#rain trails on glass | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

hier--soir · 8 months

Text

a lover's pinch | three

joel miller x f!reader

pairing: professor!joel miller x f!reader rating: explicit, 18+ minors dni summary: joel gets a little birthday surprise, and you get a little too drunk. warnings/tags: au, university professor joel, age gap [20 something years diff], ethically dubious relationship due to inherent power imbalance, pining, f!masturbation [barely], sending nudes, joel finally locks his office door, dirty talk, the slightest slip of possessive language, uh.. ahem.. biting, protected piv birthday sex, a messy dinner party, excessive alcohol consumption [i'm talking embarassing], irritating men, soft!joel. word count: 10.3k series masterlist | main masterlist a lover's pinch playlist a/n: let the pining commence folks. hey siri, play brown eyed girl by van morrison. special thanks to @bageldaddy for the emotional support as i endured the labour that was the final hour of editing this. hope you guys enjoy! this is part three of ALP. you can read the previous parts here: one, two.

Thursday.

A fortnight passes in the slow blink of a bleary eye.

Fall nudges Summer out the door, solidifying its presence in Maine with flaxen leaves and rolling grey clouds.

The rain comes at night. Rivulets of moisture that leak onto the windowsill, seep into the cracked wood there and fill your room with the sweet smell of petrichor. It clears before the sun rises most days, but you unpack of a box of sweaters and hang them in your closet, nonetheless. You enjoy communal coffees in the kitchen and try not to frown when the morning light doesn’t warm your legs the way it used to. Force yourself not to feel mournful when you get home one afternoon and find Pete on the sofa with a blanket over him.

And perhaps that’s why when you wake on Thursday to sunshine—to warm bed sheets, to blue sky, to bright whites and yellows coming through the window—you feel lighter. Start the day with a calm countenance that has you blinking sleep from your eyes and smiling drowsily as your fingers trail the windowsill and come off dry. You share a pot of coffee with Pete; let him explain soil vapour extraction to you for the fifth time. Listen, smile, nod, and don’t roll your eyes when he asks do you get it now? And when the time comes to get ready for the drive to campus, you are smiling. Shoulders loose, eyes bright.

It had been a tiresome couple of weeks.

As the middle of the semester drew closer, you’d spent days on end poring over a laptop with tired eyes and cramping fingers. Writing and editing—and then rewriting and re-editing—your first round of essays and analyses. Balmy afternoons spent nursing glasses of cheap wine with your roommates evolved to late night coffees alone in your room, eyelids drooping as you fawned over every word, every quote, every fucking comma – all of it for him.

Him who you hadn’t been alone with in almost fifteen days.

Him whose texts were seared into your memory, left unanswered on your phone.

Him who you could hardly look at during lectures, for fear of losing your train of thought.

Him who you were hellbent on impressing.

Joel, Joel, Joel.

And as busy as you’d been, it hadn’t stopped the stares. Brief, intimate glances from down the hall in the history commons. The flash of a knowing smile as you shuffle toward the exit after a lecture. The graze of fingertips against your elbow, muddling your mind as you rush to meet a text translation study group.

Watching, waiting, wanting – a near insufferable task since that afternoon in his office.

Late into the first week you’d discovered that, upon focusing hard enough, you could still feel the ache in your knees; the rug burns his carpet had left on your skin. And then you shoved the memory of it down; compressed it somewhere deep inside, hidden away until you had the chance to open it back up again, and take your time with him like you truly wanted to.

And it seems today was that day.

You stare out the window for a moment. Sip your coffee and rake in the greenness of the grass, the cloudless sky, the ray of sun shining across your bedroom floor – and decide you’ll wear a skirt to Joel’s seminar.

The pin on his shirt is blue.

Not cerulean, or baby, or steel.

Not like how the sky was blue as you drove to campus with your windows down. Not like clear turquoise waters on a white sand beach in Greece, or like a robin’s egg swathed in leaves and sticks. But a deep, rich colour. Royal blue. A folded circular pin, with two tassels coming out the bottom of it.

It’s the first thing you notice when you walk into the lecture hall – the thing your eyes snag on repeatedly as you wander towards the third row and tuck yourself into a seat. That vivid splash of blue against a plain white t-shirt. No buttons today; formal wear forgone in place of a simple tee that hugs the vast planes of his chest, snug against the thick span of his biceps. His arms are almost enough to distract you from the gaudy brooch.

Joel won’t stop moving at the foot of the room, pacing the same length of floor over and over again, waiting for the crowd to settle. Hands busy themselves at his waist, wiping a small square of cloth against the lenses of his glasses. A muscle in his forearm twitches with every swipe of fingers against glass, and the sight has a hazy flush rising in your neck. Despite yourself, you try in earnest to catch a glimpse of what the pin says. Bare thighs tensed in your seat as you tilt your torso forward, eyes squinting.

The last students wander in, and he’s shifting, sliding those glasses onto the bridge of his nose, and snatching the slide clicker from the desk. He offers a polite greeting to the room.

It doesn’t take long for someone to speak up. “Special occasion?”

Joel’s hands still, chin tilting down as he glances at royal blue and then back out at the group, a wry smile breaking across his face.

“Just a thing the faculty does here,” he clears his throat awkwardly, laughs a little. It’s a soft sound, his laugh. Tickles your ears and makes you want to smile in return. “Some of the others started it a few years back… they make everyone wear one on their birthday.”

A chorus of surprised well-wishes chime from around the room, and Joel waves them away with a broad palm, shaking his head.

Even from three rows back you can see the pink in his cheeks; the resistance in his eyes as he intercepts the kind words soaring in his direction. You recognise a shyness there, an unwillingness to be the centre of attention, and it surprises you. Joel always seems so confident, standing week after week in front of 30 odd people and talking for hours. But you suppose then he can hide behind his words; behind years of knowledge and study and practice. When it’s about him? He falters. Tries to hide. You almost want to curse at him for being so endearing. And maybe you would – if it wasn’t his birthday.

“Nah, none of that,” Joel tuts, shaking his head. “Let’s get started, alright?”

He claps his hands once, and the sound reverberates through the quietening room. The fabric of his pants clings to the meat of his thighs, tightening around muscle as he rests against the edge of the desk. You fight to keep your gaze on his face.

“Today we’re gonna start with talkin’ about the instigators in our parallel texts.”

And you try to listen, you really do.

Try to focus on his words as he talks, spouting thoughts about antagonists of war, about Helen and Menelaus, about Paris of Troy, but you can’t get past the spread of his thighs against the desk. The way his body moves when he finally rises, wandering to-and-fro across the space. How his thick thumb presses against the clicker in his hand, slides shifting on the wall behind him. There’s a dull ringing in your ears, the rough spell of his drawl vibrating inside your mind, spinning it’s yarn, and tangling itself in the space where rational thought normally resides. Birthday. It’s Joel’s birthday. Your hands clasp in front of your face, knuckle snagged between teeth, biting down, clinging to some far reach of clarity; something to bring you back to the ground and halt the dallied trance you seem to come under whenever he’s nearby.

Birthday, birthday, birthday.

As he discusses the Judgement of Paris, your mind wanders to a teacher you had as a child. A stern woman in her sixties who was fearsome among the gang of six-year old’s you roamed in. One year it had rained on your birthday, a spitting storm of hail and thunder. And when you cried, she told you that it only rains on your birthday when you’ve been a bad little girl.

It was sunny the next year, but she wasn’t your teacher anymore, and there was no one around to praise you for how good you must’ve been that year. For how hard you must’ve strived to achieve such wonderful sunshine on your special day.

A wry smile splits your face, tucked into the back of your hand, for you know better than anyone else just how bad Joel has been. And yet today, for his birthday, the sun shines.

He steps closer to the front row of seats, and your eyes glean across the lettering on his pin; the words Birthday Boy laid out in gold. A huff of laughter escapes you, and then your eyes are drifting up, past tan skin and scruffy facial hair, to find Joel staring straight at you. Dark, intrigued eyes. Assessing you, undressing you. Frowning.

“Somethin’ to add?” he clips.

The smile slides off your face. “Sorry?”

“Do you have somethin’ to add?” he drawls, unimpressed. The words slow and paced out as if he were speaking to a fool. “You seemed amused.”

“Oh,” you blink.

You shift awkwardly in your seat, straighten up, aware of every set of eyes in the room on the two of you. Joel’s face is stony, unimpressed. It’s the first time he’s made direct eye contact with you since you stepped into the room, and he is… on edge, clearly.

“No,” you decide on the safe answer, tone firm. “Nothing to add.”

He stares for a moment and then nods. Mutters a stern Pay attention underneath his breath before returning his gaze to the rest of the room. You scoff quietly, and swallow down the stab of embarrassment his words bring. The feeling is sour in your mouth, like the seed of a lemon is stuck behind your teeth.

Two seats to your left you hear a poorly concealed titter. Turn your head to spot a woman, maybe a year or two younger than yourself, giving you a pitiful smirk. You arch an eyebrow. Mouth what?

She simply shakes her head at you and turns to look at Joel, all glossy lips and doting gaze as she listens to his continued ponderings about Menelaus' role in the Trojan War.

You watch her for a moment. Note the way she laughs at his jokes, smiles as he goes off on a mindless tangent about something you aren’t paying attention to; hanging onto his every word. And you wonder if this is how you look to other people when you watch him. Another stark-raving Maenad, thirsting and possessed by the spirit of this Bacchant of a man. The Roaring One. The one with bedroom eyes and cheeks like wine. Joel Miller; fraught, brooding, and willing to embarrass you in front of a room of your peers to feel an inch of the self-control you've so easily ridden him of. A Dionysian fit to oppose the doomed Bacchant inside of you, whose mouth foams and eyes roll in ecstasy at the mere presence of him.

He crosses the front of the room, back and forth, and you imagine him as a bull of a man. Golden locks and thorned head, thyrsus in hand as he commands the attention of an enthralled audience. Corrals them to follow him, to adore him. And yet the image you create is distorted at best, a watered-down version of the truth, for what spites you the most is that he simply… doesn’t have to try. There are no attempts to convince; no persuasion in his voice, no dishonesty necessary as the room swoons for him. As you yourself yearn for him. Covet his touch, his body, akin to that of a God’s.

And perhaps there is some immorality there, some gross misalignment of hubris, that yearns to reset the scale. To remind this man that indeed you have knelt before him, but he knelt for you first.

The thought has your thighs pressing together.

“Well, Juno hates Aeneas because she hates Trojans. And for that we have Paris to blame,” he answers someone’s question with a chuckle. Gains a few scattered laughs in response. “Because we all know how Juno feels about Paris.”

You rise from your chair, legs shifting before your brain can catch up. Take careful, tip-toed steps towards the exit. Joel’s eyes drift in your direction, curious gaze draping over the bare skin of your legs as he talks. Just for a second though, a split second, before he’s looking determinedly back to the room, and you’re disappearing from his line of sight.

“And so, she thwarts the Trojans every chance she gets,” his voice grows softer as you stray farther from the door, until it’s nothing more than a vague purr down the hall. You wander into the women’s bathroom and slip inside an empty cubicle.

Birthday, birthday, pay attention, birthday, they make everyone wear one on their birthday, pay attention.

Your brain is abuzz, nerves alight as you place your phone carefully atop the toilet paper dispenser. Trembling fingers graze the hem of your skirt, the warm skin of your thighs, and yes you’ve been wet since you saw him. Turned on from just the sight of him, the sound of his mellow voice, the idea that maybe, just maybe, today you will get to touch him again. You can feel how it clings to your panties, sweet soft warmth pooling out of you, a dizzying wetness that longs for Joel to come and find you. To take you in his hands, tilt you down to his parted lips, and drink it from the source.

Your fingers are cold against your skin. A delighted shiver swims down your spine as you graze them along the front of your underwear. Barely touching, hardly any pressure, simply grazing over the spot where your clit has begun to pulse. A little firmer now, you press against the thin material of your underwear, let it slip between your soaked folds. You bite your lip to contain a soft sigh, and smile as you feel how wet the material is getting. Once you’re satisfied you pull your hand away, leave a shimmering streak against your leg where you wipe your fingers, and reach for your phone.

Position one foot on the closed seat and rest your back against the cubicle wall, angling the phone between your spread thighs. Tilting your phone this way and that until the camera catches you in the perfect light; the flared material of your skirt bunched around your hips, the shiny smear across your inner thigh, the damp stain of slick against the front of your light blue panties. You take a few pictures. Trail your hand down your stomach and let it appear in some of them as well; fingers poised over the band of your underwear, just a tease. Finally content, you tuck your phone away, splash some cold water on your neck, and wander back into the lecture theatre.

Joel looks up when you walk inside. He’s seated behind his desk now, the room quiet as people jot down notes, eyes flitting between their laptops and the presentation displayed across the wall. Furrowed eyebrows and brown eyes shining with that barely-contained interest they always seem to hold when he looks at you these days. You offer him a nonchalant smile before turning your back to him. Sway your hips with exaggerated emphasis as you waltz up the stairs, slide back into your seat, and take your phone back out.

No one’s watching you now. Not your fellow Maenad, with her sharp judgemental eyes. Not even Joel. Your fingers dance their way into your text thread with him, and you select your favourite from the pictures.

You glance at the two lone messages in the thread, gaze lingering on the second message.

That can’t happen again.

Hesitation grips you, fingers hovering over the screen as you contemplate the seriousness behind the words. And then you hear him answer someone’s question, and the rough drone of his voice has you pressing send anyway.

Happy Birthday Professor x

You imagine you can feel the vibration of his phone. Feel it groan and shift in the pocket of his pants, screen lighting up. You wonder if he’s saved your name in his phone, or if a picture of underneath your skirt just popped up from an unsaved number. You try to focus on the article laid out in front of you. Stare at the messy under linings, at the notes on the margins made in your chicken-scratch handwriting, and wait.

It doesn’t take long to feel the heat of his gaze, almost paranormal in its effect. You can feel it’s weight – how it glides across your skin, sticky, viscous, and impossible to ignore.

When you glance up, you have to resist the urge to shrink into your seat. Joel’s face is a mess of emotions. Square jaw clenched tight; lips sealed. Stormy eyes that dart furiously between you and his lap, where you imagine his phone rests. Previously neat curls are now tousled and stressed over. You watch he glares downward, and drags tight fingers through the locks again. He doesn’t look up for a long time after that. Shoulders hunched forward, chin to his chest as he stares down.

Joel doesn’t stand up for the last 90-minutes of the seminar. Doesn’t smile, doesn’t joke. And he certainly does not look in your direction again. Not until the little hand on the clock strikes 11 o’clock, marking the end of his seminar, does he even entertain your side of the room. And not until the last student files out the door do you rise and meet him by the desk, a knowing look in both of your eyes.

You walk ahead of him the entire way to his office. Joel keeps an all-too casual distance from you, but you can hear the weight of his steps against the hardwood floors. Can feel his looming presence over your shoulder – sense his bursting need to get you alone. You only fall into step beside him when the office door comes into view, and then he’s herding you towards it, palm pressing flat against the small of your back in trivial, insistent shoves.

With a final glance over his shoulder, Joel nudges you inside his office.

There’s music playing inside. Soft waves of sound undulating toward you from the record player, and yet when he drags the door shut behind him you still hear the undeniable click of his key turning the lock. The window is closed, curtains half-drawn, and the air in his space is warm; almost stuffy from lying dormant and empty for hours.

Silently, Joel makes his way across the room to where his record player sits. Your eyes trail him faithfully, trained on how his shoulder blades shift like tectonic plates beneath the thinning fabric of his shirt. The urge to wander forward and pull it off him is intense. To run your nails down his skin and leave marks on his body the way he’s done to you.

“You think you’re funny?” his voice comes, a low murmur that you almost miss through the music. He lifts a hand and pulls the glasses off his nose. Tucks them carefully onto the table.

“Funny?” you reply, mouth suddenly dry.

