#i paused in the middle of eating to draw this

[softlyspector]

Sage

Summary: Joel finished your tattoo but staying in each other lives is easier than he thinks. A late night phone call reminds him of how easy it is to lose something too.

Read the beginning: You put aside your touch aversion for a tattoo from Joel.

Pairing: tattoo artist!Joel Miller x f!Reader

Word count: ~10.6k

Warnings: slow build, no outbreak tattoo!au, angst then comfort, the 'believes they're hard to love, loving them is like breathing' trope, reader has issues with touch and is mostly touch adverse (joel's workin' on that though), description of a past abusive relationship, undefined unresolved previous trauma, insecurity, anxiety, Joel gets to have both his daughters in this

A/N: I can't tell you how happy the love for this series has made me. You’re all my heroes and this is dedicated to all of you.

Once again, we’re ignoring canon and pretending like Joel can draw for this fic, thank you. Editing this was a labor, so if there are any mistakes blame my tired eyes. Thank you for reading! As always, I would love to know your thoughts! Please please please, be sure to leave feedback!

“Joel?” Your voice is staticky in the dark.

He’s used to answering the phone half awake in the middle of the night, shadows still strung between the wings of his window. Between bailing Tommy out of jail when he was younger and rescuing Sarah and Ellie from sleepovers they didn’t want to stay at, he’s answered the phone in the shy hours of the very early morning more times than he can count. 

In the few months he’s known you, though, you’ve never called him, not once, let alone in the middle of the night. 

“Joel?” The connection crackles and your voice wavers. “Can you hear me?”

It’s then that his mind catches up with him, digs its heels in and kicks to life. He hadn’t said anything beyond a cranky, irritated hello? after the shrill ring woke him and he blindly groped for the phone and pressed it to his ear. “Hey, yeah, I can hear ya.” 

Maybe he has the good sense to answer you, but he’s not awake enough to consider the why of the call yet. He’s glad to hear your voice, though.

It’s like a sweet little song in his ear when he hadn’t gotten to see you at all that day. 

And lately the days he doesn’t get to see you are a rarity. 

Most days, you stop by the studio but some days he meets you for coffee, or goes on a drive with you, or insists on teaching you to fish. You’ve been at a few Friday dinners with his girls, though not all of them because you fold yourself up tight and try not to intrude. Most Sundays find you arriving early at his door with pie and coffee from Flu’s, which you eat on his front porch in companionable silence before the heat of the day can settle in. 

“I’m sorry,” you say. Your voice trembles and Joel feels like a bucket of cold water has been thrown over him. 

He lurches up in bed so fast that spots dance in his vision and a spear of pain slices through his shoulder, raking iron hot nails into a years old injury. “Sweetheart?” A knot of protective worry forms in his chest, lights a fire in his belly. “What’s goin’ on?” 

The moon casts a thin, pale beam of light across the foot of his bed, growing brighter by the second as his eyes adjust to the darkness. But then you continue and the protective feeling only grows, and then goes hard with an icy ferocity. “Sorry for calling so late and bothering you with this but I don’t—I didn’t have anyone else I wanted to call.”

Your voice breaks on the last word, the creaking in your mouth splintering across the line. “Can you…I don’t—” There’s a little pause in which Joel can hear your footsteps as you pace and the quick sound of your breathing. “I just don’t know what to do.” 

Joel pulls himself out of bed and shucks on his jeans that had lain crumpled on the floor where he left them and then pulls on the first shirt his hand touches when he yanks open a dresser drawer. “What’s goin’ on?” He asks again. “Where are you?” 

“Ugh—” You swallow thickly, sounding inexplicably embarrassed. “It’s nothing, really. I’m-I’m being stupid. I shouldn’t have called.”

He can practically see you fidgeting, looking down, shaking your head. Can practically feel you thinking of hanging up the phone, nervous doe eyes darting around like you’ve done something wrong. 

“Don’t sound like nothin’,” he grits out, his voice coming out harsher than he means it to. “What happened?” 

You’d gone down to Austin to visit some friends for the day. It’s why he hadn’t gotten the chance to see you. 

Your ex slips suddenly to the forefront of his mind, who was the goddamn reason you’d moved out of Austin in the first place. Then all the myriad of other terrible things that could have prompted you to call him so late flash through his mind. 

It only serves to make his chest burn. 

“You still in Austin?” Again, his voice comes out angrier than he intends. He pulls open his bedroom door and moves down the hall, not bothering to flip on any lights. 

“No. I’m at—I’m at home,” you stutter. 

He pauses in the front entryway, wallet and keys dangling from his fingers, one foot halfway into a shoe. “Home?” 

“I’m—yeah, home. I just…I came home and the street door was open. I thought maybe the neighbors just forgot to close it when they were bringing groceries in or something, but then the security light wasn’t coming on and my apartment door is open too. It’s probably nothing, Joel, don’t bother with—look I’m sorry for—”

He’s frozen for a moment. The cavernous black hole of your front door looms, the teeth of the darkness sharp and wanting. 

The street door, despite his best efforts to augment it, is notoriously difficult to get open. If it was open when you got home— 

If your apartment door was open too—

“I’m sorry for calling,” you say again when he doesn’t answer, your voice small and anxious. “I think I might have been robbed or something. I just. . . I didn’t want to call anyone else,” you repeat. “I’m afraid.” 

Afraid. 

It’s a cold word. 

Stuffing his wallet into his back pocket and getting his boots all the way on, he tugs his own front door open. “Don’t you move a goddamn muscle. Do not go inside. Go back down to the street.”

“Joel—” 

“I’m serious,” he all but snarls. “Now.”  

“Okay,” you agree. Your voice is tight, choked. “Okay.”

“I’m gettin’ on the road now.” 

“Thank you.” 

He doesn’t answer for a minute, just listens to your breathing as he gets in his truck and turns the engine, phone squished between his shoulder and ear. The drive into town is only about ten minutes. You should be alright in that time.

“You there?” Your voice is breathy. You sound a little like you might have been crying and he wonders how long you waffled in front of your door, trying to decide whether to call him or just go inside by yourself. “Joel?”

“‘m here.” He turns off the long dirt road that leads to the ranch. “Yeah, I’m here, honey. Stay on the phone.” 

“Okay,” you murmur. “Thanks,” you say again.  

The word doesn’t register. His mind is already with you, imagining you standing alone on your street, or worse, with folks lurking around the corner waiting to do you harm. It’s an insidious image that he knows isn’t based entirely in reality. “You alone?” Despite his thoughts, he can’t imagine anyone out on the streets of the tiny town at this hour. 

“Mm. Just me.” 

“Good. Stay away from that door,” he grumbles. 

“Bossy,” you accuse lightly, the soft attempt at a joke.  

He doesn’t laugh. The drive feels like it's taking too long, longer than the ten minutes it normally takes. 

He steps on the accelerator and his mind wanders to all the other times he’s been called, into the dark or otherwise, because his people needed him. To the hospital once when Sarah had broken her ankle at a pool party, to the high school when Ellie’d gotten into a fight that ended with a blood spattered hallway and broken nose. 

Those were the worst calls, drives. That was when he felt most helpless, like he was stuck in quicksand. There were just things that he couldn’t protect them from. He couldn’t be there every second of the day, he couldn’t always be with them, and that had always grated. 

Most assured him the anxiety would fade as Sarah got older, but it never did. It hadn’t even begun with her. It was always there, that protective anxiousness. It had gotten exponentially worse with Sarah’s birth, a tiny life he was responsible for, a tiny life that was so delicate. 

And then—Ellie. At least with Sarah he’d had some piece of mind. But Ellie, like Tommy, had a knack for trouble. Too many times she swung in the back door with bleeding knees and twigs stuck in her hair and a scrape over her cheek. It wasn’t always a fight, sometimes it was just climbing a tree she had no business being in, racing her bike against kids twice her size, and unlike Sarah, she had no sense of preservation. 

“Are you hurt?” The question burns in his mouth. He doesn't mean to ask it.

“Hurt—” you start, sounding surprised. “No. No, of course not. I’m okay, Joel. It’s just the stupid door. I’m just—I told you I’m just being stupid. Listen, just—”

Joel knows what you’re going to say, and he should tell you that you aren’t being stupid, that it was good you called him; that he wants you to call him, all the time, but especially when you need him. 

Instead, he snaps, “Don’t move.”   

Your voice cuts off. 

His eyes strain past streetlights and empty, open fields, past the copse of trees that marked the start of a forest where he’d seen a trio of deer a few weeks before, like some kind of omen. 

In the distance, the town comes into view. You don’t say anything but he listens to the sound of your breathing, the calm in and out that reassures him that you’re okay, that you’re there patiently waiting. 

When he turns down your street, you come into view, standing beneath a streetlight in front of your building. The security light above your door flickers weakly, but otherwise remains dark. “You see me?” 

You turn and lift your hand. “I see you,” you say, voice crumbling and soft. The golden light pools around you, casts your shadow behind you like a ghost, or an angel. But you’re there, you’re safe, he can see you, and some of the tension melts off his shoulders. “Gonna hang up now,” you say.

“All right,” he agrees. 

The line goes dead. 

Joel is angry with you. 

It’s the only thought that sticks, barbed and fanged and catching, in your mind. It burrows into the top of your spine and makes your whole body go rigid with fear. 

Joel is angry with you. 

Joel, who’s always been sweet and kind. Who introduced you to his family with affection in his voice, took you fishing and always tossed the fish back when you looked so mournfully at them, who pointed out birds and deer to you quietly and with a practiced ease, who lets you read on the green leather couch in his shop and asks your opinions on the designs he’s working on that you often wish were for you. 

But you’ve never really fucked up before. You’ve never made him angry. 

This, calling him out of bed in the middle of the night, would give him plenty to be angry about. It would give him something to blame you for. 

The truck rolls to a stop, headlights flaring out, and dread forms a knot in the back of your throat. 

Before you can open your mouth, to head off his foul mood and explain, Joel is out of the truck and his hands are cupped around your shoulders, then the sides of your face. 

You flinch at the suddenness of it and then tense but Joel doesn’t seem to notice, his eyes darting over your body like he expects to find you gravely injured. He doesn’t normally touch you so abruptly and the feeling of his hands on your skin makes tears burn behind your eyes. 

He looks pretty in the moonlight. His eyes are cast dark and shaded as they search yours, his pupils so blown out the brown is consumed. You aren’t sure what he’s looking for. “You all right?” He asks, the comforting scent of him wrapping around you. He smells like rosemary and pine, like sawdust. You think distantly that he must have been working on some project earlier in the day. 

And sage. He smells like protection.

His thumb slides over your cheek slowly in a vaguely self soothing way. 

You resist the urge to twist out of grip, trying to remind yourself that now isn’t then, that he isn’t him. 

Your body remembers though, remembers what it’s like to taste fear. 

“Fine,” you reassure him again and pull back slightly. “I just—like I said, it’s nothing. It’s stupid. I just got spooked. I—Joel I’m sorry—”

Joel doesn’t seem to hear you as he releases your face, apparently satisfied with whatever he saw there. He grips your elbow instead and leads you to the passenger side of the truck. “You stay here,” he says. “‘M gonna take a look around. Give me your key.” 

There’s a protective violence around him, a current of energy that makes you wary, that you don’t want to be on the wrong side of. 

“You—Joel, please, listen—” You attempt to shake his hand off, panic clawing at your chest. You’re too tense to be touched, too anxious he’s about to snap at you.

Joel has never raised his voice at you. This fear isn’t one that should rest with him and that frustrates you even more. It makes you feel crazy and unbalanced and like you don’t know who’s really in front of you. 

Still, it’s your fault, after all. It’s your fault he’s here, and maybe that’s good enough for him to start. 

His eyes are like hard, dark flint, like chips of glittering amber, glinting in the pale moonlight that washes out his skin, highlights the circles beneath his eyes. 

“Just stay here,” he repeats. His voice is hard when his eyes flash up to yours. “I’ll only be a minute.” His hand still cradles your elbow as he pulls the truck’s door open, thumb sweeping over the ridge of bone there. 

His hand feels tight, even though it’s probably not. You tug your arm gently out of his grasp and take a step back. “I’m not going to stay here,” you try again, gathering your courage and tipping your chin up. “It’s my apartment. And I don’t want you to go alone.” 

Joel stares at you, brows lowering over his eyes. 

Anxiety beats a nervous, familiar pattern against your ribs, hollowing out the well of your lungs. You bite back the urge to apologize to him again, but he clearly doesn’t want to hear it since he hasn’t responded to it yet. 

He is angry with you, and you don’t like that. But you try to remind yourself again that Joel is not your ex, that in the months you’ve known him, he’s never made you feel unsafe, or like you couldn’t disagree with him. 

But it hadn’t been like that with your ex at first either, and your body is not listening to your mind. 

“Jesus Christ—” he grits out then stops, the words long and deeply accented in his mouth. You do your best to swallow down the squirming worry souring your belly. “Fine. Just—behind me.” 

You aren’t sure how to deal with Joel like this, he’s always so soft and kind and easy with you. 

And you suppose he’s being soft with you now, he’s just—

Angry. He sounds mad; he must be pissed off. Probably because you’ve called him out of bed in the middle of night for no good reason, really. You should have just plucked up the courage to go inside by yourself. It’s likely you’ve called him down for nothing. 

“Okay,” you relent. “Behind you.”  

He doesn’t answer and shuts the truck door. Instead, he moves toward your building without preamble, decidedly not looking at you. 

Seeing the street door wide open when you got home had scared you, the security light not blinking on had terrified you, and then Joel’s constant worries had drifted into the back of your mind, cloyingly poisonous. 

He hates that you leave your windows open and trust the town you live in. He hates anytime you mention that your neighbors leave their door unlocked, even as a joke. 

Ain’t safe, he always said, you don’t do that. 

It was never a question. 

He worries about you standing on the street and struggling with the door. He worries about you getting robbed or worse. You always rolled your eyes, because it was always fine and Joel was a serial worrier. 

But that had been all you were able to think of as you stood there on the street. 

Somehow, you’d convinced yourself to go inside after a few long minutes. You’d debated just going inside too, when you found your apartment door open but the fear had eventually won out. 

Joel’s broad shoulders disappear into the dark entryway before the stairwell light flares on. He’s wearing just a t-shirt and jeans. He looks rumpled and soft and painfully domestic. His jeans are pressed with creases, the laces of his boots undone. The t-shirt stretches across the plains of his back, tight against his shoulders. His hair, normally carefully brushed, is mussed. A lick of gray hair sticks up off his forehead. 

When he stops in front of your apartment door, you have to repress the urge to smooth it back, to press yourself into his side in silent askance for comfort you’re not sure you deserve. 

“I’m sorry,” you find yourself saying again. “Really,” you continue, trying to ignore the dread building colonies in your lungs. 

Nervous now, you realize, not because you might have been robbed, but because Joel is angry with you.

But, like all the other times, Joel doesn't acknowledge your apology. He pushes the door open and flips on the light just inside the door.

Your apartment looks the way it always does, homely and calm. You can’t see a single thing out of place, but that doesn’t stop Joel from searching through it anyway. 

For the next few minutes it's quiet as Joel moves slowly around your little apartment. It’s messy, messier than usual. And when he pushes your bedroom door open, you feel embarrassment crawl up the back of your throat. 

Because this is the first time he’s seeing your bedroom, also a mess, and you realize you wanted that to go differently. 

He’s only ever had cause to sit at your tiny kitchen table, your sofa, before.

The floor is strewn with clothes, your bed is unmade, half your jewelry is out of its box and strung across your dresser. Used glasses and mugs sit on your bedside table that you’ve yet to take to the kitchen, your desk is a mess of old receipts, record sleeves, discarded pens, and stacks of books. 

You wince when he pushes aside your curtains and slams your window shut, the one you always left open for Paprika, before he opens your closet door. 

When your throat tightens, you leave him to your room and sit on your couch instead to wait. 

Inexplicable shame and embarrassment melts around your heart. You try not to think of yourself as a bother to him, not exactly, anyway, and not anymore. But it's hard in this moment when he sounds so upset, so irritated with you. 

Over the last few months, being around Joel and being. . .kind of something, something indefinable and light, to each other, you’ve realized it wasn’t just the tattoo. The tattoo your ex gave you, branded you with, was just the final nail in the coffin. 

Now is a good reminder of that, that you’re sitting around waiting for Joel to tell you how useless you are, to break something, to snap at you. 

He won’t, you know that. Somewhere inside you, you know that’s the truth. 

But your body does not understand that. You’re coiled as tight as a spring, hands fisted in your lap as you wait for the other shoe to drop, for his concern to evaporate when he realizes there really is nothing wrong. 

Anxiety burns bright in your belly, echoes in the stiff cut of Joel’s shoulders, the way he stalks around your apartment, checking increasingly more absurd hiding places until he’s satisfied that you’re alone and the door is locked. 

Joel pushes aside the clothes hanging in your closet, gets on his hands and knees and looks under your bed, and finally peeks in your bathroom. 

He feels calmer, better, now that he knows you’re safe and unharmed, that you’re there in the living room with the front door locked and your bedroom window shut. 

Which reminds him of that damn cat you sometimes let into your apartment, and doesn’t seem to be around. 

Joel trails back to the main room, ignoring the details of your bedroom—the clothes in piles on the floor, the few books strewn across your bed and desk with pens sticking out of the pages, the soft cerulean and cream blankets draped over your bed and on the chair in the corner. He shouldn’t get to see those things, not like this at least. “Where’s your cat?” 

You blink and turn to look at him over the back of the sofa. You have one of the brightly colored, crocheted shawls over your shoulders and had been staring at his painting. The one he gifted you a few weeks before and that you don’t know is of you. The doe with bees dancing around her ears.

It’s an okay painting, but you adore it. 

“What?” 

“Your cat,” Joel grumbles. He’s yet to meet the cat, who always made himself scarce whenever he happened to find himself in your apartment. “Paprika, right? He’s not inside. He okay?” 

He doesn’t want to go searching alleyways in the dark for the orange tabby but he’ll do it. For you, he’d do it. 

“Oh,” you frown. “He’s not really mine,” you shake your head and shift your eyes from his. You look anxious and drawn. It’s like a lead weight in his stomach, to see fear and uncertainty spilled across your face. “He’s fine. I just feed him sometimes. He comes and goes when he likes.” 

Joel hesitates. “You sure?” 

“I—” Your eyes flicker over him before you look away again, your expression closing up. “Um,” you shift uncomfortably. Your shoulders are tense. “Yeah. He doesn’t—he doesn’t really need me.” 

Something about the way you say it breaks his heart. 

There are a lot of things you don’t see clearly about yourself, and your worth, your importance, is one of them. 

“Thanks for coming by,” you say eventually when he doesn’t reply and rounds the couch to sit next to you. “I really didn’t mean to bother you.” 

Joel reaches for you, carefully slots his hand in the crook of your elbow. You tense and he sweeps his thumb over the inside of your arm, soothing you the way he always does. His eyes drift down to your tattoo, the one he gave you. It looks beautiful on you. So beautiful he’s drawn up half a dozen other designs just for you. 

He’d draw forever, if it meant getting something just right for you again. 

It leaves something warm in him, that you like the tattoo so much. 

“I think everything is all right,” he admits. He expects you to relax with that reassurance but your arm goes impossibly tenser beneath his touch. “I don’t want you stayin’ here tonight.” 

The words fall out of his mouth. They’d been twisting circles around his mind since he picked up your phone call half an hour before, but now they spill out, desperate. Anxiety warps his voice into something hard, something tainted with acrid vulnerability that he hates. 

He doesn’t know if you hear it, but you go still and swallow thickly. You tug your arm away from his hand and rub the inside of your elbow. 

Your eyes meet his, wide and weighed down with something hurt. His pretty little doe, afraid. He suppresses the urge to tell you it’s all right, that he’s got you. 

“But it’s all fine, isn't it?” You ask, like that matters at all, like the night isn’t long. 

“Guess so,” he concedes. “But I ain’t leavin’ you here alone tonight. I can’t.” 

Your frown, lips parting gently as you stare down at your lap.

“I’d feel better if y’stayed with me,” he continues when you don’t answer, his voice still laced with irritation. He clears it, tries to make it softer but the worry lingers, infects, roots down in him like you have, bright as sunshine, sweet as tea and bumblebees on a summer evening. You make him sick with worry and he needs to know you’re safe. He needs to see you, real and right in front of him. “Tonight.” 

“Better?” You look up again, confusion tugging your brows up. “Why?”

Joel fists his hands on his knees. His knuckles strain against his skin, the flesh white with tension. It pulls hard until something starts to ache, and he has to wonder if that’s how you always feel. If your skin feels like a thousand tiny needles are prinkling at the underside of your skin.

“Yeah,” he says, his accent deepened, kinked and hard. “Better knownin’ you’re okay.” His voice doesn’t raise in volume, but you still flinch. You try to pass it off as a shiver but he sees it, finally sees what you see, what you’re so clearly waiting for. 

The thought alone makes him want to curl inward, crawl inside his own heart and shield you there. Makes him sick with unease. 

And his suspicions are only confirmed when you duck your head, tuck your hands beneath your thighs, and start again, “I’m sorry for bothering you. I really didn’t mean to drag you out of bed for nothing.”

Joel isn’t sure what to say to that as he realizes you’ve been apologizing repeatedly since he got there. 

It makes him hate himself, because you’re so clearly afraid of him. 

The silence stretches, moonlight pools on your thighs and around your calves from the kitchen window, competing with the low yellow of the floor lamp. You fidget with a loose thread on your jeans, fingers plucking nervously at it.

“It wasn’t—” He shakes his head. He can’t think of a way to reassure you. “You think it was nothin’?”

“Well,” you glance around your intruder-less apartment. Like it’s all the damning evidence you need. “It was. I shouldn’t have called.”

Joel curls a gentle finger beneath your chin and tips your face up, making an effort to have his voice as gentle as he possibly can. Like you’re that deer again, the one that’s familiar with him and yet still wary, still watchful. “You all right with that? Comin’ home with me?” You reluctantly lift your eyes to his and give a mute nod. “You don’t have to.” 

“I’m sorry,” you burst out again, soft eyes fringed with worry. “I—”

“Hey.” Joel doesn’t let you look away from him, smoothes his thumb against your chin. Your skin is soft there, and you don’t try to pull away again. “I always want you to call on me. For anythin’. It wasn’t nothin’. I’m glad you called me.”

You blink at the sincerity in his voice. Some of the tension around you fades. “I ain’t upset with you,” he says, just so you’re both clear. 

You pull your face away from his hand, and he knows your skin feels stretched too thin, tight and uncomfortable, because you scrub at it again with your hand. 

Joel lets his hand drop to the space between you. “Stay with me tonight, darlin’.” he pleads, not sure he’ll be able to make the drive home if you say no. “In the mornin’ we’ll come back here, see if anything is missin’, and I’ll change the locks.” 

You shake your head. “It’s fine, Joel,” you try again. “It’s okay. I’m safe here.” 

But that isn’t good enough. He needs to know you’re okay and he can’t do that if you’re in this damn apartment alone with locks he no longer has any kind of faith in. 

He doesn’t want to try touching you again, not when you’re fidgeting and anxious and pulling away. Guilt ties knots around his lungs when he thinks of you flinching, how often he’s touched you without thought tonight. “Look at me,” he says instead. “Look at me, baby.” 

You lift your eyes to his, your gaze hooking into his, desperation he can’t place lingering in your expression. “I’m proud of you, for callin’ on me. But I won’t rest knowin’ you’re here alone.”

You frown. “Proud?” This time, you reach for him. 

Your hand is warm and soft, the brush of your fingers against his palm like homecoming. “Yeah.” And then, again, “I’m not mad. You did good.” 

He can’t tell if you believe him, but you agree to stay with him anyway. 

You’ve been to Joel’s house more than a few times and each time, it’s more familiar than the last. 

Joel’s touch is on everything there. His girls’ lives are fingerprinted on every surface, his life and his family pressed into each fold of the house. The walls sigh with memories that have been collected and transported from Austin, wrapped in tissue paper and delicately given a place to live. Somehow, it always smells like sage has always just been burned.

There are a pair of sheep and a goat that command the acres of land around the ranch. “I’d like a couple horses,” he’d said the first time he brought you over and showed you around, months before. A couple weeks had passed since you’d had breakfast with him and his girls for the first time, and you were already dangerously attached to him. “But that’s money and time I don’t have.”  

“You should get chickens,” you’d said, petting one of the goats through the wooden fence, squinting at him through autumn sunshine. 

“Chickens?”

“Mhm. For eggs. Cost less money than horses and there’s nothing like fresh eggs.” 

Joel had only looked consideringly out over the field. “Chickens for horses,” he’d laughed a little, the sound dry and pleasant, like he found you a peculiar kind of amusing. “There’s an idea.”  

The driveway is long, the world far away. Late autumn air drifts in the truck’s open windows, warm with dry heat. The fingers of bare trees reach toward the sky, skeletal and thin, clenched around the outline of the moon. 

The ranch always feels like a home, like a refuge, and in the night it seems like a fortress. He parks the truck beneath a leafless oak and kills the engine. You listen to it pop as it cools in the darkness. 

Lightning bugs careen through the air, the low sounds of crickets and cicadas cascading on the breeze. “C’mon,” Joel’s voice is crinkled, washed in the gentle, pastel colored tones you know. “Let’s get you inside.” 

Joel takes your bag from your hands and meets you on your side of the truck before you even have the door fully open, his hand pressed to your spine. You fight the urge to lean away, an anxiousness thrumming under your skin that isn’t familiar when it comes to Joel’s touch. 

As you cross the driveway to his front porch you spot something through the dark, a new structure near the sheep’s fence. “Are you building something?”

He turns to where you’re looking. “Chicken coop,” he mumbles. 

“You’re getting chickens?” You ask, surprised. 

“Told me to, didn’t ya?”

You suppose you did, though you didn’t know he’d actually taken your suggestion to heart.

But he sounds annoyed again, so you let it go, let him push you ahead of him toward the house. Joel’s front door, unlike your own, opens without complaint. 

His keys rattle as he sits them on the table inside the door. The living room light blinks on, a warm yellow that contrasts against the lightening blue sky beyond the front windows. Guilt swirls in your belly again. It’s so late that it’s now early. 

If you weren’t so stupid, if you weren’t so useless—

The only thing you can be grateful for is that it’s a Sunday and Joel doesn’t have to rush to the studio after being awake all night. 

A new, shame laden thought blooms, infects—maybe he felt he had no choice but to heed your call. Because you’re useless. 

“This way,” Joel grumbles lowly in your ear, his hand on your hip, pushing you through the living room gently but forcefully, like he’s herding a particularly stubborn sheep. 

You step away from his hand, and this time Joel notices immediately and drops his hand. “That’s okay,” you assure him. “I remember where the bathroom is.”

“You all right?” He asks. “I know you’re probably—”

“I know you said you aren’t angry,” you interrupt, fidgeting with your fingers. “But I don’t want you to feel like you have to do things for me. You could have said no. You could have told me to figure it out.” 

He stares at you, confusion pulling at the lines in his face. You have to lock down the urge to reach up and trace the delicate pattern of crow’s feet beside his eyes. “I didn’t want to say no.” 

You blink, something warm worming its way into your heart, replacing the dread that had curled there like a snake, sharp with venom, waiting to strike. “You didn’t?” 

“Sweetheart,” he says, extending his hand to you but not touching you. “I’d do it every night if I had to, if it meant you were safe. You don’t have to figure it out. Not alone, anyhow.” 

“Well,” you say gently. “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to every night.” Then, before you can help yourself, you continue, “I know you said you weren’t, but you just. . .you sounded angry.” You stop and think about leaving it at that but he would never understand you if you left him to guess. You want to be honest with him besides. You want him to trust you. “And I. . .my ex he—well, he would have been upset. He would have told me to figure it out.” 

You fold your hand into his, still outstretched to you. The pads of his fingers are rough and familiar beneath yours. “I ain’t him,” he reminds you. 

“I know. But it’s hard to remember, sometimes.” You take a long breath. “I always had to get ahead of it, y’know? Because I was always in the wrong. It was somehow always my fault.” 

Joel watches you, his eyes knowing in a way you can’t decipher. He nods and instead of answering, he holds out your bag. “C’mon,” he says, voice soft, like the brush of wings. “Been a long night.” 

When you’ve washed your face and changed your clothes and convinced yourself that Joel was telling the truth and that he would not mind seeing you in your pajamas—you trek back through the house to find him in the kitchen. 

He’s sitting at the dining table, covered in Sarah’s textbooks from the previous semester and photo albums and mail, a bowl of fruit and a jar of honey, art supplies and the tiniest carving of a deer you’ve ever seen. You pause and let your bag fall to the floor before slowly approaching. 

Joel’s shoulders are loose and soft, one hand relaxed and open on the table, the other curled around a pencil as he sketches in an open leather bound book. 

He turns and closes the book before you can peer over his shoulder and see what it is he’s working on. “Hey,” he says, the cut of his voice back to what you know. It alights on you in a warm glow, chases the fog of worry from your mind. “You all right?” 

It feels like the thousandth time he’s asked you. 

“I promise I’m fine, Joel,” you assure, pressing one hand to the space between his shoulder blades. He leans back into your touch almost immediately, the tendon in his neck loosening. You rub your thumb slowly against his skin. Thick muscle flexes and releases beneath your hand. “Really.” 

“It’s okay,” he says, glancing up at you. “If you’re shaken up.” 

You pause and tilt your head at him. “Do you want me to be?” You ask, finally pushing that errant lock of his hair back down and into place. 

“No,” he answers immediately. He stares up at you with big, sincere eyes. Your gaze flicks across his face, down to his mouth, and not for the first time, you find yourself wishing he’d kiss you. 

Just like each Sunday morning spent on his porch, just like all those times he pointed wildlife out to you, his shoulder pressed into yours, his face close to yours when you turned to smile at him. 

“Are you shaken up?” You ask, refocusing on the softness of his gaze. 

Joel shifts in his seat and then reaches out to draw the chair next to him out. You let your hand fall from his back and fold yourself into the space next to him, wishing he’d tuck you into his side. 

He doesn’t, because he’s Joel. Instead, he lays his hand on the table and lets you come to him, just like he always does, just like he always has. 

