yours to his. “Because you’re methodical. You’re not… get on a plane and fly to a different city just because.”
“You not happy I’m here?”
Grinning, all teeth—it reaching and hanging in your eyes. “Los más felices. But, are you?”
Yes. It’s all he thinks.
Chewing his tongue, his eyes drop to his soda because he’s unsure how to say that. Not as he watches the bubbles float up and burst—the song that had been playing coming to a stop, allowing the rain to play an interval against your windows.
It doesn’t make sense, in some ways: how he’s kept you—been able to keep you close. Somehow not ruined you, twisted this thing between the two of you, made it rot, sullied it with disappointment and selfishness.
“I am now,” he replies.
Good, you breathe. Letting it sit, simmer. Paper over any cracks as your eyes sparkle and remain fixed on him, tracing him as though not completely sure he’s real.
That is, until you grab the remote, excitedly telling him about the night of television they have ahead of them. A blanket, at some stage, finds itself over him, you nestling into his side—like when they were teens before the world became a problem and narcos were all he hunted.
For a while, you catch him up, explain plots and characters. Then, you fall silent, brows crinkled in concentration. His eyes slide to the side to watch, to spot the little things you do as she settles in closer, brings your legs up, and rests almost all of yourself against him.
Between one show and another, he feels the rhythm of your breathing change, your body relaxing further against him. He glances down and finds your eyes closed, features soft and serene in sleep. Realisation dawns on him—you’ve fallen asleep. His heart does a slow tumble in his chest, a wave of warmth spreading through him. All of a sudden aware of the gentle weight of you against his side, the way your hand is loosely holding onto him. He watches, just for a moment, taking in the sight of you, so peaceful and trusting in your sleep. This moment is so intimate, so precious, he wants to freeze it in time.
What else is a guy like you gonna do…
This, he thinks. Looking at you, asleep, peaceful—curled into his side, fingers around his forearm.
Smiling, he takes the remote from your fingers, turning the volume down as he gets more comfortable—pressing a soft kiss to your hairline.
He carried a single red rose down the side of your house—nudging open the window the rest of the way, climbing in like he had done years ago.
He didn’t need eyes, didn’t fancy having to explain to his parents how he could do that to that nice girl and her family. Javi had faced enough judgement, enough stares.
The only eyes he wanted were staring at him, remaining so as he stepped close and handed you the flower with the thorns picked free. “Come with me.”
Sighing, eyes averting, you swallowed loudly in the thick quietness. “You don’t want that. Your best friend following you.”
Eyes flicking up to meet his, you took another deep breath. Fingers flexed at your side, weight shifting from one foot to the other before you exhaled—louder than before.
“I don’t want to follow you, best friend.”
Then don’t be just that, he thought, thumb swiping over the tips of his fingers as he hovered, waited. Then he took a step closer, and another. The gap closed, becoming shorter and shorter—
“What are you doing, Piña?”
“Kissing you.”
Lips pursing, trying not to smirk, you took the rose and put it on your dresser. “Don’t feel your lips on mine, Javier.”
And then he kissed you, his fingers clutching at your jaw—body pressed against yours, tasting your whine, your moan.
He felt your fingers clutch at his shirt as he told you to be quiet.
Laid you on your bed of flowers, knees digging into stitched roses and sunflowers, as you arched off the bed when his fingers slid between your thighs—like he wished he’d done a handful of times before now.
He’s not sure of the time when he wakes, but it’s dark.
A contentedness in his bones that doesn’t fade as he begins to blink, as he takes in his surroundings and remembers where he is. Feeling you, warm, pressed as close against him as humanly possible. Able to see the outline of you, before his eyes manage to paint the rest, how his knee has slotted between your legs—bodies a mess of limbs that takes him back to years ago.
Javi notices how the television is switched off as you try to move, to wiggle and escape. His shirt discarded, the cool air misting over him, pebbling his skin as he slides his arm around you, pinning you tighter to him.
Brain all addled with dreams and sleep, as his awakening state tries to remind him what he’s doing.
What door he’s trying to open all over again.
“Javi…”
Not Piña, Peña or Javier. Javi, all soft and whispery, like honey dripping into his ear as he turns his head to find your stare in the dark. Somehow finding it shimmering, fixed, more than awake.
Then you whisper his name again, and it’s heavenly, a piece of it anyway. A sound he realises he’s missed more than he cares to find words to describe as he hears you push out a breath—fingers finding his arm, stroking, sliding their warmth up and down the muscle of his arm as he swallows.
It’s slow, hand cupping your cheek as he shifts his body, and finds yours moves with him. The beginning of a partner dance, one it feels you’ve both practised in small spaces but never actually have as he slides his lips over yours. Moulds them to yours. Tasting faint mint on your tongue when you deepen it—when you pay attention, listen, taking each cue you give him from the movement of your mouth to the way your hands grasp at him to come closer.
A whimper tries to break through, to escape through messy kisses and tangled bodies, but it vibrates through him. Makes him shudder with how much he wants you, moving your knee, hooking it over his hip as he slots his waist between your thighs and you gasp at the feel of him flush against you.
Practically whine.
Nose brushing your cheek, palm flat, fingers spreading out over your hip as he feels you roll your body into him, he smiles—breathy, teeth nipping at his bottom lip. “Forgot how soft you are.”
You hum, head-turning, mouth latching itself back to his.
“Forgot how good of a kisser you are.”
Snorting, he lightly bites your lower lip. “Best remind you then.”
“Best do,” you whisper, pulling him by his hair back to your mouth.
You write a poem against his lips, signing it with your tongue against his as his fingers snake under the band of your sleep shorts, tasting your moan, your hiss and whimper when he touches you like he’s wanted to since he landed back in the States.
When two fingers slide slowly inside of you, curling, the sound of his name is like a fucking sin he wants to be draped in, wrapped in, even dressed in. Him seeking, searching, finding that spot that has your legs opening for him, nails scraping against his scalp.
“More, Javi. Please—”
“You’re so tight, Flor,” he croons, burying the words in your neck, the tip of his tongue swiping over your collarbone as you grab a handful of his hair. “Feel so good around my fingers.”
Your hips writhe, roll them against his hand, gasping. Making a mess, dripping, practically gushing over his hand, as he fights pulling his hand free and getting a taste.
“Be better—dios mio—around your cock—”
Smirking, teeth nipping at your neck, “I remember.”
Head lifting, thankful the night sky is clear, that the moon is draping you in a slither of milky light so he’s able to see your eyes flutter shut. Able to witness what his fingers do to you, the effects of their teasing and the languid movements as he finds that angle, the one which makes you grind against his palm, and has your chest heaving.
He moans your name against your tongue, drinking down a blend of pleases falling from your swollen lips as he plunges deeper, walls squeezing him.