Joel shifts the needle, restarting the record. Momentary silence swells into a bright intro, and he’s turning to look at you, thick arms folding across his chest. Your heart is a galloping staccato behind your sternum. A bead of sweat glides from the hollow of your throat down your chest, dampening the fabric of your shirt.

“Sendin’ me that picture of your pussy all wet for me,” he tuts softly. “Knowin’ damn well, I couldn’t do anythin’ about it.”

You swallow as he takes a step towards you. His hands drift to the front of his body, and you watch with bated breath as long fingers begin working at the silver buckle on his belt.

“Y’gimme nothin’ for weeks, don’t even pay attention during my fuckin’ classes, and then…” he pauses, almost glaring at you. But it’s not contempt in his eyes. No, it’s something else, something deeper—black brown peppered with frustration and lust and… There’s a lump in your throat. Something heavy that presses against your windpipe and makes it hard to swallow.

“You get off on this, hmm?” he asks, voice gravelly. “Torturin’ me? Makin’ me wait?”

“I’ve been busy,” you murmur, eyes fixed on where he drags leather through the beltloops of his pants. He discards it on the ground between you – an offering, an invitation.

“Busy girl,” he murmurs dryly. “And what about now? Now that I’ve got you here all alone… you gonna make me beg for it?”

Your pussy clenches at the thought of him on his knees, palms clasped in his lap, and it has that slick heat pooling between your legs. You want to denigrate him the way you feel he has done to you. Order him to kneel, to apologise, to fucking beseech you. But Joel’s eyes are dark, face drawn as he watches you. And you know that you’ve already gotten even.

Royal blue swims in your vision and you give him your best smile. Shake your head and say, “Not today, birthday boy.”

Something glints in his eyes, hands twitching by his sides. You mirror him, finally inching forward a step across the carpet. His belt is solid beneath your shoes.

He’s shifting in an instant, swallowing the final stretch of distance between you until his chest knocks into yours. The breath rushes from your lungs at the contact, and his hands are clasping your face, mouth slipping against yours in a brutal collision.

It’s rough, messy, teeth knocking and chapped lips. It’s the first time you’ve kissed since that night at the bar, and it consumes the both of you.

Joel’s body seizes yours, wraps around you and holds you to him, gripping the skin of your arms, your neck, your face, anywhere he can reach. Saliva pools in your mouth and wells into his, low sounds of desire being swapped back and forth between dripping tongues. There’s something desperate about it – how his lips bruise against yours. Something earnest and needy and urgent in the way his thumbs dig into your jaw, fingers tangling in the hair around your ears.

You’re gasping into his mouth, hands dropping to undo his zipper in a frenzied hurry. You can feel him behind the material, a firm bulge that becomes more and more evident as you work to get him undressed. His hands drop to your waist, your ass, and he’s pressing up, up, up the hem of your skirt, nails digging into skin as he squeezes and pulls you flush against him. Broad palms splayed across searing flesh, the tips of his fingers dragging dangerously close to where you’re aching for him. Your fingers shift from his pants to your own shirt, gripping the hem to tear it over your head—but Joel stops you. Bats your hands away and hoists you off the ground instead.

“Shit,” you huff in surprise, holding his shoulders for support as his arms tighten like a vice beneath your thighs and around your waist. He cuts you off with another sweltering kiss, and he’s moving. Stumbling blindly backward, a blurred mess of two people, all harsh exhales and clashing teeth, tilting back, back, back until his calves hit the armchair and he’s dissolving into it, dragging you down with him. Your knees sink into the plush fabric on either side of his waist, and his hands are on you, bunching your skirt up around your hips until your underwear is visible. He breaks the kiss and looks down quickly, lip curling upward as he takes in the sight of your barely covered cunt hovering over his lap.

“Fuck me,” Joel breaths. He cants his hips upward, clothed cock grinding against you. The pressure on your clit is exquisite. It has your nose scrunching up as your shallow breaths flutter the curls across his forehead. “Dress like this for all your classes?” he asks, fingers snapping at the band of your panties before his hand drops to cup your entire sex. “Fuckin’ filthy girl.”

“No,” you gasp as his palm settles over you. “Only—oh fuck, no, no, only yours.”

A rough sound escapes him, and he’s pushing the material of your underwear to the side. Thick fingers glide over the coarse hair on your mound, dipping in between your folds, right to the beating centre of you. You stare at his face while he stares at the swollen mess between your thighs.

“S’damn right,” he grunts. His eyes are ablaze. “Just for me.”

Your eyelids flutter closed, face warming at the words, and you’re whimpering as he rubs firm circles over your clit. Joel’s tongue presses against yours, coaxes your jaw open until it aches.

“So fuckin’ wet,” he marvels into your mouth. “Always so fuckin’ wet.”

A finger drops to your slick hole, slips slowly slowly slowly inside until the tip of it is curling against the soft spot inside you that he reaches so fucking easily. The air in the room is thin, his breaths a hot wash against your face, and a languid moan snakes its way out of your throat.

“Quiet.” Joel adds a second finger. It’s everything and nothing at the same time. Fingers so long, so thick – fingers that pale in comparison to his cock.

“I want you,” you gasp.

“Hmm?” he hums dangerously.

“Please,” your head tilts back, mouth ajar and thighs trembling as he works you open on his fingers. Joel lets out an impatient sound, and then his fingers drop from your swollen core, and he’s holding a condom. He must’ve pulled it from his back pocket, or between the cushions of the chair, but you don’t dwell on it. Don’t care where or how or why, too restless to be filled to ask; just give a pleased nod and lean back so he has enough room to free his cock from his pants.

The thick weight of it rests in his palm. He’s swollen and thick, the tip a deep rosy colour that reminds you of his flushed cheeks, his puffy lips, and has your mouth watering. And it’s wet with slick strands of precome that drip down his length to meet the movement of his fist.

“S’this what you were thinkin’ about?” Joel breathes shakily. “Got your cute little panties all soaked thinkin’ ‘bout my cock?”

“Yes,” you bite your lip. Watch him tear open the foil packet and roll latex down his length. You ignore the familiar urge to say forget it just take me I’m here and I’m yours just fuck me. “Please.”

“Fuck,” he hisses. Drags his cock against the dripping seam of your cunt. “Say that again.”

“Please,” you repeat, fingers twisting in the front of his shirt. “God, Joel, please.”

A sharp wet smack and a trembling gasp fill the air as he taps the tip against your clit, and then rests himself at the notch of your entrance.

“Show me how bad you want it,” he orders huskily, hands drifting to rest on the arms of his chair. “Go on, fuckin’—ride it.”

Breathing heavily, you reach down to grip him. holding his length still as you lower yourself over his lap.

There’s a stinging resistance there – your body pushing back against the size of him, against the angle.

Joel’s fingers drape against your clit and he rubs soft circles above the spot where you’re connected. You grip the back of the chair, face twisted in muted concentration.

“C’mon,” he breaths, jaw set with clear intention. “Fuckin’ drippin’ for me, y’can take it, I know you can. Yeah—yeah, that’s it.”

You sigh, body relaxing, and you’re pressing down, through. Sink down on him another inch, and then another, until he’s bottoming out inside of you and the skin of your thighs is flush with his pants and he’s making this rough, low sound from deep in his chest. Your mind goes blank for a moment, vision whiting out and lungs squeezing as you hold your breath and adjust to the sheer size of him, to the delicious burn between your thighs where he’s stretching you. And everything is soft and hazy around your mind, but you can see Joel’s eyes on you. The glassy, blissed out expression on his face as you clench around him. His hands drift to your waist, fingers groping bare skin underneath where he holds your skirt up.

“Fuck,” Joel pants. “So god damn tight.”

A pathetic whimper catches in your throat as you grind down, clit rubbing against the coarse hairs at his base. You’re so full, every sense heightened by the feeling of Joel, pressing you apart and making a home for himself inside of you.

Slowly—tentatively—you rock your hips forward, rutting against him in short, shallow movements. His hands encourage your body, guiding you along his cock as you gain confidence.

Soon enough your hips are lifting and dropping back onto him, over and over, tilting against him, doing whatever it takes to drag more hopeless sounds from his mouth. The music from his record player is a low, thrumming bassline in the back of your mind, every bright refrain of guitar punctuated by sharp gasps and elongated sighs.

Joel’s eyes shift from the space between your bodies to your face. Pupils blown, sweat beading along his forehead. Watching you, he seems to fall backward, into himself perhaps. His body goes slack against the armchair, head lolling back as he stares.

“Jesus,” he mutters lowly. “Missed this perfect little pussy.”

There it is again. Perfect, perfect, perfect. You clench around him at the word, rut your hips in a particularly rough movement that has Joel’s eyes rolling back and a guttural moan falling from his lips. His chest is heaving with ragged breaths, the tendons and veins in his neck on display as his chin tilts upward. A bright red flush has raised across the exposed skin of his collarbones, his neck. You lean in and lick the skin there, skirt your teeth across his pulsing jugular. Joel’s palm clasps the back of your neck, holding you against him. You can feel his thighs tensing below you, and then his hips begin to snap upward, meeting you thrust for thrust. The angle is harsh, and he's filling you to the brim, the tip of his cock bruising against the deepest part of you. You cry out against his skin, and the hoarse sound only spurs him on.

His wide palm shifts to hover at the base of your neck, slips beneath the collar of your shirt. Splays over your collarbone, dull fingernails grating against the skin above your breast, by your armpit. You lean back to let him see you, and his eyes drop to watch the way your hips roll over his lap. His finger snags on the strap of your bra and it snaps against your skin.

“Take it off,” you mutter urgently. Need to feel his skin against yours. Chest to chest. Heart to hea—

“No.” His hips snap up into yours faster, knocking the breath from your lungs. One hand grips the armchair, one his shoulder, trying to find some kind of leverage as he pistons into you from below. That fucking Birthday Boy pin is still stuck to his shirt, and blue flashes in the periphery of your vision. A particularly rough thrust has a loud moan parting your lips, but as soon as it begins Joel’s hand is crashing over your mouth, fingers gripping your face to silence the sound. Your eyebrows raise, silently questioning overtop his hand.

“Need to shut up,” he grits out. “Gonna—ohhh—gonna get us caught.”

You glide your tongue against his palm, taste the salt on his skin. Feel his fingers squeeze your jaw harder in response. And then your own hand is moving from his shoulder, fingers gliding across the sweaty skin of his neck, to slot over his mouth. You stare at one another, wild eyes locked, palms sealed over slick lips, and something fiery pulls taught between you. Liquid heat spreads through your muscles, tightening and loosening with every movement of his body against yours. You can feel the coil at the base of your stomach tightening. Your pussy throbs in a rhythm sympatico to that of your heartbeat, and your fingers squeeze around his face.

You can feel the vibration of Joel’s moans against your hand, and then his teeth are sinking into the soft flesh of your palm. For a moment you wonder if he’ll pierce the skin. Let your blood seep from the wound and spill across his tongue; a sacrificial offering. Drink you down, devour you as he lies within your body. You bite down on his palm in return, holding his gaze as your bodies grind and rut against each other.

Your back arches suddenly, and your forehead knocks against his as your orgasm steadily approaches. Joel’s eyes stay locked on yours. Your shoulders begin to lock up, thighs burning, but he doesn’t let up. His hips collide with yours at a devastating pace, and his free hand drops between your thighs. The pad of his middle finger circles your swollen clit, and you jerk against him, every nerve inside your body fraying and sparking.

Joel slurs a curse against your hand and then you’re coming with a haggard whine into his hand, walls constricting around him in a vice grip. You close your eyes only to discover that royal blue is stained on the inside of your eyelids, unavoidable. He is unavoidable. Even in the darkness of your own mind, he lurks. The smell of him in your nostrils, the taste of his spit in your mouth. You think you hear a garbled version of your name spoken into your palm, and then a stinging sensation rips across your ass as Joel starts to come, fingernails dragging across skin, as he grinds his cock desperately into your pulsing heat. Your eyes flutter open, body shivering with the aftershocks of your high, and you watch him. Admire the way his jaw softens beneath your grip, teeth retracting and leaving dull indents on your skin in their wake.

There’s a low pinch between your thighs. It rings out minutes later, a sullen ache, as you lift your hips and let him slip from your wet clutch. His hands fall from your body, and you suck in stale air, taking a clumsy step off his lap to stand shaking on the ground before him. There are circular white marks on his cheeks, lingering reminders of how you held him, smothering his wanton groans of pleasure. You watch them slowly fade to pink, and try to settle the unsteady breaths that wrack your frame.

Your fingers drop lazily to adjust your underwear, but then those hands are tilting your hips, encouraging you to turn until your back is to him. They slip beneath your skirt, find purchase on the band of your panties, and slide the drenched material down your legs. You step out of them, and gasp in surprise when he flicks your skirt up again. A shiver travels down your spine as he glides a finger through your swollen cunt.

“Joel,” you whimper, lips poised to say that it’s too much, too soon, that you need a second to breathe.

But Joel exhales a quiet groan, and something sharp nips the sensitive skin of your ass. Peaking over your shoulder, you find Joel’s mouth there, wet tongue soothing over the mark his teeth made on your flesh. There’s a slip of blue clenched in his fist, held protectively in his lap beside his softening cock.

You feel the vibration of something against your skin, a murmur of words that you can’t quite make out, before he pulls back. Retracts all points of contact, carefully removes the condom, clears his throat softly as he tucks himself back into his pants. The tell-tale sound of the moment drawing to a close. You swallow down that familiar tang disappointment and hold out a hand for your underwear.

And then Joel surprises you.

This soft, teasing smirk lights up his face, and Joel knocks your hand away. A huff of surprised laughter escapes you as he rises and wanders toward the desk. You watch, stunned into silence, as he drags open a drawer on his desk and tucks that blue slip of fabric inside. It slides closed with a definitive thud, and Joel falls down into his desk chair. His eyelids must be heavy, because they droop closed while you watch.

There’s a damp patch at the bottom of his t-shirt that has your face in flames, but he doesn’t seem to care, chest rising and falling with deep breaths as his body relaxes into leather. Your legs tremble as you grip the strap of your bag, taking that as your cue to quietly head for the door.

“Liked your essay.”

You pause with your fingers on the door handle. Turn to find that his eyes are still shut.

“You’re only saying that becau—”

“No,” Joel interrupts, the firm tone a sharp contrast to his lax frame. Eyes open now. “It was good.”

You hum quietly and rock back onto your heels. Unsure of what to say, you settle on offering him a small smile. He nods in return. The silence drifts back in, and you find yourself unable to speak until his eyes close once more.

“Happy birthday, Joel.”

So softly, so as to not disturb. And you aren’t sure whether he heard you or he’s already fallen asleep, but you do notice the corners of his mouth tilt upward ever-so-slightly.

Friday.

A crimson tablecloth covers the expanse of the table. Deep dark red, almost brown, reminiscent of old blood.

Plates smeared with remnants of a dinner long-past litter the surface, dirtied knives and forks stacked precariously atop them. Sauces have hardened to thickened globs on the China, sticky and stale and calling out to be cleaned. But the end of the evening is nary in sight, as Ian, your gracious host, deposits another bottle of wine onto the table.

“It’s a Cabernet Franc,” he slumps back into his seat at the head of the table, directly opposite you. “My parents brought it back from their trip to Bordeaux this past Summer. A gift.”

You resist the urge to roll your eyes for the thousandth time in three hours. Pour yourself a generous glass and taste it. Say, “I’m more of a Merlot fan,” despite being drunk as all hell and having zero knowledge to help discern between different wine grapes.

Pete offers a supportive smile, and you watch as his friends light fresh cigarettes that send plumes of smoke to the already stained roof of Ian’s apartment.

Ian’s girlfriend Claire, a wildlife and conservation biology undergrad, is draped across the chair to your left. Eyelids half closed; her slim fingers grip a half-smoked joint for dear life, hand hovering dazed in mid-air between her thigh and her face. You think back on the words Pete spoke to you this morning in the kitchen – there’ll be another woman there, don’t worry. And Claire’s great, I swear. You try to reconcile his words with the girl beside you, and the dank smell of burnt weed drifting toward you through the air. She’d been high when she arrived, and after speaking a measly three words of greeting in your direction, had sequestered herself to a chair and smoked through the entire dinner. When none of the others batted an eye, you held your tongue. And their nonchalance became clear when, upon completion of the meal—overcooked chicken, sticky carrots, and undercooked parsnips—Ian and Henry lit up cigarettes at the table too.