A few weeks before, when Joel was driving you back to town, you’d seen a deer on the side of the road. She was beautiful with big, dark eyes and a smooth tawny coat. You’d pointed her out, watched the flick and twitch of her alert ears. 

You weren’t sure you’d ever seen such a pretty animal before. And then, behind her, two spotted deer, smaller, clearly younger, but no longer fawns, had appeared.  

Joel, to your surprise, pulled over. He told you to stay put and then approached them slowly, so he could usher them back into the woods rather than spook them into the road. He hadn’t said anything to you about it and you hadn’t asked, but the act had stuck with you. 

Now, his hand there on the table, you’re reminded of that moment. You’re reminded of all the moments like this one, where he patiently waited for you to come closer. 

You reach out and fold your fingers through his. “Yeah, I was,” he admits and for a long while he doesn’t say anything else. You aren’t really expecting him to. 

The light in the kitchen is warm and muted, a cold blue morning light beginning to grow on the other side of the blinds. There are pictures of his girls all along the wall beside the door that leads to the back deck. 

Sarah and Ellie in high school graduation gowns and caps, Ellie bent over someone’s shoulder as she tattooed, hair obscuring her face and theirs, Sarah as a baby in Joel’s arms, Ellie as a gap-toothed child, tongue poking out of her mouth, Tommy and Joel with their arms around each other, fishing poles leaning against the truck behind them. 

Joel is only in a couple of the pictures, the space on the wall reserved for the people he loved and not himself. You squint closer. “Joel,” you say, a spike of laughter in your voice. “Is that you? Did Ellie tattoo you?” 

“Yep,” he says with a shrug. “Needed the practice.” 

“I didn’t know,” you turn back to him and tighten your grip on his hand. You smile. “How many tattoos do you have that I’ve never gotten to see?”

His mouth twitches, the ghost of a smile. “Guess,” he says, throwing your challenge from months ago back at you. 

You roll your eyes and don’t take the bait. Instead you say, “It’s okay, you know? That you were shaken up. That’s okay. I’m okay.”

He watches you for a long moment before his eyes drop, and he watches your hands instead. His voice is carefully casual and even when he asks, “How long did you stay with him? After the tattoo?” 

There’s nothing accusatory in his voice and it takes you a moment to realize Joel is asking about the tattoo on your shoulder, the one your ex permanently marked you with. 

He’s asking about the Pandora’s box of your body, the cavalcade of emotions and fears that lived inside you. 

You expected anger, to be screamed at for something out of your control, to be faulted for someone else compromising your safety, to be blamed for asking for help and wanting someone else to take care of you. 

“The tattoo. . .” you trail off and swallow back the uncomfortable feeling that lodges itself in the back of your throat. “It was the last straw.” You look away. “I just didn’t realize it at the time. I thought all the other stuff—I thought it was my fault. It doesn’t make sense while it’s happening to you, I guess. You pretend it’s normal because sometimes things are fine and good. I was just stupid enough to wait until after he left me with something permanent to realize things were so bad.” 

Joel doesn’t say anything for a minute but when he pulls his hand away from yours, your belly swoops painfully, a knot forming in your chest. 

It’s a lot. 

Your issues with touch, the relationship trauma you haven’t examined but locked away to burst to the surface while someone was trying to help you. The doubt that he even really wanted to help you, because who would?

But then he says, “It ain’t permanent. Look here.” He tips your chin up with a delicate tap. 

You turn and watch him leaf through the leather bound book. He pulls out a sketch and hands it to you. The paper is thick, the edges of it rough and torn. You don’t say anything, not really sure what you’re looking at. The design is beautiful, in the same style as the tattoo on your forearm. 

It’s so clearly for you specifically that it makes your heart cinch painfully tight. 

“It’s a—we can change it however y’want. It’s a design for a cover-up,” he plucks the page from your fingers and turns it. “See here, there underneath is the original, best as I could remember it anyway.” It’s a coverup of the ugly fucking tattoo on your shoulder, the reminder, the painful, itchy grossness. 

You stare at it, unable to form words, lips moving soundlessly as you take the page back, looking more closely at the details, at the clever ways he’d thought of incorporating the existing lines. He doesn’t say anything, not even when you turn and throw your arms around his neck, squeezing tight until his arms curl around your waist. “He doesn’t get to have you,” he says. 

One broad hand slides up your spine to cup the back of your neck. It makes you feel small. In a good way, in a way that makes you close your eyes to stave off the tide rising in your chest. 

He’d done that the last time he held you, too. When you’d melted into him in your kitchen and told him you were nothing but work. He’d whispered things like it’s okay and good girl in your ear then. 

His fingers are warm and firm against your skin, rough and soft in all the right places. An ache forms between your ribs, juts up into your heart and splits you open.

“Thank you,” you say against his shoulder. “For everything.” 

“Ain’t nothin’ to thank me for,” he says, his chest rising and falling with each word, like a symphony against your own body. 

You bury your nose against his neck, let the pins and needles of touch fade away, replaced with the safety that Joel carried around with him like it cost him nothing. “I mean it,” you say quietly. 

“I know you do,” he replies. 

The morning light is golden now, bleeding in through the curtains in thin shafts, bars that cross you and Joel, still settled in his arms. It doesn’t feel wrong to relax against him, to let him rub your back slowly. 

It doesn’t hurt, and you realize you don’t expect it to. 

“You wanna sleep?” 

“Maybe for a little while.” 

You move out of his grasp, and then let him pull you along to his bedroom. 

Joel’s room is darker than the kitchen, and it's easy not to think too hard about what’s happening as you slide beneath the sheets next to him. 

It’s quiet, the whole world still and silent aside from the fan rotating slowly overhead.

You reach for him in the dark, curl up tight against his side. His arm slides around your back, tugs you that much closer. He’s still in his jeans but you don’t point that out because you don’t want him to move. 

“One of my tattoos,” he says against your temple, when you relax into the safe circle of his arms. “Is over my heart.” 

You contemplate that for a long time, trying to imagine what it might be. “A nice one? Or an Ellie apprenticing one?” 

He chuckles. “A nice one.” You expect him to ask about your tattoos, and you’re prepared to answer, but he says instead, “It’s been a long time, since I’ve done this.” 

Joel doesn’t specify what he means by this, whatever little thing has been growing between you. “Have someone in your bed?” You tease. 

He doesn’t answer, the silence heavy, almost melancholy. His hand slides up your back again, the fabric of your shirt teasing up. You tense when his fingers brush against your bare skin, warm and gentle. 

His hand moves away and tugs your shirt back down for you. You consider, maybe for the first time, Joel’s position. He’s only ever touched you freely, so needfully, the first and second times you’d been tattooed by him, and every day you’ve seen him since. 

He plays by your rules and you have to wonder what he needs. 

It’s been a long time, he’d said. He’s inched closer to you over a period of months, patience in spades wrapped around you like a safety net. 

You trust Joel, you realize. Maybe you’d known it before but it sinks into your skin in that moment, folds itself tightly inside your soul. You want to let him take something he needs. “It’s okay,” you find yourself saying. “You can. . .it’s okay.” 

He hesitates and you push one of his hands back to your waist. “I like it,” you assure him. 

He presses both hands beneath your shirt so they rest against the small of your back. The span of his hands are broad, splayed across your spine, over the ridges of your vertebrae. “Sure?” He asks, but his nose is pressed against your temple, his body loose and molded to yours. “My girl,” you think he says, so quiet it’s almost inaudible, the words pressed right against your forehead in a kiss. “Good girl.” 

It feels so nice, the intimacy without expectation of anything more, without feeling like something was wrong with you. It feels like the envelope of your heart may burst. 

You tuck yourself tighter into the crook of his arm, nose buried against his shoulder. He smells so strongly of himself there, the natural scent of his skin and sweat undercut only slightly by the faded smell of his soap. 

He sounds close to sleep, exhausted after the worrisome, anxiety fueled night you had accidentally caused him. “Joel?” He grunts so you know he’s listening, still awake. “My antler tattoo is on my ribs.”

“What?” His hands drift a bit higher. “Really?” 

“Mm.” 

So when his fingers trace over your bare skin, you close your eyes. The sensation is so nice. The earlier acrid wave of fear has passed and no needles stab at your skin. It tickles, it feels like wings against your ribs. 

Want flutters alive, in your belly, between your legs. 

His bedroom is warm and cast in faded, milky light. He shifts and pushes up the sleeve of his t-shirt, until the curve of his opposite shoulder and the expanse of skin beneath is bared to your eyes. “One of Ellie’s first,” he says. It’s a needless explanation, though you find the tiny outline of the dinosaur a little funny. 

When you reach across his chest and touch it, Joel twitches, like he isn’t expecting you to. His skin is soft there. “It suits you,” you say as he digs both his hands into your waist again. 

You trace your fingers over his chest and throat. You trace the line by his eyes and rake your fingers through his hair. 

He leans into your touch and you feel like the world rests in your palm. 

When he says, “I think I can feel yours.” You close your eyes and smile. It almost feels like he’s tracing the outline of it. 

“You can’t.” 

“I can,” he disagrees. “It’s real pretty.” 

You want to offer to show him yours in return, but sleep and safety pull you under. 

Joel’s room is empty when he wakes, and if it weren’t for the clear imprint of your body in the nest of sheets next to him, he’d think the previous night was a dream. 

He’d think the comfortable way you curled into him was a dream. 

He lies there, jeans cutting into his waist painfully, thinking about how easily you’d curled up next to him, how velvet soft your skin was. It makes him smile and he groans and rubs the heels of his hands into his eyes. “Just like a kid,” he huffs. You make him feel young, like this is the first time and he’s a better man than he is. 

But he’s starting to wonder if that’s what love is supposed to feel like. Off Balance and brand new and secure and like it had always been there and always would be, all at once. 

Joel gets up slowly, shoulder and knees and back smarting as he does. He feels the ghost of your head on his shoulder, an ache forming along his collarbone from the weight of it resting there. His fingers snag on the blanket you must have thrown over him in lieu of your body heat. 

He wonders where you’ve gotten to. Maybe you left, took an Uber back to town. 

Then, he hears it; commotion in his kitchen. 

And he remembers it’s a Sunday and that his girls have been visiting more often, ever since they figured you were around on most Sundays. That usually you stopped by with coffee and pie from Flu’s, and sat on the front porch with him. 

The noise is nice, better than waking to a silent house which he’d never gotten used to after Sarah and Ellie moved out.  

His girls and you, down the hallway, in the kitchen. There’s laughter, and then a shriek as something shatters on the floor, a flood of curses from Ellie that devolve into shushing and giggling. 

The smell of breakfast food cooking slips under the door as he changes. In the bathroom he slicks his hair back into place with wet fingers and thinks about your fingertips fluttering through his hair and tracing the crinkles by his eyes of their own accord. He brushes his teeth and thinks about how gently you’d laid your hand between his shoulder blades, how you let him sleep with his hands pressed inside your shirt, told him about your antler tattoo. . .

The antlers on your ribs, spearing up through the cage of your body. 

He wants to see it, trace it, wants to put his mouth against it. The urge to touch every inch of you siphons into his chest, the urge to curl you in close to him, to feel the plush curves of you against his side, in his hands. 

He wonders if you’d let him. He wants to earn it from you, coax you closer and closer, as slow as he has to. 

When he walks down the hall and passes into the living room and then the kitchen, he finds the three of you huddled around the breakfast table. Sarah’s head is lent against your shoulder and Ellie’s bicep presses into yours.

The three of you have your heads bent together, hungry eyes sliding over something on the table in front of you. 

“Mornin’,” he greets. 

You look up at him, doe eyes bright, crinkled at the corners, every doubt and fear from the night before washed away. “Morning, Joel.” 

“Girls,” he nods, passing by the table, beelining for the coffeepot. 

“We made breakfast,” Sarah says by way of a greeting. “How come you haven’t shown her all these designs?” 

He does a double take at the table, to find most of the contents of his notebook spread across the wood. 

Joel sighs hard through his nose and Ellie does have the grace to at least look sheepish, though it outs her as the instigator. “It’s not like you were ever gonna show her!” 

“Jesus,” he grumbles, not looking at you as he grabs a mug from the cabinet, a little embarrassed at the sheer amount of them. “Well, now I won’t get the chance to, will I?” 

As he pours coffee into his mug, Ellie gives a dramatic groan and Sarah says, “C’mon, dad, don’t be like that.” 

He turns to find all three of you staring at him, and he can’t really be all that upset when your mouth is twitching like you’re trying not to smile. “Come sit down,” you suggest, “and I’ll tell you which one my favorite is.” 

So, he gathers up a plate of eggs and bacon and toast and ignores the smirking of both his daughters, the knowingness in both their faces grating on him, and sits across from you.

He watches you page through design after design, months worth of work, all the way back to the beginning of summer when you’d first, finally, wandered into the studio. You push one across the table towards him, and then a couple more. 

“That’s just about all of ‘em,” he comments around a forkful of egg. 

Instead of responding to him, you turn to Sarah and say, “Maybe one day he’ll realize he’s a good artist.”

You insist on cleaning up after breakfast so Joel can have some time with his daughters. 

The light buzz of conversation seeps in from the living room. Occasionally Ellie’s voice rings out, more excitable and louder than Joel and Sarah’s. You can’t hear what they’re talking about and you don’t want to. 

A bit of guilt pools in your belly, a slight worry that Joel might be upset with you for letting his girls show you something they probably shouldn’t have. 

You hope he really had intended to eventually show them to you, to share with you the beautiful things he made, whether he thought of them like that or not. 

Joel’s home bursts with art, with craftsmanship and creativity, though he doesn’t believe you. He tells you the same things are true about your apartment and your silly little hobbies, and you suppose both of you have a little to learn in being as proud of yourselves as you are of each other. 

When you’re wiping down the counters, Ellie and Sarah pass through to gather their things and say goodbye. While Sarah gives you an unexpected hug that you make yourself hang on for, Ellie rifles through a cabinet, pilfering it for stray snacks.

“He isn’t mad you saw them,” Sarah says when she pulls back, mischievous glint in her eye.

Ellie and Sarah are the same kind of troublesome, you’ve come to realize. Sarah is just better at hiding it. “Oh yeah?” 

“He needs a little push sometimes,” she says delicately and with a shrug.  

“More like a huge kick in the ass,” Ellie says. “You should have heard him before he even met you! It was like you were some kind of ghost or something. But it was like that after he met you too.” Her voice pitches lower and gruffer in tone, “Ellie, you’re goin’ to spook her. Don’t say nothin’ —”

“Alright,” Joel says from the mouth of the kitchen. “That’s enough. Get your ass back to Austin.” 

You smile at Ellie, “You do a really good impression.” 

“Told you, dude!” She says as she slides past her dad, Sarah following right after. 

Joel just grunts and then calls after them, “Drive careful!” 

“Bye!” Twin voices call out before the front door slams closed. 

And then you’re alone with him, fingers still tangled in a dish towel. 

Joel’s eyes soften when he looks at you, and you’re reminded of his hands beneath your shirt, the iron hot touch of his body against yours. You’re reminded of the lancing burst of want that sparked inside you with him.

Only with him. 

Maybe because you knew he tried to understand, that he’d let you go when you needed it. 

You open your mouth, not sure what you’re going to say, when Joel steps forward and tugs the towel out of your hands. “Don’t suppose you’d come outside with me? I want to show you somethin’. See if you might help me with it.” 

“Sure,” you say.

Joel nods and when you brush your knuckles against his, he laces your fingers together. 

Outside the air is warm in a distinctly autumn way, with the scent of sun in the air muted, the swirling chatter of decaying leaves on the breeze, the earthy scent of hay and soil. 

You cross the porch with him and descend the steps to the yard. He leads you toward the chicken coop.

“When did you have time to build that? It’s new.” 

“Been workin’ on it for awhile now. Just had Tommy help me move it here from out back.”

“Oh?”

“Was supposed to be a surprise,” he grumbles. 

You lean into his arm, seeing your walk from the truck to the house in a different light. “Is that why you were cranky about me seeing it last night?” Joel starts to answer when you gasp and let go of him as two red-ish brown hens and a rooster round the corner of the coop. “Joel! You already got some?”

He mutters something about goddamn chickens showing me up behind you as you crouch to watch them on the other side of the fence. 

“I did,” he sighs. “Look here.” He opens the gate and ushers you through to the other side where a hatch opens in the coop. “Go on,” he says, gesturing for you to look. 

Two fuzz balls peer back at you from the depths when you peer into the hatch. “Chicks?” You say excitedly. 

“Chicks,” he agrees mildly. “You wanna hold one?” 

Without waiting for a response, he gently cups his hands around one of the yellow, fuzzed creatures and drags it out. 

And you get the very real pleasure of seeing Joel Miller standing there in the morning sunshine, holding a tiny chicken to his chest. You laugh, and he says, “What?” 

Nothing. 

Absolutely nothing. 

The chick is transferred to your hands from his, light and airy, like something incorporeal sitting in your palms, peeping softly. When you look at him, Joel’s face is relaxed. “What did you want me to help with?” 

He clears his throat and gestures to the coop. “Paintin’.” 

“Weren’t you a contractor?” You tease. “Shouldn’t you be able to paint it?” 

Joel rolls his eyes. “I mean somethin’ pretty. Like how you painted your table.” 

“Oh,” you murmur, something warm settling in your chest. “That’s nothing special.” 

“Mhm, just like how that painting of mine you like so much ain’t special either.”  

You roll your eyes and offer the baby chick back to him. “Okay, I get it. I’ll help you paint it.” Joel tucks the bird back into its home, the peeping fading when he closes the hatch. “Joel,” you reach for his wrist. “I’m sorry about seeing those sketches.” 

“You ever goin’ to stop apologizin’ to me for everything?” He asks, eyes alighting on you. 

“Well,” you continue. “I am. Especially if you never intended for me to see them.” 

He nods and squints into the sun. His boot scuffs against the ground. “I always intended you to see ‘em. They’re yours.” 

“They’re beautiful.” You step closer to him, the hens clucking around your ankles, and draw his fingers between yours. It’s quiet for a moment before you take another step. Being around Joel is like being safely shaded, like sleeping in a protected wood. “Thank you for coming when I called. You didn’t have to.”

“I did, honey,” he disagrees. “I’ll always come when you call. Even if you think it’s nothin’.” 

You nod and tip your chin up, watching his eyes. The sun makes the irises look honeyed. You glance away, swallowing down the words burgeoning behind your lips, all the things you want from him and want to say to him. 

He shifts. “I’m sure you got other things to get to. Let’s go take a look at your apartment—”

“Wait,” you tighten your hold on his hand. “Not everyone would do what you did. Not everyone would put up with me the way you have. My ex didn’t. He probably made me worse.” You’re so close to him you can feel the sink and rise of his chest, you can feel each deep breath like it's your own. “But you make me better, you make me safe. So just let me say thank you for once.” 

He shakes his head. “I won’t let you thank me for doin’ right by you,” he says, stubborn as a bull. “I know you need reminding. But you ain’t work to me. There’s nothin’ wrong with you. I haven’t been putting up with anything. I’d drive down there every damn night if I had to.” 

You tilt your cheek into his hand when he cups your jaw. Joel’s eyes are flicking over your face, his expression tense and needful, wanting. 

His eyes hook into you, intense and tawny, the breath is punched from your lungs. 

Never. 

You’ve never felt like this with anyone, like you could be stripped bear, like he could press his hands inside your chest and feel the slick beating of your heart in his palms and everything would still be okay. He’d catch you, he’d shield you, he’d figure out a way to mend you and help you, he’d look at your heart and put it back in your chest even if he wanted to keep it for himself. 

When he leans in and kisses you, it feels like fragments of your soul are being pieced back together. Shards of yourself you hadn’t even known were dust reform, shine brighter. 

He cradles you to him, the line of your body pressed against his. He’s muscled and soft and broad and so solid. He groans into your mouth, licks into you. There’s possession in the way he holds you, like you’re his and his and his and you always have been.

Joel tastes like coffee, because there’s nothing else he could have tasted like. 

He’s so familiar and safe, like sage burning against the night, like a soft place to land in all the ways a person could be. 

His other hand splays against your lower back, the tips of his fingers against the waist of your jeans. 

When you pull back, lungs aching for air, he presses his forehead against yours and closes his eyes. His jaw is clenched tight, a muscle jumps in his jaw, like he’s afraid. 

“I’m not that skittish,” you say. “I trust you, Joel.” 

He opens his eyes, swipes his thumb across your lips. He looks like a man who’s patient, steady hand has finally touched something delicate and rare. 

💞 Thank you for reading! Comments and feedback are so appreciated. 💞

#joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #tlou fanfiction #the last of us fanfiction #pedro pascal characters #joel miller #the last of us #pedro pascal #honeyed fic

[youaintnothinbuta]

“What flavour do you want?” “You.” — austin butler x reader

Summary: At the end of a dinner date, Austin decides he’d rather have you for dessert.

Pairing: Austin Butler x fem!reader

Word count: 1200

Warnings: smut, 18+, oral (f receiving), explicit, mature language. also warning this might be a little bit shit, I wrote this last year and never posted it :,)

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

You and Austin sat across from each other, on your date, him observing you as you considered the dessert menu.

“What are you thinking, Aus? We could get ice cream, what flavour do you want? Vanilla? Chocolate?” You asked, not lifting your eyes from the menu.

Austin smiled, it stretched perhaps a little too far as he leaned in to you and mumbled, “You.”

You laughed at his joke, “C’mon, what do you want for dessert?”

“You.” He repeated himself, his hand reaching out under the table to gently tap the inside of your knee.

Oh. OH. He wasn’t joking.

Your heart fluttered a little, realising he’d been sat there, watching you quietly, thinking about all the things he could be doing right now, all the things he wanted to be doing.

“Do you want to go?” You asked, shifting in your chair.

“Very much so.” Austin stood up, going to pay the bill. Coming back to your table, he picked up your coat off the back of your chair and draped it over your shoulders as you stood up.

The pair of you walked out the restaurant graciously, but inside your tummy was on fire, tingling with excitement, knowing what was soon going to unravel between you and him. The whole drive home Austin kept his fingertips pressed into your thigh, gripping onto you for dear life. Austin was starving for you, ready to devour you the second he got a chance. He always gave you good head, he loved it, loved making sure you felt good, but when he got himself worked up the way he had, wanting to eat you the way he did, it was always an extra intense experience.

“Come on, baby, bedroom.” He placed a hand on your back, guiding you with him as he locked the door after bringing you inside. He didn’t have to tell you twice.

“Sit, Austin.” You pushed him gently towards the edge of the bed. He nodded and took a seat, watching you with hungry eyes. You dropped your coat on the floor and lifted one of your feet up on his knee, asking him to undo the buckle of your heels. He did just that, pushing your foot down and bringing your other one up to do the same.

You stood in front of him, each of his hands finding your thighs, running his fingers up and down the back of them, tickling you slightly.

“Let me at it, darlin’.” He cooed, pulling you closer to him. You smiled, bringing his hand under your dress, to the waistband of your underwear. He pushed them down around your hips and then to the floor, taking his middle finger and pressing into you slowly, before drawing a slit down towards your clit, making you shudder. He paused for a second, shutting his eyes to process how wet you were for him.

He brought his face to your body, gently kissing around your tummy. He placed his hands on your hips, guiding you to lay down. You did just that, he then got comfortable, laying between your legs. He continued his trail of kisses, up and down your inner thighs, all around your pussy, except for the place you needed him most.

“Austin.” You mumble his name, your way of asking him to move on with the teasing. He smiled, placing a final kiss directly on your clit, making you jump slightly.

“Mm, sensitive, baby?” He hummed.

You nodded.

“Good,” he kissed your core once again, “I always get the best orgasms from you like this.”

He wrapped his arms around each of your legs and pulled your body closer to him, resting his hands on your tummy. He collected your arousal on the tip of his tongue as he licked a long stripe up your slit, before letting your own fluid coat your clit, swirling around in slow circles, making your moaning begin. Your hands reached down, tangling your fingers in his blonde curls as you gently gripped and tugged on his hair. Your sudden desperation he takes as a cue that he’s dragged it out long enough, and he encompasses his lips around your clit, gently sucking on it. You let out the most strung-out, desperate moan, propping yourself up on your elbows to get a good look at what he was doing to you.

“I love the way you taste, darlin’.” He looked up at you, gave you a little grin and went back to sucking on your clit, making eye contact with you as often as he could. The visual of him, pleasing you like this, it’s almost enough to push you right over the edge, your arms started to shake with the weight of your body, making you drop back down onto the bed, continuing to whimper and whine as you watch Austin down the length of your body. He stopped sucking for a moment, bringing one of his hands off your stomach and using his thumb to lift the hood of your clit up, giving himself more surface area to suck on.

“Holy fuck, Austin.” You gasped, your pelvis smacking into his nose as your body jolted, your already sensitive clit on fire with the feeling he was giving you. Austin knew your body, knew the signs of your orgasm building. The specific whiny moans, the way you hips couldn’t hold still, the way you pressed up again him to get as much friction as you could, and the way your thighs started trembling.

“Oh, baby.” He mumbled against you.

“Austin, please, I’m so close.” You begged, your hands unable to choose whether they’d rather grip onto the bedsheets or his hair.

“I know, honey, come for me.” He encouraged you, his hands having to press harder and harder on your stomach to hold you still enough to keep his lips in contact with you.

You thrashed around, in his grip, your body unsure of what to do with all the pleasure he was giving you. With a loud cry, you felt that big release, your thighs clenched around his head, your orgasm pulled your hips upwards, lightly smacking Austin in the nose, making him smile as he continued to gently lick the rest of your orgasm out of you.

Once he was sure he’d gotten out of you all he could, he crawled up, laying his body over yours. The weight of his body on yours helped you calm down from your high, and he loved the feeling your body twitching underneath him, the feeling of your heart racing, right up against his.

“That’s my girl.” He kissed your lips, then your forehead, “such a good girl for me.”

Still wriggling around under him, you couldn’t manage anything but another moan, making him chuckle.

“That was good, huh, baby?” He smiled, looking down at you.

“Yeah.” You mumbled, your abs clenching against him with another twitch.

“Still coming for me? Oh, darling, that’s it, that’s the way.” He continued to talk you through your orgasm, holding gentle eye contact with you.

With a deep exhale, you finally felt your heart rate begin to return to normal and your muscles relax, “That was crazy, Austin.” You laughed.

He smiled, “told you I could get a good one.”

#austin butler elvis #austin butler x you #austin butler x y/n #austin butler x reader #austin butler smut #austin butler imagine #austin butler fanfiction #austin butler #yn #yn x austin butler #reader x austin butler #austin elvis imagine #austin!elvis x y/n #austin x reader #austinbutler #austin x yn

[mochinomnoms]

Hi! I saw your hanahaki flower event and got interested by it. I was wondering if you can do prompt #18 with azul and a gender neutral reader please?

azul ashengrotto x gn!reader [tags] – fluff, slight angst, miscommunication [wc} – 4,442 prompt 18: “Is this normal here?” “Only for the emotionally unavailable folk.” “Ah, so it is.” note - ending is a bit weak cause it got a bit long. anyways i love my octomer still firmly believe azul deserves to get bitches and eat good food a floral inconvenience

Lavender: while best known for its herbal properties, lavender can also symbolize devotion to a person. You should give lavender to a person you see as pure and virtuous. 

You stared at the array of purple colored drinks, sweets, and other treats laid out on the table in front of you. 

To your left, several plates of candied lavender, a slice of honey lavender cake, and a grape lavender sorbet begged for your attention. On your right, an iced lavender vanilla latte, lavender lemonade, and a lavender spritzer looked ideal to quench your thirst. In the middle, directly in front of you, was the latest dish you were asked to taste test. 

A beautiful Swiss chard, candied beet and goat cheese salad tossed in a honey-lavender dressing made your mouth water as the Mostro Lounge manager himself sat at his desk, watching you on the two-seater couch.  

“Well? Go on. I made them all myself.” Azul gestured to the salad with a smug smirk, clearly pleased at your excitement. “Time is of the essence, the spring menu is due to release next week.”

 “Oh! Yeah, right.” 

You picked up a fork and pierced a beet and chard, generously covered in the dressing and goat cheese. Bringing the food up to your mouth, Azul raised his brows tentatively, watching as you opened wide, and just before you took a bite—

“Are you sure Jade didn’t put anything in this—”

“I promise, I made this all myself.”

“Okay.” You opened your mouth and raised your fork again…before bringing it down again. 

“You sure—”

“Positive! Just. Eat. It.” Azul sighed exasperatedly. “I beg—and I don’t beg.”

“Okay! Okay, okay, okay.” You giggled, finally taking a bite of the salad. 

A burst of sweet, woodsy and fresh flavor covered your tongue. Pleasant, succulent, and slightly sticky, you hummed in delight at the taste of the salad and dressing. You smiled at Azul, who rested his chin on his clasped hands. You couldn’t see his mouth from behind his hands, but you think he was smiling back at you. 

“Azul! This tastes wonderful! Even better than the candies and tarts, oh my gosh!” You gushed as you took another bite of the salad, oblivious to the soft, periwinkle blush on the octomer’s cheeks. 

“Try it with the lemonade, it pairs well.”

Nodding your head, you reached over to take a sip of the drink, a sprig of lavender embellishing the top. Humming again from the pleasant tang of the lemon and sweetness of the flower, you beamed at Azul. 

“You’re so right! And with all the lavender as garnishes, it’s definitely screaming springtime!” 

Whipping out your phone, you started to text, talking as you did. “It’s definitely gonna be a hit on Magicam, I bet I can get Cater to come and—”

“No! Uh,” Azul raised his voice, startling you, before clearing his throat and continuing, “you need to try the rest first!”

“Oh, for sure, but Cater can probably give you free advertising or something—”

In a small panic, seeing the chattery ginger’s profile and your thumb hovering over the DM button, Azul quickly rushed to you. He reached over to swipe the phone out of your hands while simultaneously shoving a spoonful of the grape lavender sorbet. 

“Nonsense! I can handle my own advertising!” Azul chuckled nervously, “Now tell me, how does that one taste? Refreshing, yes?”

You choked on cold sweetness, a brief knock at the door drawing both of your attention as the door opened before you could respond. 