There he thinks, lips pressing kisses to your shoulder, as you dig your nails further into his scalp, tensing, bearing down on him to the point he hopes you’ll leave a mark, leave a cut, a signature of this moment he can run his fingers over.
“Kiss me,” you gasp, all wrapped in desperation as you pull at his shoulder.
His mouth only just pressing to yours when your cry buries against his tongue, when you flutter and arch as he continues to work you through it. His name breaks through messy kisses, it escaping effortlessly like it doesn’t wish to be buried anymore.
You don’t let him pull away, hooking one leg around him. Watching, not able to take your eyes from him as he retracts his hand—as he licks your pleasure from his fingers and you stare with a twinkle in your eye.
“You best fuck me now.”
Smirking, a low laugh escaping. “Yeah? Want me that bad, Flor?”
Lifting onto your elbows, he waits for a taunt, a tease—something that’ll bring him down a peg or two. What he finds, instead, is your fingers slowly crawling up his bare chest, around his neck, your chin tilted up.
“I need you, Javi. Need you to fuck me.”
“Yeah?”
“And then I wanna get on top,” you whisper, dragging each syllable out, “and fuck you until the sun comes up.”
“Murphy is a nice guy.”
Eyes narrowing, he shot you a glare—watching as you shimmied your jacket from your shoulders. Bare arms, bare legs—except for the thin tank and shorts adorning your body—that had him thinking un-best friend things.
“You jealous, Piña?”
“Of a married guy? Fuck no.”
Grinning, you moved closer—boxing him in. Staring into his eyes, in a way that made him feel like he was being seen, read, and admired all at once. “Is that because you left a bite mark on my hip?”
Tracing his fingers along your neck, he felt himself smile. That flutter in his chest again, the one which had appeared one day when the two of you were teens and hadn’t gone away since.
“Ask me to stay,” you whispered, hands on either side of him—all boxed in. “Ask me, Javi.”
Running his tongue over the front of his teeth, he raised a hand, knuckles brushing over your cheek. Wanting nothing more. A week gone too quickly. Already feeling the pressure slip back over his muscles, seeping into his bones. But he knew. He pictured it, the things he had nightmares over—even when you were far away, never mind when you were asleep in the room next to his.
“Too dangerous.”
“That it? I can learn—”
“No.”
“No?”
He stared. Thought of the things he had done. The people he had already let down. The things he had let happen to people who deserved far better. It layering, and layering, and layering and—
Nodding, disappointment spread, before it was washed over in acceptance. “What’re we eating?”
When he wakes, he expects to find you dressed in corporate and apologising in a voice that’s accompanied by a pout at the foot of your bed. The place the two of you found yourself on at 4 am.
Instead, you fake another performance. Earn an Oscar over the phone before switching to the excitable one you present to him when you sit at the foot of the bed.
There’s something there. It hangs in your eyes. A secret, a thing shifted and dislodged now your mask has slipped from the few hours of sleep and the ruining of your sheets.
But he doesn’t ask, because if he does, he fears he’d tell you things in return. Alter the way you see him. Change it, taint it. Practically ruin the man you think he went to be and the one he's returned as.
It'll hurt him if you look at him with disgust. You’ve burnt him after all, left him winded, air knocked from his lungs each time he’s laughed. All but imprinted into his mind, a thing never filed but rather pinned up and forever there, like artwork on a fridge.
“Wanna get a coffee?”
Hands pulling on a pair of jeans, buttoning them as he sees the peaks of your nipples through your white tee. And he knows your face is bare and you're dressed in clothes you just pulled out without thought—yet, you are, as always, the prettiest damn thing he’s ever seen.
A thing he thinks when he showers.
When he smiles as he scrubs the shampoo into his hair, feels the soreness at parts from where your nails had dug in. He doesn't stop beaming when he smears his palm across the glass, takes in his appearance as you open the door, a towel hung low on his hips, eyes dropping down.
“Now who's staring, hermosa.”
“Don’t be a work of art to be admired then.”
He dresses in record time, your hand swinging beside his, so within reach, so easy to grab. But he doesn’t.
None of last night mentioned, even if he knows he’s left bruises on your inner thighs from keeping them apart; even if you've left scratch marks on his shoulders from when you sunk down on him, head thrown back, jaw elongated as he rolled your nipples between his fingers.
Javi doesn't even mention it when he hears you gasp at the taste of your coffee, a noise similar to when he'd licked a stripe up your pussy, when he tasted both you and him.
It was just like in Colombia.
A thing buried, hidden underneath other topics the two of you don’t discuss. Dead parents and a town you both ran from. A thing he almost wants to change, correct, but then you stop outside a flower shop.
The sign battered, peeling. Hidden between two nicer shops, yet the scent made his nose twitch.
“You should buy me flowers.”
“Should I?”
Smirking, teeth biting your lip. “Por lo de anoche.”
Head shaking, he finds himself following anyway. Unable to stop his eyes from falling to the back pocket you shove your phone in, hand reaching, palm pressing to the globe of your ass as he hears the muffled sound of a giggle—
“Piña.”
“Flor,” he whispers, practically breathes it against your neck.
The bubble expands, knowing at some point it’ll pop. Too happy, he thinks. Too settled for a man who has a solo flight back. It’s why he drops his hand, lets you move further in, watching as you scan over already-made bouquets for one he knows you won’t find.
Because they don’t know you. Not like him. There’s not years between you and this shop—this place.
His fingers lightly roll over a stem, staring at the flower, before he has pulled it free from the bucket, and then another, and then another. Not at all a florist—or someone artistic enough to make a bunch—but a person who at least knows you. Knows that in each of the pre-made bundles there’s a flower you dislike, one that’ll remind you of something, someone.
“Here.”
You blink, eyes widening as they move from the bunch in his hand to his face. “Javi…”
“There your—”
“Favourites,” you finish, eye narrowing, lips still parted. “You remembered all my favourites?”
Shrugging, aware of how close he is to real—to something that could shatter, break. A thing he’ll do, just give it time. Feeling it wrap its tendrils around his chest, around his heart, squeezing and squeezing until your hand slips in his. Palm to palm, fingers finding their way between his slowly, cautiously, your eyes not leaving his face as you do.
“Didn’t know my pussy was good enough for flowers, Piña,” you comment, voice low, a smirk there.
“You deserve more than flowers.”
“I’m that good?”
Shaking his head, hand still in yours, he presses a kiss to your forehead, swallowing. “Siempre has sido.”
“Hello?”
He heard the hiccup, the slur of his name as he smirked against the phone—finger and thumb massaging his forehead as he heard you hiccup again. “Flor?”
“Piña, did you know that I miss you?”
Adjusting the tie around his neck, staring down at the pineapples—the box open, atop a bunch of files, in the office he should have been thankful for. “You sound like you’ve had a good night.”