You weren’t sure why you agreed to attend the dinner party.

They’re really cool, Pete had blabbered into his mug that morning. We do it every Friday. It’ll be nice to have you meet some of my friends.

Oh, Pete. Cool, they are not.

Henry and Ian, friends from one of Pete’s environmental engineering units, are filthy rich. The kind that you can smell from a mile away. The kind that radiates from their expensive clothes, their manufactured pearly teeth, their god-awful haircuts. The kind of rich boys that have their own apartments in Portland, paid for by a Mummy and Daddy who holiday in Europe every summer—a trip that Ian has managed to bring up at least once an hour since the moment you met him.

The one beautiful, stunning, gorgeous saving grace is that there is alcohol – enough to ply yourself with in order to deal with Ian, who asked what your postgrad was in and replied slyly, “Oh, a fun one.” Ian, who, upon learning about your translation internship in Greece, said, “Sounds like you had a marvellous vacation.”

In return, you sat like a good little house guest—ornament—and listened to the three of them talk ad nauseam about engineering. Consume glass after glass of wine, decline cigarette after cigarette; you get profusely intoxicated as they debate—interrupt each other—the validity of different pollution control policies.

It’s not until early in the fifth hour of the dinner that Ian raises the topic of philosophy.

“It’s curious, that’s all,” he says, cigarette hanging limply between wine-soaked lips. “That these old guys would just hang out all day and… what, talk? Never understood why people rave about Socrates and Aristotle all the time. Just a bunch of sad sacks that liked the sound of their own voices a little too much, if you ask me.”

You hum against the rim of your glass, decidedly unbothered. Nothing you haven’t heard a hundred times, in a hundred different ways. His dining chairs are stiff, and your ass is aching against the heavy mahogany. Pete shifts awkwardly to your right. You can feel him looking at you, trying to gauge your impending reaction, and your face remains placid, numb from all the wine rushing through your veins.

“Is that what your degree is like?” Ian asks. “A bunch of old guys who love to listen to themselves talk?”

And that almost makes you crack a smile. You respond with a lacklustre shrug that neither confirms nor denies his suspicions, and definitely don’t think about—

“I don’t know,” Henry slurs, shooting a pointed glance in your direction. “I used to date this girl—”

“You fucked her once,” Ian interrupts.

“—Rita—"

“Rose.”

“—and she studied all that shit. Used to tell me about that guy who, he, uhm,” Henry pauses. Belches loudly. “He said something about God committing suicide and like, we’re his body or—wait what is it?”

“Mainländer,” you nod, mildly surprised. “Yeah, it’s a creation theory of sorts – God commits suicide to create the universe, and we’re all living on his decaying corpse.”

“What do you think of that?”

“Of a potential God’s potential suicide?”

“Yeah,” Henry grins dopily.

You sigh. “Would’ve been cooler if he left a note, I suppose.”

Henry guffaws loudly, leans back until his chair is balanced precariously on two legs. The cigarette falls from his fingers to his lap, glowing orange cherry leaving charred ashy marks on his jeans. If you were more sober you might’ve said something. But as if were, you just laugh and drain the final dregs of wine from your glass.

“So, your degree involves stuff like that?” Ian asks then.

“Sometimes,” you hum, already bored with the hint of mockery you sense in his tone. “We study the societies as a whole, so yeah, there’s talk about philosophy on occasion.”

“And mythology,” he wiggles his eyebrows from across the table, fluttering his fingers in the air. “Must be fun to talk about made up ideas all day.”

Henry clears his throat roughly and plucks the cigarette out of his lap, all remaining hints of laughter filtering into silence.

You stare. Feel your hackles rise. Sharper this time, as a more acute sense of irritation floods your system. “You do know that Greece and Italy are real countries with real histories, right?”

Claire moves for the first time in fifteen minutes, takes a long drag from her joint. Exhales in your direction.

“Sure,” Ian shrugs. “But you have to admit, all the stuff about the Greek Gods is a little silly.”

You spare a quick glance in Pete’s direction and find him wearing a tight, awkward smile, looking at you with something apologetic in his eyes.

“Silly,” you repeat the word slowly. It as though your brain is working at a thousand miles a minute, desperate to catch up with the conversation. Constantly two steps behind wherever Ian is dragging you. And he’s giving you this smarmy, sympathetic smile that screams oh your poor thing, you have no idea how poor your future job prospects are, and you’ve seen that smile a hundred times, had this conversation a thousand more, and you can suddenly envision yourself reaching across the table and pouring your glass of wine into his lap.

“And what about the rest?” you ask tersely. The collar of your shirt scratches against your neck, and his cigarette is spilling ash onto the fucking table, and he’s an asshole, and you want to throttle him for getting off on belittling you.

“The rest?”

“The rest,” you nod. “I suppose I can admit that those gods are silly, so long as we’re also admitting how fucking laughable biblical Gods ar—"

Pete says your name sharply. You pause, seal your lips shut. He shakes his head almost imperceptibly, the wary glint in his eyes a reminder that you’re a guest in Ian’s apartment. Ian’s apartment that was paid for by Mummy and Daddy; Ian’s apartment that has a crucifix above the kitchen entryway.

“More wine?” Pete asks smoothly. He’s rising from the table before you can respond, lifting the bottle and pouring a swell of red into your glass. Ian’s grin broadens, and a fresh round of irritation flares across the back of your alcohol sodden brain.

“Gimme a second,” you mutter, pushing your chair out. Your body sways as you stand, blood rushing to your head. Blinking the dizzy spell away, you grip Pete’s shoulder for leverage and make your way past him, shuffle down the hall and into a swanky bathroom. Your feet are heavy, mind a blur, as you collapse onto the toilet seat and rest your face against the cool tiled wall.

“Silly,” you grumble under your breath. “You’re fucking silly… asshole.”

Digging your phone from your pocket, you squint against its harsh light. Fingers fumble across the screen to your messages app. Tap Nora’s name, and hold your finger against the voice memo button.

“Nora,” you mumble, nose squished against tile. “It’s awful, you... I need you to save me.”

There’s a roar of laughter from the dining room.

“Why do men always have to be the smartest person in the room?” you continue as the sound dies down. The tile is cool against your skin, a welcome reprieve from the boozy flush that’s taken over your body.

“Pete is such an—” hiccup “—asshole for inviting me to this, I swear—”

Your phone hits the ground with a sharp clatter, and you curse, torso tilting forward as you reach clumsily for it. When you tilt the screen back to your face, a jolt rushes through you. You stare for a moment, dumbfounded, at the picture. There’s the soft sound of rushing water in your ears – your pulse, you realise.

“No,” you mutter, senses sharpening the longer you stare at the picture; your soaked blue panties. At the voice memo underneath said picture, that had certainly not gone to Nora. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, no.”

A moment of painful clarity comes when you make out the delivered sign below the voice message. Blurry eyes dance across the screen, vaguely deciphering the capitalised word MILLER. Panic swirls in your stomach, a churning writhing thing that feels a lot like nausea.

And then a text appears.

Are you drunk?

Your thighs are still numb from sitting for so long, so you slink dejectedly onto the floor and type out a response.

yes

that wasn’t for you

Ten minutes pass. You stare at the bright screen until worn-out tears prick in your eyes.

Doing okay?

tired

ate bad food, drank alotta wine

Probably time to go home.

cant drive

thought you hada phd? telling me to drunk driev

bad profeseor

Five minutes. Pete knocks on the door to ask if you’re okay and you assure him that you’re fine.

Where are you?

You type out the address carefully. Wash your hands in the sink and combs wet fingers through your hair to tame your appearance before skulking back into the dining room, where the vulture awaits you.

“I’m going,” you announce blandly. Claire is asleep, you think. Ian and Henry are playing an aggressive game of cards. Only Pete looks up.

“How are you getting home?” he frowns.

“Got a ride,” you mutter. Collect your things and give his shoulder a brief squeeze before slipping out the front door.

The air is cool outside the apartment building. A sharp breeze whistles through the parking lot, snakes it’s way beneath your clothes to curl against your skin. You welcome the chill. Rub lazily at the goosebumps on your arms as you glance at the last text from Joel.

Be there in 20.

You’re perched on the stoop when headlights finally appear. You curse, eyes smarting as you duck to avoid the harsh fluorescents, and then a black truck is idling a few metres away, engine purring. The passenger door kicks open and you squint, trying—and failing—to see inside through the darkness. Until—

“Get in.”

You’re barely in the car before Joel is pressing a bottle of water into your hand. The plastic is sweating, damp with condensation, and you sigh in relief. Press it against your neck, your face.

“Drink it,” he says sternly. You crack an eye open and look at him. He’s so close. Just a hairsbreadth from you, in a soft t-shirt and jeans. Glasses on the end of his nose. Fluffy hair—bed hair. There’s a soft frown on his face that dips and rolls in your vision. A downward tilt to his mouth as he puts the car in drive and tears away from Mummy and Daddy’s apartment.

“Hey,” you give him a lop-sided smile.

“Hey."

“Were you in bed?”

“You stink,” Joel ignores your question. “You chain-smokin’ in there? Christ.”

“Not me,” you huff in frustration. Take a small sip of water, careful not to spill on the seat. “They were smoking at the table. While we were eating.”

“Who was?”

“Pete’s friends.”

“Who’s Pete?” Joel grunts. He’s got a white-knuckle grip on the steering wheel, and his eyes are set on the road. Only when you don’t respond does he look back at you.

“Who’s Pete?” he repeats. Something stony in his voice. You smile.

“One of my roommates,” you offer. “Why? You jealous?”

“Quit it,” he bites out. “You gonna tell me where you live or am I s'posed to guess?”

Your smile spreads into a full-blown grin as you type your address into his phone. He snatches it from your hand and tells you to drink it all. You sit in silence for a while after that. Roll down the window and let your hand rest outside the car, fingers fluttering as the wind whips past them. He’s driving fast, green traffic lights blurring in your vision, and you feel your head spin faster, harder. Mumble under your breath.

“What?” he asks, voice too loud.

“Slow down,” you repeat, inhaling a deep breath. You feel him ease his foot of the gas instantly, a hand coming to hover over your knee.

“You feelin’ okay?” he murmurs.

“Mm.”

You let your eyes slip shut. Just for a second. A minute. And then—

“Hey.” A firm hand is on your shoulder. Thumb pressing into the skin beneath your collarbone. “Wake up.”

You jolt upright in the seat. Rub a palm roughly against your eye. Forget that you’re wearing makeup until you see black smeared across your hand.

Joel is saying something as you climb out of his truck, but you don’t hear it. Too busy pressing the door shut behind you and stumbling up the paved path to your house. Cool metal slides in your palm, numb fingers grappling for purchase. You scratch the key against the door’s aperture once, twice, and then feel it slip from your hand. A wave of dizziness hits as you watch it clatter against the ground.

“Shit,” you grumble. Bend down to pick it up. Rise and try a third time as silver swims in your vision. You hear a car door slam, the sound of heavy footsteps approaching, and slur another impatient curse under your breath.

“Let me help,” he says from behind you.

“It’s fine,” you protest, skin searing with embarrassment.

“C’mon.” Joel’s warm hand covers yours. Pries the key from your palm and unlocks your front door in a one easy movement. “Let’s get you inside.”

“I can do it.”

“Just let me help you.”

You practically float down the hall, buoyed by the thick arm around your waist, towing you along. In your room, Joel clicks on the lamp in the corner. Dim orange light envelops the space as you fall back onto your bed with a huff, shirt riding up to expose a sliver of your stomach.

“You need more water before you sleep” he says. “And a fuckin' shower.”

“Mmm,” you agree, eyelids fluttering. “I'm… just gonna lie here for a second.”

The responding sound is that of heavy footsteps disappearing down the hall. A fleeting rush of liquid somewhere in the distance. Your eyes close for a minute, maybe two, and reopen to find Joel’s broad frame hovering in the doorway, holding a glass of water and gripping the doorknob as he assesses your most private space. Your eyes are hardly open, but you can see him in the dim light. Glancing into the darkness of the hall and then back to you, slumped messily against the pillows. After a thick moment of silence, he steps decidedly across the threshold, and closes your bedroom door behind him.

As you watch him, you begin to feel a sense of startling clarity.

Joel Miller, in your house. Joel Miller, in your bedroom. Joel Miller… seeing you make a complete fool out of yourself.

“Oh fuck,” you blurt out.

“What?” Joel asks sharply. He rounds the bed in two quick strides, and then he’s pressing a glass of water on your side table and sitting beside you. His weight on the side of the bed has the mattress dipping, your body tilting onto your side to face his back. A wave of nausea strikes suddenly, and you suck your lips into your mouth. No.

“Y'oughta warn me if you’re gonna be sick,” he warns.

“M’not.”

“You better not.”

“I won’t.”

“Think you’ll need about ten of those,” you hear him say. “But one glass is a good start.”

But there’s already an ocean inside you. Rocky, white-wash waves that lap at the walls of your stomach, press against your lungs, and have your mind swaying even as your body lies still. Fingers, moving faster than your brain, seek purchase. Crawling across the sheets to snag your index through a belt loop on the back of his jeans. Chilled skin against worn denim, an anchor. Something sturdy to calm the eddying current inside you.

“What’re you—”

“Did you have a good day yesterday?” you interrupt, eager to distract yourself.

Joel is silent for a while. Keeps looking down at you until he finally says, “Yeah,” so quiet that your ears strain to hear it.

There’s a hint of something there that you can’t quite read. An emotion that he holds clasped in tight hands, just beyond your reach. You let it be, mind distracted by the soft orange light emanating from the lamp. When you close your eyes it glows against the back of your eyelids, vibrant swaths of sunset and marigold that make it hard to fall asleep just yet.

“Seventy, right?” you tease.

An indignant scoff rings out, and you squeak as a set of rough fingers pinch at the skin of your exposed stomach. The quickest touch, just a graze of flesh, before he’s pulling back. You laugh easily, open your eyes to look at him again.

“Careful now,” he warns. But you can see humour in the lines by his eyes, the quirk of his lip.

Your finger wiggles against his belt loop, tugging on the material there once. A tired patience in your eyes as you wait.

“Fifty,” he finally concedes, smile wavering as his gaze darts to the sheets.

“Mhm,” you murmur. Lips part as you let loose a low, impressed whistle. It comes out as more of a lacklustre exhalation of air. Joel’s shoulders are shaking with silent laughter when he meets your eyes again, a little more relaxed. “The big five-oh, huh?”

“The big five-oh,” he repeats simply. Tired as you are, you can see the question in his eyes. This searching, curious thing that rakes across your features, waiting to note any hint that you might be perturbed by the fact.

“S’nice,” you offer quietly instead. “Get any good gifts?”

The muscles in his neck strain, shirt tightening around his shoulders as he turns to look at you head on. Soft eyes gleam with something darker, teasing, as his lips pull into a lazy smirk.

“Sure,” he agrees, voice low, suggestive. “Good’s one word for it.”

Warmth floods your stomach and your toes curl. But you falter under the intensity of his gaze, a weary heat rising in your cheeks as your gaze lowers to his collarbone.

“Hey," you say quietly. “Look, I appreciate you helping me out tonight, I just…”

Joel’s eyebrows pinch the middle of his forehead, relaxation dissipating as he stares.

“Sorry,” you grimace, skin on fire. All of a sudden, your finger feels swollen in his belt loop, a promise that you can’t keep, the fabric branding hot against your skin as the words tumble out of you. “I’m just, I’m pretty wasted, and I’m grateful, you know, but I don’t think I can—we probably can’t fuck tonight—"

Joel says your name quickly. His hand is gripping your bedsheets, sun-kissed skin against pale yellow. “We’re not fucking.”