Jade entered the Azul’s office, pausing at the scene before him. Azul hovering, practically on top, of you with a silver spoon shoved into your mouth. Jade blinked once before giving you both a small smile, tilting his head. 

“I apologize, I didn’t mean to intrude on such a scene, I’ll come back later—”

“Don’t imply anything, Jade!” Azul briskly added some distance between you two, smoothing his ruffled suit. 

You on the other hand, spoon now hanging freely from your mouth, gave Jade a wave and gave him a muffled, “Hi Jade, the sorbets good.”

Jade chuckled, covering his mouth with his hand.

“Is it? How wonderful, Azul’s been working particularly hard to make sure everything was to your liking—”

Azul cleared his throat, giving Jade a less than amused glare.

“What is it, Jade?” He sighed, adjusting his glasses. “You know I was to not be interrupted for the next hour.”

Jade bowed his head, still smiling as he apologized. 

“Pardon my interruption, but it has actually been an hour and a half, and your next appointment is here.” 

“What?” Azul looked at the wall clock with a confused expression, groaning as he saw the minute mark was indeed showing it was half past 3. 

“Let my appointment know that I will be with them shortly, my dear?” Azul gave you an apologetic smile, bringing out a handkerchief from his vest and offering it to you. 

“Here, I’m sorry to cut our time so abruptly. You still owe me your commentary on the free dishes, so make sure to leave your Saturday afternoon open.”

Rolling your eyes, you wiped your lips as you snarkily replied, “I owe you? Didn’t you ask me for my input on the dishes?” 

“The free dishes, yes. Does 5 pm sound good?”

You hummed in affirmation, handing back the lilac fabric which Azul accepted. A sound of surprise left you as Azul dabbed the corner of your mouth, where a bit of the sorbet still remained. 

The octomer wasn’t known for casual touches, rather he seemed adverse to them. It surprised you how easily those brush of hands and bodies leaning closer to each other came despite this. You suppose it just came naturally after months of study ‘dates’, shared lounge shifts, and late night talks.  

Avoiding eye contact, Azul tenderly grabbed your hand and placed the handkerchief back in your hand. His hands clasped around your own, making your fingers grasp the fabric before pushing it to your chest. 

“Keep it for now, it’s dirty anyways.” Azul muttered, snatching his hands back as if you’d burned him. “You can return it cleaned this weekend.” 

Nodding your head, you chose to ignore the sudden shift in mood, though it hurt your chest. Instead, you gave Azul a warm smile as he turned his back to you as he cleaned.

“Mkay…I’ll see you later, Azul. Byeee~” You wagged your fingers to the still turned Azul, though you could see the tips of his ears turn light purple. Your eyes stayed on his form until Jade closed the door, in which you followed the teal-haired man out of the VIP halls to the rest of the lounge. 

Following Jade through the corridors, you mused out loud, “I wonder if he knows…”

“Knows what, Prefect?”

You jumped slightly, startled as you remembered that you weren’t alone.’

“Fuck! I forgot you were here, you’re so quiet Jade, what the hell?”

Jade chuckled, looking down at you as he slowed his pace to walk side by side. “I apologize, but I was simply asking for clarification, who knows what?”

It took you a moment to process that you’d been speaking out loud, exclaiming, “Oh! Sorry I was just wondering if Azul knew that lavender’s my favorite flower. Yaknow, cause of all the lavender flavored stuff…”

You shrugged, aware of the mischievous glimmer in the golden eye studying your form. 

“Probably not though, it’s a popular spring flavor. Not gonna complain about a coincidence though!” 

Jade hummed, “Yes, a very pleasant coincidence.”

The rest of the walk was pleasant and relatively quiet as you filled the silence by humming a tune Azul had taught you for musicology. You arrived shortly to the lounge, waving at Floyd through the kitchen door window. Floyd waved enthusiastically back, ladle in hand. 

Before you could walk off to the exit, Jade grabbed your shoulder, leaning down to ask, “Prefect, would you like to meet me in the library? My shift will end soon, and I’ll be studying for a botany exam. I’d enjoy the company.”

You shrugged and nodded. “Sure, Cater’s gonna meet me and drop off Grim there in a bit anyways.”

“Wonderful, I’ll see you shortly!” Jade waved you off, turning back to the host stand as you left the lounge to the Octavinelle entrance. 

A pass through the mirror and a short walk, you soon found yourself at the entrance to the library. There you saw the familiar head of ginger cradling a sleeping Grim in his arms!

“Cater!” you whisper shouted, grinning and waving your hand excitedly. 

“Hey babes!” Cater greeted you, giving you a soft smile and wink. “How’d the date go? Gimme all the deets!”

You scoffed, scratching between Grim’s ears as the little familiar sleepily mumbled, “Wasn’t a date, I was taste testing for Azul.”

“Uh-huh, just a private taste-testing between you and the Octavinelle housewarden?” Cater cooed, handing you Grim. “Then why’d you have me take Grimmy and get him all stuffed and tuckered out at the unbirthday party, hmm?” 

“He said he made it specifically for me to taste! Grim would’ve eaten it all otherwise…” you pouted, squinting at Cater as he shrugged and gave you a cheeky grin. 

“Whatever you say babe, but like, Azul is super infamously known to never give out gifts without expecting something in return.”

“He is getting something!” You huffed as the two of you entered into the library, following your upperclassman as he plucked books for your alchemy class and he for potion making. 

“He’s getting my valuable input before announcing his spring menu!”

Cater gave you another wink before drawling, “Sureeeee, whatevs you say babe! Just don't be surprised by the wedding bells in the near future, I better be the man of honor!”

You two bickered for a bit longer, you more so than Cater, who was content teasing you. Once you both had grabbed the materials needed for class, you searched for a table to get settled before Grim eventually woke back up and begged to get dinner. 

 A familiar shade of teal caught your eye as you remembered Jade’s invitation to study. 

“Ah! I forgot I was gonna meet Jade and study with him!” You waved at Cater, who followed suite, walking over to the eelmer. “Text me later, I’ll try and see if I can’t convince Azul to let you get exclusive pics of the spring menu!”

“Kayyyy, I’m sure you’ll convince your little boyfriend easily enough with a few smooches.” Adding insult to injury, Cater blew you a kiss. “Just pucker them up and boys will melt like putty, trust me I know!”

Rolling your eyes, you ignored your friend’s giggles in favor of greeting Jade with a quiet hello. 

“Hey Jade, how’s the studying going?”

Yellow and olive eyes met your own as Jade smiled back, nodding his head politely. “Well. I finished my own work a while ago, so I’ve been browsing some journals on magical flora and diseases.”

Jade gestured to the array of books on the table. Sure enough, the books were labeled as magical pharmaceuticals and botany. You settled Grim on one of the spare chairs and placed your own books on a spare spot on the table. As Jade read a page on the medical benefits of a tentacle looking mushroom, you peered curiously at the other books. 

You read the page of one of the books Jade had out, labeled ‘hanahaki’. 

“What’s this?”

“Hmm? Oh.” Jade gave you a soft smile, though his eyes glimmered with mischief. 

“That. I was simply researching it as a favor for a friend.”

“A favor? From you? Riiight.”

Jade pouted, giving you a sad look. “Why do you doubt my kind-hearted nature?” He continued giving you faux sniffles and wiping the corner of his eyes. When you first started hanging around him and his brother, it took you a while to figure out that Jade liked to tease your soft-hearted nature. He said it was to toughen you up for life in the cold, merciless waters under the sea that you’d eventually call home.

Whatever that means.  

“Am I not allowed to simply do something out of the kindness of my heart?”

You stuck your tongue out before replying, “Are you doing this out of the ‘kindness’ of your heart, or cause you want something out of it?”

“Hmm, both?”

Jade winked as you stifled a giggle. 

“Sure, both are good…who’s it for anyways?”

Jade held a finger up to his mouth. A secret that he was not privy to share. Despite you leaning in with an expectant look, Jade remained silent, giving you a closed eye smile. Shrugging you looked at the page the book was open to. 

“Flower sickness?”

“Yes, a gift from the Flower Bride, it causes the afflicted’s romantic feelings to physically manifest into their beloved’s favorite flora. Typically through flu-like symptoms.”

You winced as you reached up to rub your throat. “Like, coughing up roses? Sounds like a pain.”

“It can be, most find it inconvenient, as it tends to trouble those that repress their feelings. Especially those that would rather deny or remain oblivious to them.”

“Is it normal here?” 

Jade pursed his lips, looking as if he was in deep thought before responding, “Only for the emotionally unavailable sort.”

Snapping a finger at him you cheekily replied, “So it is then?”

The two of you shared a laugh before resuming your browsing, Jade now leaning over to read the article with you, thumbing the pages as you read out loud.

“Most recognized symptoms include coughing petals, flowers, and even bouquets in the occurrence of strong feelings. However, sneezing the previously mentioned symptoms is also common.”

“Ah, here.” Jade slid his finger along the paragraph below. “More severe cases can include the patient sprouting flora from their pores, ears, and hair follicles. How interesting.”

You clicked your tongue. “Sounds annoying, ooh wait! ‘Common Flora’!”

Listing off the flowers from the second page, you were blissfully unaware of the entertained expression on the twin’s face. 

“Let’s see, roses, makes sense. Orchids, gardenias, oh! Even lavenderrrrrrr…“

 I was just wondering if Azul knew that lavender’s my favorite flower.

Azul is super infamously known to never give out gifts without expecting something in return.

I made them all myself.

You drew out the last syllable, eyes hyper focused on the word printed before you as you processed your thoughts like a factory conveyor belt. Slowly turning your head to stare at the teal-haired man next to you, Jade simply kept his small, polite smile as he stared right back. 

“...Jade?” You tilted your head. 

“Prefect?” Jade did the same. 

“Where’s Azul been getting all the lavender?”

“Oh, well,” Jade paused, sifting through the book in favor of letting you stew in suspense. “A few weeks ago he started keeping large bouquets of them all over his room and office, though the latter were used for the dishes he made you.”

“You mean the ones for the new menu?” Maybe you were misinterpreting the whole thing. Yeah, no Azul wouldn’t waste a bunch of lounge supplies on you. Lavender is a popular spring flavor, and your a good friend that’s willing to give him the time of day to test his dishes out. Of course, you’re just being silly—

“New menu? You must be mistaken, we aren’t releasing a new menu anytime soon.” Jade rested his head on his palm, now giving you a rare grin. 

“He was quite stressed making the dishes to your liking, seeing as it’s quite a common octomer courting tact—oh!”

Jade covered his mouth in shock, feigning embarrassment as he continued, “I’m afraid I’ve said too much, you’ll keep that last bit between us, won’t you?” 

“…You’re an ass, you know that?”

“I’m aware, what are you going to do about it? I just ask that you’re gentle with me.”

Everyone within a 1-mile radius could hear your exhausted sigh of annoyance.

The soft glow of the aquarium walls under the bookshelves brought about an ethereal glow to the VIP Room. A soft, soothing blue glow that did very little to actually sooth your nerves. It paired well with the lavender colored walls. 

Speaking of lavender, a warm teapot of lavender Earl Grey was settled on the coffee table, along with containers of sugar and milk. To the right was a plate of iced lavender cookies, small purple buds garnishing the tops of the cookies. 

“Cookies, huh? I thought you were more of a cooker than baker, Azul?” 

Azul, who was writing down your feedback from the baked brie with lavender honey that you’d just had, hummed in response. 

“Yes my dear, I had Trey working for me after the last Camp Vargas, though he was kind enough to leave me a few handwritten recipes in exchange for ending his week-long employment with me early.” Azul explained, looking rather satisfied with himself. 

“I experimented with one of the recipes and was able to come up with the cookies before you.” His eyes met yours as he smirked and smugly asked, “They’re to your liking, yes? I made them with your sweet tooth in mind.”

There it was, Azul made these for you. Azul Ashengrotto, who didn’t give so easily without a cost, made them specifically for you in mind, though it seemed that that same train of thought didn’t process in his head. Based on his self-satisfied smirk, and the notes he was taking, Azul was happy that the apparent courting ritual was going well. 

“Yeah! I like them a lot, they go well with the tea. Um—” You paused, taking a deep breath to calm your nerves before continuing with the plan you and Cater came up. 

“Did you make the tea blend for me too? It tastes wonderful, I’d expect nothing less!”

Azul brightened, delighted at your attention and praise, and began to “subtly” brag, “Yes! Normally Jade makes the tea blends for the Lounge, but I personally selected this specific variety to pair well with the lavender.”

A fondness grew in your heart as you listened, not really processing though, to Azul describe the subtle differences between his tea blend and traditional ones.

“This specific blend would be most reminiscent of Early Grey Crème, which isn’t as widely known, but I thought would be better for you as it’s smoother.”

“Really?” You gasped, feigning innocence as you asked, “And you made it all yourself? You’re amazing, Azul!”

With a closed-eye smirk, Azul adjusted his glasses and nodded. “Yes, well with all my family’s experience in the food industry, it’s to be expected. But do continue to sing praises my dear, it’s much appreciated.”

You giggled, tilting your head as Azul resumed his note taking, it was no doubt he was recording your reactions and storing them for future use. The real question was whether to figure out the best way to bribe you with the promise of your favorite foods, or to ensure that his future beloved would have their own beloved treats when with him.

“It’s appreciate that you made this all for me in mind…which makes me think…Azul?”

“Yes?’

Azul was now focused on writing rather than on you. Taking another deep breath, you continued. 

“Your cooking for me reminds me of a common saying back home…that a way to one’s heart is through their stomach.”

Azul froze, the soft scratching of his fishbone pen suddenly silenced, from the corner of your eye, you could see Azul’s eyes widen and face go blank. 

“Is that something said here too?”

“It’s not a completely foreign phrase to me, so I’d say so.”

You hummed, plucking one of the iced cookies from the tray, sauntering over to the silver-haired man. Azul looked up at you, leaned back into his plush chair, lacing his fingers together as he waited for you to continue. 

“I bet, with your mother owning a restaurant and everything…though it has me thinking…”

Azul raised a brow as you nibbled on the cookie, while you allowed him to stew in suspense for a few seconds.

“You’ve never actually cooked at the lounge, have you? Sure you’ve tested out some recipes, making sure they come out to your satisfaction…but it’s always someone else doing the cooking for the customers.”

Taking a seat on the edge of the desk, glowing baby blue eyes met your own, making you wonder if his name was a deliberate choice or a coincidence.

“Yes…” Azul answered slowly, hesitantly really, as he tried to figure out your angle. “I’m a very busy person, and I haven’t got all day-”

“And yet, you cooked for me.”

Azul shut his mouth at that, normally plush lips thinning as his fair cheeks softly turned periwinkle. 

“Not only that, but you cooked for me using my favorite flower…tell me, my dear,” He audibly choked at the nickname, clenching and unclenching his hands into fists. “Just how did you know I love lavender?”

You leaned down, Azul’s eyes widening as the distance between you two becoming smaller. Sudden close contact grew a burning embarrassment in Azul, who leaned further into his chair until he no longer could. There was a visible panic in his eyes, which made you feel a bit bad for putting him in such a situation. 

Azul cleared his throat, composing himself and saving face as he looked at you with a stony expression. “I…have my sources.”

That wasn’t good, you didn’t need the octomer shutting you out to avoid even the slightest humiliation at the hands of a crush. 

“Sources? Like what? Sam? The botanical gardens?” You looked off to the side, noticing a vase with a few stems of lavender. “Like hanahaki?”

A screech accompanied Azul as he abruptly stood, pushing back the chair and stared at you with a frigid glare, lips thin and soft eyes now hardened. 

“I don’t appreciate this joke of yours. If you want to our time together making fun of me, I suggest we end it here.” 

Panic turned your blood ice cold as you tripped over your feet, now chasing Azul as he went for the door. 

“W-what? No, that’s not what—”

“I think it’s best you leave now,” Azul dodged your attempts to grab him, refusing to make eye contact. “I’ll show you out.”

“Please, Azul, I wasn’t making fun!” A ball was forming in your throat, making your voice tremble and breath stutter. 

As he turned the doorknob, door just cracking open, Azul turned to look at you only to falter as his face fell at the sight of the tears falling from your face. 

“A-are you crying?!” He shut the door close as he rushed over, hovering his hands over your frame. “Why are you crying—”

“Cause I thought you liked me! Jade said—well he didn’t actually say, he heavily implied—that you had hanahakiiii…” You drawled out the last bit of your sentence as Azul’s face turned purple, looking horrified as you finished your sentence. 

Azul stuttered out, “H-he implied w-what!? Damn that eel—ACK!” before heaving and gasping for breath. As he suddenly collapsed on his knees, you following suit in worry, Azul began making a choking sound. 

Though you couldn’t see his face, you could see the clumps of wet buds fall out of his mouth, covered in inky spit, eventually an entire bunch of lavender heaving out of him as well. 

“Auughhh…that—” Azul coughed again, looking up at you with a combination of ink and spit dripping from his mouth. “—was unbecoming of me, I’m sorry…wasn’t supposed to go like this.”

Reaching for your pocket, you took Azul’s handkerchief and gently grabbed his chin to look at you. Azul visibly relaxed as your wiped the mess from his lips, fingers moving to comb through his hair. Sighing as he slowly looped an arm around your waist, Azul ,.....

“I should’ve made Jade sign another NDA when I saw him snooping through my bedroom, should’ve known.” 

You let out a breathless chuckle, leaning into his grasp. “Yeah, probably. If it helps I shouldn’t have listened to Cater’s dating advice.”

“You what?!” Azul exclaimed, looking at you dubiously, “You asked Cater for advice?”

“He seemed like he knew what he was talking about!” You defended yourself, pouting. “He noticed that you were cooking for me, when you never do for anyone else.”

He sighed, rolling his head back to look up at the ceiling instead of your face. 

“As you said—which I’m assuming was one of the things Jade told you—preparing and providing food to our mates is a courting ritual for Cecaelians. I follow the same routine as my mother: create and test recipes, then pass along the instructions to my subordinates and ensure it’s top quality.” 

Azul continued, holding your hand as he stood, guiding you up with him. “We octofolk were shunned out of merfolk society for a longtime, even with the legends of the Sea Witch’s benevolence.”

Reaching for one of the cookies still on the table, Azul brought it up to your mouth, tapping it to your lips. 

“It shows that no matter our status, we can provide for the one we’ve devoted ourselves to.”

Bringing a thumb to your mouth, Azul softly pulled your lips apart to feed you. A fond, but embarrassed warmth flushed over you, a matching red blush on your cheeks to Azul’s periwinkle one. 

“That’s…sweet.” You smiled, taking the cookie from Azul’s hand, much to his surprise. “And really corny, especially for you.”

Azul clicked his tongue and rolled his eyes as you took a bite of the cookie. 

“I’m attempting to be genuine, and you’re calling me corny? How insulting!” Azul huffed, though he gave you a faint smile. “I hope you’re going to apologize.”

“Aww, poor Azul. Of course I can give you an apology, if you’ll accept it.”

He gave you a raised brow, confused but still smiling. “Of course, why wouldn’t I—”

A yelp escaped Azul’s lips as you pressed your own lips against his, smiling as you did. Azul sighed into your mouth, tasting the lavender and vanilla on your tongue while you smiled against his lips. His hands cradled your own, keeping you in place as Azul returned the affection with chaste kisses pressed all over your face, neck, and hands

“Wait—ah! Hehe~” You laughed as Azul’s kisses tickled you, weakly pushing him away as he moved to kiss the tops of your hands. “That tickles, stop!”

“Heh, come on now my dear.” Azul cooed, pulling you back in to wrap an arm around your waist, grabbing the cookie from your hands to feed it to you, which you accepted. 

“Let me keep all your affection to me, and mine to you. I am quite a greedy lover, you know?” 

#twst #twisted wonderland #twst x reader #twisted wonderland x reader #azul ashengrotto x reader #twst azul x reader #azul ashengrotto #twst azul #a floral inconvenience #abyssthing198

[shuadotcom]

Main Dish | HJS (M)

☐ Summary: When lunch ends up being inedible, Joshua has to pick something else to eat.

☐ Pairing: Joshua x Afab!Reader

☐ Genres & AUs: Smut, fluff, established relationship!au, absolutely porn without plot

☐ Rating: 18+ (MINORS & AGELESS BLOGS DNI. YOU WILL BE BLOCKED)

☐ Warnings: Profanity, cunnilingus, fingering, dirty talk, pet names (baby, baby girl, sweetheart, honey, good girl), overstimulation, multiple orgasms, squirting

☐ Words: 3.2k

☐ Note: This fic is brought to you by my lack of cooking skills and my insatiable need for Joshua. It was also written for @kpopsblackcreatorsociety Bon Voyage Bingo event! The bingo square/prompt for this fic is camping.

Thank you @horanghater for being my beta ily 🥰

☐ Net Tag: @kflixnet

“Please don’t go off, please don’t go off, please do-”

BEEEEEEP BEEEEEP BEEEEEEP

“Goddamnit!” Working as fast as possible, you grab the pan from the hot stove top, removing it from the heat. The blare of the smoke detector rings out through the apartment and you have to act quickly to open all the nearby windows, waving away the smoke in the air with the dish towel. 

Once the smoke mostly clears and the alarms have subsided, you survey the scene in front of you. Grumbling in frustration you eye the now burnt tofu on the stovetop and let out a disappointed sigh. You had just wanted to cook something fun and new for your boyfriend. He’s been camping with his friends for the past week and you figure he would appreciate a home-cooked meal but, as usually happens with you in the kitchen, it turned out to be a disaster. 

You weren’t a cook by any means, but you knew how to get by with very basic skills. Boiling eggs, making stove-top ramen, and using the air fryer slash toaster oven you had begged for on your last birthday. 

All of the essentials of cooking. 

Tonight, the plan was originally to try a new pan-fried tofu recipe you saw on TikTok because it looked yummy. Instead of looking like the wonderfully golden-fried nuggets that they were supposed to resemble, all that sits in the pan in front of you now are uneven little pieces of charcoal. 

Great. Wonderful. Amazing.

Standing in the middle of the kitchen, gnawing at a hangnail in distress, you didn’t even take notice of your boyfriend watching you from the entrance of the room, admiring how cute you looked in your little lounge clothes and apron. His entrance had been drowned out by the blaring of the smoke alarms.

“Don’t chew on your nails, honey, it’s not good for you.”

Joshua’s voice is much louder than the music you are playing from your phone on the counter and you nearly leap into the air when you hear him.

“Jesus, Shua! You scared the shit out of me!” Clutching your chest, you reach over and pause the sound from your phone.

He chuckles as he approaches you, wrapping his arms around your waist and drawing you in for a hug. 

“Sorry, baby. I couldn’t help it.” He apologizes, but the smirk on his face shows he’s not really that sorry.

Joshua places a kiss and your waiting lips and your annoyance at being jump-scared fades. He smells like outside and a little bit like sweat, but underneath that, he still has his usual warm, homey scent that belongs only to him.

You let him take your breath away a little while longer, arms wrapping around his neck to bring him closer. He rests his head against yours when you pull away, his eyes tired but still sparkling down at you.

“How was your guys' camping trip?”

“Well, Mingyu found a spider in his tent and tore the whole thing down trying to get out, Soonyoung got sunburnt and fell into the lake, and Vernon forgot his allergy medicine and spent all week sneezing.”

“So the usual shenanigans?”

With a chuckle, Joshua nods, looking you up and down. “Basically, but I’m having a much better time now that I’m back here with you.” He leans down to kiss your forehead and you still let yourself get flustered by his sweet words, even after three years together. “And what’s going on in here?” He asks when he finally pulls away, eyes looking over your head at the charred remains of your lunch.

“Nothing, just me fucking up in the kitchen again.” Pouting, you cross your arms, wincing as Joshua steps up to the counter, inspecting what’s remaining of the tofu.

“Ah baby, they don’t look that bad…” He uses the chopsticks you left nearby to poke at a piece, raising it to his face and sniffing it.

“Shua, don’t-” Before you can stop him, he pops it into his mouth, chewing extra slowly. Your boyfriend, always so sweet to you and considerate of your feelings, looks like he’s in physical pain as he crunches the food, his nose wrinkling with each shift of his jaw. With a sigh you walk over and grab a sheet of paper towel, holding it up to his mouth. “Spit it out.”

“It doesn’t taste terrible…” he mumbles between chews, eyebrows furrowing as he does.

“Joshua, just spit it out!” At your insistence he does, expression apologetic.

Joshua watches you take the rest of the tofu and throw it away, shoulders slumping in defeat. He moves across the kitchen to stand behind you, wrapping you in his arms. 

“Don’t be upset, baby. It’s just some tofu.”

“But I fucked up lunch for you! I just wanted to make you a homemade meal since you’ve been eating over a campfire all week.” Joshua coos at you, pulling you tighter against him.

“Aw, sweetheart, you didn’t have to do all this in the first place. I think we both know that you would’ve been better off ordering something. There’s a reason I do most of the cooking, remember?” He laughs, his tone teasing.

Gasping, you spin in his hold, round eyes staring up at him as you pout for what feels like the twentieth time tonight. “Joshie, are you saying I can’t cook?!”

Faltering, Joshua’s eyes dart back and forth, strategically planning his next words. 

“I - I didn’t mean that you can’t cook, Y/n. I just -”

“I’m kidding, Shua. Of course, I know I can’t cook.” He’s clearly relieved, rolling his eyes at your giggles. 

Joshua leans down to pepper your face with kisses, holding you close, ignoring your feeble attempt to escape his grasp.

“I guess it’s a good thing then that I wasn’t even thinking about what I’d eat for lunch.” He places a final kiss on your cheek before pulling back to gaze at you.

“You weren’t?”

“Of course not. How could I even begin to think about lunch when all I could think about was tasting you again?” Joshua smirks at you, laughing when you scoff, your turn to roll your eyes at him.

“How did I know you wouldn’t even be a little bit subtle about wanting to have sex as soon as you got back?” 

“Because you know how addicted I am to you and how much I think about you.” You and Joshua are chest to chest, his hands tracing your body, fingertips pressing lightly into your curves.

Joshua’s voice has already lowered an octave, eyes flickering to your lips. You’re in no way surprised at how quickly Joshua turned the situation from silly and domestic to horny, but you’re not bothered in the slightest, more than happy to fuck your boyfriend again. A week has been far too long of a time to go without Joshua’s cock inside of you.

“Oh, so you were thinking of me on your trip? Thought you’d be too busy grilling meat and playing games with the boys.” 

“Baby, I’m always thinking about you, but especially when we’re not together.” Joshua ducks down, his nose brushing yours. 

“And what about me were you thinking about exactly?” You whisper, holding your breath as you await his next words.

“Well, I was thinking all about how sweet your cunt is and how I couldn’t wait to come home and devour you.”

Somehow you hadn’t registered that Joshua walked you back until the counter pressed into your lower back, trapping you between it and Joshua’s firm body.

“Hmm…then I guess lunch is served whenever you’re ready to eat,” Tilting your head up, your lips brush against Joshua’s. You shift your leg forward, knee brushing against the crotch of his sweatpants. A grunt slips out of him when you make contact with his half-hard cock and he surges forward, lips meeting yours in a feverish kiss. 

Joshua’s soft lips move against yours, his hands cupping your face to keep you close. Your hands trail up Joshua’s thick arms, tracing every ridge and dip of muscle. You’ve never been shy about how much you enjoy the new gym rat era he and a few of his friends have entered, making sure to be very obvious about the way you appreciate the new muscle he’s worked on gaining. He also doesn’t hide just how much he loves how the bulkier version of him turns you on, your boyfriend flexing for you so the muscles tense and loosen a few times under your fingertips.

Those same strong arms move to hold your waist, holding onto you as he swallows every pant and tiny whine that you let out. Joshua’s tongue wraps around yours and sucks, the kiss descending into lewd territory as Joshua grinds against your thigh still wedged between his legs.

The kiss feels like it goes on forever, which is in no way a complaint. Joshua’s hands wander all over your body, hands skating down to grab at your bare thighs and up to your ass, grabbing a handful to bring your hips impossibly closer. It’s almost embarrassing how wet you are, feeling your cotton panties clinging to you with each shuffle of the fabric. 

Joshua seems to read your mind as he finally moves a hand under your apron and into the waistband of your shorts and panties, his finger grazing your pussy making you jolt and buck into his hand.

“Would you look at that? You’re fucking drenched just from my kisses?” To illustrate his point, he pulls his fingers from your shorts, holding the wet digits up to showcase your juices to you both.

“Fuck, yeah, I need you so badly. I missed you so much.”

Joshua hums, popping his fingers into his mouth, eyes closing as he sucks them clean, savoring your flavor. The scene is enough to have you rubbing your thighs together, easily recalling just how good his tongue feels when it’s on you.

“Mmm, I missed you too, baby. And speaking of, I’m starving, so I think I’m ready to eat now.”

Joshua plants his hands on your hips and turns you around so his front is pressed against your back, walking with you out of the kitchen and around to the island, leaving kisses on the back of your neck as you go. When you reach the side of the island that you usually sit to eat at, Joshua’s nimble fingers untie your apron and lift it over your head, tossing it to the floor. Your shorts and panties come next as he slides the fabric down your legs, letting them pool at your feet.

Your boyfriend makes a sound of appreciation at the sight of your bare ass, big hands squeezing your cheeks before landing a firm smack on one of them. He helps you up onto the island, sitting you near the edge. Joshua pulls up a stool in front of you, spreading your legs wide, and letting out a low whistle.

“Look at all of this, so messy and sloppy all for me.” Joshua leans forward and places kisses on the inside of your thighs, inhaling your scent as he does, small moans rumbling in his throat.

A few whimpers slip out of you with each kiss over your hot skin, Joshua’s breath hitting your core only serving to make you wetter. Joshua loves eating you out, always talking about how good you taste and how much he loves the way you smell when you’re dripping for him.

He doesn’t leave you waiting for long this time (another thing Joshua loves is to tease you, but he seems to want you bad enough to spare you this time) as his tongue finally licks at your clit, the muscle flattening and adding much-needed pressure. 

A squeal of Joshua’s name tumbles out of you as he licks a fat stripe from your hole to your clit - once, twice, three times, each go making you twitch underneath him. Your legs almost snap shut, but his firm grip keeps them open.