You howled, the laugh all high-pitched. “Maybe I have—maybe I haven’t. What I do know is that I love you.”
“I love you too.”
“No. I love you.”
Smirking, thumb tracing an outline of one of the pineapples. “You’re drunk.”
“Still love you.”
Swallowing, he let out a heavy exhale.
“You doing okay, mi Piña?”
He wasn’t sure how to answer, how to respond. Head tilting back in his office chair, the ice melted in his whiskey and the hour so late he wondered why you were still up as you extended his nickname out into as many syllables as you could.
“I am now—okay, I mean.”
It needs to be left alone.
He knows it. Reminds himself of it when it rears its head at every second he doesn't. Because, it doesn't need to be needled, or picked at until it bled.
But, Javi picks at it all the same when you avoid his question again.
His hand slides over his face, index finger tracing a line down his nose as he waits until your laugh fades. Your fork twists the spaghetti round and round, and when it falls, it simply lands on the table between the two of you—the air tinged with the scent of dinner and the flowers from the shop.
“When were you going to tell me you hate your job?”
Your smile shrinks, like the sunlight being muted by the night. Spine straightening, chin lifting. The walls coming down both literally and figuratively, seeing you prepare for war when he’s army-less and unafraid.
“Si significo algo para ti, no lo hagas.”
He snorts, resting on his arm, letting the sheets fall to his waist. Because of course, he cares, and of course, he wants to do this. Balling up the hand beside his hip, seeing the murkiness in your eyes, the joy snuffed out and hidden, as though the hatchets were coming down to protect against his storm.
Javi says your name, softly, honeyed—delicately drip-feeding the air each letter until it’s out there existing.
One by one, it happens. Your eyes avert, chin dipping down; your tongue drags across the front of your teeth and then your arms fold. “I hate my job. Happy? I wanted it so bad—and now I have it, I hate it. I hate going in, I hate doing it. I can’t tell anyone that because it’s all I wanted.”
“It’s okay.”
Snorting, fake smile sketching across your face as your eyes harden to the point they’re brittle. “It isn’t. I left. I turned my back and got as far out of there as I could, and now I’m stuck.”
It breaks him a little.
Seeing it then, the many shards inside of you that you’re trying to keep whole. The pieces that are so worn and tired from doing their best to fit, but struggling to do so.
It’s why he protests that you’re not. He tries to rationalise and says the same words he knows you’d say to him if he called—if he had told you the truth about everything when he was over there. He tries to add kindness to his words as you continue to stare at him like you wish your bed would swallow him whole.
“—You’re saying this like I didn’t say the same thing to you, and you went and did another five years.”
“That’s different.”
“Why?” you spit, standing now, finger pointing and nose flared. “Because your job means more?—”
“No, because I’m a fucking idiot, Flor. You’re not.”
You mutter under your breath, curse him—a blend of poisonous Spanglish that has the heel of his palm pressing against his forehead.
Because it’s like last time.
The words surge up inside of him—except you’re both older now, both carrying more pain and hurt from a world that continues to pile on when bones are already struggling. Walls threw up, keeping him out in all the same ways—except now his mess is also between your thighs, and you aren’t half as good at hiding how his words hurt you.
“Come home with me.”
“I can’t.”
“You can.”
Folding your arms, your head shaking. “I can stick it out—work my way up, it’ll get better—”
“You know it won’t. Know how well that went for me.”
Then you scoff. It blended with razors and sharpened to injure. “No, I don’t. Because you don’t talk about what happened.”
“You read about it.”
“But that’s not your story, Javi. That’s theirs.”
For a moment, he sees it. How hollow you look, how weak, sad and broken. So he repeats it, the request, the offer. Come home with me. But the door shuts, locks, a bolt thrown over.
And everything, all of it, splinters; it doing so before your mouth even opens and he sees what his request has done.
“I’m not coming home just because you’ve decided you want to play happy fucking families, Peña. The world doesn’t stop turning just because you’ve decided to run away, and it doesn’t begin turning again because you’ve come home and decided what you want.”
“That isn’t—”
“You left. You left me.”
“—Flor—”
“—and I asked you to let me stay—when I knew you were hurting. I asked and you said no—”
He whispers your name, broken—like it shatters the moment it greets the air.
“—I wasn’t good enough then. So why am I now?”
Shaking his head, legs flung from under your sheets, he stands—aware he’s half-naked, aware this isn’t the time as you step back.
You shake your head, tears dangling, resistant to fall. “I bet you’re not even staying.”
“I am—”
Head tilting, a crystal tear falling down your cheek, you scoff. Loud. Brutal. “Have you even unpacked? Or did you just get on a plane here?”
Swallowing, Javi rolls his jaw. Fingers flexing at his side, staring, urging himself to find words as his tongue thickens in his mouth. Because he’s staying, he’s staying, he’s staying—
“You’re unbelievable.”
“Flor—”
“Save it.”
The door of your bedroom slamming behind you is the final sound that echoes out between you both.
It was different.
Hearing you cry down the phone—than when the two of you were younger.
When your first love broke your heart and he lay beside you on sheets covered in stitched flowers. Your head turned to him, the bedroom door open, as you teased your lip between your teeth. The tears had dried, but the rest had still been there, written in markers across your face as you sighed, staring, waiting for him to answer. “What do you want, Piña?” you’d asked, and he’d swallowed that he wanted to punch them.
Now, though, there were miles between the two of you. Distance far more than there had ever been—cities, a whole country.
“I’ll be home soon—can visit you.”
He heard you laugh, it hanging, echoing. “Yeah, yeah.”
“I mean it.”
“You mean a lot of things, Javi.”
“Flor—”
“I wish you'd never kissed me.”
It's a whisper, the way he said your name. It cracked, snapping as it left his tongue.
“I should go shower, early morning and all that.”
He asked you to stay and he heard you sigh.
“What do you want, Piña?”
Swallowing, Javi tapped his fist on the desk—tiredness having crept over him, the last ditch at doing right in Colombia suspended over him. Tell me I’m doing good, that it's worth losing you, Flor. “Have a good day, Flor.”
It’s weeks.
Eight weeks and four days to be exact.
At some point, it becomes less of a want to get in touch and more of a need not to. Your number is always there on his fingers, but his digits never dialling it when his Pop nips out to go to the store, and he’s left alone with his thoughts and memories in a house stuffed full of them.
Javi doesn’t expect anything else.
Having woke that next morning to find a note attached to the book he had bought: Had to go to work. Have a safe flight. Speak soon—a thing he both hoped and prayed for, even as he nursed a drink on the short flight and chain-smoked at the airport before he did the drive home.
Home.
A thing it felt even less of when he arrived this final time. Pulling his truck into its place, dust swirled and kicked up around him. Staring at the house that hasn’t changed much, just the paint thinning, the sun-dyeing it.