Unwitting relief courses through you, and you nod slowly. “Yeah, okay, I just wasn’t sure if you thought maybe… I don’t know—"

“Thought that if I gave you a ride home you owed me a fuck?” he asks plainly, expression tight. A dark, frustrated laughs spills from his lips and his shoulders are tightening, muscles shifting beneath his t-shirt. “That’s not how this goes, darlin’. So don’t go thinkin’ that way, ever, y’hear me?”

You blink, eyes wide. Suddenly alert. Feel the warmth in your stomach spread to your chest, your thighs. Darlin’.

“Okay,” you murmur. “Yeah, that’s—how does this work then?”

The indent between his brows only deepens as he gazes down at you.

“You call the shots,” Joel says. “I thought that was well established by now.”

His brown eyes look so soft in the dim lighting of your bedroom. Honeyed and golden in the warm orange haze. You stare at them for so long that you lose track of whether or not he’s answered your question. Forget everything that isn’t the lines beside his eyes, the dark speck of his pupils, the wild hairs of his eyebrows. You feel yourself drift closer to sleep again.

“Pretty,” someone says faintly. You. “You’ve got brown eyes.”

“Jesus.” He’s still frowning.

“Brown-eyed girl,” you sing—slur.

“Alright, Van Morrison,” Joel grumbles, the lines in his face softening. “Drink up.”

You do as he asks, gulping down half the water while he watches. His fingers rest cautiously at the base of the glass in case you drop it. And when you’re finished, he takes it from your hands, stands. Another wave crashes inside you when the mattress shifts in the absence of his weight, and you drift, unmoored, onto your back again.

Joel is staring at you. Towering over the bed, hands jammed awkwardly against his hips. His presence so large, so looming. He crowds your small space, his size ensuring that there is no room for another; only you and him, you and him, you and him, and you call the shots. You squeeze your eyes shut, determined to block that thought out.

“I think I’ll go to sleep now,” you mutter. “If that’s alright with you, teach.”

Joel says something, but it’s a far away sound. You tuck your face further into your pillow.

You think you hear him say good night, or some version thereof, but you don’t hear him leave. Don’t hear his boots on the hardwood, or the creak of your bedroom door. Don’t hear his truck start up outside.

And when you wake, alone, you find that droplets of rain have settled on your windowsill, marking another wet September morning. But you don’t frown as you drag a sweater from your closet, nor as you draw the curtains and clamber back into bed. Don’t yearn for the warmth of Summer as the dull ache of a hangover ricochets inside your skull. For you can smell Joel on your sheets; can still feel his presence lingering in the corners of your room.

And that’s warm enough for you.

tags: @lovely-ateez @nana90azevedo @stevie75 @evyiione @dameron-grant-spector @brittmb115 @ashhlsstuff @casa-boiardi @sinfulrock @bbyanarchist @murc0cks4eva @hopplessilse @joeldjarin @anoverwhelmingdin @bluevxnus @kelp-dreaming @prettyinpunk85 @spacelatinos4life @iluvurfather @daisies-yellow @mrsquill @sarap-77 @sunnywithachanceofjavi @alleyy-katt @zeida @mendessi @love-the-abyss @myrealmofchaos @a-roving-woman @punkshort @gracie7209 @whichwitchwanda @fellinfromthetop @bitchwitch1981 @suzmagine @lmariephoto37 @harriedandharassed @cumberpegg @tonysttank @ourautumn86 @my-tearsricochet @shotgun-shelby @5oh5

thank you for reading! x [and idgaf okay i was gonna put that birthday boy pin on him no matter what shitty excuse i had to come up with]

#my writing #fic: a lover's pinch #professor!joel #ALP #joel miller x reader #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller #joel miller smut

2K notes · View notes

xlpoww · 6 months

Text

Jealousy, Jealousy

i really loved how bad for business turned out, and it seems you all did too!! so here's a continuation of the bfb universe/storyline :) it's not exactly a part two

warnings! jealousy (sanji's)

word count: 1,720

opla! sanji x f! reader

i actually took the time to reference back to this scene in the live action to make sure i got their orders right :) !! also hi i am alive !!! i just got busy with work- and i had a mini con to go to this weekend and i cosplayed nami! :D -> i have also been struggling with tremendous writers block, and was trying to force myself to write about zoro for days! but i couldn't, and i was frustrated with myself untill i rememebred this isnt a job, this is for fun for me and you guys. so i went back to some of the things i've written and felt like i could continue this one :) the story really flowed from there and i wrote a lot in a short span sooooooo <3 ily all! thanks for reading as always <3333

sanji vinsmoke is jealous.

the cook is used to woman falling at his feet, swooning over his flirty personality. either that or they get annoyed at him and clearly show disinterest. (oftentimes calling him names and sometimes resulting in him getting hit)

but you, the one girl he actually held a candle for, he couldn’t even seem to get a rejection from you. that would’ve made things so much easier for him and his heart. it’s gotten to the point he’s wishing you would tell him you don’t return his feelings. sure it would hurt in the moment, but at least he could have (hopefully) forced himself to move on.

but no, you won’t reject him; nor will you swoon at his advances. they seem to roll right off you like beads of rain on a window. never a hint of blush on your cheeks, no angrily quirked brows. how was he meant to understand? there are two reasonable reactions to such a forward man, either interest or not. how do you manage to toe the line so perfectly?

it drove him mad, not only were you horribly hard to read, every once in a while you would flirt aggressively back at him. it would always catch the poor boy off guard, leaving him stunned and blushing standing wherever he was. oftentimes you did it right in the middle of the kitchen, leaving him to deal with the playful teasing of the other workers, walking off to continue doing your job.

you would be the death of him surely.

especially when the sight of you smiling so sweetly at that stupid swordsman causes a painful squeeze in his chest. his grip on the tray he was holding is bruising, and there’s a jealous rage brewing inside of him.

“hello my name is y/n, and i’ll be your waitress today. can i start you guys with any refreshments?” you flip over a page on your notepad, ready to write down the group's requests. what a charming bunch they were, with just a glance you could tell they really cared for one another.

“i’ll take a beer,” the green haired man speaks up, and you nod with a smile.

“i’ll take two beers, i normally have three but..” he trails off as the woman at the table speaks up.

“i’ll take a water.”

“and a glass of milk!” the endearing boy with a straw hat adds on, his words are muffled by the bun he was still chewing. when coming to greet them you’d brough over a basket of perfectly warmed buns with butter. nodding at them all, your pen into your apron as you repeat back to them.

“three beers, milk and water, coming right up you guys.” you step back with a bow, turning towards the kitchen. doing so you notice your best friend is glaring in your direction, and as you walk back you tilt your head at him. when you get closer you realize his glare wasn't directed towards you, but the swordsman you had taken the order from. he doesn’t even seem to pay you any mind as you approach him, too focused on the table you had just walked away from. when you reach him where he stands in front of the doorway, you snap your fingers in his face. it seems to snap him out of it, and he looks down at you with a charming smile.

“hello my love, what can i do for you?” his hand is placed on your shoulder sweetly. the touch warms your body, but you shake it off to cross your arms.

“what’s up with you, why were you glaring at my table? do you know them?” you gesture back towards your table, and a flush washes over his face when he realizes he’d been caught. he straightens his tie in an attempt to shake off his shame,

“not a clue who they are darling.” your eyebrow raises in suspicion, you’re not buying it. he seems to know you won’t, and he tucks his hand into his pockets as he shrugs.

“you just glare at people you don’t know now sanj?” a pout forms out of frustration. while you were wondering why he was lying to you so blatantly, he was internally swooning at how adorable you looked in that moment, and the sweet way you'd shortend his name. the grip you had over his heart was the strongest in all the seas.

“don’t worry, pretty lady, it’s nothing. now if you’ll excuse me i’ve got my own tables to wait on.” he’s internally scrambling to figure out how to distract you from what he was caught doing, in a moment of boldness (or a crazy attempt to change the subject), he leans down to press a kiss to the side of your head.

the action causes your eyes to almost bulge out of your head as you begin to blush. a smug smile forms on sanji’s face at the sight, he’d never felt more accomplished than he did in that moment. not only had he distracted you, he’d made your face light up all pretty and embarrassed. he winked at you before brushing past you to do his job, pushing open the swinging door into the kitchen behind you.

you’re left in shock trying to wrap your brain around his actions, ‘what had gotten into him?’ as bold and flirtatious as he was, you would have never expected a display like that in front of all the customers.

oh shit, the customers. ‘had anyone seen that? oh gods.’ your hands clench into fists as you attempt to bring yourself back to reality and calm down, and you push past the doors of the kitchen. your eyes are focused on the ground as you collect the drinks needed for your table, placing them all on a tray and balancing them on one hand. you take a moment to breathe in and compose yourself before walking back out into the dining room.

you eyes scan the room and find your favorite blond waiting on a table on the opposite side of the room of your own. his location makes it easy to return to the table without incident, placing down the three beers before the milk and water. with a smile, you tuck the tray under your arm and pull out your notepad again to continue taking their orders. maybe doing your job could distract from the rapid beating in your chest.

“you guys decided on food yet?”

“one of everything!” the boy with a straw hat speaks up, and you quirk your eyebrow. they didn't look like the big spenders you were used too, but it wasn’t really your place to mention that. your smile never slips as you nod, writing it down and once again bowing before you leave. by your luck sanji seems to be waiting for you at the doorway of the kitchen. so much for the idea you had to avoid him until you’d calmed down.

he holds his hand out, offering to take your tray from you. his kind offer brings a smile to your lips, and you decide to shove down whatever inner turmoil was happening and act like what he did hadn’t happened. (he sure was.)

“any interesting orders?” he smiles, quirking a brow at you as you offer him your serving tray. you laugh, holding out your notepad to show him where you had written down ‘one of everything’ sanji’s heart squeezes at how cute your handwriting is, and he can’t help the chuckle. “well it looks like you’ll need some help taking out this order then, love.” the pet name causes the usual skip in your heartbeat, and you smile, nodding in acceptance of his offer for help, pushing past him into the kitchen to get your cooks started on the order of everything.

the food gets taken out in waves, sanji always accompanying you with an extra plate or two. the table is rather nice about it, they’re always caught up in conversation. even still they thank you for every plate you place down, they seem like genuine people. it warms your heart to see such a close group of friends.

you can’t help but notice the way sanji doesn’t even pay the girl at the table any mind, too busy glaring at the green haired man, his hands lingering on your shoulder or back longer than they needed to. how he’d managed to add on to his unusual behavior, you wouldnt understand.

not that he really had any reason to be placing a tender hand on your back while you were serving guests. the third time it happens you turn to look at him with a raised eyebrow, and he turns to smile down at you sweetly, his hand on your back rubbing up and down. you look at him incredulously, sanji steps back, bowing before walking back towards the kitchen. before he left his gaze lingered on the man longer than should have been acceptable. you have to hold back a frustrated huff, turning back to the table with a plastered smile

“don’t hesitate to call me if you need anything! i hope you enjoy your meal.” you finish off the sentence with a bow, turning to look at the swordsman when he speaks up with a snort. “are you sure, wouldn’t want to make your busboy anymore jealous than he already is?” your eyes widen in confusion, not only at the notion, but the unnecessary insult towards your sanji.

“whatever could you mean.” the whole table turns to you, and the redhead quirks a brow at you, adding on.

“you’re not really that clueless, are you?” your mouth drops open, and a blush begins to cover your cheeks.

“no, i didn’t think i was.”

and then you’re even more confused. what reason would he have to be jealous over you and a random guest? it’s not like the man had even given you the time of day, or you’d even wanted it? all you’d done was take his orders.

the thought feels so impossible, even so it has already quickly begun eating away at your brain and heart. it was the only logical explanation for all his odd behaviors tonight.

sanji vinsmoke, was jealous. over you.

taglist: @the-maladaptive-daydreamers @teenyforestfairy @gothicuwusposts @cheesesoda @scentisterror @shuujin @gcldtom

#vinsmoke sanji #sanji fanfiction #sanji fanfic #one piece sanji #sanji #opla!sanji #opla sanji x reader #sanji x reader #jealousy #bad for business #sanji x you #sanji vinsmoke x reader #sanji imagine #sanji live action #sanji vinsmoke #vinsmoke sanji x y/n #sanji x y/n #opla sanji

2K notes · View notes

daosies · 4 months

Text

finding sunshine

it rains whenever you're gone. the melusines wonder why.

neuvillette ♡ gn!reader

warnings: lovesick neuvillette, yapping, reader is immortal

notes: sorry everyone im a chronic yapper

"looks like it's going to rain today," trow says. she stares out the grandiose windows of opera epiclese, observing the darkening sky and the piling clouds.

aeife nods. "after all, monsieur neuvillette said that mx [name] won't be visiting for a couple days."

"really?" trow replies, her lavender eyes beginning to wilt as she fiddles with her paws. "that's a shame. mx [name] always has the best souvenirs from their travels..."

the melusines have developed a weather system that relies wholly on you. if you're present, then the skies will be clear. if you're not, then there will be downpour—oftentimes torrential—as if the sky itself were mourning your absence, begging you to return.

"it has always been like that," aeife says. "mx [name] brings sunlight!"

suddenly, neuvillette steps out of his office. the melusines instantly straighten up, their eyes wide with adoration as they trail after the iudex, tiny footsteps echoing throughout opera epiclese.

"monsieur neuvillette!" trow exclaims, "are you taking your lunch break today?"

the iudex nods. "yes, please excuse me for a couple minutes, trow, aeife."

they salute him eagerly before returning to their ranks. the melusines observe neuvillette with great curiosity as he steps outside, surrendering himself to the rain as it drenches his clothes, his skin, his locks. glass beads trickle down wispy, pearl-colored strings, tracing across the bridge of his pale nose and the bones of his cheeks.

neuvillette lets out a lofty sigh. he stands under the rain, relishing in its embrace as his mind wanders a little, yearns a little, as he closes his eyes. droplets kiss his skin as neuvillette retraces the flutter of your lashes and the curl of your lips.

he remembers—vividly—the way your smile would reduce him to a quiet, awestruck mess, the way you would say his name (but it's not even his name, just his surname is enough to make his resolve waver) and the way the world would blank at that. he remembers, and just the thought alone is enough to make something flutter within his stomach, enough to make his heart ache and yearn and pine.

neuvillette supposes—no, he knows that his heart does more than just beat. he knows that his heart does more than sustain life, because closer to him than the blood that courses throughout every part of his body, you are there. you are there in the essence of his soul, the fibers of his being and the water that gives him sustenance. you are there, everywhere and here.

you are in the rain that cherishes his skin, the rain that floods fontaine.

his heart does not simply beat—his heart loves. it loves to the point of extinction, to the point where it threatens to burst from the confines of the ribs that retain it. neuvillette loves to the point where it hurts, where love becomes longing and longing becomes you.

the rain stops—but it doesn't—it continues to fall around him, but where the water once met his eyelids are replaced by a warm, familiar hand.

but neuvillette does not need sight to recognize who it is. he can tell by the callouses adorning your palm, the weathered scars from centuries ago. he can tell by the mere touch of your fingers, firm yet gentle, and the way you don't bother to shield the rest of his face from the rain.

you know him. that realization brings the rain to a standstill. the clouds begin to give way as the sun begins to peek through, engulfing fontaine in its dainty light.

"miss me that much, huh?" you ask, your hand still covering his eyes. although he cannot see you, neuvillette can picture the haughty expression tugging at your features, the toothy grin that brings sovereigns to their knees.

neuvillette can see you even when he can't—that's just how it is, and how it always has been.

"yes," he admits, leaning into your touch. "yes, very much." he does not bother to question why you've returned early, why you didn't sent him a notice in advance. neuvillette does not care—for once—about the technicalities of your return, opting to relish in the fact that you did return, that you are here, with him, in the flesh.

you release your hold on him (not figuratively, never figuratively) as neuvillette stares at you with wide, enamored eyes.

looking directly at the sun is dangerous. the rays emitted from the star can burn holes in one's retinas, damaging their vision and their ability to see.

neuvillette does not care, though. he will continue to look at you directly, to stare into your own eyes—which may be brighter than the sun itself—and brave the rays. what is sight for, if not for beholding you?