“Nuh-uh, keep your legs open, baby girl. I haven’t even started eating my meal.”

Your eyes stay trained on him as his hands grab the back of your thighs, pushing them toward you. You lie on your back in a more comfortable position, hands trembling as they hold onto the front of your shirt in anticipation.

“I’ll never get tired of eating you out, you know that? Never get tired of how fucking sweet you taste on my tongue.” To further his point, Joshua’s thick tongue slips into your pussy, lapping at your gummy walls, letting his nose brush against your clit.

“F-fuck!” Your hands dart down, fingers threading through his brunette strands, tugging at the root as he tongue fucks you on the kitchen island. 

Every grunt and groan that Joshua lets out is deep, deep enough that the vibrations can be felt throughout your whole body. You can’t help but thrash underneath him, loud obscene slurping sounds fill the room as he works. Joshua’s hands keep your thighs pinned down, preventing you from nearly falling off the counter while his face presses closer to your cunt. 

He eats you out like a man starved, a week without your pussy proving to be much too long away for him. The tip of his tongue is still buried inside of you, flicking at your walls at an almost impossible speed. 

Fire begins to quickly pool in the pit of your stomach, nails digging into Joshua’s scalp which only spurs him on more.

“Shua, b-baby so good!”

“Mmph?” You can’t quite hear what he says but it sounds like it has a questioning tilt at the end.

“‘M gonna cum!”

That must’ve been what he was getting at because he picks up the pace and moves his hold on you to the sides of your thighs and makes you wrap your legs around his head. Joshua uses this new angle to force you to rock your hips against his face, leaning into you so far that when you glance down, all you see is the top of his hair which you’re still holding onto for dear life. 

Rolling your hips you go with his movement, desperately riding his face. Joshua lets you, his tongue drilling into you, bringing you closer and closer to the edge.

When you do cum, you stiffen almost painfully as heat spreads through your body, your thighs squeezing around him like a vice, holding him in place. Your boyfriend happily continues lapping at your sensitive core, murmurs of praise accompanying his coos of delight.

“So fucking tasty,” Joshua sighs as he pulls back, finally taking in air through his mouth. He glances at you, watching your chest heave as you catch your breath. Without a second thought, with your hole still clenching around nothing, Joshua shoves one of his thick fingers into you, drawing a gasp out of you. 

“Shua!?”

He has the audacity to blink up at you, faux innocence on his face along with your juices still shining on the bottom half of his face.

“What? I want seconds.” He shrugs, adding a second finger which has you cursing, senses on overdrive. Joshua’s plush lips are back on your clit, sucking the nub into his mouth, ignoring the way your nails dig into his hair again, tugging on his soft locks. 

“Ngh, Josh-Joshua! Please!”

“Please what, baby?” He mumbles, lips still suckling on your clit, your legs quivering as they rest on his shoulders. His fingers have no trouble finding that soft squishy spot inside of you that has your eyes crossing, the squelching sound of your wetness ringing in your ears.

“I’m - I just…” You trail off when your boyfriend curls his fingers, the overstimulation derailing your train of thought as you feel another orgasm hurdling toward you. Joshua smirks up at you, loving the way he can literally watch as your brain short-circuits for him - because of him.

His lips go back to your clit, suctioning around the bud. His fingers delve into you faster, your velvety walls hugging his digits, coating them in more of your sticky arousal. Sweat beads at your hairline and tears prick your eyes as Joshua throws you into another orgasm, electricity coursing through your veins and a choked, desperate cry of Joshua’s name tumbling from your lips. 

“Yeah, just like that, good girl.” He purrs against your overworked pussy, slowly dragging his fingers out of you. You whimper at the loss, only for the sound to be replaced by a loud wail, Joshua’s slick fingers rubbing rough, frantic circles against your clit. 

“Shit! Fuck, Shua I’m - fuuuck!”

“Come on baby girl, one more. Make a mess all over the fucking counter.” The pads of his fingers drag against your clit, body arching as you flail your hands, scrambling across the marble of the counter looking for something to ground you.

The sensation borders on painful, the sensitivity too much to handle as the pleasure builds and your muscles spasm. When you cum this time, it knocks the wind out of you, your eyes rolling back, your mouth open in a silent scream. Joshua leans down, eyes watching with glee as you squirt all over his hand and arm, getting your mixture of arousal on his shirt. He even cranes his head down, mouth open to drink up the remaining spurts of your release.

He rubs lazy circles over your puffy clit, letting you ride out the rest of your orgasm until your hoarse voice begs him to stop and he does, but not before wiping up as much of your wetness as he can on his fingers and popping them into his mouth once again.

“Fucking hell, Shua!” You huff out when you’ve finally sucked enough air back into your lungs.

“What? I told you I was starving.” His cocky grin earns him a half-hearted kick to his shoulder using the minuscule amount of energy you have remaining. He catches your leg, placing a soft kiss on your ankle before he straightens up and sits back to admire your ruined state.

“Are you going to help me up or leave me here for the rest of the day?” 

“I should eat all of my meals in the kitchen, but I suppose I can help you down.” Joshua laughs at your half-hearted threat to kick him again and offers his hands to you. He helps you sit upright and slowly slides you off of the island. 

When you’re back on shaky feet, you move to pick your bottoms up, but he stops you by pulling you against him.

“Wh-”

“Oh, you don’t need those. I’m gonna order some lunch for us, but I need dessert before it gets here.” He presses his hips forward, his rock-hard dick pressing against your ass. Joshua once again envelops you in his warm embrace, lips skirting against the shell of your ear. “That okay with you, baby?”

Between the orgasms he pushed out of you only minutes ago and the dip in his voice, wetness collects between your legs again, pussy clenching at the thought of Joshua fucking you for real.

“That’s more than okay with me,” you rasp, clearing your throat. “I’m feeling pretty empty myself and am dying to be stuffed.”

#kbcsbonvoyage #svthub #kflixnet #wkcnet #kwritersworldnet #kbookshelf #k-labels #kvanity #joshua hong #hong jisoo #joshua x reader #joshua smut #seventeen x reader #seventeen smut #svt smut #joshua fanfic #seventeen fanfic #svt fanfic #joshua hong fic #joshua hong smut #joshua hong x reader

[alexander-arcturus-black-lupin]

Mileesss

They’re in the same highschool and have a crush on each other.

She was the second highest in her class, overachiever, but there was someone who was always above her. Miles Fucking Morales. She studied day and night but even then she'd get 99 while he'd get 100. And what really got her was the fact she never saw him study. It vexed her dearly. With his puffy hair, cute chuckle, glimmering eyes, sweet smile- no.

He was always either hanging out with his friends or sketching something in his book. You'd once once saw him with a blonde girl but that was the only girl he'd ever seemed to hang around with and she randomly stopped coming to school and he seemed sadder. Darker.

There was something about him she wanted to figure him out but he didn't even know her name. Even now they were in Math and she could help glancing across at him through her locks pretending to check the time on her phone. It hadn't moved a minute.

He was sketching. She wanted to ask him what he was sketching but couldn't find the words or the confidence. He looked so calm and at peace.

"And the answer is what? Mr. Morales," The teacher, Mr. Quinn had given her a little fright.

"3," he said, not even taking his eyes off his sketch.

"That's completely- wait what?" Mr. Quinn was shocked.

"The answer is 3, right y/n," You felt your stop. You looked at him, his eyes still on his sketch. You scanned the board quickly and nodded.

"Yeah it is," your ears were ringing. You've never heard him say your name before. It was beautiful.

"Good job Mr. Morales," The teacher went on with the lesson. After the class, you went to your locker which was a few rows from Miles'. You were so deep in thought you didn't notice when you bumped into Miles. Your books almosts spilling over.

"Oh hey sorr-” I look up to see Miles. “Miles, hi, sorry,” you try to walk around him but he stops you.

"Hey hold up, wanna hang after school? " Miles asks there's a sort of hope in his eyes, begging you say yes. You'd never seen that before.

"I- uh yeah sure."

So here you were standing in front of Miles house wondering how many times to knock. You raised your hand and hit it once and before you could hit it again the door swung open. Miles stood before you in a faded basketball jersey. There was a random afro comb in his hair, he was probably in the middle of coming his hair.

"Hi."

"Hey." he opens the door wider and ushers you in. "Do you like tacos? They're spicy."

"Yes please." you say as he hands you a plate, you realise how much his house smells like him and with the taco just added to it. Unbeknownst to you he was watching you eat. He liked how you weren't all careful and how you even asked for more, his mom was in the corner nodding her head.

You both played video games in his room, and you passed out later on Miles shoulder. When you woke up you were wrapped in a blanket, Miles' back to you. His headphones in, drawing something. You got out of the bed and giggled at how dorky he looks. the cool black boy in your class you made you blush in chemistry. You looked over his shoulder, met with a pen sketch of you! Your breathe on his neck brought him back and he turned.

"Hi-i"

"Hello." you say as you grab the book flipping through it. He tries to stop you but you get out of his grasp skimming through, you see sketches of that blond girl the name Gwen beneath them, above them or behind her with random spiderman stuff around her, you almost give him back the book till you reach the other half of the notebook which is just you. Smiling, laughing, mad, all of it.

"Miles…" you pause staring at yourself. "These are really good, you're so talented."

"Thanks, I- erm, you're a great er- muse and I- lik- admire er- yea I"

"It's getting a little dark. I should go…" Miles looks like he just died inside, for a second you lose your mind and kiss his cheek. "I had fun Morales, hope you're not letting me walk back alone."

"I'll take you home." you smile and follow him out of his room, outside it chilly. You fold your arms and he tosses you his jacket.

"I don't want you freezing on your way home." your heart is in your ears.

He walks you home and waits for the lights in your room to turn on before leaving. You wave at him through your window. He waves back He's in love.

#miles morales x reader #miles morales smut #miles morales fanfic #miles morales fanfiction #miles morales x y/n #miles morales #spiderverse #miles morales fic #Miles Morales fanfiction #Miles Morales fanfic

[flametrashira]

Summary: an ongoing fic set in the Kimetsu Academy AU

Pairing: Professor Kyojuro x Teacher Reader. The reader is a plus-size/chubby/curvy sex-ed teacher.

Tropes: Virgin Kyojuro, workplace romance, gentle dom reader, submissive Kyojuro, fem!dom, slow-burn.

Warnings: none for this chapter. Will eventually be NSFW but this chapter is just fluff and flirting

Chapter 1:

Kyojuro paused, mid-bite as you stepped into the faculty office. That in itself was enough to draw the attention of his colleagues, because Kyojuro had sweet potato rice for lunch and ordinarily nothing could tear him from the dish. He’d remained at the table eating lunch through fire drills before now, for pity’s sake.

But your curves. Goodness. 

He’d heard there was a new teacher starting at the academy, but he’d been so engrossed in his classes that he had forgotten to introduce himself.

"Is this where we're supposed to eat lunch?" you asked, the nervousness in your voice both endearing and heart-wrenching. "Sorry, it's my first day and I'm kinda lost."

He didn’t respond, he couldn’t. There was just too much to take in for his brain to process anything else. The way your pencil skirt hugged every generous curve and highlighted your soft middle. The way your chest made the buttons of your shirt pucker. Your outfit didn’t hide your body–it celebrated it. He was only vaguely aware of the wet heat of a glob of steaming sweet potato falling from his fork and landing on the back of his hand.

The art teacher, Tengen, nudged his foot beneath the table and whispered. “Close your mouth, buddy. You’re drooling.”

Kyojuro snapped his jaw shut and hoped you hadn't noticed. But there was no denying it… his heart, loins, and cheeks were ablaze.

“Oh! Hello again. Come and sit with us,” the biology professor, Kanae said, saving their little oddball group from total embarrassment. “Most of us tend to eat here.”

There was usually a spare seat at the table since the gym teacher, Giyuu preferred to have his lunch out on the fire escape so he didn’t have to talk to anyone while he was eating, and chemistry teacher Iguro was severely allergic to women so he ate alone whenever Kanae was there. Unfortunately, the empty seat was right beside Kyojuro. 

The table was small and with Kyojuro, Tengen, Kanae, math professor Sanemi, and civics professor Gyomei already huddled around it, you were basically shoulder to shoulder. And thigh to thigh. 

You smiled at him apologetically as you took your lunch out of your bag, your knee gently brushing his as you got comfortable. “Hi, I don’t think we’ve met.”

“HELLO!” he said, perhaps a little too loudly. “I’M KYOJURO RENGOKU, THE HISTORY TEACHER HERE AT KIMETSU ACADEMY. I HOPE YOU ARE WELL. WE’RE VERY GLAD TO HAVE YOU–” He was suddenly very aware of everyone’s eyes on him. And yours were the biggest and widest of them all. He wanted to climb into a hole. 

“Inside voice, man,” Sanemi muttered, balling up his napkin and tossing it toward Kyojuro to clean the potato off his hand. “You’re screaming again.”

“Ah… my apologies.” Kyojuro cleared his throat. “Sometimes after intense classes I forget that I no longer need to use diaphragmatic breathing to make myself heard.”

You simply laughed, but it wasn’t unkind. “It’s okay. That’s a good skill to have, especially when dealing with rowdy students.”

“Yes! I like to keep my students engaged.” He felt his heart grow lighter and his face become warmer as he chatted with you. “History is a fascinating subject, one I’m very passionate about.”

Your smile widened, “Oh I adore history, especially the battles.”

Goodness, his heart was about to combust. “Me too! I like to recreate battles with my students during class."

"I'm sure your classes are lively."

"Yes! Some might say too lively, but I like to teach through practical application, and sometimes that means making the students charge headlong into combat with one another." His heart swelled a little as you gave him a smile he could only describe as affectionate. "What about you? Are you passionate about the subject you teach too?”

Tengen snorted, Sanemi’s eyes widened, Gyomei muttered something under his breath which may have been a prayer for strength, and Kanae put her fingers to her lips and gasped. Clearly there was something he was unaware of. 

In fact, your cheeks were practically glowing as an incredulous smile crept across your lips. “I… don’t think that’s really appropriate for me to answer.”

"Oh, well do you also enjoy teaching through practical–"

“She’s the sex-ed teacher,” Tengen said, trying to keep a straight face.

“Oh…” Kyojuro said, before his eyes widened. “OH! Forgive me… I didn’t mean… oh no…”

“It’s okay!” you insisted with a friendly chuckle. “Don’t worry about it.”

But he did… he worried about it for the rest of the day. For the first time in his life, his sweet potato rice went uneaten. He re-lived the conversation a thousand times between the end of lunch and the moment he set foot outside the school gates. 

"She said don't worry about it. You're just stressing yourself out over nothing," Tengen said as the pair of them made their way over to the bicycle stands. "She's a high school sex-ed teacher. I'm sure she hears far more embarrassing things on a daily basis. In fact, I'm sure she's immune to it by now."

"Perhaps," Kyojuro said, unlocking his bike and putting on his helmet. As he tried to push the encounter out of his mind it replayed again, causing him to cringe. 

The art teacher smirked. "You like her, huh?"

"She seems nice." Kyojuro looked back toward the school with a sigh. "Do you think she'll have forgotten by tomorrow?"

"Sure."

Kyojuro narrowed his eyes. "You're lying, aren’t you?"

"Yeah. Sorry buddy." Tengen sputtered into laughter, nearly falling off his bike as he rode off down the street. He called over his shoulder, "By the way your shoe's untied!"

Kyojuro sighed once more and knelt to tie his shoe, feeling as though someone had punched a hole through his chest. Maybe he could find a new job? Maybe he could move to a different city… or country, start afresh.

***

As first days went, it was an eventful one, not least because you'd had a student faint in the middle of your very first class. Poor young Agatsuma had turned redder than a cherry the moment you even mentioned the word "reproduction," and promptly passed out. He had to be taken to the hospital on account of a large bump on his head after slamming it against his desk. 

Checking your phone for updates on the child’s condition as you walked out the school gates, you almost didn't notice the fiery-haired history teacher bent down tying his shoe until you were on top of him. 

You tripped and fell, your heart leaping into your throat as you hit the ground and skinned your hands and knees on the sidewalk. The pain was nothing compared to the shock as you rolled over to see Kyojuro staring down at you in wide-eyed horror. 

"Ow… hello again, Kyojuro."

'Are you okay?!" he fussed, with a look of deep concern on his face. "Are you hurt?"

"Um… my pride is fatally wounded but I'm otherwise fine." You laughed it off as you stared up at him from the ground.

"No, your knee is bleeding," he stated, his gold and red eyes wide with worry. "I have a first aid kit in my bag."

"Oh, thank you but it's just a graze–"

Kyojuro was already rummaging through his backpack. "Hold on!"

You kind of got the feeling he'd prepared his entire life for this. He jumped into action like it was his second nature to protect, snapping on a pair of sterile gloves before giving you a determined look. "This may sting a little. Take a deep breath."

You did as he said as he got to work cleaning your graze with an alcohol wipe. His touch was gentle but firm, one large hand cupping the back of your knee. 

"Good thing I'm in the capable hands of an expert scraped knee fixer," you said as he took a band-aid out of the first aid kit. 

His lips quirked into a smile. "I've had a lot of practice. Between the students and my younger brother… and me falling off my bicycle."

"You don't have kids?" You asked, trying to sound like you weren't probing for information.

He laughed and shook his head, his cheeks turning a few shades darker. "Goodness, no."

"Too busy looking after everyone else's."

"Precisely." He smiled and took his hands from your knee, leaving behind a warm, tingly feeling behind. "There… can you stand?"

"Thank you, and yeah." You got up slowly with Kyojuro helping you. He was so strong and sturdy, and he radiated a disarming kindness. It was easy to see why so many of the students told you he was their favorite teacher. "Good as new."

"Not quite. Let me clean up your hands." 

You held back your protest as he took out another couple of wipes to sanitize your grazed palms. As he cleaned them, he placed one hand beneath yours for stability. Just one of his hands was almost big enough to cradle both of yours entirely.

"Thank you for taking care of me," you said. "And for letting me sit next to you at lunch. I'm so sorry if I embarrassed you."

Kyojuro's eyes widened as he tidied away his medical supplies and took off his gloves to toss them into a trash can. "Oh no! Not at all. In fact I'm the one who should apologize. I'm mortified by… what I said. It was a grave misjudgment… a careless and–"

"Kyojuro," you interrupted him with a smile. "It's really okay. I'm a high school sex-ed teacher. I'm immune to embarrassment."

"That's what Tengen said." He smiled, and the sight of it warmed your heart. “I’m glad.”

There was something about Kyojuro. You'd barely known him a day, and yet you felt so at ease around him. He seemed to emit warmth and comfort straight from his soul.

A moment of silence passed between the pair of you, filled only with quiet chuckles. 

God, it wasn't just his kindness and soothing nature, was it? Kyojuro was handsome. And he was awkward and dorky as hell. And that was hot. 

You finally spoke, "Would–"

He spoke too, "Would you–" 

You both laughed and gestured for the other to continue. 

"After you," he insisted, his voice as soft and warm as his gaze. 

"Well, I'm pretty new to the area and I don't really know anyone." You pulled in a breath and summoned your courage. Your face grew hotter. "Would you maybe want to get a coffee sometime?"

"With you?" 

"...yeah."

His cheeks were strawberry mochi pink as he broke into a wide smile. "I don't drink coffee–" 

"Oh."

"Caffeine and I do not go well together. But there's a new bubble tea shop close-by… do you like boba tea?"

"I love it!" You returned his contagious smile. "You wanna go now?"

"I would love–"

"Ani!! Wait up!"

A voice called to Kyojuro from the school gymnasium, and a mini version of him waved as he approached. They had the same fiery hair and golden eyes, and thick, dark eyebrows shaped like sakura petals.

"Ahh…" you chuckled, "I take it this is the little brother the legends foretold?"

"The very same!" Kyojuro grinned. "That's Senjuro." He then turned, arms wide, bracing for the impact of the boy flinging himself into him. "Oof… Senjuro…" he laughed, a little winded. "You aren't at kendo club?"

The teenager shrugged. "Yeah... I didn't feel like it today."

"That's okay. You don't have to do it if you don't want to."

It was impossible not to share their smiles as you watched Kyojuro slip fully into big brother mode. Reassuring, patient… sexy as hell. 

Working with him was going to be torture. Delicious torture. 

Senjuro looked up at Kyojuro. "Can I ride home with you?"

Kyojuro gave you an apologetic look as he ruffled his brother's hair. "Yes, let's get you home. I'm sure you have homework." 

The kid ran over to Kyojuro's bicycle and put on a bright red cycling helmet decorated with flaming decals.

"Can we get the tea tomorrow?" Kyojuro asked, turning to you. "With extra boba to make up for the wait?"

Butterflies fluttered in your stomach whenever he looked at you. It wasn't like you had anything to lose by flirting with him– the worst he could do is turn you down and you were immune to embarrassment, after all. You decided just to go for it. "It's a date."

You didn't think he could turn any redder, but goodness you were wrong. 

Thanks for reading!

Chapter 2 coming soon!!

Taglist: @hiraethsdesires

#kimetsu academy #sub!kyojuro #sub!rengoku #rengoku x reader #rengoku x you #rengoku x y/n #rengoku kyojuro x reader #kyojuro rengoku x reader #kyojuro x reader #gentle fdom #slow burn #kimetsu no yaiba x reader

[multifandomfanficss]

F*ck You?

Adrian Chase/Vigilante x Reader

and the rest of the 11th Street Kids

Adrian Chase Masterlist

Prompt: Adrian has his own secret way of asking you to sleep with him.

Warnings: Mentions of sex, but no actual sex. The team bullying Adrian as per cannon ☹️. Peacemaker typical language.

A/N: Just a silly little thought I had at 5am during a text convo with one of my best friends when I couldn’t sleep. Shout out Tyler for letting me bounce this idea off you. Thanks bestie! Just a short little fic. The italics are flashbacks. Crossposting on my AO3 adriansglasses.

Adrian stuck his middle finger up, pointed at you. You were going through some files on the other side of the room unable to see him behind the papers you were focusing on. Those who saw were giving him questioning looks.

“Dude why are you flipping off, (Y/N)? I didn’t realize you were mad at them” Economos decided to be the first to question him. Usually he didn’t care enough to ask, but even he was curious as to why Adrian was enthusiastically flipping you off.

“Oh! That’s because I’m not. I just wanna have sex when we get back to my apartment. I was saying can I fuck you.” Adrian says, as if it’s obvious. Chris begins to laugh, having overheard the conversation.

“Oh my god. I’m not sure if you’re insane or an idiot.” Harcourt rolls her eyes, walking away.

“I’m pretty sure he’s both. You know that’s not what that means right?” Economos questions.

“It has two meanings.” Adrian says in a very matter of fact way.

“No, it doesn’t.” John argues.

“Then how do they always know what I mean?” Adrian asks, as if he’s proving his point.

Chris continues to laugh to himself as Adrian and Economos argue.

You’re deep in thought, not paying them any attention when Leota passes you the file you were looking for.

“Thanks!” You smile at her.

“Why is Adrian flipping you off?” She asks.

You look over at him, blushing. You nod.

“See!” Adrian yells throwing up his arms. “Two meanings! I told you!”

“Oh god.” You blush, hiding your face in one of the files. You didn’t need the entire team knowing you were going home to have sex after this, but it’s not like it was that big of a surprise. You’d been dating Adrian for a while, of course you had a sex life. “I don’t know how or why he got it into his head that fuck you means can I fuck you- but like I personally think it’s very clever and very cute so I just don’t correct him.” You laugh, deciding to be honest with Leota.

You thought back to the first time he flipped you off in such a manner. You were out with the team celebrating with drinks after a mission. He threw up his middle finger, drawing a question mark in the air with the other hand. You looked at him with a confused look and mouthed. ‘Are you asking me to have sex with you?’ and he mouth back, ‘Isn’t it obvious?’. Only Adrian could think something like that was obvious. Only Adrian would even do something like that. You smiled, laughing quietly to yourself. It was so uniquely him.

Chris was still laughing uncontrollably in the back. He was thinking of the first time he’d seen Adrian do this too. Little did everyone else know Chris had been the one to teach it to him long before you were dating.

“You really wanna know how I pick up chicks across the bar?” Chris asked with a shit eating smirk.

“Please!” Adrian begged. He could pull girls as Vigilante no problem, but it was a lot harder without the suit.

“Be direct. Just ask if she wants to go home with you. The most subtle way to be direct is to flip her off.” Chris falsely informs.

“Wait… you want me to be subtle and direct? I’m confused.” Adrian asks.

“Well, yeah. You want her to know, not the whole bar.” Chris quickly lies.

“I always thought flipping somebody off was an insult.” Adrian is rightfully cautious.

“It has two meanings. It’s like special. Special can mean you’re one of a kind, cool, awesome, or it could be used the other way.” Chris explains.

“Oh! Okay!” Adrian smiles, before pausing, with a pondering facial expression. “Wait! You call me special all the time.”

“You should hit on that girl over there!” Chris redirects.

“Okay… here goes nothing…” Adrian says, slowly raising his middle finger. The girl looks shocked and starts to walk up to the two men at the bar. “Oh wow! I think it worked!”

Her pace picks up. She walks up to Adrian, slapping him, hard.

“Wait! This is positive! I’m hitting on you!” Adrian says frantically with his finger still up, as she walks away.

“Aw! Fuck! Do you think maybe she had a boyfriend?” Adrian asks, adjusting his glasses and rubbing his jaw.

“Yeah, maybe.” Chris laughs hysterically.

#adrian chase #adrian chase x reader #fanfiction #fanfic #peacemaker #vigilante x reader #vigilante #freddie stroma #adrian chase x you #vigilante x you #vigilante oneshot #vigilante fanfic #vigilante fanfiction #vigilante dc #vigilante imagine #adrian chase oneshot #adrian chase fanfiction #adrian chase fanfic #adrian chase imagine #leota adebayo #john economos #Chris smith #christopher smith #peacemaker hbo max #peacemaker fanfic #peacemaker fanfiction #peacemaker dc #emilia harcourt #11th street kids x reader #11th street kids

[missmonsters2]

🍽️ & 🩸 for Wednesday pls maybe R is making a dinner for Wednesday but accidentally cuts themselves, very soft & fluff, maybe even R gets Wednesday to kiss it better as Wednesday rolls her eyes

Pairing: Wednesday Addams x Fem!Reader/OFC

Warnings: wednesday constantly shitting on your cooking skills <3

Masterlist | Library Blog | AO3

Note: enjoy <3

Count: 0.7k

Reminder there's no taglist but you can follow my library blog for notifications 💘

Please do not copy, repost, or translate my work anywhere else.

⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷†⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷

"I want to make it known that this is against my consent and genuinely heinous."

"Which is why you love it and are excited, right?" You tease with a smile briefly in her direction before you move your eyes back to the cutting board. "Anyway, stop being dramatic. I'm just cooking you dinner."

"You can't cook."

"Say who?"

"You've sent every one of your friends to the nurse's office at least once. Just last week you sent Xavier to the ER again with whatever you gave him for lunch. Unless you're trying to tell me you're an excellent cook all along and you hold a grudge of sorts against these people—you can't cook. "

You frown, pausing your chopping before you turn to the dreary girl. She sits at her desk. She moves to the middle of the room, her eyes not focused on you but rather on the water boiling in the makeshift stove she built for you. 

"Okay, first of all," you lift the knife to point at Wednesday. "They were just practice rounds and they offered to try."

Wednesday's eyes trail to the knife you're swinging haphazardly around.

"Secondly, how was I supposed to know Xavier was allergic to sesame seeds?" You furrow your brows for a moment. "Although, this does explain why he eats his burgers like that...I always thought he was just unhinged."

"Stop swinging—"

"Anyway," you say pointedly before you resume your chopping. "Not saying I'm going to kill you, but I thought you were into the whole death—" you suddenly inhale in a sharp breath.

You drop the knife and lift your finger up, and an immediate red splotch of blood forms on the side of your index finger. 

A deep sigh is heard throughout the room, and you look over to see Wednesday pushing her chair back as she stands and walks to you. She turns off the stove before she grabs your hand, inspecting the wound.

"Not bad," she comments. "I was expecting you to at least take out your eye tonight, but I suppose we'll settle for this."

"You sound disappointed," you say with your eyebrow raised.

"It would serve you right for trying to kill me," Wednesday drags you out of the room to the nearest bathroom to clean your cut. "Death is fascinating but going out with food poisoning is beneath me."

"As an empath, I'm sensing you're dissing my cooking again."

Wednesday merely gives you an unimpressed look. Once you're both back in her room, she finishes taking care of your cut, putting a sterile bandage over it. 

You lift your finger, admiring her efficient and clean work and flexing your index finger. 

"Is there something unsatisfactory?" Wednesday asks, glaring at how you keep staring at the bandage. 

You look at your girlfriend, appreciating the lines of her face and, specifically, the plumpness of her lips.

"Not only does my finger hurt, but my heart does as well with how you keep disparaging my cooking before having even tried it," you move your index finger towards her face, wriggling it. "I think you need to kiss it so my finger and heart will feel better."

"Excuse me?" Wednesday narrows her eyes at your words. The idea of doing something so...she refuses.

"If you don't kiss it better, I may not have the will to continue on," you sigh dramatically. "I was so excited to cook my girlfriend a lovely dinner, even practicing for months on our friends, and not only does she belittle me, she won't even kiss my wounds better."

Wednesday continues to stare at you.

You sigh again, wriggling your finger and drawing her attention to it. "Oh, to be Wednesday Addams' girlfriend is full of woe, such heartbreak and—"

"Stop," Wednesday commands as she grits her teeth, her jaw visibly clenching. "You are so insufferable." 

You smile, unoffended, as you wait patiently. 

Wednesday sighs while rolling her eyes, grasping your hand before she presses her cool lips against your finger. The gesture warms your heart, and your smile turns into something soft. 

Wednesday's eyes connect with yours, and there's a look that she only ever reserves for you—it's only something you manage to bring out in her. 

But then she bites your finger.

"Ow!" You yelp, looking surprised at Wednesday.

"Go boil whatever you were planning to on the stove. I'll finish the chopping since you're clearly hopeless at it."