Each day that ticks by, he thinks of you. Each week that’s collected, he fights with himself when he’s sat alone at the dining table about flying back out and apologising.
Because he knows what he did.
Did the same thing back then—assumed and foolishly acted as though your wants never mattered. But they do matter. A thing he rehearses in his head when he’s feeding the animals; a thing he runs over when he’s repairing a door here or a fence there.
One week adds up, then another, and another.
If his Pop thinks things, he doesn’t share them. Just shakes his head occasionally, not asking what is wrong, likely knowing. Suspecting he wears it like the rest of his shame, brightly coloured and decorated in bright lights.
A fool’s outfit, he thinks. A thing he is, a thing he knows. It carved into him at this point. Scratched into the skin and muscle, yet everyone else sees the word hero.
It’s eight weeks and four days when the door of the party opens, the sun streaming in—illuminating the back of a person in a dress adorned with flowers. It takes a second, the condensation on his beer dripping down his wrist as he stares, trying to place the shape and the style of the hair. Not wanting to imagine, not wanting to jump ahead of himself until he hears your mom say your name, all excitable—practically a shriek.
He’s not prepared.
Yet, it’s out of habit he moves.
Like the two of you are magnets, that realised they were supposed to be a pair. The music doesn’t quiet, and the room doesn’t hold its breath, but Javi does—and he suspects you do too.
Just as time comes to a slow stop—the hand in his watch takes an age to flick to the next second as his heart hammers into his ribs. Staring, fingers itching to reach out and ensure you’re not something he’s fabricated, not a mirage from wanting so badly and convincing himself he’d never have it.
“Hi.”
“Hello, Piña.”
It weighs heavy then—clots on his tongue. Almost shapes itself into bile and rests horridly against his tongue as he follows you around, hand close to reaching out to place on your lower back, but stops when he remembers where he is.
Home.
A thing it all of a sudden feels like when you turn your head, lift your chin and stare at him—eyes full of forgiveness, and understanding. “We should talk, right?”
Right, he thinks. Trying to stop the twist in his chest from tightening, trying to stop the dread from filling him and drowning from within. Conversations never go well. A thing he thinks over, and over as his hand strokes over his face, following, one foot after the other, until the warm sun kisses his skin and he finds himself leaning against the side of the building.
“I didn’t come for you.”
He says nothing, not sure if there are any to say.
“I quit. Moved back a week and a bit ago—” your hand comes up to halt him, half-pleading with a tilt and a raise of your eyes. “—and I needed to find things for me, first.”
Folding his arms, he stretches his legs, lets himself elongate, and tries to fill his lungs with air.
“Because I’d have resented you for being right.” Your chin dips, eyes following. “A thing I would do, because you, Javier Peña, know me. And sometimes I really hate that.”
Exhaling, he finds you do the same. Head tilting, lips rolling as you take him in, trace him with your eyes as though you can't quite believe he's real.
“Did you know that every person I’ve been with, it gets to a point where I think ‘Fuck, Javi wouldn’t do this to me’?” Meeting his gaze, you exhale. “And then, no matter how much I felt for them, it goes.”
“Flor…”
Swallowing, you offer the smallest smile. “It’s never gone for you, though. Not when you left. Not when you came back, and left again. Not eight weeks ago when I should have asked you to stay.”
Tongue sticking, flat against the roof his mouth, he grabs your hand—holds it. Runs his thumb over the knuckles as you avert your eyes.
“I live in Laredo now, further north. Did you know I’m so good at what I do, people seek me out?” you say, beaming, letting him pull you closer. “Think they’d have cloned me you if I’d asked for it.”
Dragging his knuckles down your cheek, he’s unable to stop the way it flares up in him—that joy, that ember of happiness—when you smile.
“Because I don’t think I find the idea of being yours that terrible—”
“That so?”
Shaking your head, fingers playing with the buttons on his shirt, he watches your smile falter—just for a moment. “Don’t do this, if you’re going to up and leave again, Javi. Because I’d have died happily not telling you what I feel for you.”
“Not doing it again to you.”
“Okay. Then,” you sigh, sliding your arms around his neck, his hands finding a home on your waist. “Well, I guess I should tell you that I really like your moustache.”
“Just really like?” he teases, swaying you as you purse your lips together.
“Fine. I love it.”
Smiling, walking you back until your back meets the wooden railings. “I love that you love it.”
Rolling your eyes, forehead meeting his chest, he feels the laugh roll through you. Rumbling.
“You owe me flowers.”
Snorting, he rests his chin on your head. “I’ll buy you a field, Flor.”
“That’s a good start.”
Thought so, he thinks. Wrapping his arms around you, keeping your head against him, rocking you, like he's wished to do so many times before now.
Home now feeling right.
#javier pena x reader#javi peña x reader#javier pena fanfiction#javier pena x you#javier peña x f!reader#javier peña x reader#javier peña fanfiction#javier peña smut#javier pena smut#javi peña smut#narcos x reader#narcos fanfiction#pedro pascal characters
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Regrets
7140 Characters 1343 Words 🦋
All Lando did was regret everything, he regretted the moment he snapped at the only girl he actually started to love. He didn’t even remember the words he threw at her; he knew he stepped way out of the line. Their relationship was blurry; they were not together, not in the slightest.
She was free to date whoever she wanted, and yet Lando’s blood boiled looking at her interact with anyone else but him, especially when she talked to Oscar. Everyone always mentioned how well they complimented each other; he seemed like he would be perfect for her.
So when Lando saw her hug and congratulate Oscar with such joy and passion, all he saw was red. It felt like salt was being rubbed onto his raw wounds.
Only he could get hugs from her; only he could make her smile to the point where her little dimples showed; only he could be that close to her. He was jealous, and in his jealousy, he ruined his only chance of being with her.
Do you know what it feels like to be completely disrespected and have your words being thrown at you in the worst possible way? Not a feeling anyone would want to feel, but unfortunately, fate hadn’t spared her of that feeling.
She hated herself for opening up to Lando; why did she think he would be any different? Everyone she ever loved always ended up hurting her and inflicting more pain and anguish. She didn’t know what she did wrong; she knew she didn’t deserve that. It wasn’t her fault that Lando was driving like crap.
His words ripped open both old and new wounds, but how long was she going to let people do that to her? Her parents, her sister, her family, and now Lando? When will she ever be free of this type of betrayal? She didn’t want to believe that it was Lando who said those nasty words to her; his words were almost as bad, if not worse, than the words the media used to call her.
Her swollen red eyes and the dark red scratches all over her arms were proof that it was Lando’s words that caused her such anguish.
She knew she had to change; she wanted to hide and cry her eyes out, but she knew this was a sign to change and become a stronger version of herself who lives for her own dreams and not for anyone else. The love she was searching for was never really found, so she decided to love herself.