"of course," you state matter-of-factly, "what will you do without me?"

the iudex pauses.

"i don't know," he responds truthfully, violet eyes glazing over at the thought.

you brush the side of his face with a tender touch. a small smile etches onto your face as you whisper, "don't be sad. i was just joking."

neuvillette swallows the lump in his throat. how pathetic, for a sovereign like himself to be reduced to a mere fool at your words, your hypotheticals. what will his kin do if they find out he's willing to give up his sight if it means it will belong to you? what will his kin do if they find out he's willing to lose it all, to forget who he is if it means he will become a part of you?

closer to him than his very blood, you are there. you are there in the water that he commands, the water that he cherishes. you are there, always.

the sky clears, and the world halts its weeping. neuvillette sheds his stupor, his grief, as he holds a hand out to take your bag. it's heavy, filled to the brim with various gifts for melusines, he presumes, and neuvillette doesn't even bother suppressing his smile.

"how were your travels?" he asks, as if he doesn't already know. you've sent him multiple letters (at his request) and have elaborated—in striking detail—about how much you loathe the foggy islands of enkanomiya and the harsh climate of dragonspine. if not for his position as iudex, neuvillette wouldn't have let you experience such conditions alone.

the issue is not that you aren't strong, it's the fact that neuvillette is weak. his heart—which beats for you, which lives for you—is weak, his mind reaching the worst of conclusions whenever you are gone for a day later than you told him you'd be. neuvillette is paranoid, he is scared of loss because he fears it will one day be all he knows.

"it was good," you say, and neuvillette nods, urging you to continue. "i'm not done, though. i want to explore sumeru's deserts."

neuvillette shivers at the thought of a desert, but all he can hear of himself is the deafening ring of his ears, the stutter in his chest as bubbles pop in his stomach.

"you're leaving?" he asks, struggling to keep his voice from wavering. "again?"

you offer him a gentle smile. your hand brushes briefly against his, and in those minute moments, neuvillette feels the emotions of a lifetime. yearning becomes longing and longing becomes you, and again, the cycle of rain and sun continues, the constant thump-thump, thump-thump remaining within his chest.

neuvillette has long grown used to your whims. whatever you want, you will find a way—that's just the kind of person you are. the kind of person you've always been.

so he will do what he does best: wait.

"when will you leave?" neuvillette queries, his voice pathetically meek. you merely shrug, a distant expression on your face as neuvillette follows your gaze, pupils tracing over the horizon line and the mountains that border sumeru in the far, far distance.

he wonders what it'd be like to be in the center of your gaze. to be the receiver of your wishful expressions, to be the one you search for amidst the endless sky.

neuvillette wonders what it'd be like if you looked at him with a fraction of how he looks at you—what it'd be like if you missed him, if you thought of him, if you perceived him, even in the slightest.

because to be perceived is to be loved.

"maybe tomorrow," you respond, unsure of yourself. "or the day after. 'm not sure yet, i'll figure it out when the time comes."

he nods, his voice dying in his throat as neuvillette trails after you, following you into opera epiclese. it always goes like this, he thinks, with me following after you. neuvillette is familiar with your silhouette; he thinks he's lived his entire life chasing it, wishing to be in it.

instead of dwelling too much on the future, neuvillette opts to treasure the present. in the comfort of his office, neuvillette offers you various confectionaries he's accumulated throughout the day (all for you, even though he didn't think you were returning today), his hands instinctively coming to set up your favorite chair and unfurl the heavy quilt of your favorite blanket.

even when you're gone, parts of you still live with him, coexisting in the daily happenings that he sometimes overlooks. you live with him in the obnoxious-colored blanket (despite how worn the color is, you still insist on keeping the musty thing) folded neatly on his shelf, in the chair—your favorite chair—remaining stiffly in the corner of his office. you live with him, you always do, in ways beyond tangibility, in ways that are embellished in his very bones.

"looks like it'll be sunny today," trow says. she stares out the grandiose windows of opera epiclese, observing the limitless sky and the egg yolk sun.

aeife nods. "after all, monsieur neuvillette said that mx [name] might be staying for a couple days."

#genshin impact x reader #genshin x reader #genshin impact #genshin #genshin x gender neutral reader #neuvillette x reader #neuvillette #genshin neuvillette #neuvillette x you #neuvillette x y/n #genshin x you #genshin x y/n

1K notes · View notes

loveshotzz · 19 days

Text

18+

summary: The rainy night Steve asks you to move in with him.

wc: 1k

warnings: fem!reader, older!steve, age gap (steve is 43, reader is 30), p in v sex, cream pie, slightly subby begging steve, slight breeding kink, mentions of drinking at dinner.

This blurb belongs to my series All I Really Want Is You but can be read as a stand alone. Just missed my favorite old man 🥺

Steve’s forehead is pressed to yours, sweat dripping off that one strand that just won’t stay back with a love drunk stare that threatens to swallow you whole. You almost get lost in the gold that still shimmers in the darkness of his blown out eyes, freshly done nails digging half crescent moons into the constellations on his shoulder blades. Your knees sit on either side of his hips, sticky skin clinging to the brown leather of his couch making every bounce on his lap threaten to rub them raw, but you could care less. Not when he’s looking at you like this.

The rain hits the sliding glass door of his backyard, beige curtains drawn hiding you both from the two day rain storm that’s kept you away from your apartment and mostly in his bed. One of his arms loops around your waist, holding you close from the small of your back.

Chest to chest, his coarse hairs tickle the soft skin of your breasts, long fingers digging into the plush curve of your hip. A palm as warm as the electric fireplace behind you cups the back of your neck, the pad of his thumb rubbing circles against the sensitive spot behind your ear he likes to kiss every morning.

Spearmint and whiskey from the drinks you had at dinner fill the space between you with every breath that fans against your lips. Sweet nothings said with drunken abandon, noses bumping with every thrust, the length of him stretching you in a way that has your eyes roll in the back of your head every time he meets the roll of your hips.

“If you think I’m letting you resign that lease this summer,” he breathes, somehow pulling you even closer, making him go deeper, whispering a sweet ‘I know’ when you whine before finishing his thought, “you’re crazy honey.”

Thunder rumbles in the distance outside, your walls fluttering around him in a way that makes him twitch inside of you, eyebrows marrying together when your fingers find their way into the silver and chestnut hair that curls at the nape of his neck.

“Tryin’ to keep me all to yourself huh?” You tease, the liquid courage helping you stay calm at the realization of what he was implying. A conversation you’ve both tiptoed around when five nights a week sleepovers between places became a regular thing.

His top lip catches on your bottom, the corners of his mouth twitching in a smirk before he steals a kiss that has you chasing his tongue with yours letting him take control. The grip on your waist tightens, stopping your movements while the roll of his hips becomes pointed in your undoing.

”God, yes baby, please.” He moans, perfect teeth nipping at your bottom lip when you tug on his roots, the tip of him teasing the spot that has you gasping his name, “I want you every day, please.”

The thumb behind your ear applies just enough pressure for you to turn your head to the side, letting him kiss a sloppy trail up your jaw, whispering ‘please’ after each one. Loosening his hold enough for you to grind your hips, you meet his thrusts in a way that has the hair on his pelvic bone catch your clit with the perfect pressure over and over again.

”Oh my god, Steve.” You gasp, pulling at his hair hard enough for his lips to meet yours again. Something a little smug behind them.

“Yeah?” His hot breath makes you shudder as you find just the right rhythm.

“Feels s’good, you always make me fuck -“ the buildup you’ve already had three times today returns like its the first time all over again, lashes tickling the tops of your cheeks.

“I know honey, I can feel it, you can give it to me, you know I want it.” He hums against your lips, the tip of his tongue teasing yours.

The hand on your hip snakes between your thighs, the pad of his thumb finding your clit, rubbing the kind of messy circles that has your legs start to shake.

”Wanna make you cum every day, please.” Grunting when the roll of your hips makes his toes curl against the hardwood floor, he knows he’s not going to last much longer.

“Tell me you’re gonna let me baby.” Steve practically whines and all you can do is nod because even every day doesn’t seem like enough.

What’s longer than forever?

“Cum inside me,” you whine, “I want it, god, I need it.”

The groan that rumbles from his chest at your request is enough to rival the thunder that gets close enough to shake the house, and the band that wound up tight enough to snap finally does just that, your cunt giving him no choice but to listen to you as you fall apart on his lap.

“Anything - anything you want.” He pants against your open mouth, twitching against your fluttering walls before spilling everything that’s left of him inside of you. The blunt ends of his nails dig into your hip keeping you close so you have to take every last bit, one day hoping you’ll want it to stick.

#steve harrington #steve harrington smut #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x you #steve harrington x reader smut #steve harrington fanfic #steve harrington fanfiction #steve harrington x fem!reader #my writing #all i really want is you #older!steve harrington

991 notes · View notes

cillianhead · 6 months

Note

Your Thomas Shelby's younger inexperienced wife and you are both experimenting in the bedroom and he lets you choke him 🥵

Oh absolutely...!

God I can't wait to write this. Thank you for your request! I hope you like it :-)

Show Me How Much You Need Me || Thomas Shelby x Reader

Part One!

Warnings: SMUT, unprotected P in V, choking, light spanking i guess??, face slapping, age gap, degrading language, swearing / vulgar language, kinda mild breeding kink, daddy kink, squirting, mild overstimulation sort of, oral sex (f receiving), arranged marriage, very very very very vague implications of dubcon sort of but like not really but just be warned! adult content. (sorry if I missed any warnings)

18+ Minors DNI

To your parents, being unmarried at the age of twenty was absolutely unacceptable. So on your birthday, they had men lining up around the block, both old and young alike, hoping to be your husband. Now there were some good candidates, not that you had a choice in who you were going to marry. Your parents were control freaks, deciding they were going to decide for you. But as soon as Thomas Shelby walked into the room, cigarette hanging loosely out of his lips, a trail of smoke following him and a huge wad of cash in hand and then tossing it down in front of my parents, acting like he owned the place... You knew no one else stood a chance.

Now you'd been married for a month, Tommy was an insatiable man. He got what he wanted when he wanted. You remember the look in his eyes on your wedding night when you told him you were a virgin, he nearly came in his trousers at the thought of your tight pussy. You've had sex pretty much twice a day or more ever since, he couldn't keep his hands off of you. Tommy showed you how to fuck, how to suck his cock, showed you how to please a man. Of course, the only man you would ever be allowed to please would be Tommy himself. You were hesitant to marry him, you were also slightly afraid of him but as you got to know each other, got to spend more time together as husband and wife, you appreciated his company, and you could even see yourself beginning to love him. But lately the sex between you had started to die down, Tommy being busy dealing with the peaky blinders and all their drama, you'd only have sex every other day or so. Which for you guys, wasn't a lot. But you knew he was tired, it wasn't cause he wasn't attracted to you anymore.

It was pouring rain outside as you both quietly sat in bed, Tommy read his novel quietly, glasses sitting on the edge of his nose while you brushed through your hair, topless and only in some thin white panties for him. There was a visible wet patch from your arousal, you were always wet when you were near Tommy, he just had that affect over you. He thought it was cute how easily excitable you are. You were incredibly needy, now that you'd had a taste of what it was like to have sex, you were constantly asking for it, constantly trying to get his attention. Poor little inexperienced thing you were.

"Tommy," You whined, placing your hairbrush on the bedside table and then leaning over, pressing your face into his neck. "Pay attention to me..."

Tommy let out an amused huff, turning another page of his book, not bothering to even spare one glance at you. "What do y'need, love?" He asked gruffly, reaching his spare arm and wrapping it around you, pulling you into him. He knew exactly what you needed, he just wanted to hear you say it. The way you got embarrassed and shy was incredibly sexy to him.

"Need you..." You whispered, placing kisses along the column of his throat.

"Gotta be more specific than that," He closed his book, finally setting it aside along with his glasses. "What do you need from me?"

"I need... you..." You were flustered, burying your face in his bare chest but he grabbed you by the nape of the neck like you were a kitten and pulled your head up, forcing you to look at him. "I need you to fuck me... Tommy..."

"Is that so?" He chuckled, running a thumb over your bottom lip which you innocently popped into your mouth, swirling your tongue around the digit. You weren't doing intentionally to turn him on, you just liked the way it felt to suck on something, especially if that something was Tommy's thumb. But the sight was suggestive, Tommy wished it was his cock in your mouth instead. "Fuckin' hell, alright, sit in me lap, I'll give you what ye need."

You continued sucking on his thumb, keeping eye contact with him as he pulled down his sleep shorts and pulled down your underwear. "Go on then, take what ya came here for." Tommy pulled his wet thumb away, shoving it between your folds and rubbing your clit, making you weak in the knees. He had so much power over you. So you grabbed onto his shoulders before holding the head of his dick before lining up with the leaky tip and sinking down on him. You watched his eyes roll into the back of his head as you squeezed around him. "Easy, girl." He warned, his cock twitching inside you, he could cum from just how tight you were. God he fucking loved that his cock was the only one you'd ever taken, loved the way you stretched around him.

"Fuck... so deep..." You sat on him for just a moment, adjusting to the feeling. Even though you'd taken him plenty of times, your cunt just hadn't gotten use to the sheer size and girth of him. It made you feel like you were being torn open in the most beautiful way possible. "T-Tommy..."

"Ride me, slut, go on... show me how much you need me." He slapped your ass harshly before grabbing a handful of it and encouraging your hips to start grinding against him. "Such a pretty girl."

You moved your hips back and forth, a bit shy at first as you did so but as more and more pleasure began to build in your stomach, your dignity went out the window as you began desperately bouncing on his cock. Tommy had never seen you so hungry for it before, he just leaned back against the bed, his hands gripping your waist as you took what you wanted.

Your tits bounced right in front of his face and Tommy thought to himself this was the greatest view in the world. His pretty little wife fucking herself and her perfect tits moving in sync with her movements. He let out gravelly groans as you sunk back down on him, sweaty, you froze for a moment to catch your breath. This was still all so new to you, still such an innocent little thing. You still need Tommy's help to get off sometimes, not quite strong enough yet to ride him all on your own.

"Tommy..." You whispered with a small whine. "Need your help..." Your flushed cheeks and blown out pupils were a sign of how lost in the moment you were. He just smiled as he pushed you down onto your back and threw your legs over his shoulders. His cock pressing even deeper into your pussy, somehow. You could feel him in your stomach.

"This what you want, little girl?" He hummed as he started to fuck in and out of you, impaling you on his dick. "Want me to fuck you like the slut you are?"

You moaned, nodding dumbly as your mind went blank. "Yes! Tommy! Fuck me!" You were incredibly loud and you were lucky no one else was in the house because otherwise they'd hear how loud you were being, when usually you were quite reserved around other people. "Pl-Please put a baby in me Tommy... let me make you a daddy..."

"Fuck..." Tommy could cum at your words, "Yeah?" He panted continuing to piston in and out of you, one of his hands grabbed roughly at your tits, playing with your hard nipple. "Gonna breed you like the bitch that you are." You moaned at his words, arching your back further into him as he gave you another harsh spank to your asscheeks.

"Tommy... gonna cum... please... don't stop!" You sounded like a pornstar, Tommy leaned down and kissed you.

"My pretty little wife," His voice was vibrating through you, the gravel of it making you even wetter. The sound of his cock slipping in and out of your sopping little cunt echoed throughout the room as he leaned down even further and connected his lips to yours once again. He felt your fingers curl around his neck, both hands wrapped around his throat, Tommy was never one to get flustered but the idea of you choking him made his hips stutter as you squeezed around him a bit. "Fuck..." He moaned lowly as you held onto his neck. You looked so sweet in that moment. "Such a stupid little girl, when you're full of cock, don't even know what ye doin, eh?" He fucked into you more, feeling you squeeze around him. Your hands held onto his throat as if you were holding him on a leash.