#wednesday addams x reader #wednesday x reader #wednesday addams imagine #wednesday addams x ofc #wednesday x ofc #wednesday addams #jenna ortega x reader #jenna ortega imagine #mm: my fics #mm.drabble.wednesday

[netherfeildren]

Someone's Wife in the Boat of Someone's Husband .4

Series Masterlist : Moodboard

(Joel Miller x F!Reader)

Content Warnings: Mutual masturbation; Come eating; Angst; Vague mention of abortion; Discussions of child neglect; Discussions of unwanted pregnancy

Rating: Explicit 18+

A/N: Some of this is so… phew… idk what came over me or how i come up with some of this shit. sorry (but not really). Joel’s a little nasty in this beware

Art is by Denis Sarazhin.

Word Count: 7.7K

Read on AO3

.4

A single person is missing for you, and the whole world is empty.

Joan Didion, The Year of Magical Thinking

To think that despite his momentary acquiescence to your need for space, he was not, afterwards, made into a raving, snarling beast prowling its cage after having tasted you, would be fallacy – because that was what he was calling it in his mind, for now. Not yet ready to accept it within himself as a full blown rejection, so yes, for now, space, time.

He returns home with Sarah after the lakehouse – Eva gone off with her girlfriends on an extension of the weekend, wanting to draw out the farewell to summer just a little longer – to their routine of lunches and snacks and daycare and evenings playing mermaids and dinosaurs in the little pool in the backyard that he’d gotten for her at HEB. He tries to be good, to remain calm, controlled, but it’s just short of impossible. He feels as though he still has the taste of you on the surface of his tongue, the sounds of your moans ringing in his ears at all hours of the day, in bed at night, hard and aching and alone, wanting you. This turns out to be a different type of hell to the one he’s usually used to, that of monotony and loneliness and resentment. No, this is burning and painful, a type of fire that whips through his arteries and chars his bones and leaves him dizzy and disoriented.

He’s never experienced something like this before. Not in his entire life. 

It is not easy, per se, but productive, to lose himself in his work, and the start of Sarah’s school year. She’s in a 3K program for the fall, her first time going to a real school, and the work and preparation and pure fucking anxiety induced at the thought of his baby going to such a big school is overwhelming. No small feat to accomplish all on his own. 

But at night, after he’s worked himself into the ground all day, and read Sarah her bedtime story, at least three times, sometimes up to seven, but never passing ten, that was their very strict rule, and tucked her in and checked the closet and under the bed and behind the door for monsters, when he’s finally found himself alone and quiet and with a spare, but infinitely painful moment to think of you, he lets you in, in full force.

He pulls his shirt up over the back of his head, tossing it into the hamper as he passes his closet into his restroom, undoes his belt and jeans, pulling his contraband from the pocket, to push them off as he reaches to turn on the shower. 

As he lets the water heat up, he pauses to look at himself in the mirror. Tall, long frame, still pleasing to a woman, he’d imagine. Well, he hopes so. He’s still strong, his shoulders broad, his chest built from the long hours of hauling and climbing and exhaustive physical labor. There are a few grays threaded through the dark curls at his temples. Sprouting, just in the last year, to remind him that he’s getting older. One of his buddies had told him that eventually everything went gray, everything. That weirded the fuck out of him, to be honest.  He hates the thought of you seeing that, thinking of him as old. You’re so much younger than him. So pretty. Too pretty. His middle has gone slightly softer since hitting forty, but only slightly. There’s no helping that. And the small creases at the corners of his eyes… shit, he’s getting old. But his cock is still long and thick, and he’ll give that to you as much as you’ll let him. If you ever let him. All the time if he can. All he has to do is find a way to see you again, to convince you to let him see you again.

He feels a small bitter ribbon of self consciousness curl through his stomach as he takes himself in. He doesn’t want you to think of him as some old man. Some old, sleazy man who’d seen you and been so fucking desperate for you, he hadn’t cared that he was married, that you’re too young for him, that he has a family, and responsibilities and a life, like some pathetic fucking pervert. You’re just so lovely, so soft and pretty and you smell so good, always. And he’s been so alone for so fucking long. He is lonely. And you, you’d looked at him, you’d seen him, you’d wanted him back just as fiercely as he’d wanted you, even if just for a moment. How was he ever supposed to be strong enough to resist that? And further than your wanting, you’re good and kind and smart and so fucking funny and adorable. Joel could be strong when he needed to be, but he could also be weak, and he thinks that you, perhaps, have the power to make him weaker than anything else. 

What do you do when you meet a woman, have a child, get married, and then find the person who you could very well fall, probably, very deeply in love with?

Because yes, even now, he is emotionally aware enough to recognize that. More than anything, he can recognize that he has, as of yet, never been in love, but that you present the great, great possibility for that. And yes, it’s too soon, and maybe nonsensical or crazy or what have you, but Joel has always been a man that’s known himself well. When he knows, he knows, and when he chooses, he chooses, and he is very close to knowing and choosing you. 

He looks down at your panties laying on the bathroom counter – the ones he’d stolen. After you’d slipped them off, too wet from your come, from him making you come – they’re his now. 

He runs his thumb and forefinger along the silk lace at the edge. They’re a pretty, soft blue. He loves the color blue now. It will, forevermore, be his favorite color after this. The cut in the back is high, he knows the soft flesh of your ass was left mostly uncovered by them, he remembers he felt it when you rode his thigh. He wishes he could have seen it. He hopes he’ll have another chance to see it. 

If he thinks about it hard enough, he can imagine that the middle gusset is still damp from you. He brings them to his face, presses them to his nose and inhales deeply. The scent: still faintly musky, but also, slightly sweet. He sticks his tongue out to taste the fabric, and a violent shiver passes through him. He has to clutch at the countertop to hold himself upright. His cock is fully erect and leaking now. 

He has to taste you. He has to get the chance to. He’ll die if he doesn’t. He’s sure of it.

He brings the soft lace down to his aching erection. He doesn’t care if he’s disgusting. He doesn’t care about anything. All he wants is to feel you. To temper this fire churning in his blood. He can’t remember the last time his body felt like this, the last time he wanted something this fucking badly he felt like he’d die if he didn’t have it. Maybe never – he doesn’t think he’s ever felt like this. He wraps your panties around his hard length and starts to jack himself off. Strong, tight strokes from base to tip with the tiny, blue silk sliding along his fevered skin. The sound of your orgasm, the look in your eyes as you humped his thigh, ground your little clit on him and soaked his denim. He should’ve touched you more when he had the chance. He wants to fuck you so badly, wants to sink into the tight, wet clutch of your cunt and fuck you full of his come. Mark you. Brand himself into your skin so that you’re never without him. He wants you to smell like him. He wants to feel the wet gush he felt on his jeans on his cock and dripping down his balls, and Jesus fucking Christ, he comes at that. Long, thick ropes of white spend, spitting from his swollen tip at the thought of your pussy coming around him, a desperate whimper escaping in the quiet loneliness of his restroom.  

-

He thinks of you constantly, what seems like every moment of the day, in the weeks that follow. As much as he tries to keep a straight head on, he can’t. He craves you, dreams of you, fucks his hand to the memory of you coming for him, spilling his seed over and over again in the shower at the remembered look in your eyes and the sounds you made for him. He can’t help himself. 

Outside of that, everything else in his life is bleak and slow and… and he doesn’t know what else to call it, except for sad and wanting. Lonely. To have touched something so alive, so beautiful and sweet and perfect, and then be forced to return to the barren landscape that is his life in everything outside of his daughter, it’s jarringly difficult to do. He wants to be strong, to do what you asked of him, but it had been so long since he’d really wanted something for himself. Couldn’t remember what the last thing had been, really, and so to now have something to desire, something to want and think of, it makes him weak and fills his head with all kinds of excuses to see you, to call you – he’d forced Tommy to steal your number for him out of Gerri’s phone – to go to your work and wait for you to come out, just so he can catch a single glimpse of you.

He restrains himself from that, though. He forces himself to focus his mind on other things, Sarah and school and playdates, and he works himself like a dog, taking on more contracts than he ever has before. He doesn’t give himself any time to rest, any time to think, and in the few moments that he does, when he stares at your number on the screen of his phone, imagining what it is he’d say to you if he called, if you answered, what the sound of your voice would be like saying hello to him, saying his name, or in the moments when he fucks himself raw and spent and sad, those are the moments when he feels weakest, when he feels most alone, when he’s almost overwhelmed with wanting. 

-

He only lasts a measly three weeks after the lake house before he’s outside of the elementary school, one late Wednesday afternoon during the second week of the new school year. The sky is dark and angry, on the verge of a downpour, and he’s been waiting, agitated and anxious, for about half an hour, before you finally come out the double doors. 

The lightest sprinkling of rain is starting up, and he jumps out of his truck’s cab, jacket in hand, to approach you. He says your name softly as he comes up on your side while you’re distracted, digging in your purse for something.

You jump slightly at the sound of his voice and turn your wide, worried eyes on him, “Joel–” your voice, soft and breathy, so sweet, “Is everything okay? What are you doing here? Is Sarah okay?”

He holds his hands up in what he hopes is an appeasing, non-threatening gesture, he doesn’t want you nervous. Fucking Christ, asking for Sarah with that look of worry in your eyes, “Everything’s fine, sweetheart,” how in the fuck is he supposed to not be obsessed with you? “I was just – I was just hoping we could talk, is all.”

You look around at the sparsely filled parking lot, as if searching for witnesses, or perhaps, an escape, but then you turn back to him and pause to take him in. He watches the sweep of your eyes down his body, and then back up, stopping to search for something in his eyes. Whatever you find there must give you the answer you need because you nod your head once, “Alright, we can talk,” you say softly.

“My truck? Can we drive for a bit? I’ll bring you back.” You nod again, and he drapes his jacket over your shoulders to protect you from the drizzle as he leads you to his truck. “S’bout to come down hard,” he murmurs as he opens the passenger door for you, taking your wrist in his hold to help you up into the truck. He can’t help himself, he reaches for your seatbelt and buckles you in himself – is filled with an obscenely embarrassing fizz of pleasure at the gesture of it. 

You’re looking at him with the most concerned little frown marring the soft spot between your delicate brows, “Are you okay?” your voice slow and unsure, and then more of him being unable to help himself, to keep his hands to himself, because he reaches up and gently brushes his thumb over the little frowning wrinkle, nods his head once. 

“I’m okay, baby.”

He drives for a bit, takes you to a spot up in the hills he likes to come to sometimes when he needs to think. Somewhere the two of you can be alone and quiet, just for a moment. He parks the truck by a copse of trees, a view of Austin on the other side of the two of you. The rain has turned into a violent downpour by now. He shuts off the engine and looks out at the view of the city. 

-

“I’m sorry. I know I shouldn’t bother you – you asked me to stay away, but –” He lets his head fall back against the headrest and sighs, and the sound of it is so weary, pained in a way that’s so very, very sad. It makes you hurt for him. You reach across the center console to grip his bicep, you can’t help yourself. You could see from the first look at his face that something was wrong. You know he wouldn’t have come to look for you if he didn’t need you now. 

“You’re not bothering me. I know I shouldn’t, but I wanted to see you too.” You only confess this because of the look in his eyes. The glassy, burdened look of them. You wish that you could climb into his lap and wrap your arms around his neck, press your warmth into him. The rain hits the windshield like bullets, the sound deafening. The world outside of his truck’s cabin seems distorted, as if this liminal space the two of you sit in now, has been carved out of the rest of the real world, and the two of you exist here now, only, together. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothin’,” he wraps his hand over yours on his arm, drags his thumb over the smooth little hills of your knuckles. His gaze out the window is so far away, lost, something almost childlike in its desolation. You watch the strong ripple of his neck as he swallows, clears his throat. “Nothing – just wanted to see you. ‘Dunno… Felt so tired today.” He closes his eyes for a moment, “Couldn’t stop myself. Wanted to just give myself this one thing.” He lets his head roll against the seat to look at you, gives you the gentle curve of his crooked smile. So beautiful and so sad, and you can tell that something is endlessly wrong. You feel afraid, for one moment, that he’s going to start crying, the sadness in his eyes is so overwhelming. You don’t think you’ll be able to stand the sight of his tears, you think they might break you. “Just wanted to look at you, to sit here with you, just for a little bit.”

“Alright.” You’re quiet for a beat, watching him watch the rain. Part of you wants to give him space, give him quiet, but you need to know what’s wrong. You can’t bear the look in his eyes right now. “Did something happen?”

He’s silent, as if gathering his thoughts or his strength around him, and then: “Eva had a pregnancy scare this week.” A jagged shiver slices through you.

“What?” You croak, you try to pull your hand back, but he clamps down on your bones, holds you to him. “But I thought–”

He shakes his head, “Not mine.”

“Joel… what? Are– are you–” You blink furiously, at a loss. What do you say to the man who you’re kind of having an affair with when he tells you his wife, who is also seemingly having an affair, might be pregnant with another man’s child? This is all so, so fucked up. So ugly. You swallow, turn to look out at the rain. You don’t want to cry, but you can’t seem to help the tears from pooling. A bombardment of recurring images from your childhood slingshotting through your mind; your mother, leaving, angry, cold, quiet. Always pushing you away. The sound of her crying through her bedroom door, your child’s ear, pressed to the cool grain, trying to get as close to her as possible even though she doesn’t want you. Always shutting you out. Your father, dead to the world on the sofa in the living room, drowning in his liquor and yearning and hurt. The sight of a tall, handsome stranger, coming up the front walk to ring the doorbell, to take your mother away with him. The way he’d crouched down from his great height to ask you what your name was because she hadn’t even bothered to tell the man she was having an affair with, the man she was leaving you for, what your name was. 

What is it about being unlovable, you wonder, and why is it that some are cursed with it so cruelly, while others are not?

“Hey,” Joel tugs on your wrist, pulls you closer to him. “I told you, we’re not like that, we’ve never been. I don’t want you thinkin’ somethin’ else, that I haven’t been honest.” He drags the pad of his thumb over your cheekbone, tips your head back to catch your eyes. You let them flutter shut and swallow, open them again. If you talk you’ll cry, but he needs words from you now. You swallow again, shake your head. 

“It’s– it’s not that. I believe you. And even if it was otherwise, I have no right–”

“Stop. Don’t say that. You know that isn’t true. You have the right to honesty after what I’ve told you, after what we’ve done.” You try to pull back, but he brings his palm to wrap around the back of your neck and grip you by the scruff. “Stop,” he grits, “Don’t pull away from me.” 

You bring your palms up to his chest, clutch at the collar of his shirt. “I’m not. I’m not, I’m sorry. It’s just–” you huff a sharp, bitter laugh, “Sometimes it’s like you’re just telling me the story of my childhood, over and over again. Like you’re living it again for me. This all sounds very pathetically familiar.” A tear finally falls, you can’t help it. A weeper in a long line of weepers, always. 

“Sweetheart…” he brushes the track of your tear away with his thumb.

You shake your head. “I’m so sorry. Are you okay? Is she?”

“She’s fine. Took her to the doctor this morning.”

“God, Joel– I don’t – I don’t know how you do this.” Another tear. You think of your father, how weak, how broken he was after her. He could have never shouldered the things Joel does. You feel very sad, very sorry, for the both of them, as different as they are. You feel sorry for the whole miserable lot of you, really.

“She needed my help, she was scared–” his thumb sweeps a slow, hypnotizing path up and down the back of your neck. The rough callus on his thumb catches at your sensitive skin and makes you feel hot and sweaty and overwhelmed for the feel of it on every other tender place on your body. “Terrified, really. Of being trapped like that again.”

“Trapped?”

“Sarah was never her plan. Neither of us were. She never wanted any of this.”

“You told me the marriage wasn’t conventional… but I didn’t – I didn’t think Sarah was included in that…” Your stories are too similar, the similarities too painfully familiar.

“We met at a bar, it was–” he looks away, and you watch a hot flush flood his cheeks. He’s embarrassed to tell you this. “It was a one night thing. Her birth control failed, and then – it was just – well, ending the pregnancy was never an option for her, and I told her from the get go that I’d do whatever she wanted, support her in anything she chose. She chose to go on with it. So I asked her to marry me, it made sense, it was– it was the convenient thing. At least, at the time – in my mind, it seemed so. But we – we were strangers, there was no connection. And then… I don’t know. It wasn’t, eventually – it wasn’t the right thing, at all, for any of us. She never wanted to be a mother. She told me once, after, that she’d chosen wrong, she’d made the wrong decision. And I always tried to be supportive, but by that time, well – we had Sarah by that time, and I– I loved her more than anything I’d ever loved in my whole life. Didn’t even know it was possible to love anything that much – and it made me so fucking angry with her – to–  to hear her say something like that, that she should’ve gotten rid of her. It was – I don’t know – a very complicated and painful thing –  for the both of us to grapple with, I guess. But I–” he pauses, takes a deep breath. His eyes shift madly, looking out the window as if the rain will bring with it an explanation or an escape for whatever it is that’s churning inside his mind as he tells you this. “There was never really anything to be angry with, I don’t think. No real reason or focus for my anger. I realized it’s impossible to fault a person for not being what they were never meant to be. She never wanted this. And I hadn’t planned for it, it just happened. And the decisions we made were made, and then things just ended up as they did. Sometimes – I don’t,” he frowns, shaking his head, “I don’t know how to say it, but–” He turns to you now, a wild, pleading look in his eyes, “But how can I say that we made a mistake, without saying that Sarah was a mistake? Because if I’ve ever done a single thing absolutely perfect, in my whole entire life, it’s that little girl. She’s perfect. You know what I mean?”

You nod, swallowing back your tears, “Yes.”

He frowns at you, his eyes filled with infinite tenderness, “Don’t cry, sweetheart.”

“I’m not,” you lie, turning to press the back of your hand to your hot eyes. “I’m sorry. It’s just – it reminds me of myself, of my own mother. She – she was the same, I think. Never meant to be a mother. But not bad. It’s just what it was. And hearing you, hearing this, it makes me so sad for you, for all of you. I’m sorry.” He leans forward, wraps his hand around your jaw to press his brow to your wet cheek and just holds there. The two of you breathe each other in, match the cadence of your breaths to the other. You snake your arms around his broad shoulders to press yourself closer to him. It scares you, this feeling of necessity he forces out of you, like you need him, even this soon, for strength, for comfort, for happiness. You’ve never felt like this before, and it’s coming on so quickly, overwhelming you. You feel like you need him, and if you don’t have him you’ll never be happy for the rest of your life, you’ll never be able to forget him, to let him go. He shifts to nuzzle against your cheek and then your jaw, and then the hot press of his lips to the tender spot behind your ear. A violent tremble moves through you at the feel of his soft mouth against your skin, and you dig your nails harshly into his shoulders. 

“I just– lemme just–” he mumbles against your skin, and then that hand wrapped around your jaw is turning your head and forcing your mouth open so that he’s kissing you, licking into your mouth and everything goes tight and painful and white hot inside of you. “Jesus–” he says against your mouth. He forces your head back to deepen the angle, his other hand coming up to fist painfully in your hair, and you whimper into him. His answering groan is deep and rumbling and so, so wanting. Your heart feels like it’s flipping and squeezing and pinching inside your ribcage. You can hear how much he wants you, this, in the cadence of the sounds he makes. The kiss is wet, sloppy, full of teeth and all the desperation and yearning of these past few weeks. The days and days of not seeing him, of remembering your encounter in that dark room at the lake house, the way he’d made you come against his thigh, the sound of his own orgasm, the inhibition, the flush in his cheeks as he spilled in his jeans for you. The desperate, pathetic nights of your cunt stuffed full of your fingers, so wet and aching and still not enough even though you’d made yourself orgasm multiple times at just the memory of him. You claw at his hair and neck and back, you want to draw blood, imprint yourself on him in some way, the same way he’s imprinted himself on you. He brings the hand in your hair down to your waist to press you closer to him. The center console digs painfully into your ribs and you want to climb over it and settle in his lap, but you know you shouldn’t, that if you end up over there you’ll let him fuck you, and that you’ll never come back from that. Not ever. He drags his hand up to your breast, grips the heavy weight in his large palm and squeezes, and it hurts and it feels so, so fucking good that you rip yourself away from his mouth, push at his broad chest to force him away from you. The both of you stare at each other, wide eyed and panting great, heaving gasps. His hair is sticking up at all angles, messy from your pillaging fingers, his eyes glassy and his cheeks flushed almost feverish. 

Oh, you want him so badly. This will be your undoing. 

“We– we can’t– I didn’t come here with you for– for that,” you gasp, pressing your fingers to your wet mouth.

“I know– I know– shit, we–” He passes a palm over his mouth, and you feel another tear slide down your burning cheek. You’re surprised you don’t see steam rise at the contact. “Fuck – fuck, baby, please. Please, don’t cry. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have done that. I didn’t mean to make you cry. I got carried away– ”

“I’m not crying– I’m not.” Maybe if you say it enough times it’ll be true. You turn to wipe it away on the hill of your shoulder, try to hide your face.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have touched you

“I wanted you to. I want it so badly,” you cry, squeezing your eyes shut tight. You feel inconsolable. 

“I know– I know.”

You want him so badly, so badly, so badly, you want him to keep touching you forever. “It hurts, Joel. It hurts–”

“Jesus, what hurts? Tell me.” He leans forward, gripping your knee painfully tight, and you press yourself into the door at your back, “Fuck– is that sweet, little cunt aching for me? Tell me, baby.”

You nod

“Fuck, what if– what if we just – just watch each other? What if you pet your cunt for me, and let me watch? Just– just to make the ache go away? Would that be okay?”

You shake your head, unsure, but your hand is clutching his over your knee now, digging your nails into the top of his palm and letting him slowly push your knee open further. 

His voice is so coaxing. Oh, he shouldn’t use that tone of voice against you, you’re powerless to it. “You can, it’s okay. It’s just to make the ache go away, it’s okay,” and you have no choice but to capitulate, no desire to not give in.

His palm on your knee slides up your thigh, pushing your skirt to bunch at your hips, and he hooks one finger into the side of your panties to pull them down as you lift your hips, allowing him to divest you of them. So easy, you’re so fucking easy, and you don’t even care. All you can focus on right now is the throbbing ache between your legs. 

His eyes don’t leave yours as he says, “Spread your legs… that’s it.” 

“Don’t– don’t look–” you stutter as you bring your shaking fingers to your core, and he’s leaning back to undo his belt and drag his zipper down. You can’t look either, you can’t, if you do, you’ll lose, you know it. You see the peripheral movement of him reaching into his clothes to pull the heft of his cock out, the shift of his upper body as he lifts his hips to readjust his pants to free himself. Your cunt is slick and throbbing, painfully swollen. 

You watch the movement of his shoulder as he starts to jack himself, “Just your clit first, baby. Soft, little circles, yeah… how does that feel?”

“Good– good, yes.” You’re panting, mouth hanging open. There is fire in his gaze, all for you, only for you. 

“Yeah? You need more?”

“Please, Joel–” You don’t know what you’re begging for, but you don’t think it’s for your touch alone. 

“Give yourself one finger, sweetheart. Just one – tell me how wet it is? Are you soaked for me?”

You press one finger inside, and yes, yes, your’re fucking soaked for him, you say. He groans at that, the rhythm of his shoulder gets faster. “I have to look, baby. Please, please, I have to see how wet it is.” The tops of his cheeks are flushed red, but as you watch the downward shift of his eyes to your spread sex, the place where you’re impaling yourself with a single finger, his eyes flare, the flush seems to ricochet even higher, hotter. You pull your finger out to cup yourself, hide yourself, burning with shyness and lust, but fuck, the look in his eyes, it’s bright hot, devouring. No one has ever looked at you like that. Never. 

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he moans, “Put ‘em back in. Fuck yourself, make yourself come. I have to see it.” So fucking gorgeous, you hear him mutter under his breath, and you finally give yourself permission to look down as you stuff two fingers back into your desperate pussy. Fuck your rules, you have to see him.

He’s huge.

Thick and long, the size of his cock is not made smaller by the massive breadth of his fist holding it in a vice-like grip, jacking it, tight and fast. The head is flushed a deep, angry red, the slit at the top weeping a pearly stream of precum that makes your mouth water and the muscles in your pelvis tighten – you want to taste him, you want him to fuck your mouth until you’re forced to swallow his load. There’s a thick vein running up the entire length of the underside of the shaft that you’re sure you’d feel his pulse in if you set your tongue against it. He’s pulled his heavy balls out over the edge of his jeans too, and he cups them and squeezes. 

“Spread yourself wider for me – yeah like that… Lemme see you stretch that cunt.”Oh, he’s so dirty. 

You’re sucking in quick, shallow gulps of air, on the verge of hyperventilating as you watch his massive palm beat at his cock, almost dizzy with lust, your blood rushing in your head, your pussy sopping wet, tight as a knot. This isn’t enough, you want to stop, you want to go further, you want him to touch you, to climb into his lap, to take that heavy, thick weight inside of you and feel him stretch you to the point of pain. “Don’t look– you shouldn’t look–” you don’t know why you say it, maybe because you feel you have to, but it’s nonsensical when your eyes are glued to him. 

“I have to look, baby. Please, don’t ask me that. I have to see it – fuck, you’re so gorgeous, look at you. Prettiest fucking cunt I’ve ever seen in my entire life.”

“Stop,” you moan, arching your back further to crook your fingers inside of yourself, hitching your knees higher to pet at the spongy, tender spot inside you that you’d like him to own. “St– stop– I’m–  m’not your baby– don’t– don’t– oh fuck, I’m gonna come–” your eyes roll to the back of your head at the sound of his choked growl, his eyes glued to your stretched sex, the sounds of your wetness and his slick palm echoing in the truck cabin. 

“You are, you are – even if you won’t let me touch you, won’t let me have you – you fucking belong to me now. Already, even like this – look at you, about to come for me with just my eyes on you.” His hips start to lift into his fist, his hand almost a blur for how fast he’s fucking himself, teeth gritted, tendons in his strong neck popping starkly under the surface of his flushed, sweaty skin. 

“Fuck– fuck, it’s so pretty.”

“Stop– please, Joel, I need–”

“Wanna taste it and fuck it and fill it with my come–”

“Oh my fucking God–” you’re going to come, now, now, it’s right there. You tell him.

“One more finger – lemme see you stretch yourself… yeah like that… my good fucking girl,” grunted as you stuff a third finger inside and start to spasm, mewling high and desperate for him, grinding your clit against the mound of your palm. You want his cock to stretch you like this, and you tell him. The sound he makes at your desperate plea, as if it’s been ripped out of him, painful, desperate, savage. You watch the wide head flush an almost deeper shade, verging on purple now, and he squeezes the base cruelly, his sack fisted tight in his other hand, and he starts to come, a thick white stream of milky spend that makes your mouth water, sliding over his fist and spurting onto his exposed belly. “Oh God, Joel, I want it.” You can’t stop the words, the sight of his orgasm forces them out of you. 

“I know, baby, I know. I want to give it to you,” he says through clenched teeth. 

You both stay frozen like that for a moment as you come down, panting and staring at each other wide eyed and flushed and trembling. That was, perhaps, no, it was without a doubt, the most intense thing you’ve ever experienced with a man, and you’d barely even touched each other. Pain and pleasure coalesce to leave you shaking and sweating, your skin hypersensitive. You’re scared you’re going to start crying again and scare him, give him the wrong idea – that you’d not liked this, that you’d not wanted this. When the truth is that nothing could ever compare to how much you wanted, needed it. How much you’ll want this forever now. You want to take him inside of you. The sheer force of your desire almost has a flavor, a shape to it. The strength of it, so potent, it is almost made sentient – a living thing. 

You pull your wet fingers out, and he snaps forward suddenly, to snatch your hand towards himself and brings the slick digits into his mouth, his tongue laving hot and wet between the spaces, sucking on them. All the while his eyes are zeroed in on the space between your legs, on the place that is still clenching and stretched, so ready and eager for him to fill. You gasp at his ferocity, at the feral look in his eyes because you can see, you can see that almost sentient desire you’re filled with, reflected in his own eyes. 

“Joel–” you whisper as he presses one final kiss to the wet tips of your fingers, his eyes fluttering shut as he holds there for one moment. 

“I know–” he whispers back, and when his eyes come back to yours, there is such a depth of understanding in them. You realize in this moment, in this shared look, that the two of you are the same in an essential way. It isn’t just your desire that connects the two of you now, it’s so much more. A loneliness, a sentimentality, perhaps, a keen sense of familiarity. That vein of shyness, of being closed off, that fear of opening up, of being hurt, of being left. He’s the same, you can see it, feel it. 

You’d never thought you had a very good sense of self identity – your perception of yourself skewed in the image of your mother, of who she was, of her shadow, of the things she’d done, but in this moment, looking into the reflection of Joel’s eyes, you feel you see yourself very clearly, almost securely, for the first time. It is recognition the two of you are sharing now, for some reason, in some way, you recognize him. And you find it ironic, that now, in this moment of all times, when you’re doing the very thing that you’d always been so afraid of, of turning into the thing that you’d always feared because of your mother, it is ironic that you are finally able to cast away her shadow, her image, and see only yourself, so clearly, so wholly, because of him.

And yet, despite the sudden, blinding clarity, oh, it was all so dark, so dark, that it be this man, this unavailable, married, unreachable man, that would make you feel so wholly seen, so understood, so connected. 

Your wrist is left wet and sticky where he’s gripped you with his spend covered fingers, but you’re careful not to wipe it away. You want to be left with the tightness of his dried come over your skin. 

“Don’t say that we shouldn’t have done that,” he tells you.

“I wasn’t going to.”

“Good.”

“I was going to say that I wish we could do it again – that I wish we could do more.”

“Shit–” he whispers, passes his dry palm over his mouth and then up into his hair, to tug at the messy curls. You move to right your clothes, and he follows your lead, tucking himself back into his jeans. “Me too.”

You let your head rest back against the window as the two of you stare at each other in silence for a moment. It’s comforting, filled with companionship, understanding, the intimacy of the moment the two of you just shared. Your cheeks feel hot and you can’t help but smile at him, just a little, a small laugh escaping, and then he’s returning it, smiling and laughing softly too, until the both of you are wracked with the most ridiculous, schoolyard giggles, like two blushing teenagers. It’s a wonderful moment for the purity of it, the two of you together, laughing. Later, you’re sure it will make you very sad and desperate to relive it, but now, oh, now, it really does feel so wonderful. You wish the two of you could live here forever, together in this moment, in the warm, intimate space of his truck’s cabin.