It had only been a couple of days since Lando let himself lash out on her, too many days if you’d ask him. He knew he needed to pull something massive just to get her back. He wanted to tell her how he felt and why he did what he did, but each time he rehearsed that speech, he sounded more and more like a jerk.
Lando needed help, and he knew only one person could help him, much to his dismay it was Oscar, the other Aussie.
Lando still remembers the way she told Oscar how adorable his accent was; yeah that ticked Lando off. It was almost like she tried to tempt Lando into lashing out on her. It was at this moment that Lando realized that he was Lando Norris. (A terrible realization) he didn’t need her; he had a hundred girls willingly throwing themselves at him.
Who cared about a girl who was flirting with her teammate to get back at him? Lando didn’t understand how stupid he sounded in that very moment, and so it goes the pictures get out of Lando sucking faces with a pretty blonde.
Those images were the wake-up call y/n busmante needed. She left the paddock in a haste, finding it more than necessary, especially when she saw the ugly snarl Lando sent her when she bumped into him. It was almost as if he didn’t realize how bad his words hurt her. Lando’s eyes snapped down to the sheer cover-up she wore; he would see the red marks.
To be honest, he didn’t care. She wasn’t his problem; she won’t be messing with his head again. It was her fault that he lost; the pretty blonde who had her arm around his bicep made him feel powerful.
Lando felt like a weak little boy, looking at his favorite toy being thrown out or donated, but having a new toy in hand, he didn’t realize the significance his old toy had. The excitement of gaining something new overcame any stinging pain that the loss of something so valuable and important made him feel.
Y/n decided that she was done with men in orange; it was one of fate’s twisted games. She left the paddock in such a hurry that she didn’t realize she bumped into Oscar.
Her raced breathing and red eyes made it obvious to even the blindest man, but it made it clear for Oscar, someone who had kept his eye on the younger busmante sibling since the day she walked into the paddock. Oscar saw the way she looked at his teammate; there were often times he wanted her to turn his way and look at him the same way; he’d give her the world if she wanted it.
Oscar saw the faint red lines on her arm. In a hasty decision, he dragged her to his driver's room. He was always known as a gentleman, always asking for permission before letting his hands wander. But the way Oscar pulled y/n in was urgent; he knew something was wrong and was secretly hoping that Lando had done something to her so that he would have an excuse to beat the crap out of him for it. Most importantly, though, Oscar wanted to know if his girl was okay? She looked up at him, eyes glossy and looked like they hurt based on how red and irritated they looked. She looked so sad and quiet, the Aussie didn’t know what to do or say to make her pain go away.
All it took was one tight hug; the moment Oscar's buff arms made contact with her, she lost control. Her eyes bled more tears, each one a stab at Oscar's heart. He wanted to rip Lando apart limb by limb for doing this to her. Oscar had heard everything.
The day Lando ended up DNF-ing, Oscar went to his room to talk to him. What he heard made him never want to look at his teammate again. He sat there holding her for an hour, both seeking comfort. Oscar slowly raised the sleeves of her cardigan to look at the damage she had inflicted upon herself. A slight whine came out of the girl, a weak protest, but she didn't really care. She felt mentally drained and didn't know why Oscar was bothering so much, but it did feel good that someone cared.
When his rough fingers made contact with her irritated skin, the moment felt intimate. He ran his fingers through her hair, coaxing her to spill all her deepest thoughts and darkest secrets. She complied, incoherently mumbling everything Lando had said to her and how he had acted. All while being hugged close to Oscar's midriff, his scent intoxicating her, making her feel calm.
It was funny, really, when you looked at it from an outsider's perspective. Two young adults sitting on the floor, one holding the other, while the older one stared intently at the wounded younger one.
The moment looked like a scene in Shakespeare's plays, where instead of Romeo and Juliet, it was Benedict and Beatrice, the calmer, more stable ones.
Oscar knew she was hurting; he saw the pain in her face each time she mentioned him. "Will you go back to how it was if he comes up to you and apologizes?"
That simple question made her blood run cold.
She knew the answer, but she didn't want to admit it to anyone, most importantly herself.
tag list -: @dessxoxsworld @laneyspaulding19 @hc-dutch @slytherinholland @landoslutmeout @socially-awkward-eliza @ilovechickenwings @fanficweasley @ushygushybaby @bbl32 @the-untamed-soul
thank you to everyone who asked to be tagged and to everyone who sent suggestions obviously there will be a part 3 but it will be out on the 1st of June :) as always let me know how this was :)
#oscar piastri#oscar x reader#f1 imagine#f1 scenario#f1 x reader#formula one#lando norris x y/n#charles leclerc x wife reader#lando norris x reader#landoscar#lando x reader#lando norris#oscar piastri x reader#oscar piastri x you
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day in the life w/ Emily?
listenin' to lovers rock
– warnings : a lil suggestive but nothing explicit
– summary : day in the life with you and emily
a/n : this was so fun to write ty anon for the req. this def turned out longer than expected so i hope you enjoy it <33
Waking up with Emily Engstler was possibly one of the best things that could ever happen to you. You woke up to being tangled in between her long limbs and her peacefully asleep.
You had work off today and Emily had practice, but she said you could come and join her which made you grin so hard you thought your cheeks were gonna go numb.
You glanced over at the time and realized you two should've been up and moving a while ago.
"Emily." You said, untangling yourself and shaking her
The con to dating Emily was that she slept like a rock. Absolutely nothing woke this woman up. You kept shaking her and she just laid there and snored.
"Emily! Get up!" You grabbed the pillow off your side of the bed and smacked her over the chest with it, that woke her up.
She jolted up and looked so confused. Her reaction made you bust out laughing.
"The fuck was that for, ma?" She asked sleepily.
"Look at the time, my love."
Her eyes widened when she realized the time and jumped out of bed. "Fuck! It's so late!" She shuffled around your guys' room, trying to get ready.
You tried your hardest to hold back your laughter as you got up and went to go make coffee for the both of you.
Once you reached the kitchen you started the coffee and made eggs for Emily. After plating up her breakfast and setting it on the table with her coffee, Emily came out fully ready in her practice gear.
"Oh you are such a trad wife." She laughed as she sat down and started eating.
"Oh shut up or I won't make you lunch." You threatened as you made her sandwich.
She did a 'zip it and lock it' motion to her mouth, making you giggle. After you made her lunch you packed it up and went to go get ready yourself.
You changed into a cute outfit and did your hair and makeup and went back out to the dining area. Emily came up to you and wrapped her arms around you.
"You look pretty baby.." Emily murmured against your lips as she leaned in for a kiss. Her hands made their way down to your ass, groping them gently.
You pushed her away before it got too heated, "You have practice, my love."
She sighed dramatically and grabbed her bag. You two walked out to the car hand in hand. She opened your door and helped you get in then rounded the car to get into the driver side.