You were a writhing mess, shaking underneath him, only choking him further. You looked at how pretty he looked with your hands wrapped around his throat and how flushed his face was, hair sticking to his sweaty forehead as his hips bruised your pelvis. "Daddy...!" You moaned out, experimentally, waiting to see his reaction. You had always fantasized about calling him it but you were always too nervous to do so. But right now you were drunk on the pleasure, too fucked out to care.

"Fuck... say that again... gonna fuckin' fill you up, love." Tommy was just as desperate as you now, chasing his own high as you started to convulse around him, your orgasm unraveling, he lightly slapped you across the face, hard enough to break you out of your daze but not enough to actually do any damage. "Fuckin' do what I say!" You clenched tighter around him, cumming even harder at the sound of him yelling at you. Him being angry at you shouldn't be so hot but it was.

"Sorry... s-sorry... daddy!" You sobbed out as you gushed around his cock that began leaking cum. "Please... cum in me, please daddy..."

"That's right, baby..." He was rutting into you now, hips moving into you hard yet slow. "I'm yer daddy." He let out a deep mewl as he came inside you, making you moan even louder, your voice hoarse and your throat sore as you let go of his throat, collapsing your arms back. Tommy fucked his cum deep into you despite the sensitivity of his cock. Slowly pulling out of you, he pushed your legs against your chest to look down at the slick between your legs. A little bit of cum dripped out of your stretched out hole, earning you two fingers pushing it back into you, you just whimpered, a bit overstimulated.

"Think I gotta get a taste of your pussy now, love," He hummed getting down on his tummy, face aligned perfectly as he moved his fingers in a 'come hither' movement. You gasped, he was hitting your g-spot each time.

"Fuck, tommy!"

"Eh, that's not me name right now." He looked at you warningly before unhinging his jaw and attaching his hot mouth to your sensitive clit again.

"Oh daddy! 'S too much, too much... please..." You couldn't tell if you wanted him to stop or to keep going, it was all too much for your brain to comprehend. You were seeing hot flashes of white, your body going completely limp as another orgasm washed over you, rendering you helpless to the pleasure that was consuming you from the inside out. "D-Daddy..." You dumbly moaned.

"Tastes so fuckin good, keep cummin' on my face." His nose brushed your clit as he licked up your juices and you came again and again and again. Extremely overstimulated. "Just gimme one more, baby then I'll leave you alone." You were unresponsive, nodding your head weakly, wanting to be good for him. "Such a good girl for daddy, aren't ya?" He made out with your gushing sex, adding a third finger.

And suddenly you felt it burst out of you, drenching his hair, face, and the sheets underneath you. Squirting all over his face and just as you thought it was over, it just kept on coming. Your mouth agape in a silent scream of pleasure, he drank it all up, continuing to slurp at your pussy until it finally ended. He pulled away, leaning back on his ankles, Tommy had a very pleased look on his face, your squirt dripping down his chin and his chest sticky with your cum and the sheets soaking wet. "That was the best bloody thing to ever happen to me." He huffed, licking his wet fingers. You laid there, tears streaming down your face and twitching gently, still coming down. He laid down beside you. "You did so good f'me, so good, you're alright, I'm here."

He held you as you continued to shake, waiting for you to calm down a bit. "I've never done that before..." You whimpered, pussy throbbing, full of cum, and sopping wet.

He gave you a loud genuine laugh, still sticky with your juices as he kissed you. "I'm gonna make you squirt over and over and over again every time we fuck now, just so you know."

You giggled at his words, he was gonna be the death of you.

I know there wasn't a whole lot of 'experimenting' or choking so i'm sorry! But I hope you enjoyed anyway!!

1K notes · View notes

undyinglament · 2 years

Text

Tag Dump | Primary Muses

Zephirin

✧ — ⋆ I’ll pay any cost. IC. The Just ✧ — ⋆ Mistakes become regrets. Isms. The Just ✧ — ⋆ Dreams were shattered like a stained glass window. Visage. The Just ✧ — ⋆ Redemption lies plainly in truth. Headcanon. The Just

Asahi ✧ — ⋆ It just seems unlikely that it’s me who was to blame. IC. The Infatuated ✧ — ⋆ The most dangerous thing is to love. Isms. The Infatuated ✧ — ⋆ The sun will rise. Visage. The Infatuated ✧ — ⋆ I want to be adored. Headcanon. The Infatuated Fandaniel(Amon) ✧ — ⋆ Heart shattered apart with your sanity. IC. The Hopeless ✧ — ⋆ You crave the applause yet hate the attention. Isms. The Hopeless ✧ — ⋆ Just let go. Visage. The Hopeless ✧ — ⋆ Your act is a ruse. Headcanon. The Hopeless Fandaniel(Hermes) ✧ — ⋆ Help me forget. IC. The Unanswered ✧ — ⋆ I hope it’s already too late. Isms. The Unanswered ✧ — ⋆ You made the choice to be. Visage. The Unanswered ✧ — ⋆ Stirs of whispers trail and linger. Headcanon. The Unanswered Erenville ✧ — ⋆ He was made of sunlight. IC. The Wanderer ✧ — ⋆ I will remember. Will you?. Isms. The Wanderer ✧ — ⋆ Love is love is love. Visage. The Wanderer ✧ — ⋆ Dance in the rain. Headcanon. The Wanderer Varshahn ✧ — ⋆ One can’t function without the other. IC. The Simulacrum ✧ — ⋆ Like the moon - a part of him was always hidden away. Isms. The Simulacrum ✧ — ⋆ Softness as a shield. Visage. The Simulacrum ✧ — ⋆ He carries secrets in his eyes. Headcanon. The Simulacrum Vrtra ✧ — ⋆ A force to be reckoned with. IC. The Satrap ✧ — ⋆ We are in daylight now. Isms. The Satrap ✧ — ⋆ You are not weak just because your heart is heavy. Visage. The Satrap ✧ — ⋆ You wear a mask for so long you forget who you were beneath it. Headcanon. The Satrap Elidibus ✧ — ⋆ It’s almost over. It’s just begun. IC. The Emissary ✧ — ⋆ It only destroys me in the end. Isms. The Emissary ✧ — ⋆ I’m trying to remember you. Visage. The Emissary ✧ — ⋆ Will I end up emptier?. Headcanon. The Emissary Emet-Selch ✧ — ⋆ You wake up still tired. IC. The Veracity ✧ — ⋆ A reverie endeavour. Isms. The Veracity ✧ — ⋆ Alone at the edge of the universe. Visage. The Veracity ✧ — ⋆ Unspoken truth lingers. Headcanon. The Veracity Jullus ✧ — ⋆ Standing together as one. IC. The Pride ✧ — ⋆ With tears in my eyes I begged you to stay. Isms. The Pride ✧ — ⋆ I can barely breathe. Visage. The Pride ✧ — ⋆ This time we are not afraid. Headcanon. The Pride Ardbert ✧ — ⋆ With sparking crystal soul aglow. IC. The Mirror ✧ — ⋆ Here’s to the greater good for all. Isms. The Mirror ✧ — ⋆ It doesn’t take a killer to murder. Visage. The Mirror ✧ — ⋆ Have you ever died in a nightmare?. Headcanon. The Mirror ✧ — ⋆ The difference twixt fate and free will. Azem. The Mirror

#✧ — ⋆ I’ll pay any cost. IC. The Just #✧ — ⋆ Mistakes become regrets. Isms. The Just #✧ — ⋆ Dreams were shattered like a stained glass window. Visage. The Just #✧ — ⋆ Redemption lies plainly in truth. Headcanon. The Just #✧ — ⋆ It just seems unlikely that it’s me who was to blame. IC. The Infatuated #✧ — ⋆ The most dangerous thing is to love. Isms. The Infatuated #✧ — ⋆ The sun will rise. Visage. The Infatuated #✧ — ⋆ I want to be adored. Headcanon. The Infatuated #✧ — ⋆ Heart shattered apart with your sanity. IC. The Hopeless #✧ — ⋆ You crave the applause yet hate the attention. Isms. The Hopeless #✧ — ⋆ Just let go. Visage. The Hopeless #✧ — ⋆ Your act is a ruse. Headcanon. The Hopeless #✧ — ⋆ Help me forget. IC. The Unanswered #✧ — ⋆ I hope it’s already too late. Isms. The Unanswered #✧ — ⋆ You made the choice to be. Visage. The Unanswered #✧ — ⋆ Stirs of whispers trail and linger. Headcanon. The Unanswered #✧ — ⋆ He was made of sunlight. IC. The Wanderer #✧ — ⋆ I will remember. Will you?. Isms. The Wanderer #✧ — ⋆ Love is love is love. Visage. The Wanderer #✧ — ⋆ Dance in the rain. Headcanon. The Wanderer #✧ — ⋆ One can’t function without the other. IC. The Simulacrum #✧ — ⋆ Like the moon - a part of him was always hidden away. Isms. The Simulacrum #✧ — ⋆ Softness as a shield. Visage. The Simulacrum #✧ — ⋆ He carries secrets in his eyes. Headcanon. The Simulacrum #✧ — ⋆ A force to be reckoned with. IC. The Satrap #✧ — ⋆ We are in daylight now. Isms. The Satrap #✧ — ⋆ You are not weak just because your heart is heavy. Visage. The Satrap #✧ — ⋆ You wear a mask for so long you forget who you were beneath it. Headcanon. The Satrap

1 note · View note

lokisgoodgirl · 3 months

Text

A Quiet Storm [Loki x Reader]

A Link to my Masterlist is HERE Summary: A stormy morning and a sleepy Loki in your bed. Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI. Loki x Female Reader. Established relationship. Mild somnophilia. Light, fluffy smut. (w/c 1.2k)

Wind batters against the windows. It buffets the eighty-seventh story with the strength of a god’s fury, rattling the glass.

Rain sounds like hailstones. It has done for the past twelve hours. And it's beautiful, in a primal sort of way. It lulled you to sleep, alone. But as you try to snuggle deeper into the duvet, you realise that most of it is missing.

Turning, you find a familiar wall of pale muscle. You smile softly. No wonder you felt so safe in the storm. He came in at some point during the night, careful not to wake you. But despite his good intentions, Loki is a chronic bedsheet thief. Always has been.

Dull light makes a faint line across his body, from his neck and over the thick of his back. Loki’s hair spreads against his pillow like ink on fresh towels, curling and winding its tendrils into every available space. Your nose traces the sharp line of one shoulder-blade, inhaling the warmth that lingers on his skin.

He showered. Steve said it might be a messy one last night.

The god is facing away from you, one leg draped over the other, bedsheets trapped between his thighs. The room is cold, and the more you awaken, the more you notice the ripple of goose-bumps bristling up your calves.

Loki is fast asleep, that’s plain enough. The portion of his torso visible above the sheets is rising and falling steadily. Peacefully.

Rain slaps against the glass, another gust of winter gale howling around the panes. Without looking, you know that one arm will be tucked under his pillow, the other bent at a way that makes his triceps bulge in that effortlessly sensual way. You place a sleepy kiss between his shoulders, no more than an angels touch. And with all the care you can muster, you try to tug the sheets in your direction.

Loki stirs, groaning with unintelligible annoyance. You snuggle closer, squashing your cheek against the hard expanse of his back. Fingers creep tentatively over the ridges of his abdomen, pausing to ghost the solid dent of his obliques. His breaths rise and fall in undisturbed slumber.

The hand comes to rest in the centre of his chest. You can feel his heartbeat, the same as your own. One leg rises and slips beneath the sheet he hoards, your thigh finding its home against his hipbone. Loki’s perfect ass presses against your lower belly, the increasing heat from your exposed sex millimetres from his skin. One calf lies flush against his, bent at an angle. Tangled over him. “Mornhnigk.” he grumbles sweetly, voice thick with sleep.

He’s not awake, not really. You smile against his neck, closing your eyes.

Nuzzling into his hair, you appreciate that this is the god you see. This is the Loki you see. The one who feels safe in your bed. The one who feels safe in your love.

Another kiss finds its way pressed against his hair. You nose rogue strands aside, capturing the edge of his delicate earlobe between your lips with a gentle sigh. He smells so good, like fresh cotton and your shower-gel.

He came straight here, you think, heart skipping as you imagine him striding from the Quinjet in darkness and making a beeline for your apartment. Stripping off in your bathroom, not his own. His leathers a tangled heap on your hallway floor, no doubt. He came straight home.

Irresistible. That's what he is. Even if you wanted to leave him be, not touch him, adore him, you don't think you could. The quiet storm of love you have for him rages inside you with all the ferocity of the one outside. Unstoppable. Undeniable.

Loki’s back arches slightly as he works his face deeper into the pillow. It presses his muscular ass into your crotch. Your fingers slip down his stomach, pads catching on the silken trail of fine hairs leading towards his groin. Heat increases as you move closer to his centre, radiating from his skin. Suddenly aware of how cold your hands must be, you flinch as the head of his cock brushes your pinky. The tip is slightly wet.

He’s usually horny as hell when he comes back from missions. It must have taken all his willpower not to wake you. Or at least resist the urge to hold you, burying his erection between the curve of your cheeks. The thought of his gentlemanly resistance makes your stomach flip with desire.

A small sigh escapes him as you trail a solitary digit up his velvet cock, tall and strong against his stomach. You’ll never get used to how soft the skin is. Chalk and cheese to the way he can make you cum as he rails you masterfully with the force of a wild tempest. The finger catches on the thick vein that runs to the root, and you play with it, grazing up and down its route with a ghost-like touch. Loki sighs again, shoulder-blades twitching.

Needy fingers wrap around his girth, squeezing gently.

Loki purrs. A low, rumbling sound which chimes with the patter of raindrops against glass. His cock twitches in your hold, eager for his mistress’s adoration as you trace your delicate grip to the tip. The god’s hips thrust lightly into your hold, rocking himself deeper into the tantalisingly pleasure his sleeping form finds itself. His foreskin gathers beneath your fingers as you massage gently, before sliding it back down.

Loki gasps. The mattress shifts as your lover’s waking body turns with care, shoulder muscles clenching as he pushes up against the bed and lays on his back. One of his hands stretches up and slides behind his head while your own continues its slow pump of his swollen cock beneath the covers. So slowly, back and forth.

He blinks several times, watching the work of your hand before his sultry stare finds your own. His eyes flash, still hooded from dreams. “Did you miss me?” he asks groggily, knowing the answer. Loki leans forward, kissing you deep. His warm tongue searches your own, strands of his wild hair sticking to your lips. You can feel his lower body clench and jolt as your strokes grow firmer, his left hand itching against the sheets as he clenches and unclenches a fist.

A particularly ferocious wave of wind slaps against the window, making you flinch. Your hand grips his cock even tighter, making him hiss with pleasure.

As you loosen, Loki’s brow furrows in feigned pity. “Are you scared, little one?” he purrs. It’s tipped with loving condescension in that filthy way that only he could muster. “Do you need a big, strong god to to protect you as the realm’s elements rage?” You bite your lip to stifle a smile, nodding. “So scared,” you confirm in a girlish whisper. Loki sniffs, raising his chin. He looks down from half-lidded eyes, un-styled locks of curl falling around his jaw. “Come then,” he utters, moving the hand behind his head to pat your pillow. “We must ensure you are thoroughly...protected.” You squirrel down in to the blankets, facing away from him while he draws you near. His throbbing cock pulses against your ass, against your thighs, searching kisses working a trail up the curve of your neck.

“I will always protect you,” he mutters earnestly as you feel a hand slip between your bodies.

The crown of his manhood slides against your entrance, slipping against wetness. He hums contentedly, nudging the tip as you clench around air. Loki's body melts against yours like a finger dipped in wax. His abdominal muscle pulses against your back as he tries to steady his breaths.

In moments, a dark moan floods your ear as he squeezes inside. The feeling of peace is immediate. Loki stills, breathing softly against your skin.

“Always,” he groans quietly as he bottoms out.