You talk for hours after that, about nothing and everything. His work and yours, your art, his love of building things, of taking care of things, music and movies and books and Sarah. Always, Sarah. 

“She has an obsession with bats right now, weird kid, and there’s a sanctuary up town. We spent a few hours there on Saturday, she loved it. Scampering around in this Snow White princess dress she’s refused to take off for the past three weeks. Won’t part with the damn thing, not even to let me wash it.”

He loves her so much, and it makes your heart pinch and your eyes go hot and weepy. He is, you think, an exceptionally good father, an exceptionally good man. 

Eventually, however, it gets late enough that the two of you realize you need to get home. He drives you back to the school in the most comfortable of silences, your hand intertwined reassuringly in his strong embrace. It feels worryingly natural, right. 

“Will you let me see you again?” he asks when he pulls up next to your lonely car in the school parking lot. 

“I don’t– I don’t know if that’s such a good idea, Joel. This will only go further from here if we continue. And I don’t– I can’t be your–” you frown, shaking your head, disgusted at yourself for even having to say the words, “I can’t be your mistress,” you tell him bluntly.

“I would never, never ask that of you.”

“So, then what is it supposed to be? You’re going to leave your wife? That– that isn’t what I want. I don’t want to be the thing that breaks your marriage up, your family, that leaves Sarah in a broken home. I cannot be that.” It would be your worst nightmare come to life. 

He says your name in the most serious tone you think he can muster, as if he can imbue the understanding of his words into your stubborn skull with the resonance of it, “There is no marriage to break up. She’s leaving soon, I know it, I can tell. She’s done. She’s leaving Sarah, and I don’t think she’s coming back this time. I don’t think I can let her just – just come in and out of our daughter’s life like that. Something needs to stop or change. I have to do something to make this better for my girl.”

“I understand that, and I can’t– I can’t tell you how sorry I am to hear that for Sarah. For you. Really, I understand more than I can tell you – but still, when it comes to you and I, or you and her – I can’t … I can’t get into that like this. I– I, I don’t–” you pant, “I don’t know. I’m sorry. But I can’t do that, this. Not now.”

“Baby–”

“No, Joel. You don’t understand – I watched my mother cheat on my father my entire childhood, until she up and left us one day, left him. I watched him love her for years, unreturned, suffer for her, and then I watched him kill himself slowly, drink himself to death until I buried him.”

“That isn’t what Eva and I are–”

“I cannot have an affair with you. I know – I know that’s basically what we’re already fucking doing – I know I’m a hypocrite–”

“You’re not–”

“But I can’t also be the reason you leave your marriage. It would kill me – do you understand?” your voice cracks, you’re shocked you’re not crying right now. “Please, Joel.”

He looks at you for a moment, you’re afraid you can see anger in his eyes, but then they go soft, understanding, and he says, “Yeah… yeah, sweetheart. I understand.” Your eyes flutter shut, and you let out a shaky breath, relieved, but at the same time, filled with a sick twist of disappointment. What would you do if he pressed you, if he forced you? You know part of you would like it. “Can I at least call you? Only sometimes, please. Just to talk – to hear your voice.”

You start to shake your head, but when you open your eyes and take in the pleading look in his gaze, you can’t say no. “Alright, yes… yes, you can call me. That’s okay.”

“Can I kiss you? Just once more?” You lean over the console and press your lips to his, sudden and rough, as an answer, your teeth clicking together harshly. Of course, you want to kiss him again, of course. 

One long, tight moment, you clutch his wrists to keep them from pulling you in closer, and then you’re pulling back, scrambling out of the truck and forcing yourself away from him. You need to get away before you lose all strength of will and just let him do whatever he wants to you. You hear him get out, as well, and follow you around to your driver’s side door, waiting behind you as you dig for your car keys in your bag. You open the door, and then turn back to him, you can’t help yourself, and he lifts a hand to drag his thumb across your cheekbone, along the edge of your jaw. His eyes look so sad, like he’s afraid this’ll be the last time the two of you ever see each other again. The tears are back and angrily demanding release, but you try and take deep breaths through your nose to keep them at bay while your entire frame shakes and shivers at the restraint. He nods once and leans forward to press a long kiss above your brow, and then he turns and walks back to his truck, gets inside. He waits until you’ve gotten in your own car and are driving away, great heaving sobs wracking your body, overwhelming you, before you see him finally turn his truck on and start to drive back home, back to his wife and child.

Chapter .5

Netherfeildren's Masterlist

End Notes: This was kind of a heavy one, if there’s anything you’d like to chat about (or yell at me for all the angsty bullshit) pls come do so :)

#someone's fic #Joel miller #joel miller x female oc #joel miller x you #joel miller x reader #joel miller/reader #joel miller/you #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller fic #joel miller smut #joel miller angst #joel miller imagine #the last of us fanfiction #the last of us fic #tlou fic #pedro pascal #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal fanfiction

[natimiles]

What is that? (a tattooed reader)

Summary: You tied your hair in a high ponytail that morning, and it was enough for the tip of your tattoo to be visible. You've had it for so long that you're used to it, and sometimes you forget it's there — plus, you forgot that they've never seen it before.

Words: 1716

Tags: reader have tattoos; platonic relationships; more like friendships; no pronouns for reader, but you wear a dress and have sort of long hair.

Can you tell I have favorites? Only Isaac, Mozart, Jean, Arhur, Vincent, Theo, Napoleon and Sebastian show up. Le Comte is vaguely mentioned.

If you're curious to see the tattoos, I linked their images in their respective descriptions throughout the fanfic.

“What is that, mademoiselle?” 

You're helping Sebastian with breakfast, moving around the dining room, but you’ve been feeling a strong stare for a while. You're already accustomed to everyone, so you don't mind. You knew that if it was Isaac trying to muster the courage to ask you something, he would eventually do it. But it’s Jean’s voice, and it catches your attention because he usually eats in silence; and he sounds unsure and curious.

You set Arthur’s coffee in front of him while you glance at the table and everything you and Sebastian made. Perhaps there's something he doesn't know, like when you baked him macarons, but today's menu is the same as usual.

“What is what?”

“That thing,” he points in your direction. 

Isaac, Mozart, Vincent, and Theo are already having breakfast too, but they pause to glance at you, curious about what Jean is talking about. You feel a bit self-conscious and briefly inspect your clothes. Did you spill something? Fortunately, no. 

“I don’t follow, Jean.”

“That thing you have here,” he points at his own back. “I’ve seen it since I sat here to eat, but I can’t understand.”

You raise an eyebrow at him and look over your shoulder, Arthur takes advantage that you’re still by his side to lean backwards on his chair and measure you up and down — and definitely stare at your ass.

“Stop it, perv,” you playfully spat the writer’s arm, earning a chuckle from him. 

“Ah, I think Master Jean is talking about your tattoo,” Sebastian tries to help, pointing at his own nape.

Realization finally hits you. Since arriving at the mansion, you've been exclusively wearing long clothes that cover almost your entire body. However, summer started a few weeks ago, and you've been feeling the full force of the heat. It's scorching every day, and at times, you wake up covered in sweat. You've been yearning for an air conditioner or even just a simple fan. So you bought lighter clothes recently — aka Comte bought you a whole summer wardrobe as a gift. What you're wearing today is just an off-the-shoulder dress, so the front and back necklines are a bit lower than usual, but not by much. However, you tied your hair in a high ponytail that morning, and it was enough for the tip of your tattoo to be visible. You've had it for so long that you're used to it, and sometimes you forget it's there — plus, you forgot that they've never seen it before.

“What is that?” Jean is even more curious now, evident from the way he furrows his brow.

“It's a drawing on my body, made with a special kind of paint that never fades. It's a form of art.”

“Really?” You've piqued Theo's interest in art. “And what is it?”

“Music,” and now you’ve piqued Mozart’s interest in music. He doesn’t really show it, but you know him well enough to see when he’s curious. “Well, kinda. It goes a little down my spine, but it’s safe to show. Sebastian, can you help me, please?”

The butler nods and approaches you. You turn your back and move your ponytail to the side for a better view, while Sebastian lowers your neckline slightly so the others can satisfy their curiosity and see it.

It starts just at the end of your nape and goes 5 inches down. It’s an all-black DNA drawing with musical notes on the middle lines, a representation of a metronome pendulum on top, and a treble clef at the bottom. The middle actually has the same number of lines as a music sheet, and the notes can be read as the first five notes of your favorite song.

There’s only silence for a few moments, and as you turn around, you see that they're still staring at you. You think Theo hadn't even blinked until now because he suddenly blinks a lot, and his eyes meet yours.

“It’s pretty!” Vicent smiles like the angel he is. “Is it a real song?”

“It is,” Mozart hums the notes, his eyes conveying that he knows it’s your favorite song.

You've told him once, when you went to the music room to give him an afternoon snack. You were already friends (kind of), so when you saw he wasn't there at the moment, you knew he wouldn't mind if you sat down and softly played it; so you did. The next thing you knew, he was barging into the music room to scold whoever had the audacity to touch his piano, but he stopped when he saw you. He may have asked you to write down the notes so he could play it with you.

“Oh, yeah, you played it for us in the last banquet,” Isaac remembers.

“Does it hurt?” Jean asked, curious again. 

“No, not anymore. It hurt when I was getting it done. Boy, that was one hell of a ride,” you laugh. “But it’s been years, so it’s all healed and okay now.”

“It suits you, hondje. Do you have more?”

“I do!” You beam at them, feeling all bubbly inside. It's lovely how they always show interest in anything about you and remember what you like. “It’s on my thigh.” You use the tip of your toes to put more leverage on your right leg, grabbing a fistful of the skirt of your dress. You lift it to show them your tattoo, but a hand stops you when it's reaching your knee.

“Nunuche, what the hell?” 

Napoleon had just woken up and was joining you in the dining room. Did you say something about your thigh? He was still a little sleepy, so he thought he heard you wrong. But then you grabbed your dress… What the fuck do you think you’re doing? He was at your side in the blink of an eye, gripping your wrists tightly and looking at you with a panic expression. It’d certainly be red in a second, if the loud slap sound was any indication. 

And that’s how you make vampires choke on their foods and drinks. You look at them, a confused expression on your face. Isaac spat his tea all over his plate and is now coughing to clear his throat. Jean dropped his fork, frozen in his chair. Mozart is blinking in a frenzy, his mug in such a tight grip on his hand that his knuckles are white. Vincent is blushing furiously, his mouth agape. Theo is actually amused, and you clearly heard Arthur complaining to Napoleon that it was just getting good. 

“What’s wrong?” You ask, startled. 

“MC, just remember we’re not in the 21st century,” Sebastian says, clearly holding a smirk. 

You feel your entire face heat up. Oh my God! That was certainly an uncomfortable situation. But you were so used to them; they made you feel at home, so you didn’t really think about what you were doing.

“Oh, right, sorry,” You chuckle and blush under the intensity of their stares. “But it’s no big deal, really. Sebastian and le Comte have already seen it.”

“Say that again?” Theo asks as his gaze drifts to the butler, just like everyone else's. 

“It’s nothing weird!” You can almost feel the emperor’s grip tightening. Sometimes he was so overprotective — they all were, and it was both endearing and funny. You huff. “We were talking about the 21st century, and I told Sebas that I have tattoos and showed him. Simple as that. Lots of people wear clothes that show a lot of skin in modern days. Do you think I would lift my dress to show the tattoo when I’m right next to Arthur if it wasn’t okay?” You deadpan Napoleon.

“Hey!” The writer complains, but everybody ignores him. You do have a point.

Napoleon frowns, but slowly releases you. You look at the others and just from a look they know you’ll be mad if they freak out again, so they try to act cool. Keyword: try. They’re staring so much you think they’ll open a hole in your thigh, but at least they’re quiet. You lift the dress just a little more and your tattoo is finally showing. It’s colorful and about the same size as the other. There’s white fine lines connecting dots, forming the Leo constellation, with a blue-purple watercolor background.

“Yes, luv! Now that’s a good breakfast,” Arthur smirks and places his elbow on the table to support his head as he looks at you. He’s so glad that Jean started this conversation while you were still beside him. Napoleon purses his lips and glares at the writer, but he knows better than to start a fight. His nunuche wouldn't let him live it down. 

“What the fuck is that?” Theo raises an eyebrow. Don’t get him wrong, he likes the art, but he just doesn’t understand what it’s supposed to be.

“Theo, language,” Vincent scolds his brother. He doesn’t want you to think they don’t like it.

“Is it upside down?” Jean frowns and tilts his head, trying to get a different angle, but it doesn’t make a difference.

"It's the Leo constellation," you chuckle and glance at Isaac, knowing he would understand. He enjoyed stargazing and always invited you to join him, especially after discovering your shared interest — then he started rambling about physics and astronomy, and you were lost.

“Oh, the stars,” Vincent says.

"So," Theo begins, and you can tell from his amused tone that he's about to say something to make you blush, "you have one that resembles Mozart and another that resembles Isaac."

“No, no. It’d have to be an apple for Newt,” Arthur grins when the poor physicist blushes as red as… the mentioned fruit.

“You’re the worst,” Isaac mumbles under his breath.

You chuckle at their banter. “So that’s it,” you say, releasing your dress. “We have a lot of things to do. So finish your breakfasts quickly.” You clap your hands twice.

“Indeed,” Sebastian nods in agreement.

You have moments of silence after that and you go back to work, but you feel the stares the whole day. You know they still have so much to say and ask, but they stay quiet.

You have some “not-so-permanent tattoos” now — and they might have helped do some.

I don't have tattoos yet, but I really want it. I'd make the first one, but with colors.

Crossposted on AO3.

Masterlists

#MC has tattoos #vampires freaking out #tattooed reader #ikemen vampire #ikevamp #ikevamp fanfics #ikevamp scenarios #ikevamp isaac #ikevamp arthur #ikevamp theo #ikevamp vincent #ikevamp jean #ikevamp napoleon #ikevamp mozart #ikevamp sebastian #ikevamp x reader #ikemen vampire x reader

[frenchkisstheabyss]

♡ 𝟙𝟠𝟙𝟚 𝕆𝕧𝕖𝕣𝕥𝕦𝕣𝕖 ♡

♡ Mature Content. Minors DNI. Warnings below the break ♡

Pairing: boyfriend!seonghwa x chubby!fem!reader

Summary: You wake up to your loving boyfriend nervously making you breakfast, unaware that he plans to propose. That is, if he can work up the courage to.

Genre: slice of life/fluffy smut

Word Count: 1.4kish

Warnings: oral sex (f receiving), a delicious breakfast you never get to consume

A/N: This is my first fic after taking a break from writing for a while so my blog's a bit empty but I hope ya'll enjoy this. Any feedback is mucho appreciated. A special thanks to my bestie @anyamaris for giving me the courage to post again ♡

Rubbing your eyes you drag yourself into the kitchen with all the grace of a newborn dear. Soft classical music fills your cozy one-bedroom apartment, rising all at once only to come crashing back down. You’re greeted with the intoxicating smell of milk and honey, the source of which is only revealed to you when your vision clears up. “I made pain perdu!” Hwa smiles, maneuvering around you with the hot pan carrying a thick, golden brown slice of brioche bread. “So…French toast?” He rounds the kitchen table, scooping the piece of French toast onto a plate already home to three other perfectly cooked pieces. “It sounds fancier in French, my love” he says, darting past you again, only this time he stops to kiss you on the cheek. His soft, pink lips chase off the early morning cold. 

It’s only now that you notice what he’s done to the kitchen table. Bowls of fruit as fresh as the day they were picked. Orchids and dahlias bloom in ornate vases. Every breakfast side your heart could desire. “Hwa, what is all of this?” you gasp, only having a second to take it all in before he’s guiding you by your wrists to the oak chair he’s pulled out for you. He stops dead in his tracks, it’s like someone hit the pause button. “I…uh…eat. You should eat.” Hwa sits you down, scrambling to hand you a knife and fork. He trembles so faintly that you might not even notice if you weren’t always so in tune with each other’s bodies. 

“Seonghwa…” you say softly, your fork poking at the French toast but your gaze locked on your busy body of a boyfriend. Much too wrapped up in his own head, he goes on rummaging through the fridge for a bottle of wine. He swings open one of the cabinets, searching for the perfect glass. Nothing else will do. “Park Seonghwa!” you shout, careful not to sound angry. As sweet as his efforts are, you can tell that something’s bothering him. Hwa’s shoulders drop, his slick dark hair falling against his freshly shaved chin. You scurry up behind him. The feeling of your arms around his waist, your fluffy cheek pressed against his back, quiets his worries at once. He places a hand on top of yours, drawing in a deep breath. 

“I can’t help you if you don’t tell me” you whisper, your voice saturated in worry. As he exhales he places the bottle of wine on the counter, turning around to catch the concern on your beautiful face. “I’ve never regretted anything I’ve done during this relationship…” he starts and your heart sinks to your stomach. That’s what this is all about. He’s breaking up with you. You knew it was too good to be true. Two years of some storybook romance shattered. He did this, all of this, to cushion the blow of… “And I never want to so… y/n will you marry me?” You snap out of your daze to find him down on one knee, holding up a black rose cut diamond ring. He forces a pained smile, bracing for the possibility that you may not feel the same way. An insane thought if there ever was one. 

You clutch your hands to your chest, your heart returning to its home with the force of a rocket launching into space. “Yeeeee” you squeak, unable to make out much else. “Yeeee?” “Ssss…” “Yee…sss?” “Yes! Yes! 100% fucking yes!” Tears are streaming down your cheeks before you can stop them. You imagine what a wreck you must look to him, crying in the middle of your kitchen in an old t-shirt and some beat up sweatpants. But nothing could be further from the truth. Slipping the ring onto your finger, he takes you into his arms, nearly sweeping you off of the floor. He tilts his head back ever so slightly, doing his best not to shed some tears of his own. Hwa kisses you and it is, without question, unmatched by any kiss you’ve shared before this day. His scent is more fragrant than any flower on that table. His lips sweeter than the bottle of red wine sweating on the kitchen counter. 

Your shirt lifts, granting him access to the softness of your love handles. The sensation of his hands outlining your body, the electrifying friction of skin against skin, awakens any fiber of your being that could’ve possibly remained drowsy all of this time. “I love you” he gasps against your mouth, lips skimming down your chin to press against your neck. Chills trickle down your spine as he nibbles at the sensitive spot he knows always gets to you. “I love you too” you manage before he lifts you onto the kitchen counter, his hands kneading the pillowy tissue of your breasts. “Hwa, wait. Wait. Hold on.” 

“Hmm?” is all he says, brushing his thumb across your nipple as it perks up beneath his touch. You giggle at the spark it sends through your system, “Aren’t you gonna eat your pain perdu?” “It’s just French toast. Nothing special,” he shrugs, bringing a hand down to slip into your panties, the moisture of your warmth welcoming the intrusion, “But you on the other hand…” Hwa takes his time dipping his fingers into you one after the other, curling them each in their own unique way to coax every darling whimper you have to offer from your throat. It’s this unpredictability that has your body too overstimulated to do anything more than fall back and surrender. 

His fingers abandon you momentarily, a tortuous betrayal forgivable only because of the speed in which he strips your bottom half bare. Your sweatpants and panties falling to the floor tangled within each other. In seconds his hands are behind your knees, firmly pressing them towards your chest. Hwa can’t resist taking mental pictures of you spread out like this, wet and aching. Begging him to taste you for the first time as his on a level he’d spent countless nights praying you’d let him reach. He buries his face between your legs, his long, curved tongue lapping at your clit. You twist in his grip, hips raising purely out of greed. Instead of pushing you back down, he pulls you closer, locking your legs around his neck and plunging his tongue into the very depths of your center. 

“Seonghwa…” you whine, the bottom of your shirt twisted in your fist while your other hand grips the edge of the marble countertop. Hwa’s tongue plays you like one of the exquisite instruments of the orchestra concealing your moans from the neighbors on either side of your apartment. It teases the sweet spot deep within you, flexing along your walls when they clench around him. He slips it between the slickness of your folds, slurping down every bit of you he can catch. What he can’t coats his chin, drops splashing along your inner thigh. Your muscles start to spasm. First, it’s only the ones in your stomach but, as the pleasure deepens, you can feel every singular muscle in your body tighten like the rope of a spinning wheel. It’s so much, too much, and you can’t imagine ever asking him to stop. 

You pinch your bottom lip between your teeth, the lingering scent of milk and honey flooding your lungs once more before the universe itself unravels around you. The orgasm pulses through your veins, dulling all other senses not stemming from Hwa devouring you. You come to be far louder than the music, only driving him to go faster…deeper. “Scream for me. Cry for me” his body language whispers and, oh, how you scream. The very decadence of the sound is enough to arouse him to the point of utter madness. “You…you have to stop...I can’t” you stutter, dangling at the apex of euphoria with no end in sight. If you’re spun any tighter you’re positive you’ll break. He goes completely deaf to you again, this time because he’s much too consumed by you. 

Using what minimal strength you have you slide yourself back on the counter, separating the two of you and leaving your walls contracting as if he never stopped. Hwa straightens out, licking you from his lips, “I’m sorry. You’re just…” “Bedroom” you say, planting your feet on the chilled kitchen floor and wobbling back towards the bedroom. “And bring the syrup!” Hwa crooks his neck, unsure of what to make of the odd request. “For what, exactly?” “You gotta come find out!” That’s all that needs saying for him to grab the bottle of syrup from the table and rush to catch up to you, his stunning, slightly uncoordinated, incredibly tasty girlfri...fiance.

#ateez x reader #seonghwa x reader #seonghwa x y/n #ateez smut #chubby reader #plus size reader #ateez x chubby reader #ateez x y/n #chubby smut #plus size smut

[somnambulic-thing]