As you two drove to the training facility her hand made its way to your knee, rubbing it gently. She was so whipped for you.
You two arrived at the training facility and she went to the locker room while you found a seat in the stands. Training went by fairly quickly, you loved watching her do what she loved.
"Okay! Lunch break!" Thibault yelled. All the women dispersed on the court, going to enjoy their lunches with each other. Emily made her way to where you were sitting, carrying the batman lunch box.
"Really, batman?" She asked, gesturing at the case. You giggled and motioned for her to sit down.
"Its cute!" You argued. She rolled her eyes sarcastically and opened up the box to retrieve her meal. She shared bites of the food with you til it was all gone and she had to return to practice. You gave her a quick peck on the lips along with a,
"Good luck!"
The rest of practice went smoothly and you two drove home together.
"Are we eating in tonight or?" You asked curiously, washing up some dishes.
"I was actually planning on taking you out." Emily grinned. Your face lit up which made Emily smile even more. It was the little things that made you so happy, like when she would open the car door for you or surprise you with a dinner date.
You two got ready for your night out and Emily drove you two there.
It was a nice steakhouse she took you guys too. "This is beautiful baby, thank you"
"Anything for you." She smiled.
You two ate your dinner and talked for a good hour or two before you two finally made it home.
Once you closed the front door you went up and kissed her.
"I love you."
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HIII PLUMM this is gonna be weird as hell but the grapefruit technique on gojo.........,,,,, sorry I'll leave 😔😔😔😔
the bedroom for you and satoru was something magical. over the years, the both of you have tried almost everything, and i mean everything. it wasn't until your close friend started talking about grapefruit and what she did to her man with it. at first, you were disgusted and confused as to why someone would want wet, cold fruit on their dick, but then you did some extended research on it.
"grapefruit method."
"how to do the grapefruit method?"
"is the grapefruit method safe?" click.
all of those put into your search engine as your eyes scanned over the computer screen, curiosity killed the cat in an instance when you came back home with five grapefruits and an eager mouth. when you told satoru, you thought that maybe he would be against it for his own health and sanity, but he was ten toes down for it. he was excited to see what it was all about, and after a while, so were you.
after doing your extended research, you were ready for it, cutting a hole in the middle and sliding it down his length, putting your lips on the tip of his dick, and slowly sliding your tongue over. satoru placed his hand on your head while the other one grabbed the sheets. he didn't know what he was expecting, but it wasn't that. it wasn't cold but a little warm, just like your mouth. the feeling of your mouth on his tip while having the grapefruit go up and down had his head spinning.
pushing the grapefruit up and down as you lower your mouth down on his length working with it, the taste of sweetness mixed with tartness mixing in your mouth as you ran your tongue over and around his dick, his eyelashes fluttering as he feels his leg cramping from how surprisingly it felt. his teeth digging into his lower lip as he tries to keep his focus on you, but he really couldn't; he underestimated what it could feel like, and now he was about to finish, and you barely started.
squeezing and adding pressure to the sides as the juices flowed out, mixing with his cum that was slowly sliding out past his tip and leaking down your throat. the taste was immaculate, only driving you to do it more, and that wasn't a joke.
by the end of the week, a house that was barely filled with grapefruits was now filled with ten, of which half were used by the end of the week. it was too fun for you to stop; the taste alone sent you to want to keep doing it, and you didn't just stop when he finished; you would keep going until there was no more juice left that was slipping and leaking out onto his dick.
juice was sticky on your hands, but you didn't care. satoru was so deep into enjoying it that he couldn't do anything but whimper; he couldn't say any full sentences. sometimes it would get so much that tears were rolling down his face and his throat was sore from all the whining and moaning.
he didn't expect for this to make him go off the rails, but it did; it had his throat clenching up and his body doing things he didn't even know were possible. every time he saw the juices running down your mouth and finishing in your mouth, he went crazy.
this was a good bedroom find that you didn't even expect to find. you thought the stickiness and mess would throw you off, but the good outweighed the bad, especially when the taste of satoru's cum and sweetness of the fruit mixed together, which only made you crave more.
#jujutsu kaisen#jjk#jjk x reader#jujustsu kaisen x reader#jjk x you#x reader#dont do this#gojo satoru#jjk satoru#jjk gojo#gojo x reader#jujutsu gojo#gojo smut#satoru gojo#gojo jjk#gojou satoru x reader#satoru smut#satorugojo#jujutsu satoru#jujutsu kaisen satoru#gojo saturo#gojo satoru x reader
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Ciao Amore - Emily Engstler x fem!reader
summary: You and Emily are on vacation in Italy together. You have a small argument on your first night there, angst ensues...
word count: 2.0k
a/n: I definetely wanna write a part 2 to this w/ smut...y'all lmk
This could've been the perfect ending to your and Emily's first night in Italy. Except both of you let the exhaustion from traveling and jet lag get to you, which resulted in a couple's quarrel.
It wouldn't be fair to say you started it—except maybe that's what Emily would've believed when you gave her the wrong directions to the hotel and delayed your check-in time by a whole hour.
At first, Emily tried to keep her composure as she asked you for confirmation on which way to turn. She scrubbed her right hand down her face and sighed, "Baby, I need you to tell me if I gotta turn left here or up ahead."
The sun is blinding, and the tiny sun visor in the mini Cooper you guys decided to rent is barely doing anything to block it out. You're hopelessly trying to translate the directions from Italian to English from your phone. Still, you're getting less and less service the farther into the drive you guys get. Since it's quiet, you each thought the Tuscan countryside was the best option for your honeymoon. No one would recognize Emily here, and if they did, they'd be more lowkey than fans elsewhere could be. But with half a tank of gas gone, sweat collecting on the back of your neck, and a headache forming behind your eyes, your patience is wearing thin, too.
"Umm…I think it's the next left. Yeah, the one up ahead." There isn't anything in your tone that leads Emily to believe you.
"Are you sure? Because if not, we can't make a U-turn here."
"Yeah, Em. That's what it says in the directions."
As it turned out, you guys were supposed to take the first left, not the second, which led you through a tiny town with the narrowest roads you've ever seen. Emily had to drive as slowly as possible, and you tried to warn her about some of the Vespas parked on the side street.
"Em! You almost scraped that Vespa!" You yelled in exasperation after she avoided the Vespa by half an inch.
"Baby, relax. I know what I'm doing," she huffs before adding, "unlike some people."
You know she's just as eager to get to your hotel as you are, so you let the sass slide this time. "Okay. I wanna see you try to read these directions in Italian. Maybe I should drive instead."
Emily rolls her eyes and scoffs as she drives out of the little town and into wider streets. The directions show that you guys are back where you're supposed to be. "Not if we wanna make it to the hotel in one piece."