He only withdraws an inch with every careful thrust, rocking you gently as you move against him. With him. You’re vaguely aware of his dexterous fingers toying with a nipple, the suck of his kiss on your neck, the happy sounds of your own moans as he fucks you in rippling waves.

All the world dissolves. All you hear is the white noise of his loving praise. His delicate pleasures. Safety.

All there is, is him. And outside, the storm rages on.

Tags (contd in comments)

@lokischambermaid @meowmeow-motherfucker @gigglingtiggerv2 @imalovernotahater @littledark11 @lokikissesmyforehead @simplyholl @fictive-sl0th @thedistractedagglomeration @loopsisloops @glitchquake @holdmytesseract @jaidenhawke @fandxmslxt69 @morriggannlostinfandoms @marygoddessofmischief @sebstanwhore @xorpsbane @peacefulpianist @yelkmelk @mistress-ofmagic @acidcasualties @ozymdias @your-taste-on-my-lips @lokidokieokie @kikster606 @peachyjinx @tbhiddlestan83 @trickster-maiden @skymoonandstardust @justjoanne242 @thenotoriouserg @ladyofthestayingpower @brittbax @smolvenger @liminalpebble @joyful-enchantress @kaleenjackson @fictional-hooman @kellatron55 @icytrickster17 @multifandom-worlds @buttercupcookies-blog

#loki x reader #loki smut #loki laufeyson #loki fanfiction #loki fanfic #loki x reader smut #loki x female reader #loki x you #loki x you smut #loki x yn #loki odinson #lokismut #loki oneshot #loki fluff #loki gifs #loki (marvel)#loki x f!reader #loki laufeyson smut

986 notes · View notes

lemon2099 · 4 months

Text

18+ Minors DNI (yes that includes looking)

Four AM and my vibe’s dead so have this. May edit in the morning if someone reminds me and I have the time.

Imagine you and Miguel are spending some much needed quality time together in a hot shower. It starts sweet enough. Miguel turns on the big rain head and lets it get all nice and warm for the both of you.

You grab your soap, all ready to clean up, but before you can even start, he silently takes the soap from your hands and smears some on his. He rubs the soap on your back and shoulders as you relax under the warm water. He savors your little whimpers and sighs of pleasure as he lets his soapy hands run over your chest and down your stomach. He takes gentle care of your hips, lightly squeezing and rubbing them, before turns back a bit to grab more soap. You’re too busy relaxing in the hot water to notice him taking one of your thighs in both of his hands, gripping and rubbing it tenderly. As his hands trail down, he lets himself rest on his knees, rubbing the soap down from your calf and shin to your ankle and foot. He then grabs some more soap and starts over again, starting this time from the bottom, and washing and massaging his way to the top.

He invited you in for a steamy kiss, which you happily accept. Both of your faces and hair are soaked, but it’s a little hard to care when Miguel’s tongue is in your mouth. Once you part for air, Miguel starts to sit down on knees in front of you. Before you can even register why he’s down there, he looks deep into your eyes, and let his sweet tongue spoil your little pussy. He starts with a long slow lick from the bottom of your opening all the way up to your clit, then begins to suckle on the little nub. His tongue flicks over it a few times, before pulling away.

“Miguel~” you whimper, looking down at him. He gives your clit a little kiss goodbye, before placing his tongue onto your slit. Without wasting time, he lets his slip into your walls. Your moans only egg him on more as he devours you, making sure to leave no crevice untouched.

Your legs shake feverishly, only being held in place by his massive hands tightly gripping your thighs. He buries his face in you, his tongue slamming that sweet spot inside you as his nose rubs your clit. You feel that familiar warmth in your core and your brain goes fuzzy. With a loud groan, your legs buckle. You slam your hands outwards, one on the stone wall of the shower, one on the glass of the door.

“Easy, cariño, easy.” Miguel warns. He quickly pulls away and effortlessly picks you up, sitting you down on the bench towards the back of the shower.

“Are you okay?” He asks. You pant out a “yeah” and nod.

“Do you want me to keep going?”

“Yes please.” You reply, spreading your legs wider for him. Miguel smiles and nods, before kneeling in front of you once more. He wastes no time burying his face inside of you, roughly lapping up your sweet little cunt. He moans against you, the vibrations hitting your clit, making you throw your head back and sing your own horny song as you grip the bench of the shower. He pauses for a moment to chuckle.

“Que rica.” He whispers. You don’t even have time to register what he’s said before your mouth is lolled open and you’re screaming in bliss. His tongue somehow gets more aggressive, forcing you to grip his hair for support. No words can come out of your mouth, only babbles and grunts, which eventually devolve to whimpers. You can feel his smirk again your labia. Miguel doesn’t acknowledge your wanton whines, only devouring you faster and harder. You feel your muscle tense and your toes curl tight.

“Ahh, Mig, hmph hmmmm~” you groan out, your thighs clamping around his head.

“Come on, almost there. Thats it.” He whispers to your pussy. You cum instantly. Your brain is far too fuzzy to process everything clearly, but you can make out a faint “good job” and “good girl”. You take some steady deep breaths as Miguel thanks your pussy with gentle kisses, front slit to clit, as well as your inner thighs, licking up the sweet mess he made out of you.

“You’re too good to me, Miggy” you manage to say after a few moments, looking down at his soft rugged face.

“I take care of my lady.” he whispers to you, kissing your forehead before sitting next to you. He wraps his arm around your waist, letting enjoy the heat of the water and your intimacy. You cup his face and bring him in for a soft kiss that quickly escalates into you both making out.

Until you get an idea. Your lips were light as a feather, trailing down his neck and chest. Your hands followed, smoothing the chiseled muscle below it, resting on your knees in front of him. You lick your lips at the very big and very hard sight in front of you.

“And I take care of my man~”

Hope you enjoyed my word vomit. My ask box is always open so come talk to me!

#miguel o'hara #miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o’hara smut #atsv miguel #spiderverse #miguel o’hara #miguel o’hara x reader #miguel smut #miguel o'hara x you #lemon’s work #thoughts lol

741 notes · View notes

ddejavvu · 7 months

Note

HI!!! Please can i request an awkward!glasses reid oneshot where he’s like pining over the reader?? maybe with a bit of tension ;))) but he like slips up and says something like ‘god ur beautiful?’ THANK UUUU

The rain pouring down in massive, silvery sheets does nothing to dull your halo, Spencer thinks. Actually, it might make it shine brighter, a haze of mist clouding your form as you traipse through the downpour.

"Seattle sucks!" You gush, raising a hand to smear away the wet strands of your hair that cling to your face, "God, why can't Arizona have another murderer running around?"

"The rain is actually a good forensic countermeasure - it washes the blood away so that he can drag the body wherever he wants and we won't be able to follow his trail." Spencer has to shout to be heard over the splattering of water upon the sidewalk, and he tries not to cry as he feels water seeping into his boots. Rossi had treated the entire team to a pair of galoshes after his precious Italian leather shoes became mottled with mud, and though they're helpful for trekking through the storm, they're also fantastic at catching rainwater.

"I hate it when serial killers are smarter than us!" You plunge your hand into the pocket of your jacket, digging out the key fob for the car. You unlock it with a beep and the taillights shine in the storm. You're more than happy to throw the door open and slip out of your jacket, taking minimal rain damage to your outfit as you slide swiftly onto the driver's seat of the van.

Spencer hears you let out a groan as the car roars to life, and so does the heater. You throw your head back against the seat, hair stringy and soaked, face dripping with rain.

One droplet slides down your nose and dips between the curve of your lips, something you can't bring yourself to care about as the heater blasts the chill from your blood. He watches you melt into the seat, and only one thought comes to mind: "You're beautiful."

His voice is a quiet murmur, and he's also speaking over the torrential downpour outside, so you don't catch what he says, thankfully. He doesn't know why his brain had miscalculated his thought and sent it down through his mouth instead of just his head, but he fumbles to snatch the opportunity you give him to save himself.

"Hm?" You turn to look at him, brows slightly raised in curiosity.

"My boots are full!" He blurts, cheeks red but not from the heat as he reaches for one of his rain-soaked shoes, "I- I- There's rainwater in my- my boots, and I need to-" He tugs the rubber off of his foot and turns it upside-down outside of the car so that it splashes off of the pavement, and he jams it back over his soaked sock while furiously avoiding eye contact.

Your pants were looser than Spencer's own, and you'd been able to tuck them over the mouth of your boots. Yours aren't even remotely soggy inside, so you laugh incredulously as he releases his tsunami before you drive off.

"Spence, that's insane," You watch as he stuffs the second boot back onto his foot, "You poor thing, are your socks all wet?"

"Yeah," He breathes, finally shutting the car door and trying to relax his tensely-held muscles as he comes down from his embarrassment, "Uh- yeah it's fine, though. They'll dry out."

"Use the foot heater," You flick a button on the center console, and hot air seeps from a vent beneath the glove compartment, "That better?"

"Yeah," Spencer toes off his boots, letting the warmth aid his chilled skin and damp attire, "Thanks, Y/N."

"Thank you," You nod and turn your eyes to the road as you pull out of the parking lot.

"For what?" Spencer looks briefly over at you, glasses spattered with raindrops.

"For calling me beautiful," You grin.

#spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid scenario #spencer reid oneshot #spencer reid one-shot #spencer reid one shot #spencer reid headcanons #spencer reid headcanon #spencer reid hc #spencer reid hcs #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid fic #spencer reid blurb #spencer reid drabble #spencer reid dialogue #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid x reader fanfiction

2K notes · View notes

daisynik7 · 3 months

Text

and if I'm gonna be drunk, I might as well be drunk in love

You squint your eyes at the pink neon sign flickering against the fake moss tapestry to the left of the bar. A young couple poses in front of it, smiling at their mutual friend who holds the phone to take a picture. Beautiful, radiant, charming. All while you sit on the barstool, hunched over the half-empty cocktail that you swirl in your grip, relishing the condensation on the rim of the glass. With your straw, you stab at the maraschino cherry floating around in there, popping it into your mouth. The sweetness cuts through the bitter liquor, or loneliness, lingering on your tongue and you think that maybe tonight isn’t so bad, despite your sulking.

It's another happy hour, courtesy of your boss. Everyone on your team is here, who you genuinely get along with, no problem. But there’s one person missing, the one person you want to see the most. Nanami is the only one to decline tonight’s invitation to the new trendy bar downtown. During your lunch together, you don’t ask why. You don’t want him to suspect that you’re devastated by his decision, which you are. So, you talk about how much you’re craving cake instead, changing the topic all together, hoping he doesn’t catch the hint of sadness in your tone.

Ever since he walked you home in the rain the other week, protected under his umbrella, there’s been this obvious vibe between you. Still, it could all be wishful thinking on your end. You never did get around to confessing your true feelings for him; you’d rather enjoy what you have as it is. Why ruin something good? There’s the hope that maybe things could be even better if you take this leap of faith. But it’s always terrifying taking the plunge, isn’t it? Especially when you don’t know if you’ll sink or swim.

It was by the fourth cocktail that you decided to leave your group gathered around the back table. That’s why you’re here now, sulking between strangers at the bar, chewing on your tiny straw until it’s gnarled on one end. Your friends on the team know the real reason, trying to dismiss all the jokes from your more annoying coworkers about how you must be missing your “work husband”. Even they’re shipping the two of you together. If only you knew what Nanami truly thinks about all this. About you.

To your complete shock, it doesn’t take you long to find out. Still in his work attire, Nanami walks through the front door, hair swept beautifully as always. As soon as his eyes find yours, he smiles, making his way to you. It’s only when he approaches you that you notice a small box in his hands. “Good. You’re still here,” he says, smile growing wider.

You blink at him several times, as if you’re not seeing him clearly.

“Can you come with me? I have something for you.” His voice is trembling slightly, excited.

You nod, still rendered speechless, wobbly as you follow him outside. When you’re alone in front of the establishment, the voices of those inside muffled and distant, you stare down at your shoes, anticipating what’s about to happen. He holds the box out to you, opening the cover slowly, revealing a personalized cake decorated beautifully with your name written in neat frosting on the top.

You meet his gaze, putting your hand to your mouth, hiding a gasp. “Nanami.”

“I made this for you. Because of what we talked about today.” He swallows hard, taking a step towards to you. “I’ve been wanting to tell you this for a while now. I…” He trails off, nervous, scared, uncertain. Just like you.

This time, you follow through with what you’ve been wanting to do since that rainy night not too long ago. You close the distance, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek. Sparks fly and whatever buzz you have from the alcohol is replaced with this electricity. “Me too.”

Author's Note: A continuation of this. Yet another coworker!Nanami drabble inspired by a song that’s making me feel all sappy and soft. 🩶 Divider credit to @/cafekitsune.

#nanami kento #nanami kento x reader #nanami kento x you #nanami kento fluff #kento nanami x reader #kento nanami x you #kento nanami fluff #nanami x reader #nanami x you #nanami fluff #coworker!nanami #jjk fluff

667 notes · View notes

monzamash · 20 days

Text

to be loved — carlos sainz

carlos sainz x you — “i can take care of you. you won't need anyone but me.” requested by @dancininseptember masterlist

The short stroll from your office to the apartment never really bothered you. In fact, you typically enjoyed the fresh air and the chance to enjoy the city you loved. But it was early February; rain was threatening the Spanish skies and the frost bitten breeze stung your already tear-filled eyes. It was a crappy end to an even shittier week, your energy wasted on people who didn’t deserve it.

You practically flung yourself through the door of the apartment and shed all remnants of the day – coat, beanie and scarf, all strewn haphazardly, and in that order, on the floor of your small entryway. It took every ounce of energy you had to kick off your heavy boots, each one hitting the wall much harder than you intended. Maybe it was an unconscious way for you to let out frustration, the scuff marks on the white wall a stark reminder of your last straw.

The smell of fresh bread and bolognese sauce hit you as you slunk down the hallway, your tummy grumbling on instinct. You hadn’t eaten since yesterday, a terrible habit you had fallen into lately and Carlos had noticed. He was home more during the cooler months, easily picking up on your little habits that both endeared and worried him. So he made sure, while he was close to you, that you came home to a warm meal every night – because looking after you was his calling in life.

“That smells incredible.”

Carlos briefly glanced over his shoulder and gave you a bright smile before turning down the stove and grabbing a washcloth to clean his hands. You loved him like this; soft and relaxed, in his element. The kitchen was his playground and you remember the sigh of relief that left your lungs when he told you he loved to cook on your first date, because you weren’t particularly gifted when it came to the pots and pans.

“Hope you’re hungry,” He sang, circling the island in the middle of the kitchen to say a proper hello to his beautiful girlfriend, “How was your day?”

A rigid sigh fell from your lips as you fell into his arms, the loving embrace triggering tears to spring to your eyes for the third time today. Carlos held you tight and brushed his hands down your back, comforting you through the sobs wracking your aching body.

“Ay, mi amor,” He soothed, “Breathe for me please.”

Carlos guided you through a couple of deep breaths, chests rising and falling together in synchronicity until your sobs subsided, air finally filling your lungs again. A tight squeeze around your waist brought you back to the man holding you in his arms, worried eyes searching yours for a sign that you were okay as you pulled back and gave him a soft smile.

“I’m okay, I’m sorry.” You sniffled, head shaking.

Carlos tutted as he thumbed away the trail of tears from your face, “Do not say sorry, my love. Talk to me…”

Anger replaced sadness as you told him about how your sister had completely disregarded your feelings for the millionth time, accusing you of only caring about yourself while she’s all alone and stressed about wedding planning. Carlos has managed to get you to sit up on the counter beside him while he finished dinner, but not before pouring you a glass of red wine to nurse while you purged all the negativity from your day.

“She called me a bitch and then uninvited us from the wedding, which by the way I didn’t want to go too to begin with,” You huffed, hands animatedly flying around while he tried to keep up with the drama.