All of you

|angst, hurt/comfort, domestic and dramatic methapors I guess?|

666 words :3

Eddie Munson x gn!reader

~~~

It's Friday night after a long exhausting week and what was supposed to be a night spent leisurely together turns into two tired minds creating sparks over dry ground.

It's not a bad fight, not at all, silly really, when you would pause to think about it but you don't and soon, after defensive words in harsh tones round and round in circles, there suddenly is silence.

Silence of that kind that burns like papercuts and salt water and as if to prove that he can feel it too, maybe more so, Eddie jumps up from his spot on the sofa that's right next to you but half a mile away and paces the room three times like a caged animal before he whirls around and hurries to the stereo.

He fumbles through your joint CD collection in a frantic, jerky way that softens the rough edges of your anger, only shallow to begin with you realize, now that you do think about it and you make up your mind to break the torturous silence when the play button clicks, the whirring of the spinning plastic disc fills the air for a moment and then hell breaks loose.

He's back with you in three hurried strides to pull you off the sofa, quickly, almost rough, as if he's scared you could slip through his fingers otherwise and draws you in close, forehead pressed to yours and then you're slow dancing in the middle of the room to the most aggressive music to be found inside these walls you share.

You're not angry anymore but smitten and worried and Eddie is smirking and you are giggling at the awkward swaying that is your agitated bodies trying to find a rhythm that works with the brutal song until you give up and just move in a way that feels right and good and yours.

Eddie starts pressing kisses to your cheek, your jaw and soon is mumbling sorry sorry sorry so so sorry into your neck right below your ear and over your pulse which is the only place he knows you can hear it over the blast beat coming from the stereo.

His arms are drawn tight around you, the kind of tight that tells you he's so grateful that you're still here so grateful that you put up with his stupid shit again and again and your heart breaks for your wonderful, precious man who is so used to be too much with his most basic needs, so used to find himself homeless after a storm.

So your mouth wanders from his cheek to his jaw and down to his ear because everything is okay, Eddie, t' was just a small fight and his hold on you gets a little bit tighter, his hands fist your shirt on your back, stretching the fabric out of shape and the soft swaying of your bodies stops while his heart thunders under your palm in a way that tells you his mind is screaming at him louder than the music ever could.

You're good, you say, so good, while he clings to you. I love you, you say. I love you so much so so mu-- you try to finish but he's so starved now, he can't but eat it right out of your mouth.

It's a messy kiss, a salty kiss. Teeth nipping, tongues teasing.

I am here, your lips try to tell him. And I'm not going anywhere.

The song stops and you pull away from him to turn the stereo off before the next one starts.

When you face him again, he's all flushed and wet cheeks but there's a soft smile cracking through the confusion and the fear like beautiful wild weeds overcoming hard cold concrete.

Eddie holds out his arms and you return home to his chest, put your lips against his pulse right where you know he could hear you over the loudest thunder and say, I love you, Eddie. All of you.

#eddie munson x reader #Eddie munson x you #eddie munson fic #eddie munson angst #Spotify #my fic

[waywardxwords]

Chapter 5 - Last Names (Taking Chances)

Summary: After a random encounter introduces you to Dean Winchester, you can't shake the magnetic pull you feel towards him. For years, you've felt like everything in your life is under control--a promising career, financial stability and no real responsibilities. Dean's a hunter; it's his life and job. But somehow when you meet, your worlds are flipped upside down and you have to decide if it's a chance worth taking.

Chapter Warnings: MATURE CONTENT, please do not continue if you are under the age of 18, language, fluff

Pairing: Dean Winchester x female!reader

Word Count: ~4.8k (this is a doozy, possibly one of the longest chapters I've ever written!

[1] [2] [3] [4]

You had never consumed (nor had you seen someone consume) a burger so quickly before in your life. It was a good burger, but that wasn’t what you could focus on.

When Alice came back to the table to check out–ahem, on–you (but mostly Dean), his gaze didn’t even move from yours. 

“We’ll take the check now, Alice,” he said carefully as he watched you. The way his eyes studied you made you feel naked. It was like nothing else existed in the world but you. Heat climbed your chest in blotchy patches until they formed islands on your neck, your cheeks. The way your heart pounded against your sternum felt so loud, you could hear each beat in your ears. This man was doing something to you, and that was something you hadn’t experienced in too long.

“Here you go, sugar,” Alice gingerly placed the bill in the middle of the table. She watched Dean intently, certainly hoping for maybe one more look into those beautiful green eyes. He glanced quickly with a smile as he fumbled in his pocket for his wallet. He tossed enough cash to cover the meal and the tip on the table, then back to you.

“Thanks, Alice,” he said, without missing another beat. He stood and held his hand out for you to take. “You wanna get outta here?”

Words seemed to fail you for a second, so you just nodded very quickly. Before he could pull you towards the door, he grabbed the grocery bag with the cherry pie you had brought.

“Oh, you forgot to eat your pie,” you murmured as you followed him through the diner.

“I was thinking we might have a different dessert tonight,” he paused at the door as his eyes looked over you once more. You realized he was asking if that’s what you wanted, too. Yet again, all you could do was nod.

Dean’s fingers laced through yours as he led you across the parking lot. The rapid beating of your heart hadn’t slowed, but there was a brief moment you felt the pad of his thumb brush the top of yours to your knuckle and back that made your heart skip. 

After a second or two, he had spun you so your back was pressed against his back passenger door. The sound of the grocery bag rustled as he tossed it into the front passenger seat and turned his attention back to you.

You mentally (and physically) gulped.

The way his eyes searched your face one last time, the way his hands cupped your cheeks. It was electric, or maybe even more magnetic. Every time you lost contact with his skin, you craved more. It was as though there was this pull between you that kept drawing you back. 

“God, what is it about you?” He breathed the question, and you couldn’t blame him. You had been wondering the same about him. How you couldn’t stop thinking about him after your random encounter in Atlanta. Or the way you couldn’t sit still long enough to meet him in Salina the night before. And now tonight–the way you couldn’t compose yourself after he started blatantly flirting with you.

“Ever since you kissed me last night,” you tested your bravery as your eyes moved over his lips and noted how they glistened in the yellow glow of the street light he had parked under. “I’ve wanted more.” You looked back to his eyes just long enough to see the shadow of his lashes as his lips curve up in a smirk.

After his gaze moved from your eyes to your mouth once more, his lips pressed against yours and moved slowly. 

Your hands found his wrists as he still held your face. He moved one hand down to wrap behind you so you were caught between him and his car. The way his body blocked over you made your head spin. Dean tilted his head a bit to get a better angle, and you felt his tongue gently move over your bottom lip. Without wasting another moment, you welcomed him inside.

The skin of your back felt cool as it pressed against the metal of his car and the glass window, but there was warmth where his hand held you–pressed against your lower back carefully, but strategically to apply just the right amount of pressure so you could feel every inch of his chest, his hips, his thighs…

There was a pause from him and the sound of your kiss ending echoed in your ears. You searched his eyes for a moment, and you saw hesitation. 

“Maybe we should slow down a little bit,” he half-heartedly chuckled as his eyes fell over you. 

“Dean?” You made sure your eye contact with him was solid so he knew you meant it. “I live the most mundane life. If you looked up the definition of boring, my life would be next to it as an example.” Dean laughed softly but brought his fingers up to brush a strand of your hair back that had blown freely with the wind. “Meeting you has been one of the most serendipitous things that’s happened to me, I think. I want this. I want you.”

Another moment passed before Dean’s lips were back on yours, but more slowly this time; purposeful. 

“Okay, then,” he said softly as he broke away once more, the lowness of his voice sent another shudder below your skin. “Serendipitous.” He repeated before he kissed you once more. The word sounded like magic as it rolled off of his tongue.

His hands moved more freely now as they both gripped your hips. His thumbs looped in your belt loops as your hands roamed his chest. 

“Can we go to your place?” You asked, breathlessly. You were even slightly surprised at your forwardness, but you didn’t let it stop you. His eyes darted between yours and you sensed hesitation.

“I can’t, my, uh, my brother’s there,” his answer sounded hesitant, but you were distracted by the way your heart pulsated in your chest. 

You nibbled on your bottom lip for a moment as you tried to think of a solution. The fire in the pit of your stomach didn’t help, but instead urged you to come up with something. 

Dean quickly opened his passenger door once more and held it open for you. “I’ll find a place,” he motioned. There was a sense of giddiness that overtook you as you slid into the Impala. It was something about the recklessness that you never allowed yourself to encounter, and the man practically jogging around the front of the car. The smell of leather of the seats mixed with Dean’s faded cologne, you could hardly contain yourself. This man was like a drug, and you were officially hooked. 

He pushed the key into the ignition and the engine roared to life. You couldn’t help but slide over the bench seat so you were pressed to his side. As he put the car into drive, your lips found the soft spot just below his ear lobe. Your lips smoothed over the stubble covered skin, and your teeth nibbled gently. 

“Jesus, sweetheart,” he practically hissed through his teeth. “You’re makin’ me crazy, here.” A gentle chuckle rumbled in his chest. 

“Sorry, I couldn’t help myself,” you pulled back but felt a different kind of heat pull to your cheeks; this time, it was slight embarrassment. “I’m sorry, just something with you…this just feels so different.”

“Oh, you mean you don’t usually jump your date?” Dean eyed you with a glance as he drove, but a small smile formed on his lips. 

Ugh, the embarrassment took over (after your insides tingled a bit at the way he said ‘date’) and you pulled your hand over your face. 

“Hey, now,” Dean took one hand off the wheel and gently pulled yours away from your face so he could see you. “Don’t go hiding on me. There’s nothin’ wrong with this, sweetheart. I was just kidding.” His words were gentle, but you could still hear the roughness in his tone as his blood pumped through his body from your closeness to him. “I just want to be very clear—whether anything happens tonight or not, I’ve had the best night I’ve had in a long time.”

The car was filled with darkness as he turned down a road with limited street lights. But in the glow of the moonlight, you could see the white of his teeth and shadows of his features that told you he was telling the truth. 

“Me too, Dean,” your words came in a whisper. “But to answer your question,” you cleared your throat and looked down at your hands now in your lap before you continued. “No, I most definitely do not jump my dates. Especially ones who I don’t even know their last name.” You laughed, the song Last Name by Carrie Underwood played for a moment in your brain.. 

“Ha,” he laughed out loud as stole another glimpse at you before looking back at the road. “Fair enough. And it’s Winchester.” He answered with a smile. Winchester, you made a mental note.

You offered up your last name before the next question came. “Do you…do you regularly seduce your date on the…” you contemplated. What date was this, exactly? “Second date?” It came as two questions, really. The first being if Dean did this on a regular basis; the second questioning which date this was, exactly. 

Dean turned into a parking lot of a quaint building. As he pulled into a parking spot, he answered. “Well, first of all, no. I, uh,” he cleared his throat somewhat uncomfortably as he continued. “I haven’t been in this kind of situation in…a while.” That was a relief. “And secondly, this is our third date, not second.” You did the mental math and realized he was kind of right, counting when you met in Atlanta. “Technically it could be our fourth…dinner in Atlanta and then hanging out in the hotel.” You rolled your eyes. 

“Oh, come on—if we’re counting that as our first date, it definitely only counts as one,” you smirked, which caused Dean to chuckle again. 

“That was the longest first date I’ve ever been on,” Dean had turned his body so he faced you now. 

You contemplated that. “Huh, ya know, I think it was the longest first date I’ve ever been on, too.”

“See? It should count as two,” Dean winked. His fingers found yours on what little slice of seat was left between the two of you. “In all seriousness,” he glanced down at your hands where your fingers melded together. “This is a bed and breakfast. I’d love to spend the night with you here, even if that means just watching old horror classics and talking like we did in Atlanta.”

His words brought a wave over you that you managed to wade through. It was different. While you hadn’t been with anyone in a long time, you were still used to a different pressure with guys pre Dean. He wasn’t like the others, and that was clear. 

You nodded just as Dean brought your hands to his lips and left a soft kiss. “Good,” he gently dropped your hands and turned to open the driver's side door. You scooted back over to the passenger door and opened it to step into the cool Kansas air. Dean waited just in front of the Impala for you and smiled as you approached, with a reach for your hand. 

Being with Dean felt easy; freeing, almost. The two of you walked through the front door of the bed and breakfast and smiled at the older woman behind the counter.

“Oh, hello!” She beamed. “Checking in?”

“Wanted to see if you had a room, by chance,” Dean fished for his wallet out of his back pocket and you took in the surroundings. This place was charming. It was an older building, but had modern updates. Dean paid for the room and the woman handed over the key.

“Check out is at 11am, but we can make an exception for later, if needed,” somehow you thought you saw a wink in there. Jesus, all the women love him, the thought played through your mind as you smirked with a shake of your head. Maybe it wasn’t just you who had a magnetic pull to the mysterious Dean Winchester.

“No problem, thank you so much,” Dean smiled as he took the key and turned towards the stairs with you. The woman watched as you ascended, probably wondering where your luggage was, which made your cheeks warm again.

“I forgot, I have to be at the airport in the morning. I’ll have to leave by four if I want to make it,” you whispered to Dean as you approached the door with the number 7 on it. 

“Ah, shit. I didn’t think about that,” Dean hesitated for a moment. “It’s only about 9 now. You wanna stay, or head back? I don’t mind either way.” He gave you another out, just in case (which you appreciated).

“No, no,” you shook your head and took the key from him. “I’ll be fine. Who needs sleep anyway?” You slipped the key into the doorknob and turned. 

The door opened to a quaint room—light gray walls with white molding. There was a king-sized bed up against a wall facing a flat screen television. Another door opened up into a beautiful bathroom with white marble tiling and a glass shower with a small vanity. 

“This is so nice,” you muttered as you took in the room. It felt elegant and like something you wouldn’t find in Lebanon, Kansas. 

“It really is,” Dean took in the surroundings, as well. “I’ve always heard good things.” He moved to pull his leather jacket off to reveal a dark green t-shirt. 

Your eyes traveled down his torso—the way it formed to fit every muscle in his chest, and the way it clung to his biceps. You’d be a remiss if you didn’t acknowledge the way it took your breath away. 

“So, what’ll it be? Horror movie? Comedy? I’ll even suck up a chick-flick if that’s what you’re feelin’,” he had reached for the remote but his eyes were on you; you could feel it even before you turned to see it for yourself. 

This is crazy, you barely know the man. But you felt like you did. You knew of the things he had been through; the pain and trauma. You knew he had kind eyes–sometimes a little mischievous as they practically undressed you in the diner.

“Dean?” Your eyes watched him closely as you stepped towards him. He seemed hesitant, maybe. A little unsure of what your intentions were. 

“Hmm?” He hummed back and you noticed he rocked on his heels for a second. 

“Kiss me?” It came out as a question, though you had hoped it’d be a clear statement. 

His eyes darted from your gaze to your lips, then back once more. And then his lips were on yours again, this time more intense than the last. It felt as though he had given you every opportunity to change your mind, and upon realizing you hadn’t, he kissed you in a way you truly felt you had never been kissed before. 

You took the lead this time and let your tongue move across his bottom lip. Almost instantly, his mouth opened and allowed you in. Tangled breaths mixed between you as Dean moved backward with his hands pulling your hips until the backs of his legs hit the bed. 

There was a brief separation as your eyes moved between one another, and then just as quickly, Dean pulled the hem of his shirt up until it was over his head. That was where you froze—your eyes traced from his freckled shoulders, down his chest, to his abs and landed where his jeans were buttoned. 

“You okay, sweetheart?” There was a teasing tone to his voice as you caught his eyes once more. 

Your tongue darted out to lick your lips quickly, and you managed a nod. “You are…” words failed you as you tried not to stare. There was an interesting tattoo on his chest–it almost looked like a sun, but you weren’t sure. Your eyes were glazed over with need.

“Your turn,” his words sent a shiver from the top of your spine to the tips of your toes. Your teeth instinctively found the inside of your bottom lip again. 

Dean’s fingers were quick to settle below your chin, his thumb gently pulled down below your lip to release it. 

“It makes me crazy when you do that,” his voice was so low and gruff. He pulled your blazer down off of your shoulders until it fell to the carpeted ground below your feet. Your fingertips found the hem of your blouse and pulled it over your head. It wasn't until then that you realized how hard you were breathing, as the tops of your breasts rose and fell. 

Just as insecurities about your body began to drift back into your brain, you pushed forward to connect your lips to his. He faltered only for a second before he welcomed the kiss, his fingertips working quickly on the clasp of your bra behind your back. 

The cool air nipped at spots on your skin that had been covered before. Dean pulled away for a moment to take it all in. 

“God, you’re beautiful,” his chest rose and fell rapidly with each breath he took. 

With the palms of your hands, you pressed against his chest so he fell back on the bed. He leaned back on his elbows with a grin across his face and you swore you could see a spark in his eyes. 

“C’mere,” he urged, and you knew he didn’t have to tell you twice. You moved so you were on top of him, planting kisses on his lips, his cheek, his neck. You felt the slight swell of your lips as it scratched upon the rough stubble on his jaw line. 

Dean wasted no time in rolling so you were underneath him, which elicited a small giggle from you. 

His fingertips traced from your cheek, down your neck, to your collarbone. Then the top of your breast, until his thumb was strategically placed over your nipple where he rubbed until it sprouted into an even harder bud than it already was. 

“Dean,” it came as a hiss. Your eyes had closed so tightly, you couldn’t even see the warm yellow glow from the table lamp. The soft cotton sheets pooled between your fingertips as you clutched for some stability. 

“You ain’t seen nothing yet, sweetheart,” his lips replaced his thumb and you thought you might explode. His hand moved down your stomach, cradling your side smoothly as he continued his path until he reached the waistband of your pants. Seemingly expertly, he maneuvered his fingers until you felt the pop of the metal button being released. 

When his hands urged your hips upward, you complied. You lifted your hips so he could shimmy the pants off of your hips until they collected near your ankles. One kick was all it took to send them to the carpeted floor. 

Dean kneeled up on his knees as he undid his jeans painfully slowly, you felt. Patience wasn’t in the cards for you, so you sat up and moved your hands over his to undo them quicker. You didn’t miss the smirk across his face or the way his eyes bore into you as you worked. 

Before he discarded his jeans, he reached into the back pocket for his wallet and retrieved a square foil packet. 

Still on his knees, Dean eyed your burgundy panties and traced the small trail of wetness he found there with his thumb, causing you to moan out again as you tried to writhe against his hand. 

“You’re already so ready for me, sweetheart,” he crooned just as he reached up to the elastic waistband and gave another tug. 

There was no more room for insecurities; you were already too far gone. As Dean slid the panties down your legs, you felt the length of him against your knee. 

“You seem pretty turned on yourself, Mr. Winchester,” you attempted your best flirtation back. 

“Oh, and then some, Atlanta,” he breathed as his fingers found your folds and smoothed over them. The back of your head dug into the mattress as his fingers worked you over. 

A fire burned deep in the pit of your belly, and the only person who could extinguish it was Dean Winchester, you were sure of it. 

He slipped his index finger in and simultaneously continued circling your clit. Your fingers released the death grip on the sheets and tangled in his short hair. With the other hand, you traveled down Dean’s chest until you found what you were looking for. You moved your hand along his hardened cock under the waistband of his boxers, allowing your thumb to smooth over the tip. 

“Jesus,” he murmured as you moved, his fingers matching rhythm with your hand. 

Dean positioned himself over you again, his lips taking yours in a hasty kiss. The feeling of him pressing in all of the right places, paired with his lips on yours and the feeling of him in your hand, you thought you may combust. 

“More,” was all you could muster out between the trail of his lips, but it seemed like he didn’t have to be told more than once, either. 

He leaned back and tore into the foil packet with his teeth before removing the condom and rolling it onto his cock. 

Goosebumps trailed your skin as you watched, and you couldn’t help but take your bottom lip captive between your teeth once more. 

“What’d I tell you about that lip?” Dean moved over you once more as he settled between your legs and pulled your lip down with his thumb. Then, he dropped the volume but his voice rasped, “That lip drives me crazy.”

Your eyes met and just before he entered you, you quipped back. “Show me.”

It was 3:44 when Dean tilted his head to glance at the neon green numbers on the nightstand. You felt his groan rumble through his chest where your head was planted as you traced his freckles. 

He dropped a quick kiss to your hairline. “We gotta get you back to your car, sweetheart. You have a flight to catch in a few hours.”

Your groan matched his as you buried your head in his chest, hoping that maybe if you did, you could stay there forever. “I don’t wanna.”

That elicited a chuckle from him. “Trust me, if we could stay like this, I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Dean had extinguished that fire in your belly, but then relit it. And extinguished it again…and then once more in the shower. “I know, I know,” you grumbled as Dean reluctantly pulled away and swung his legs over the side of the bed. 

“Back to reality,” he chirped with a quick smack to your ass. 

“Hey!” You laughed as you turned towards him, your breasts exposed. 

“Goddamn, woman. You gotta get dressed before you miss your flight,” he turned away to gather his clothes.

The Impala roared to life as Dean drove you back to your car parked at the restaurant. You sat similarly to how you did on the way to the bed and breakfast—pressed against his side, his fingers interlocked with yours tracing small patterns upon the top of your hand. 

It only took a few minutes to get back to where your rental car was parked at Jiffy Burger. It was almost four o’clock in the morning and your body was tired, but your adrenaline was still pumping. You didn’t want the night to end. 

Dean cut the engine as a sigh passed through his lips. “I hate how late it is and how far you have to go. You sure you don’t want me to follow you back to Salina?”

“I’m sure, Dean. It’s late, or early I guess, but I’ll be fine. Tonight was well worth it. Besides, I’ll just sleep on the plane,” your lips found his cheek for a quick kiss.

He groaned. “I hate that you’re leaving.” He sounded genuine, and you had to admit you felt the same. 

“I know, but it gives us something to look forward to. For next time,” your teeth found the inside of your lip again, but Dean caught it with his thumb quickly this time. 

“Guess I’m gonna have to get comfortable flying, huh?” He smirked before he pulled you close for a kiss. 

As you both got out of the Impala, you walked slowly to your rental where he pulled you in once more. It was a kiss you wouldn’t forget, that was certain. 

“Might as well sign up for a frequent flier program now,” you whispered with your eyes still closed. 

“Does that get me an invite to the Mile High club, too?” He teased, a laugh escaped him as you poked his side. 

“Only if I’m flying with you,” you half-teased back as you reached back to open the driver’s side door. 

“I’ll fly every goddamn day if that’s what’s waiting for me,” he wiggled his eyebrows as you lowered the window and he leaned through on his forearms. 

“Bye, Dean,” it came out in a breath as you pressed your lips to his once more. 

“Bye, sweetheart. Call me when you get there,” it wasn’t a question. 

“It’ll be like, six AM. You should be sleeping by then,” you said as you fastened your seatbelt. 

“I won’t be able to sleep, trust me,” his lips pulled up in a small smile before he kissed you once more. He ran his hand down the side of your face and pulled away. “See you soon, Atlanta.”

“You better,” you called back as you took one last look at him before you put the car in drive. 

“Drive safe,” you heard him call out, just as you eased on the gas. 

The two hour drive hadn’t been as brutal as you expected. There wasn’t any traffic, and Dean ended up calling you thirty minutes in, just to check in. 

He kept your mind alert by talking about anything and everything. What your family was like, if you had any siblings. You told him that you were an only child, but you felt like you had a sister in your best friend, Jen. He told you about his brother, and the pranks they’d pull on each other. 

Before you knew it, you were already back in your hotel parking lot. 

“I’m here, Dean,” you murmured as you disconnected your phone from Bluetooth and pulled the device to your ear. 

“Good,” his voice was gruff—he could fib all he wanted, but you knew he was exhausted. “Thanks for coming all this way to see me. I really, really enjoyed tonight.” 

Your cheeks rounded as you couldn’t fight the smile that came from his words. “Me too, Dean. Get some sleep. I’ll text you when I land.” 

“Night, sweetheart,” and with that, you both hung up. 

You knew Jen would be waking up right about now, so as you gathered your purse and climbed out of the car, you sent her a quick text. 

You’ll never guess where I’ve been all night…

You fished out your hotel key and headed for the lobby. Just before you got on the elevator, your cell buzzed. 

Jen All night?! Bitch, it’s 6am. Have you not slept?! 

Before you could even type back, another came through. 

Jen NO YOU DID NOT. Mysterious Dean?! Airplane man?? Who are you and what the hell did you do with my best friend? Tell me you at least got his last name before you did the deed. 

The elevator dinged as you reached your floor. You typed back as you walked the short distance to your room. 

Yes ma’am, I did. He’s amazing. He’s kind and funny and sexy and god, it had been way too long. I’m proud of myself ;)

As your door clicked open, you sighed. You’d have to leave shortly for the airport, but you had a few minutes to spare. 

Jen Well good, I’m happy for you. But you should still Google him…just in case. You never know these days. 

You didn’t feel like you needed to Google Dean, but at the same time, there was a sense of yearning to know all about him (and who didn’t have an online footprint?). 

As you picked at your cuticle, you sat down in front of your laptop and opened up Chrome. 

“Dean Winchester”, you typed and hit enter. 

And as the page loaded, you did a double take. Then, a triple take. 

Your heart plummeted into your stomach and you felt like you might actually vomit. There were so many headlines, but the top one was enough, paired with a mugshot that matched his face: Suspected Murderer, Dean Winchester, Found Deceased

A/N: SURPRISE! I've been bit by the writing bug and I couldn't help but post this early. Mostly because after this chapter, I don't feel right making you wait a week to see what happens next. Sorrrry for the cliffhanger. <3

Chapter 6 will be posted on Thursday!

Chapter 6 Preview:

Whiplash. It was the only way you knew how to describe going from having, what you would describe as the best night of your life, to spiraling down to the worst feeling you had ever felt. 

Jen was the only person you knew to call—she knew you and knew how boring your life was (and how long it had been since you had even looked at a man, let alone sleep with one). 

“This feels really, really dangerous,” you could tell by her tone that she really didn’t know what to say. 

“No shit, Sherlock,” you wanted to cry but you couldn’t even get tears to fall. You had never been in shock before, but you assumed it might feel something like this. “What do I do? Call one of those police departments? The FBI? …Homeland Security?” The thoughts were racing. 

“Take a breath,” you heard her take one at the same time, and you followed suit. “He didn’t hurt you, right? Force you to sleep with him?” 

“God, no,” you plopped down on the uncomfortable mattress and rubbed your temple. “I practically threw myself at him. It was…” your mouth couldn’t say what you felt. It had been amazing, ‘best night of your life’ material. But you couldn’t say that now. Not after what you had read. 

“Maybe the articles are wrong? Maybe there’s more to it than what you’re reading. Oh! Maybe he’s in the witness protection program?” She tried to rationalize. But you had already done that before you called her. 

“He wouldn’t have used his old name, Jen,” your words were so soft, you weren’t sure if she heard them. 

“Shit, you’re right,” she took a sip of her coffee. “Listen. Just go to the airport, block his number and fly home. We will work through this together. Don’t call anyone yet. This sounds like something you don’t want to get mixed up in, babe.” 

You nodded at her words and felt the first wrench of emotion in the back of your throat. “I’m worried I already have.” 

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[insult-2-injury]

Scream Queen - Part 1/2

Gojo Satoru/FemReader

When it comes to horror films, Gojo considers himself a connoisseur. He knows a good chase when he sees one, and he's had his sights set on you for a long time.

AO3 Link

NSFW, 6.3k wc, porn with plot, dirty talk, fingering, pussy eating, masturbation, mild predator/prey

Part 1

Gojo had picked the horror flick that night. Had insisted it was critically acclaimed. But it was just some campy thing where the heroine was running all too slow down a flickering hallway, her screams serving only to alert the pursuing monster of her exact location. The woman’s hair was as beautifully curled as when she’d arrived, her skirt hiked up to her upper thighs, tank top torn in a way that left little to the imagination. 

“‘Amazing cinematography’ my ass,” you mumbled. You lay sleepily on Gojo’s couch, head in his lap, his fingers carding through your hair.

“You don’t like?” 

“She’s tripped over six times.”

“Yeahhh she’s a little clumsy,” he agreed. “But try and think about it this way: every time she stumbles, her tits go bananas. I mean talk about breaking the fourth wall.”

The woman ran into a room, barricading the door with just a weak press of her shoulder, weeping hysterically. You pointed at the screen, livid. “I can literally see a cameraman standing in the corner! Critically acclaimed? Really?”

“Yeah. Critically acclaimed by my penis.” He frowned. “Did I not say that?”

“No, actually, you failed to mention that, deviant.”

The tug of sleep was beginning to draw your eyes closed, the warmth of his thigh and the drone of shitty TV lulling you into a dreamlike trance. It was a rare occasion that you didn’t like the movies Gojo picked out; in fact this was a first. He actually had a surprising eye for pretty things and a knack for picking out quality flicks you’d never even heard of. But this was… decidedly un-epic.

The sound of wood splintering through indicated the start of yet another chase sequence that you couldn't care less about witnessing.

“Couldn’t be me,” you mumbled, melting further into his lap with a deep sigh, eyes finally closing. “I’m fast as fuck.”

“Yeah?” His voice held more than a touch of amusement. “You’re alright.”

With a cursed technique that granted you a speed on par with the all famous Gojo Satoru, you’d fare more than alright in a horror film.

“You could never catch me.”

The fingers in your hair paused for a good minute before he responded.

“You think?” he said.

Your only response was a sleepy hum.

“Hm.” The fingers continued. “Alright.”

You were too tired to think much of it, honestly, or the fact that you had inadvertently issued a challenge to the most insufferably competitive man you’d ever met. 

As your breathing slowed, his touch switched almost absentmindedly to the shell of your exposed ear, sweeping softly along the curve of it. Back and forth. Goosebumps tracked down your arms and you shivered, pulling your legs so tight to your chest that they knocked into his. You opted to ignore the puff of amusement from above – not like you could help that his couch was so comfortable.

Not to mention his apartment was bafflingly huge compared to your 400 square foot rabbit cage – with one of those open plan living spaces boasting enough area to plant a giant sectional couch right smack in the middle of it. But for how filthy rich he was, the place wasn’t ostentatious at all. It was cozy. Blessedly quiet, too, in comparison, even with the constant murmur of background noise that you were convinced Gojo would drop dead without. 

His apartment had become somewhat of a home base in recent months for you to decompress after tough missions. It hadn’t been easy finding friends since your move to Tokyo. Not that Gojo had started out as anything close to one. You’d hated his guts at first, actually. Still did sometimes - your first meeting ending with you fuming and him grinning down at you like you were the funniest little creature. He had a habit of that, making people feel small, what with his 6 '3 string bean stature and a perma-smirk that did little to fight off the asshole allegations.

You weren’t sure if you could deign to call whatever this was a friendship, either, with the two of you pushing each other’s buttons like it was your sworn duty to do so. But the bickering was a strange sort of constant in your life, and jujutsu sorcerers didn’t get many of those. So you showed up here time and time again for what? Normalcy? Comfort? Something like that. You just took it for what it was, and Gojo was certainly never one to complain about company.

You dozed off to the thought of how surprisingly cushy his thigh was, even if he was built like a string bean.

A sharp pinch on your earlobe jolted you awake. In an instant, you’d snatched the offending wrist and pulled yourself up. “Ow! The hell was that about?!” 

“Whoopsie! Sorry ‘bout that.” Gojo shrunk back from you, his sheepish apology so comically phony he reminded you of a kitten caught testing its boundaries. “Got scared. Hand slipped.”

“You’re so full of shit.”

“Sheesh. Careful, no second chances with this one.” 

He was being extra annoying tonight, and you said as much. Grumpily, you released your hold of him and he made a real show of it: inspecting for bruises, rubbing at his wrist and shaking his hand out like he’d been in iron shackles. Worst of all, the movie seemed like it was only a little past the halfway point, which means he hadn’t let you sleep through much of it at all. 

“Well.” You clapped your hands together. “you’ve just got to fill me in on what I missed.”

He inhaled.

“Sarcasm.”

His bottom lip stuck out in a pout, his head falling against his shoulder as he regarded you.

“You’re so mean to me.”

With a dramatic huff, you turned and collapsed back into the couch beside him, rubbing the sleep from your eyes with the heels of your palms. With senses so finely attuned to Gojo’s impulsive tendencies by now, you blindly knocked his hand away with your forearm before he could reach out to aggressively ruffle your hair in retaliation.

Just as smug as he could be, you crossed your arms and smirked. You’d found he often liked to justify inciting violence by lecturing how a good sorcerer was always on their guard. Well, guess what.

“Who’s the strongest now, bitch? That’s twice now I’ve blocked your ass.”

You caught the tail end of his quiet, mournful suffering – “could’ve seriously been injured…” 

“You have a weak constitution.”

He pointed at himself, looking around the room as if to say ‘me?!’  You nodded solemnly.

“Uh oh, I smell jealousyyy,” he sang, fingers drumming a scattered beat on the leather behind your head.

“Yeah? What of?”

He raised his chin with a dazzling smile. “My dainty, effeminate wrists, of course!”

Despite your best attempt, you snorted a laugh. Damn if he didn’t look pleased as punch about it, too.

“Strongest,” you scoffed. “You can’t even stand up from the couch without groaning. Let’s get you home, grandpa…reduced to bone dust if someone tightened your watch band a little too hard–”

You let out an angry squeal when the fingers behind you finally seized the chance to reach up and tousle your hair– not in the cute little gesture of affection kind of way. More in the pure violence for violence sake kind of way. You threw your arms over your head, forehead tucking into your folded knees, shouting over his witchy cackle.

“Strongest guy at the bingo table more like! Stop. Stop!” You smacked at his accosting hand blindly but it was like swatting at a relentless swarm of bees. “THAT’S ENOUGH.”

With one final ruffle, he let you go. You threw him your fiercest scowl.

“I hate you.”

His fiendish laughter trailed into the low, drawn out sound of your name, hummed with a purring appreciation that had your stomach flipping oddly, twisting in knots. You froze. Dear lord, when had you gravitated so close to him? If you tipped your head back, you’d be lying on the crook of his elbow. 