Scrunching your brow, you ask her, "What's that supposed to mean?" You shift closer to your door, taking your elbow off the center console.
Emily immediately notices your change in body language. She places her hand on your knee, trying to make amends. She glances over at you but stands by what she said. "C'mon, baby. Don't be ridiculous."
You scoff and start rubbing at your temples. "You know I can drive! It's insulting you don't think I can!"
Ever since the two of you started dating, it was evident that you would have to navigate each other's stubbornness. For most of your relationship, Emily was the driver, and you were in the passenger seat. You glanced down at the directions on your phone and saw it'd be about another five miles before you reached your hotel.
"I never said you couldn't drive! You know what I meant, Y/N," Emily's grip tightens against the wheel as you look out the window, not meeting her gaze.
You annoyedly sniffle and tell her, "Just go straight for another five miles."
Both of you knew it would be the longest five miles you've ever had to drive together.
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When you both arrived at the hotel, you could finally breathe outside the Mini Cooper's confines. The sun was starting to go down as you guys checked in, and neither of you said a word to each other. As you began to take the dress you would wear out of your suitcase, you couldn't stop angrily unzipping the sides. Emily was stomping around the room in search of her slippers. When you kicked them in front of her, she pouted at you and flopped on the bed.
You both knew you could behave like little kids when you got into little spats. It was a relief to finally be out of the heat, stop the stressful shuffling that comes with traveling, and finally get to spend time alone together.
Emily sunk into the bed, shutting her eyes and harshly rubbing at them. When she opened them and turned onto her side, she watched you slide open the balcony door to lean against the railing, eyes trailing the Italian countryside lit up at night. She watched you tie your robe tighter around yourself, knowing you were probably about to step into the shower,
She thought about opening the door and apologizing, but she figured you each needed some moments alone. She felt so sullen, watching you from behind the door. This was supposed to be a time you could spend together, finally away from the craziness and pressure back home.
The hotel was beautiful. Outside of the balcony, it looked like the streets were lit up with millions of tiny string lights, and through the cracked door, you could hear the chatter of other couples having an early dinner. Emily sank further into the plush hotel bed before grabbing her book and busying herself.
You open the door and come back inside, barely glancing at Emily. Emily peers over the top of the book and watches you disappear behind the bathroom door.
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You came out of the bathroom with damp hair and your face scrubbed clean of the makeup you had on before. Emily was still reading on the bed when you decided to sit next to her. She closed her book, marking the page before meeting your gaze.
You tuck a stray hair behind your ear, getting water drips on Emily's arm. You look down at your robe tie before saying, "We should probably get dinner."
Emily sits in bed, unsure whether she's in your good graces again. She tests the waters by tucking your other strand behind your ear. When you let her, she feels relieved. "Sure, baby. Let's get dinner."
You each get ready silently, hanging onto a tightness in your chest. It's stupid to argue the way you do because neither of you likes to admit when you're wrong. The only sounds from your hotel room are from the whir of you blow-drying your hair and Emily hanging up some shirts before choosing the one she'll wear tonight. Even if you are a little upset with her, you hope she wears the blue striped shirt that you love so much on her.
Emily's still watching you from her place on the bed. She's considering how and at what point she should apologize to you tonight. Even if it is true that you're not a stellar driver, she shouldn't have made a comment when both of you were clearly grouchy and eager to just get to the hotel.
It's when she sees you twist your hair up into a clip and slip on a slinky black dress that you've had forever that she feels wholly disarmed and forgets why you guys ever argue in the first place. You're leaning over the bathroom sink to dab the lipstick on and swiping what's left on your fingers on your cheeks, puckering and pouting in the mirror, completely unaware of the way Emily's looking at you. She stands there for a few seconds before clearing her throat and grabbing her shoes. When you leave the bathroom, she looks down shyly like a kid in trouble and mumbles, "Ready to go?"
You nod, remaining neutral outside, but seeing Emily's guilty face tugs at your heart. "Let me grab my shoes."
"I-uh. I took them out already. They're by the nightstand." She nervously adjusts the rings on her fingers as she tells you this. You brought your favorite black heels on vacation and wear them for most of the date nights you guys have.
This little gesture that she does really makes you feel guilty about giving her the cold shoulder, so you stand in front of her, bringing your hand up to rest against her face, and tell her, "Thanks, baby."
Emily stills and looks down at you, eyes focusing on the lip color you're wearing and wondering when it'll be time to kiss you. She'd never dream of asking if you're still mad at her because she knows better than that, and chooses to wait it out and see. When you're done slipping on your heels, she puts her hand on the small of your back as you exit the hotel and have dinner at one of the restaurants down the street.
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It's hard to stay mad at each other in a restaurant this romantic. Your waiter poured each of you a glass of red wine and left the bottle for you both to split over the course of dinner. Emily's nervously twisting her rings while you look directly at her with your chin propped on the palms of your hand. She's focused on her plate of pasta while you sip from your glass of wine. She wipes the napkin at the corner of her mouth before clearing her throat and looking at you.
Right now, she could really forget she's in Italy at all. All she could see was the gravity of your long eyelashes blinking back at her, your hand wrapped around the wine glass, and the corners of your mouth turned down into a slight frown.
"Y/N? I wanted to say I'm sorry, baby." She laughs, reaching across the table to grab your hand. "I was–I shouldn't have said what I did back there in the car."
You look at her downturned brown eyes, the blue shirt you love so much, and how it bounces off the soft light of the restaurant. You've been thinking about kissing her since she set your shoes out for you, desperately restraining yourself against kissing her stupid and forgetting you were ever angry with each other.
You sigh, "Are we idiots, Em?"
Emily laughs, "We must be. We're like little kids." She punctuates the tenderness of the admission by kissing the back of your hand.
You shrug, "I'm not the best driver, I know."
Emily doesn't say anything at first, knowing it'd only get her in more trouble to agree with that statement. "Aw baby, you know I can't read Italian. I think you were the best person for the job."
You playfully roll your eyes, "You don't have to grovel, y'know? You're already in my good graces again."
Emily reaches across the table to hold the side of your head, gently pressing her lips to yours. You've been thinking about her hands in your hair since she tucked your hair behind your ear earlier in the hotel room. When you pull apart, all you can taste is the wine you've both been drinking, pausing to see how it's turned the corners of Emily's mouth a delicious shade of red. Observing the color makes you kiss her back more intensely, running a finger across her jawline.
She leans back in her chair, spreading her legs a bit before slowly sipping from her wine glass. "Y'look pretty t'night, ma."
She's flirting with you like you guys haven't been dating for some time now. You narrow your eyes at her, "Yeah?"
She gives you one long look, sweeping her eyes from top to bottom. "Yeah."
You consider what your next move should be. Your instincts tell you to ask your lover what she's thinking. Her expression is relieved, cheeks flushed from the wine you've both had. Out of habit, you actually do, softly whispering, "What are you thinking, Em?"
She looked to the side before smirking, "I think we should go back to the room so I can show you how sorry I am."
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When Prayers Fall on Deaf Ears
Pairing: Azriel x F!Reader
Description: For the first time in his life, Azriel is not ready to accept death.
Warnings: Death, All Hurt No Comfort
Word Count: 1500
Notes: I'm so sorry. I didn't proofread this so I'm sorry for that too.
How could the Mother be so cruel?
After centuries of walking this world alone, of throwing himself at dangerous missions and surviving multiple wars, how come when he finally found something worth living for, his life gets taken away?
Azriel can hear you anguish cries for help, screaming at Rhys to get a healer, can hear your reassurances that he's going to be okay, but the truth is he can barely feel your hands on him, can barely feel his body at all. He's taken several falls like this, but this pain is different. He knows better than to check, knowing he wouldn't be able to bear the sight, - probably wouldn't even be able to complete the movement on his own - but he knows his left wing was mostly ripped off, his arm and leg might be in similar ruined states. The realization that he'll never be able to take to the skies makes him close his eyes for a second, tears gathering in them.
Everything happened so quickly, he had barely reacted in time, sending up a shield around him at the same time Cassian did. He doesn't know what kind of magic that was, had never seen anything like it before, but he knows if it hadn't been for the shield, there wouldn't be any piece of his body left, and his brother would have met the same fate.
His shadows were completely silent, uncharacteristically so, unmoving as they lay under his body, but, even if they weren't singing to him, Azriel could feel them mourning, could feel them disconnect, no longer following his command. They had been with him for most of his life, and he hopes they know how grateful he is for them, for the way they stayed by his side, protecting him and those around him, and they remain until his last breath escapes his body. He truly couldn't have made it this long without them - they were part of his identity.
It's your frantic calls of his name that has him opening his eyes again, blinking a couple of times to try and focus on your beautiful face. This is probably the last time he'll be able to see it so he should enjoy it as much as possible. You send him a relieved look when you notice him watching your face, leaning closer until he can faintly feel your breath on his skin. “Rhys went to get Thesan, alright? You're going to be okay, Az,” you promise, struggling to keep your voice from failing while trying your hardest to choke back your tears, and he struggles to focus on the words, the sound reaching his ears as if he was under water.
He won't be okay, you both know that. No matter how good a healer is, there are some things that can't be helped. Sometimes they forget given their long lifetimes, but fae are still mortals. Everyone around him seems to have come to the same conclusion, but they're all unwilling to accept it, stubborn as they are. Gods, he's going to miss them so much. Azriel almost wants to tell you to call Rhys back, so he can see his brother one last time. No healer is going to be able to fix this anyway, not even Thesan. He's not sure if he can form the words though, even breathing is becoming too much to bear.
Trying his best to pay attention, Azriel tries to focus on his family - the people who have made his life worth living. He can hear the three Archeron sisters crying somewhere at his side, holding onto each other. They've all lost so much in their short lives, Azriel hates that he's going to add to their suffering. After a particularly loud sob escapes Feyre, he realizes his mental shields are probably down, making her privy to his thoughts, but he can't bring himself to care, not anymore.
Amren is studying his body a few steps behind you, staring at him with a conflicted look in her eyes, arms wrapped around herself. This might be the first time she sees someone she cares about die right before her eyes, as she watches on, unable to do a thing about it. Right next to her stands Mor, an uncharacteristically blank look on her face as she watches one of her bestfriends take his last breaths, shock seems to have taken hold of her. Emerie stands behind her, ready to comfort her. He couldn't see Cassian but he feels him kneeling right next to his head, can hear his choked breaths as he desperately tries to keep his tears from coming, can feel the familiar thrum of his power. He had also been injured, but it seems that Azriel had taken the worst of it, his brother would be alright.
And you. He doesn't even want to imagine how much pain he's going to bring you. You, who's trying so hard to be strong for him, to keep on a brave face and make him feel better in his last moments, even though you probably want nothing more than to curse the Mother and any deity responsible for this. If it had been the other way around, he's not so sure he would survive it, or that he would want to, but he knows you're more resilient than him, so much stronger, always have been.
None of you deserve this. To have your family ripped away from you like this. And he doesn't either, after suffering through so much, he knows he deserved a few more good years with you and his family by his side.
“I don't want to die,” the words escape him in a whisper before he has the chance to keep them down. The sobs that escape both you and Cassian almost make him want to take the words back, knowing he's going to give you guys enough pain as it is. Your hands raise to hold his face, bringing a smile to his lips even at a time like this.
He was almost surprised to see that he meant it. Azriel had never been afraid of death, would gladly do it to save the ones he loves, as he is doing now, but that had always been easier when he felt like he had nothing to lose. Aside from his friends and his mother - who he knows should be more than enough reason - Azriel had never truly felt fulfilled or content with his life. Throwing it all away would have been easier then, but now he had you.
He's been waiting for a love that would give his life purpose ever since he can remember, as pathetic as that may sound, and now that he finally met you, he's going to die without ever getting the chance to give you the ring he keeps stored on his nightstand. He had been waiting for the right time to give it to you, it seems like fate had other plans for him. He can only imagine what you will feel when you find the silver ring engraved with both of your initials.
A sudden pressure in the air tells Azriel his brother returned with Thesan. He feels a strange sort of relief at this, not because he thinks the healer can still help him, but because he didn't want to go without knowing Rhys was here as well. His heart seems to echo this sentiment, as he can hear it slow down with each painful breath he takes into his lungs.
Azriel uses his remaining strength to hold up his hand, trying to feel your skin against his rough palm one more time. He can't quite raise his arm high enough, the blood loss catching up to him, but you hold his hand in yours and hold it up to your cheek. You always knew what to do, what he was thinking.
“I love you,” he struggles out.
Your tears are flowing down your cheeks freely as you repeat the words back to him, having no choice but to resign yourself to your cruel fate. Rhys and Mor kneel at your side, the latter resting a hand on your shoulder, trying to give you as much comfort as she can, while Rhys stares at his brother, the normally striking purple not visible behind his tears.
As scared as he was, he could admit this wasn't so bad, dying surrounded by his family, surrounded by so much love. He feels comfort that the last thing he felt before everything turned cold was the warmth of your body against him. Enough so that it almost catches him by surprise, barely registering his shadows moving from his body to yours, covering your body the same way they've been covering him all these years, barely feels his arm drop from your face, his strength completely leaving his body until he can't hear anything, can't see anything as the world goes black, and the last thing he feels is your head falling on his chest as a wail of his name escapes you.
#azriel x reader#azriel x you#azriel x y/n#azriel acotar#azriel fic#azriel shadowsinger#acotar fanfiction#acotar x reader#azriel angst
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