Quickly, you averted your gaze and got to work on your hair, smoothing down the devastation he had wreaked upon it. But strangely, his touch never quite left you, knuckles stroking gently at the base of your neck in an unfamiliar act of intimacy. You waited for him to launch an attack again, but he didn’t. Just quietly kneaded his fingers into your spine. The whole thing left you feeling a little stranded by what seemed like an unnerving insinuation of closeness, gaining an invisible weight to it the longer it went uncontested by you.

You blinked and spouted the first lie you could conjure up.

“You make for a terrible pillow, by the way.”

He made a throaty noise of disappointment, studying you a moment longer before turning his attention back to the movie, touch abandoning your neck. “Come into my home…” 

“And I’ll walk right back out of it if you’re not careful.”

“Ooh, consider me scared!”

“You should be scared.”

“Don’t I know it.” His long form slouched impossibly further down into his seat, his fingers lacing over his chest before he barked out one startlingly loud laugh, as if he’d just remembered you’d said the funniest thing. “Careful,” he said, a self-satisfied grin beginning to creep across his lips. “You would hate careful.”

You frowned. “What–”

“Don’t worry about it, sweetheart,” he waved you off. “You can do whatever you want.”

Your jaw clenched at the pet name. But still it took a moment for your brain to kick back into gear. It was just… the way he’d said it that gave you pause, like he knew something you didn’t.

“Shit movie,” was all you could think to say.

“Yep,” he said, popping the ‘p’, sitting there still with a far-too-pleased grin.

Hit with a sudden bout of nerves, you turned to the coffee table, which was littered with a variety of sweet snacks he’d fished out of his cupboard. Stomach already full and strongly protesting to anything more, you panic-swiped two kit kats and jammed them into your mouth, taking the opportunity to scooch yourself away from him.

For a guy whose cursed technique allowed him to control space, Gojo was awfully oblivious to the concept of it. He was a taker; give him room to spread and he would take it unapologetically. It was no different now, his long form stretching immediately into your space again. His knee chased yours almost mindlessly, leg knocking into yours, bouncing there with a fervor.

“Stop.”

He looked at you with a raised brow. “Heh?”

“You’re encroaching.” 

His gaze flicked down, noticing the personal space violation for the first time, blinking, making a small hum of decision. He leaned in close, murmuring into your ear. “Well here’s an idea, yeah?” He grabbed your knee with an outstretched palm. “Go on and walk right out of here, then.”

You could only pray the movie was loud enough that he didn’t hear your breath catch. God, his hands were huge, his long, spidery grip bleeding warmth across your lower thigh and knee.

The feel of Gojo’s breath swept across your cheek as he observed your reactions closely. And you couldn’t help but gulp as a different, more alarming heat burned its way slowly up your thigh like a lit wick.

A thumb brushed featherlight across your bare skin, the pads of his fingers beginning to crawl gently inward to tickle the sensitive skin at the inside of your knee. You quickly jerked your leg away.

“Here’s an idea,” you sputtered, fumbling to find anything clever to say and failing miserably, “stop… being the way that you are.”

“Uh. Alright.” Gojo scratched his head, pulling back to give you the space you thought you wanted. “Don’t know what you want me to do about that, really. Sheesh. What’s a guy to do? Not like I can stop being hot or a genius or whatever. You want me to just ‘say goodbye’ to my baby blues?” He cupped his palm over his mouth in hushed confidentiality. “My giant horse cock?”

You made a horrible retching sound.

He shrugged away your disgust. “Just sayin’, you’ve gotta see it to believe it.”

“Cut it out.”

It was like you’d told him there was strawberry cake on the ceiling the way his eyes lit up, rolled back in his skull, jaw dropping as he threw his head back in fake ecstasy. And you just knew what he was about to do.

Your fist pulled back to prepare what should’ve been a non-punch to his infinity. 

“Stop or I will punch all the way through you.”

In an outrageously high-pitched, shrill voice, Gojo moaned.

“Make me, daddy–!”

The words were cut short by a choked grunt as he allowed your fist to connect to the soft of his stomach. Hard. His head lolled backward, a long, appreciative groan slipping from between an open-mouthed grin. The slender column of his throat bobbed as the raunchy noise dissolved into giggles. And you might as well have been struck in the gut yourself with how violently you yanked yourself back from him.

Because Gojo Satoru was beautiful like this. In that stupid, unfair way that made you want to run your tongue up and down his neck just once to see if he was made of real flesh and blood. You shook the thought from your head.

“You’re so weird.”

“You think so?” he asked, voice just a touch raspy.

‘Yeah. I do.”

His eyes rolled coyly to the side to meet yours.

“Brat.”

“Pervert.”

Gojo lifted his head lazily, perfect tufts of snow white falling across his forehead, a dangerous grin stretching slow and wide across his face. “Babe, you have no idea.”

Your face heated, nerves shooting off like a flurry of butterfly wings in your chest. You wanted to hiss at him. What was he playing at anyway? He’d flirt with the likes of a potted fern, but still.

It wasn’t something you could afford to think too hard on. This was just who he was: an irredeemable flirt, someone who couldn’t help but poke around the edges of boundaries just to test the strength of the fenceline. A guy like him wasn’t interested in the long term, anyway, and probably wouldn’t last with someone who didn’t want to sit around and stroke his vanity all day. 

Besides, it was nobody’s business but your own whether you occasionally thought about how it might slap his thighs when he walked.

To your growing horror, you found yourself unable to tear your wide eyes away from his; gaping far too long to chalk it up to a mental hiccup. And he was eating it right up if his stupidly smug smirk was anything to go by. 

You fell back into your earlier TV watching position, but instead of settling your head in his lap like before, you curled yourself beside him, the crown of your head pressing against his outer thigh. Safer that way, better to avoid his gaze. Mortification burned bright and unbearable in your chest. 

“Stop staring. And stop calling me babe.”

“Why should I?”

“Because,” you said sharply.

“Because,” Gojo considered, nodding, seeming to roll the word out on his tongue. He laughed, insincere. “Because! You’re so right.”

You remained stubbornly silent. The pad of his thumb dropped to smooth over the deepening scrunch of your brows and you barely allowed it to stay. It was just a thing with Gojo; his hands always had to be fiddling with something, touching something. And you were usually the closest thing.

That was all.

“Ya know, you get all twitchy when you’re nervous,” his voice purred from above. “You nervous?”

Having little hope that he missed the small shudder that tracked your spine, you craned your neck to shoot him a warning look. But the sight that greeted you had you forgetting how to breathe.

Gojo was studying you with a shocking intensity, the glowing Six Eyes flicking between yours like he was carefully mapping you out. The ghost of a fascinated, greedy sort of grin curled at one corner of his mouth, seeming only to deepen at the sight of your unease. You dropped your head back into the couch, squeezing your eyes shut to will away the stone of want that had lodged itself firmly at the base of your throat. 

“Can I ask you a question?” 

“Never been able to stop you before,” you snipped.

Gojo hummed, undeterred. 

So sly that you hardly registered what he was doing until his shadow was looming over you, he repositioned himself, one leg sliding onto the couch so he could turn sideways to fully lean over your balled up form. With a quick move and a scooch forward, you found your head propped on his lap again.

A large palm cut off your furious protests, sliding to cup gently beneath your jaw, two fingers grazing over your clattering pulse. A calloused thumb slid across the seam of your downturned lips.

“Do you like feeling helpless?” he asked softly.

You stilled as a drop of startling heat slithered between your legs. His hand drifted down the column of your throat to follow the contraction of your nervous swallow, like he’d predicted it, like he was fine-tuning an instrument. Shit, you felt so small tucked into his lap like this.

You averted your eyes back to the movie.

“Serial killer question,” you said, wretchedly anxious with him peering down, every tiny response of yours seeming to be dissected and filed away for something sinister.

You pretended to be invested in whatever Oscar-worthy, nonsensical bullshit was happening on screen, the woman now captured in the monster's clutches. That is, until you were thrown headfirst into a crippling silence.

“Hey! I was watching that.”

The remote landed with a loud clatter on the coffee table. “Sorry, baby. Can’t have you holding out on me.”

And then suddenly, the real horror was right here in the dead quiet. The only light source was a soft overhead. With a burst of anger drawn up from a slowly drying well, you rolled onto your back, glowering up at him.

“Can I fucking help you?!”

“Mhmm.”

Your teeth clenched. “What are you even talking about, helpless?”

Gojo propped back on one hand and pretended to think about it. “Ah, you knowww. Scream queen style or whatever. When the cards are down and you’re all played out.” His eyes flicked down your form to where your hands twisted nervously into the bottom of your t-shirt. Then back up, voice dropping pensively. “So fast you’ve probably never felt it, though… being chased down like that, backed into a corner. Never been challenged the way you deserve, I bet. You like the thought of someone who can keep up with you?”

If the body was a chest of drawers, yours overturned all at once. Someone who could keep up with you… Challenge you. Like… him? Your jaw clenched. A desire you didn’t even know you had settled with a pulsing heat in your lower belly.

“So, what I’m hearing, and correct me if I’m wrong.” You stopped, centered yourself with a deep breath. “What I’m hearing is you asking whether I’d get off on being chased?!?

“Get off on it?” Gojo’s jaw dropped, acting as if the idea had only just occurred to him. “Wow. Uh. Dirty girl. Well. Sure I mean, yeah. If you want.”

Your nails scraped across the leather of the couch, trying to distract yourself from how ridiculously enticing the idea was. Because it shouldn’t be at all. Nope. Not to a well-adjusted person. What made it exponentially worse was that the longer you went without storming out of his apartment, the more Gojo looked at you like the cat about to eat the canary. And damn it all, you didn’t hate it.

No. You hated that you didn’t hate it.

“If I want?” you grit out. “First of all, there’s something wrong with you if you get your rocks off on the idea of hunting women. Elmer Fudd over here. Get a grip.”

He smirked. “Be nice, kitty cat.”

Using your elbows, you shoved yourself up, whirling around to sit on your heels so you could better set him on fire with your eyes. 

“Why should I?!” you spat his earlier words back in his face.

Gojo went still, his slightly widened eyes flitting across your red-faced indignation. His gaze dropped to your lips as he chewed on his own for the span of a few breaths. Finally, he clucked his tongue. Whistled softly.

“Well, shit,” Gojo said. “Would ya look at that.”

Without an ounce of shame, his hand slid down the front of his pants.

“Wha–”

 “Sorryyy,” he sung. “Mind of his own, it’s the darndest thing!”

You gawked at him in disbelief as he casually adjusted himself.

“Really, man?!”

“Oh relaaax. Ever seen one before? Wanna take a peek?”

You tried to clear the image of those long fingers wrapping his cock, bringing himself to completion for you with that same groan he’d demonstrated for you earlier.  The thought had you too hot in your skin. 

“I’ll kill you. They’ll never stop finding your body.”

“Oh, keep going, I’m almost there!” he groaned theatrically before he shot you a cheeky, lopsided grin. “Gotta give it to you, babe, you really know how to get a guy goin’. I’m half hard and we haven’t even started.” His head cocked just a degree further and suddenly the playful grin he sported gained a sharp, predatory edge, voice dropping in low warning. “Keep looking at me like that. All angry. Sweetens the deal at the end of this thing. Makes it allll worth the wait.”

You swallowed, throat like sandpaper. “Deal?”

“When I catch you.”

You should walk out. You should walk right back out, like you said you would.

Unfortunately, your silence spoke volumes. Frustrated on several different levels, your hands flew up to cover your eyes, fingers pressing into the lids until you saw spots. But nothing could distract from the hyper awareness of the ache between your thighs.

“What do you want?” you asked, voice sounding small.

A long-fingered hand encircled each of your wrists, prying your hands away from your face. He held them hostage, pinning them to your upper thighs so you couldn’t retreat as he leaned in. Your heart stopped when his cheek brushed past yours.

“What I want is the whole thing. Listen. I love it when you play dumb with me. Seriously I do,” Gojo murmured into your ear. “But I think we’ve been sitting on the same page here for quite some time now, yeah? All the fighting, dancin’ around the tension and whatnot. I mean it’s sexy as hell, don’t get me wrong, but we both know it’s just extra bullshit.”

Your entire being was up in flames, face so hot you wondered if he could feel the heat emanating off your cheeks, his own pressed so tightly to yours he could probably feel your jaw work out a response.

“Make your point.”

He laughed, dipped his head, the tip of his nose nuzzling down the slope of your neck. The tiny, experimental flutter of warmth against your skin made you twitch, but the sudden hot drag of his tongue had you violently shuddering, searching for purchase until suddenly you were the one holding onto him, fingers digging into his shoulders. You could practically hear his arrogant smile as he breathed you in long and slow, the following sigh one of genuine contentment.

Gojo leaned back to have a look at you, disgustingly pleased with himself.

“Sure thing. I’ll make my point,” he said. Your arms felt strangely bereft when he moved out of your space, falling limply at your sides. Casual as could be, Gojo settled back into the couch, one ankle perched over his thigh, fingers clasping together like the two of you were discussing weather patterns. “Here’s the thing. I wanna find you, chase you, and fuck you in that order. Think you’d like somethin’ like that? Being pinned down with my cock in you?”

His eyes dropped to the motion of the unsubtle squeeze of your thighs, a razor sharp smile spreading slow across his lips.

“Yeah,” he purred. “Always thought you might.”

“You don’t know shit.”

His eyes flicked back to yours.

“I know that pussy has to be nice and wet by now.” Another spasm of want rocketed between your legs. God, he was so arrogant. “No shame in it, sweetheart. Tell me I’m wrong and I’ll drop the whole thing.”

A palm settled on your knee, thumb stroking in a gesture of mock comfort. His voice was soft. “Orrr you could just admit you’re making a mess of your panties right now hearing me talk like this.”

It was like your strings were cut all at once, your chin tipping to your chest as you lost whatever self-preservation instinct you had left. “Shit,” you whispered.

A finger hooked into the bend of one of your knees, tugging invitingly. His hum was a soft, rolling lull.

“Come here and sit on me.”

You may have been cracking, folding beneath the weight of your desire, but nothing could have dulled the precision of the homicidal glare you leveled him with. 

“Think you have it in you to shut up for like six seconds?”

Gojo laughed. “Damn, my girl gets mean when she’s frustrated, huh?” At your lack of response, his smile dwindled and he seemed to truly consider you, taking in your stiff form. His gaze fell unabashedly between your legs again, tongue running along his teeth in deliberation. “You want me to eat you out a little? Loosen you up?”

Your jaw clenched as the mental image tore across your mind: hooded blue eyes looking up from between your legs, warm tongue put to work lapping at your cunt – he always did like to stay busy. Shit, why could you conjure up that image so well? 

Because Gojo had looked at you like that before, hadn’t he? Like he wanted to take you apart, piece you back together. You’d just been too blind to see it.

He continued, his other hand reaching out now so both were hooked behind your knees. “Yeah… Yeah. That’s what you need. About time, too, huh. Makes my dick so hard just thinking about it. C’mere.”

“I don’t–”

In a single movement, you were pulled off balance, falling flat on your back. He cut off your yelp of outrage, seized your ankles, spun and dragged you to the edge of the couch, your thighs now bracketing his. You squirmed, head spinning as you panted up at him with searching eyes. It wasn’t a comfortable position you’d been suddenly squeezed into, your head bent awkwardly against the back of the couch, trapped in a slouched position by the oppressive energy coming from the man standing between your spread legs.

Gojo loomed above. His fingers twitched at his sides, drawing your attention there and then directly over to the glaring evidence of his arousal pressing against the front of his pants. Your breath caught in your throat.

“Feels like I really don’t even have to check,” he breathed, hungry gaze trailing across your body like he couldn’t decide what to focus on. “Just know you’re soaking. It’s crazy.”

“Tell me I’m wrong,” he said again, tongue darting out to wet his lips. Last chance.

“I– you’re… F-fuck you.” His grin was deadly, eyes sparkling in dark victory. It was unsettling, how much you wanted to fall headfirst into that blue.

Gojo Satoru collapsed on his knees like he was about to start muttering prayers. He tugged you closer, the weight of his head falling against your inner thigh with a satisfied hum. Laying there so he could simply observe the slight quiver in your legs as he slowly drew his oversized palms up and down any bare skin available to him.

“Fuck. Look at you,” he murmured, breath sweeping across the damp crotch of your sleep shorts like he was talking right into your clothed pussy. 

At the sound of your tiny, pathetic squeak, his shoulders shuddered violently. He slid forward, fingers hooking into the hem of your shorts, teasing there. His eyes raised with a hooded intensity, holding yours for a few heated seconds. Terribly slow, he let his jaw drop, tongue unveiling itself, and leaned forward to press it firm and flat against the thin fabrics covering your entrance, letting the heat bleed from his mouth. A groan choked out of your throat, coming out more as a grating wheeze, the noise met with a gleaming, wicked satisfaction.

“So the…” you swallowed thickly, voice so ragged it was almost completely foreign. “The thing with eating pussy is you have to remove my-”

There was a sharp, reprimanding smack on your thigh. “Don’t start.”

You half expected him to rip your shorts right off; you wouldn’t have been opposed. But Gojo instead rolled the hem down little by little, so torturously slow your fingers ached with how hard they dug into the couch with anticipation. He nipped, sucked bruises into the skin as it was exposed, gently guiding you to lift your hips so he could pull your bottoms the rest of the way.

His eyes danced in wonder across the arousal that you could feel being squeezed from you just by his appraisal. “Shit,” he exhaled, his warm breath brushing gently across your soaking cunt. You gasped, legs automatically attempting to clamp together. To get away. When was the last time you’d been this vulnerable to anyone? 

“No, no. Nope. None of that,” he reprimanded, pushing your knees into your chest, spreading your legs more lewdly for his perusal. “Lemme see what I did to you.”

“I– I c-can’t.” You averted your gaze. It was all too much: the sight of Gojo Satoru kneeling between your legs, looking as if he’d let the world burn just to get a taste of you. He breathed across you again, his mouth so damn close that you wanted to start tearing at his hair.

“Shit,” he said again. “Pussy got hot hearing me talk about how hard I’m gonna fuck it later.”

You couldn’t help but let out a muffled cry when two fingers stroked down your slit, pressing against the entrance to your pussy, swirling there. He coated the tips of his fingers thoroughly in your wetness, raising them to the light just to slowly scissor them apart. Watch your own fluid stretch thin between them before going back for more, just lightly teasing. Your face felt impossibly hot, chest rising and falling in short gasps, chasing the stroke of his fingers, needing something to clench around, the slow spread of your slick too ridiculously loud in the quiet room.

“You always this wet for me, baby?”

“I d-didn’t think your head could get any bigger.”

Gojo hummed in amusement, giving no warning before he began to slowly ease two fingers inside you. A string of expletives punctuated the air as your cunt throbbed and clamped down in relief, accepting him greedily.

“Look at that,” he said, hooking the long digits inside you and pulling another whimpered curse from your lips. He took his time dragging them out, pushing them back in with an obscene squelch. “You’re a sweet girl letting me finger fuck you like this. Shit, look at your pussy suckin’ on my fingers. So fucking hot… my girl letting me do this to her.”

“You–You’re- I d-” You attempted to mouth off, snap back that you didn’t belong to him, but a targeted curl of his fingers cut you off at the pass. 

“I know,” he crooned. “Feels good, doesn’t it?”

A thumb pressed into your clit and your back arched as bolts of pleasure shot up your spine, hips rolling with the pump of his fingers, chasing more. You needed more. You couldn’t even breathe you needed it so badly.

Gojo bit the inside of your thigh, moaning obscenely and latching harder when you yelped in pain and smacked him hard in the head. 

“Ow. What the– what the fuck,” you gasped, although you hadn’t really disliked it at all. He soothed the sting away with little licks.

“Sorry,” he said insincerely, voice in shreds now, strained with an odd concentration. “Wouldn’t believe how many times I’ve whacked off to the thought of this right here. But now look at you spreading your pretty legs for me. Still tryin’ to act like you’re not starved for my cock after all this time. Making me wait like that. Dripping your cum all over my couch. Makes me fucking crazy. Filthy girl. You’re my filthy girl, aren’t you? Ffuck,” he hissed. 

It took you too long in your blissed out state to realize his shoulders were rocking slightly, and not just from the push and pull of his fingers inside you. “And my sweet girl’s gonna let me hunt her down, isn’t she? Spit on her tits, slap her, fuck her from behind.”

You couldn’t see it, but there was no doubt now that Gojo was masturbating himself in tandem. Thrusting his hips, not fast enough to relieve himself, just to appease the torment. God, he was vulgar, he was disgusting. He was sexy. He was the most beautiful thing you’d ever seen.

With a wet schlick, his fingers pulled out of you. And you could only assume from the way both his gaze and hand fell down to his lap that he was spreading your cum along his cock. Fingers wrapping himself, Gojo choked on something between a salacious moan and a manic laugh. His eyes slid up to yours dangerously.

A quick flash of pink was all you got before he was leaning forward and sliding his tongue through your drenched folds. Finally, you let loose the keening cry that had been stuck in your chest. Your spine felt close to snapping with how hard it pulled taut, your fingers leaping from their death grip into the couch cushion to embed deep in his soft hair, unsure whether to push him away or pull him closer.

A long, appreciative groan came from deep in his chest and he sighed, relaxed further into his task. One hand fisted around his cock, the other wrapped round one of your thighs to draw you closer, hand splaying across your lower belly to better hold you down. The rough pad of his thumb found your clit, dragging tight circles. 

With long strokes of his tongue, he lapped at the wetness collecting at your entrance. You wanted him to go higher, needed his mouth elsewhere, for that wet heat to replace the thumb steadily masturbating you. You dipped your hips to guide him there but he didn’t relent, tongue fucking into your cunt with the same aching slowness. It was like this wasn’t even for you.

“Gojo,” you said weakly. He just hummed, the vibration sending arcs of pleasure up your spine. God you were so close already. You just needed… “G-Gojo.”

Still he didn’t speed up, acted like he hadn’t even heard you. And it pissed you right off. He wanted the whole thing, didn’t he? He’d said that before. Gojo Satoru wanted you. Badly. He was good, but so were you. Gojo was a man who took. Had taken his entire life. He didn’t want someone who sat around and stroked his vanity. No. He wanted someone who took, too. He wanted you.

A rising anger loosened your tongue.

“Gojo, you f-fucking prick,” you spat. “Take your hand off your fucking cock and do this the right way.”

Deliberately, his tongue pulled from you, thumb still working you at an infuriatingly slow pace. A lazy, dangerous grin began to crawl across his lips, still wet with your juices.

“Careful,” he warned.

“I hate careful.”

Something dazed crossed his face then, like you’d struck him square across the face. He shuddered, his eyes darkening, glimmering suddenly with an almost terrifying devotion.

And then both his hands were on you.

Arms wrapped under your thighs, palms splaying to lock your hips down completely. A blessed heat enveloped your clit with a gentle suction, tongue fluttering where you had so desperately needed it.

“Ffffff” was all you could manage, your back arching, unable to even watch him like you wanted to as your body contorted with the pleasure shooting to a quick crescendo. 

“Shitshitshitshit,” you cried, fingers yanking at his hair, uncaring whether it hurt him, shoving his face impossibly further into your pussy. A vulgar, encouraging groan left him and with one final suck and a flicker of his tongue, you were sailing into oblivion. You clawed at him, a string of filthy curses stuck in your throat as you spasmed against him. It was long, debilitating, and drawn out by warm, slow slides of his tongue against you as he continued to lap up what you spilled, murmuring soft praises.

Your spine laid flat against the couch again as you collapsed with satisfaction, the pleasure still buzzing like a livewire across your skin. You twitched with sensitivity when his thumbs spread you apart, observing the final, tiny convulsions of your pussy.

“I– you’re amazing,” he groaned, like he was imagining himself deep inside you. “God, baby I… I wanna ruin you. My fucking cock is…” His forehead fell between your thighs for a second, like he was gathering himself. “I’m so fucking hard.”

Gojo leaned back on his heels as you sat up, assisting as you pulled your pants back up. He helped you up on shaky legs, until the two of you stood looking at each other, him unmoving, just eyeing you silently with a dark intensity. 

Gently, you pulled his face down to yours, placing a short, gentle kiss to his lips.

You pulled back. 

“I really do hope you’re as fast as they say you are.”

And you disappeared.

#gojo satoru #gojo satoru smut #gojo satoru x reader #gojo satoru x you #no use of y/n #jjk #jujutsu kaisen #jjk smut

[serxinns]

uhhhhh i have an idea!!!

imagine class 1a (platonic or romantic, u can choose) with a darling who acts like a thembo (i mean ABSOLUTELY STUPID) and then it starts to affect their training and stuff, so they suddenly do better and the class finds out that their darling was actually really smart this whole time, they just act dumb because people liked them like that :3

Your classmates knew you were a nimbo always wondering out the world without a care and it gives them gray hairs but they still love you

Whenever Bakugo is sarcastic with you or someone else says a joke to you, your brain goes into a loading screen and when you FINALLY get it it's already too late 😭 and he either pinch your ears or pinches your stupid adorable face telling you to stop being so stupid and you're just looking at him with either a blank face or just smiling "innocently"

You have this habit of cooking your head to the side like a dog curious about noise and they just head over heels Ochako squealed to herself blushing Kirishima covered his hold head with his arms making small mutters about how cute you are along with Midoriya

Even Iida couldn't stay strong to cute little you he couldn't even finish his lecture without trying to form a smile or covering his face with his mouth cause he wanted you to take him seriously whenever you left your notes he gave you his or offers you to study with the two of you alone together and if anyone of your classmates wanted to join he use excuse like "they need it more" or "I can only tutor one person"

Denki is always teasing and flirting with you he sees you as a flame twin the two of you would always do chaotic stupid stuff that would result in destroy the room or would get the two of you hurt and despise that the two of you would laugh it off, the class FORBIDS the two of you to be lab partners cause denki told you to put in the yellow chemical when it's suppose to be the pink one sero had to rush In and grab the bottle and throw it out the window where it exploded safe to say denki got scolded while you were babied

Momo is like a mama bear whenever she sees you do something stupid she'll quickly rush over there to the rescue and fight off or remove whatever is about to Harm you and hugs and nuzzles you against her to check and see if you are OK, she always packs a med kit whenever it's hero training or anywhere dangerous to patch up mostly you and your classmates up but mostly you buys you the most amazing and expensive gifts and always gushes and cherish over any gift you send her even if it's some crappy glittery macaroni with a glittery heart and an M in the middle she would put that up on her wall like its a trophy

Tsuyu is so sweet and patient with you whenever it's something you don't get she explains it the best way she can for you, she's obsessed with every little thing you do every time she's watching you do something or minding her business (like drawing, making origami, etc) she sighs dreamily observing and studying you like one of their study books whenever your near harm or in hair she wraps her tongue around you and quickly takes you to a safe place

One day in the common room bakugo and his gang were playing video games bakugo and Sero were yelling at each other to shoot at the zombies while Bakugo was on the edge of breaking the controller and killing Denki and Kiri, Sero wanted to tease you a bit "Hey y/n! What's the database that only pro heroes can assess?" Mina smacked his head while he laughed like a hyena "Stop teasing them it's not very nice! y/n bestie you don't have to" "It's the hero network!"

Everyone paused and silently looked at you with a blank stare even Sero shut his mouth while you were casually eating your snack you looked at them confused "Isn't that the right answer...?" "HOW DID YOUR DUMBASS KNOW THIS" "BAKUGO! be nice!" Before they could ask you any more questions you left with your snack in your right hand and your device in the other, ever since then your classmates started bombarding you with questions and you would answer them correctly without even thinking about it while your classmates were impressed they were also worried do you not need them were you smarter than they thought? Were you offended by them babying you?

So one day Ochako came up to your desk playing with her fingers and looking away "y/n how are you so smart all of a sudden?" You turned to her and smiled "I acted like this because everyone liked me being like this! People started bullying me for being smart so I acted a bit dumb then people would like me" The class heard about this and all hugged you (expect Bakugo) telling you that they like you the way you are smart or dumb

And now the class was more obsessed with you than before always asking you questions Denki and Mina begging you to be their study partner or to do their homework and they'll reward you with sweets but Iida would scold them for it the class would still love you even if you were a little dumb or smart it doesn't matter but you'll always be naive to their dark obsession with you

#yandere bnha #yandere ua #tw yandere #yandere x reader #tw obsessive behavior #yandere class 1a #yandere mha #bnha fluff

[pileofwords]

live stream

pairing: s.coups x reader length: 1.2k genre: fluff summary: seungcheol is in the middle of an impromptu live stream when you, unaware, burst into his room and are caught on camera.

You weren’t thinking of much when you headed to Seungcheol’s room and burst through the closed door.

His good morning text had been one telling you that you could come over after work and that had been, quite literally, the only thing that had gotten you through the rest of the day. The sole thoughts floating around your mind were of the food you’d brought over and how much you wanted to grab the boy in question so you could eat it together.

“Seungcheol, beloved, light of my life, world’s best boyfriend, I have– what?”

Seungcheol stared at you like a deer in headlights from his position sitting cross legged on his bed. His eyes flickered to the phone he had propped up against a couple of pillows, then to you; confused, you followed his gaze back to the phone. There was a beat of silence, then you slapped your hand over your mouth as your heart dropped very dramatically into your stomach.

“Oh no.”

Seungcheol looked like he was somewhere between wanting to swear and wanting to burst out laughing and couldn’t quite decide which direction to take.

“Oh no,” you repeated, slowly taking several steps backward, even though you weren’t visible on screen from this angle.  “Live?” He nodded, confirming what you were already certain of. Whatever poor soul was monitoring his live was probably having a complete breakdown; you just groaned. “Ah.” Over three years of sneaking around down the drain. You’d known this day would come eventually - it was inevitable - but you hadn’t exactly expected it’d be today when you woke up this morning.

From his spot on the bed, Seungcheol weighed his options. One quick glance at the screen showed comments coming in so fast they were nothing more than a blur. Even if they didn’t upload the replay, he knew there would be clips saved and some three hundred and seventy thousand people had just heard the exchange live – there wasn’t exactly a way to talk yourselves out of this one. And, honestly, he didn’t really want to.

So he looked at you.

He tilted his head in the direction of his phone. Wanna join?

You raised an eyebrow. Is that allowed?

A shrug. I don’t care.

A hesitant step forward. I dunno. You sure?

And he opened his arms, a smile finally blossoming over his face. “C’mere.”

You paused for a second longer until he wrinkled up his nose ever-so-slightly and wiggled his shoulders; you caved immediately, plopping down on the edge of his bed, just barely visible at the edge of his phone screen.

“Baaaaabe,” he whined and grabbed your arm, tugging on it until you obliged him and scooted closer; he wrapped his arms around you fully and rested his chin on your shoulder before smiling at his phone.

“Say hi.”

When you finally looked at your images on the screen, you started to pout. “No fair, you look way better than I do.”

“No I don’t!” 

“Cheol, I ran over here after my workout, I look like a trainwreck. I accidentally crashed your live and I look like a disaster, this is the worst possible first impression I could make.”

Seungcheol laughed, your favorite giggly ‘ha ha ha’ laugh, the one that filled you up and made you feel warm, and he squished his cheek against your shoulder. One hand slipped around to rest against the small of your back, drawing slow, deliberate circles there in reassurance.

“I think you’re the prettiest in the world.”

That’s all it took for your face to begin heating up, turning a splotchy red for all four hundred and eighty thousand viewers to see (when did so many more people show up?). 

“Carats, this is my partner.” There was an unmistakable note of pride in his voice that only made the red spilled over your cheeks darken. You hadn’t thought it possible, but the comments looked like they were coming in even faster than before and you went cross eyed trying to catch any words at all.

“We’ve been together for…a little over three years?”

You nodded in confirmation. “Yep!” You glanced back at the screen for a second. “I know you guys already know this, but he’s the best.” You watched a delightedly smug little smirk appear on his face and rolled your eyes. “But you have to stop telling him that or his ego’s just gonna explode and he’s gonna be totally insufferable.”

“Hey!” He whacked your arm playfully, the smirk replaced with a pout, and this time it was your turn to laugh.

“I'm teasing, you know I love you."

That’s all it took for his pout to be replaced with the widest grin and he gave your waist a gentle squeeze. “Love you most.”

“Ugh, gross, publicly declaring your love like five minutes after we tell people we’re dating.”

And he was laughing again, his smile so bright it was blinding, crumpling into you as he dissolved into giggles, which only made you laugh with him. There, in his arms, laughing until your sides hurt – that was home.

It took a minute or two for you both to settle down, but Seungcheol began to play with a strand of your hair once he did. “Babe, what’d you come in for in the first place?”

“Ah!” You sat up a little straighter, suddenly remembering the purpose of your mission, and turned your head, lowering your voice so it wasn’t picked up on the stream. “I brought your favorite for dinner because Shua told me you haven’t eaten yet. He wanted to do a movie night? You wanna?”

He nodded. “Mmm. Sounds good.”

You grinned. “I’ll go tell Shua and Jeonghan. Take your time!” You slid off the bed, rolling your eyes when Seungcheol grabbed your arm and tugged you back in to leave a quick kiss on your cheek. You stuck your tongue out at him playfully before disappearing into the hallway, pulling his door shut behind you.

Seungcheol waited until he was sure you were out of earshot before he turned his attention back to his phone. “Carats,” he started, his tone carrying just a hint of warning, “be nice to them.”

The comments hadn’t slowed down since you walked in the room, but he caught a lot of heart emojis, “so cute!!”s, and general statements of affirmation.

“They mean a lot to me, so you have to be nice, okay?” He waited a minute, pushing his hair up and out of his face, only for it to fall right back into place. “I know you will be, but I just wanted to say it anyway. I’m gonna go eat dinner now. Everyone have a good night, sleep well.” He brought his hand up in front of his face to wave at the camera. “Bye bye!” And he ended the live, leaving his phone there, propped up against the pillows, as he ambled off to find you.

—

Later that night, he posted one picture on weverse; him smiling at the camera with you pressed up against his shoulder, fast asleep, face obscured by shadows. His fingers hovered over the screen for a second before he edited the post, adding a caption.

our own heaven 😊❤️

#caratwritersclub #seventeen imagines #seventeen x reader #svt x reader #seventeen fluff #svt fluff #seventeen scenarios #s.coups x reader #seungcheol x reader #s.coups imagines #choi seungcheol #s.coups #seventeen #sometimes i start fics and then have no idea how to end them and this is what you get #me as i throw heaven's cloud lyrics in at the end of this fic: it's fine heaven's cloud solves everything #ᕕ( ᐛ )ᕗ