“And all I said to her was that work has been stressful and that us trying for a baby hadn’t been… fruitful, I guess. She flipped out when I said that because her dickhead fiancé doesn’t want kids and she thinks she can change his mind…”

You took a sip of wine and noticed Carlos' eyes rolling like they always did when the topic of your sister came up. He was as sick of her shit as you were, unapologetically scoffing at her selfishness. Making you feel bad when all you needed was someone to confide in was one thing, but lashing out on you was something he couldn’t stand by and watch. He knew he couldn’t do anything right now; maybe he would make a stern phone call tomorrow once the dust had settled.

So instead of getting upset, he put down the wooden spoon coated in the most delicious sauce you had ever tasted and nestled himself between your swinging legs. His warm chocolate eyes stared into your soul as he planted his palms on your thighs, tethering himself to you.

“You know I can take care of you, mi vida,” He said, voice deep and barely above a whisper, “No matter the problem, you won't need anyone but me, I promise.”

For the first time in weeks, you felt your heart slow down and return to a normal rhythm as Carlos pressed a sweet kiss to your lips. You softly moaned in unison and gripped the grey shirt hanging loosely from his shoulders, pulling him in closer – not that he had any plan on going anywhere.

No, all he wanted was for his girl to feel heard and to be loved because all he needed was you.

a/n — loved writing carlos again. inbox detox is still open !!

#carlos sainz #carlos sainz x reader #carlos sainz fluff #carlos sainz imagine #f1 x reader #monzamashmasterlist #inbox detox

538 notes · View notes

saetoru · 8 months

Text

✩ ‧₊˚ ✩ APATHY OF THE CHIEF JUSTICE — NEUVILLETTE.

contents. archon quest spoilers, liddol weepy dragon neuvillette :(, established relationships, reverse comfort, lots of kissies 4 him, it’s a bit self indulgent my bad but he’s just a sensitive lil friendly guy who tries his best he makes me sad :(, maybe ooc idrk how to write him yet

it starts raining out of nowhere on a sunny day, hard. you frown—you know exactly what this means, walking up to neuvillette’s office in concern.

“good afternoon, sedene,” you smile, patting the melusine on the head. she leans into your touch happily, content with the small show of affection.

“good afternoon. if you’re here to visit the chief justice, i have to warn you. today, he seems…” sedene trails off, unsure how to finish, and you hum knowingly as you nod.

“i see,” you murmur, “i’ll see if i can help.” you turn and knock on the office door—it’s silent for a moment before you call, “it’s me.”

you hear some shuffling before neuvillette finally answers. it’s a quiet, “come in,” and nothing more. you sigh before entering—that can’t be a good sign.

neuvillette looks…well, devastated. with red rimmed eyes and a slightly pink nose, his cheeks trailed with delicate tears that break your heart. you walk over, cupping his cheek and brushing away a stray tear with your thumb as he closes his eyes.

“what’s got you so upset,” you murmur, “the weather has taken a rather drastic turn, wouldn’t you say?”

he sniffles, the poor thing—it’s as precious as it is heartbreaking. “i believe…i believe i may have made a mistake,” he mumbles, “a terrible one, in fact.”

“oh?” you raise a brow, leaning down and brushing your lips against his forehead soothingly, “i’m sure you’ve done your best, neuvillette.”

“no,” his voice breaks, a fresh round of tears falling past his lash line and staining his skin. you furrow your brows, cupping both sides of his face as your forehead presses to his, “no, i didn’t…i didn’t do what i should have. in fact, i did nothing at all.”

“i’m sure that’s not true,” you reason, “you always do what you can.”

“i could’ve stopped the duel,” he shakes his head, and instantly you know what must be on his mind. “i thought…i thought i understood but i didn’t. i still don’t.”

neuvillette doesn’t understand humans as well as he hopes—it’s changed a bit since you’ve shown up, but their emotions are far too complicated for him sometimes. you help him, sometimes—you try to show him they’re not much different from him, but he’s learning slowly on his own.

you nod slowly at his words, as if you understand, before pressing soft kisses along his face. you scatter them along his cheeks, over the tip of his nose, just at the corners of his mouth and right on the center of his forehead.

he sniffles again, miserably.

“oh, love,” you murmur gently—callas has always been a complicated topic, one you’ve carefully treaded since it’s happened. his lips wobble, and you pull him into you, letting his head rest against your chest as you sit on the armrest of his chair. “callas wasn’t your fault,” you whisper, “none of us could’ve known.”

“i believed he was guilty,” he confesses, “otherwise, why duel? i…i didn’t think he would do it for…”

“and you weren’t alone in your assumptions,” you reason. that doesn’t seem to make him feel any better—in fact, you feel your shirt dampen, and the rain hits the glass of his window harder.

“but i am the chief justice,” he insists, “how i can be so if i let innocent men throw away their lives?”

you’re silent for a bit—it’s difficult to give him an answer. it’s difficult to offer him any solace over something like this. but you do know it’s not his fault—and soon enough, you hope he’ll accept that too.

but until then, you thread your fingers into his hair as you press a chaste kiss to the crown of his head.

“being the chief justice doesn’t mean you have all the answers,” you say quietly, catching a tear as it slips down his cheek with your thumb, “you won’t have all the answers. but you’ll do your best to find them. i think that’s enough.”

“lady navia yelled at me,” he tells you. you want to chuckle a little at the way he says it, like child who’s been scolded—but now is not the time, not when he’s so upset. “a few days ago. because i did not stop it. she…she was right—”

“lady navia is grief stricken,” you interrupt, “you have to understand. she didn’t mean—”

“but i could’ve stopped it—”

“anyone could’ve, neuvillette,” you insist, “lady furina, or even clorinde. but no one knew, and that’s okay. it’s how callas wanted it, i’m afraid.”

he’s silent for a bit, weighs your words as he presses against your chest further, let’s your fingers trail through his hair and stroke along his cheek for a bit.

it rains in fontaine—whenever there is something to mourn, it rains. perhaps the people can know this way that they are not alone in their grief, that there is always something, someone to share the burden of pain with them.

“i’ll visit,” he mumbles after some time, “to pay my respects to mister callas.”

“i think that’s a lovely idea,” you smile, poking the tip of his nose and pulling the tiniest of smiles from him, “would you like me to come?”

“no, i think i should do it alone,” he says thoughtfully, “but thank you.”

you feel his hand grab yours, his fingers lacing with yours as he gives it a small squeeze—perhaps he still has a long way to go to understand humans and their complex emotion. but this one, he thinks he understands well enough.

he loves you, just as much as you love him—it’s simple enough to understand.

my lil cinnamon roll :( my emotional liddol weepy dragon :(

#teepods.writings #drabbles.#neuvillette x reader #neuvillette x you #neuvillette fluff #genshin x reader #genshin x you #genshin fluff #genshin impact x reader #genshin impact x you #genshin impact fluff

2K notes · View notes

avocad1s · 8 months

Text

Trial By Combat - 2

Requested By: No One. Original Work.

CW: Impostor SAGAU, Mentions of Punishment, Angst,

Summary: Fontaine fears for your fate.

Note: You all really loved the first part and a lot of people wanted a continuation so I shall provide

If you haven’t finished the Fontaine Archon quest, please exit stage left.

Part One Part Three Part Four

Ever since the day of the duel, it has been raining nonstop in Fontaine.

It was as if the entire nation came to a standstill; many shops refused to open their doors, no trials were being held, and the Hydro Archon hadn't been seen since she falsely accused the Creator of Teyvat.

As doctors quickly carried you away with Clorinde following quickly behind, citizens waited impatiently for any news of your recovery, this sight of you bleeding profusely still plaguing their minds.

The Champion Duelist refused to leave your side even after doctors did everything they could, she sat in the chair waiting for the moment you open your eyes. She wonders what you will do once you do wake up, could you find it in your heart to forgive her? To forgive Fontaine entirely? Regardless what you decide, she is ready to accept it graciously.

Clorinde looks down at her gloved hands, the white cloth that was stained with your golden blood only a week ago. This was the second time she had struck down an innocent, was this the justice she was fighting for? Even if it meant painting the floor with her Creator’s blood? She lets out a sigh as she looks back at your sleeping form, the pattering of rain on the window doing nothing to ease the swirl of emotions within her chest.

Although everyone was praying for you to have a speedy recovery, there were some people who demanded answers from their Archon.

“She is supposed to be the God of Justice.”

“How could she not recognize the Creator themselves?”

Focalors refused to show her face in public, she had no answers for her actions, this wasn’t something she could lie about until everyone believed her. This was something that could have true consequences, she couldn’t even be angry if her fellow Archons came to stike her down due to her transgressions.

Only during the dark of night is when she went outside, even though Clorinde had been watching over you this entire time, she had to see how you were doing with her own eyes. Furina kneels by your bed and grasps your hand, she weeps out heartfelt apologies until she couldn’t any longer.

Suddenly she picks her head up, she wipes the wetness from her cheeks as she looks at your face.

“Your Grace?” She says softly, the exaggerated tone no where to be found.

Your hand moves slightly in hers and now she knows she wasn’t hallucinating, “are you awake?” Your eyes open slowly causing the Archon to cry even more as she stands to look at you better.

The door to the room opens as Clorinde and Neuvillette enter, their eyes just as wide as their Archons. The two rush to your side as you try to sit up in bed a rush of pain coursing through your body.

“You should be careful Your Grace,” Clorinde mutters, “we don’t want you to tear open your stitches.”

“Why am I here?” You manage to rasp out gazing at all of their faces. Neuvillette grabs the glass of water next to your bed handing it to you, the water was room temperature, but it was still refreshing to drink.

Furina, who was the most expressive out of the three furrows her eyebrows, “huh? What do you mean?”

“I should’ve died out there..” you mumble. Clorinde looks down in shame.

“I’m apologize Your Grace,” Furina says still holding your hand, “I am a fool, I should’ve recognized you the second you entered Fontaine but instead I…” she trails off.

You stare at her, the look on her face showing just how remorseful she felt, but you couldn’t forgive her. You couldn’t forgive any of them. Not yet at least.

“You gave me no chance to explain myself, I was guilty in your eyes the second I entered your nation.” You pull your hand out of hers causing her to frown slightly.

“I thought that something was amiss but-“

“Then why didn’t you come to my defense? You knew there was no way I could win but you still did nothing. You made no attempt to stop the fight.” You interrupt Neuvillette.

He stops mid-sentence, his nonchalant expression never changing as he fails to meet your gaze. “I’m sorry.”

You throw the blanket off your body, the cold air causing goosebumps to appear on your exposed legs.

“Your Grace it’s not a good idea to stand! Your wounds are still healing.”

You ignore Clorinde’s warnings as you stumble to your feet, your hand rests on your torso to ease the throbbing sensation in it.

“All of you leave, I don’t want to talk to anyone right now.” You say coldly.

“Please allow us to help you back in bed.” Furina reaches out to place her hand on your shoulder.

“I can take care of myself, just get out.” You snap.

The Archon flinches slightly but she nods and sighs. Without any other objections, Clorinde and Neuvillette leave the room. Furina trails slowly behind them, as she reaches the threshold she looks back at you one last time before whispering, "I will return to see you in the morning, I hope that's okay."

Once the door clicks you turn your gaze to the window noticing that it was still raining, maybe even harder than before. You exhale as you sit on the windowsill resting your body against the glass as you watch the droplets race down onto the ledge outside.

‘Hmm, doesn't look like the rain is gonna stop anytime soon…’ you think to yourself.

Tagging: @bittersweetorpheus @esthelily

#genshin cult au #sagau #genshin impact sagau #imposter sagau #genshin sagau #sagau impostor au #sagau x reader #genshin cult

2K notes · View notes

politemenacephd · 2 months

Text

Dadbod!Miguel O'Hara x GN!Reader

(+18)

❤️ You offer to cook for Miguel after a long day, and things go awry.

Content: Fluffy start, Implied age gap, Daddy kink, Size difference, Spanking, PinV sex, Creampie, Aftercare.

‘Babe—babe, I swear to— OYE! Off!’

With a soft thwap your raised hand came down on top of Miguel’s, forcing him to retract his fingers. He was trying to steal from the bowl of pre-cooked seasoned chicken breast you’d cut up and put aside.

‘Okay! Alright, I’m backing off. I’m backing off, see?' he promised, though you could hear him chuckling as he licked his fingers behind you. You shook your head in exasperation.

Miguel had come home exhausted after a hard day, so to cheer him up you’d agreed to cook one of his favourite meals. You’d anticipated just a peaceful, domestic night in, but Miguel clearly had other plans.

It was 7pm and you were in your little cosy kitchen together, just you and him in your own little private bubble.

The windows were blurry and splattered with rain as it stormed outside, the world dark and foreboding beyond the misty glass, but in here it was warm. The kitchen was lit with bright orange lights, and it smelled of garlic, spice and fresh uncooked dough.

You were wearing loose sweatpants and an apron over top while you were otherwise shirtless, something Miguel had specially requested. You’d huffed about it at first, but you couldn’t deny his eyes on you were intoxicating. His steely red gaze, the way his eyes narrowed and his tongue crept over his teeth when he watched you from behind, it made your stomach so tight it almost hurt.

So, you feigned annoyance, and you indulged him.

Miguel had also stripped off his sodden work clothes to put on his favourite old t-shirt and loose joggers, foregoing any boxers as he lounged about the house.

It was your favourite outfit to watch him in. His shirt was a little too small and tended to ride up over his stocky belly, creating a cute little window you loved to poke whenever you walked past him, and up top it stuck nicely to his defined shoulders and curved, weighty chest.

Despite the attempt to create a fun, relaxing environment, that kitchen was sweating tension. You felt like you were on a timer.

The moment you turned your back to him so you could chop more garlic he swooped in to kiss your neck, his finger trailing dangerously closer to your chest as he pushed your apron aside. You squirmed as he let out a breathy laugh.

‘Shh- off! Off! Go sit down, old man, before you choke’ you chided.

Miguel let out a low whistle. 'Old man? Really?'

'Mhm. Go. Shoo. I've had enough' you insisted again.

You could hear him chuckling to himself as he leant in against your back. ‘Mi amor, no seas tan malo. Hm? Don’t send me away, I’ll be good. Te lo prometo.’

‘Oh, you promise?’

‘Mhm.’ He snuggled in close with his hands around your waist, swaying you to the sound of the rain as it rattled outside. ‘Prometo.’

Yes, you rolled your eyes at his shenanigans, but you couldn’t help but lean in. You looked so small against him. His pecs on either side of your head were heavy and warm, squishy and thick, and his calloused hands were sweet as they grabbed you. He felt so powerful and yet so soft at the same time.

You sighed. With a giggle you gave in and put down the knife, wiping your hands on a worn tea towel covered in little pastel cats. You reached up to cup yourself a feel of his right pec while he chuckled. The way it weighed in your hand made you giddy.

‘Mm… You’re so annoying’ you murmured.

‘Oh, so touching IS okay, just only when you do it, huh? Good to know’ Miguel spoke with a mock tut as you waved your hand at him.

‘I’m the one cooking! So yes, I’m allowed.’

‘Well then let me help.’

‘Your idea of—helping—’ you paused to again tap his hand away as he grabbed at the pre-cooked chicken, ‘is just eating everything, and groping me!’

‘I mean I feel VERY helped by both those things’ he said. He smiled as he swallowed, flashing those thick fangs beneath his full upturned lips, and you forced yourself to not melt completely. You failed. The feel of his thumb gently rubbing back and forth over your waist got to you.

‘If you want to actually help, then actually help’ you insisted. He noted the little breathless whine in your words and grinned to himself; he knew where this was going.

‘Okay’ he said with a shrug. ‘I’ll help.’

His hands released you and he leaned around instead, taking your little hands in his. He started guiding them through the motions of chopping and pushing aside. You lulled into the quiet, domestic bliss of this moment, listening to the rain and the sound of his breathing, knowing that the knot in your gut would soon put it to an end.

‘You cut way too big’ you noted as he moved.

‘Mmhm, mhm.’ He hummed along with your orders while making it very clear he wasn’t listening, as he continued gently nudging his hips at your rear. You felt a strong heat starting to grow in your cheeks.

‘Mig—you’re, not even cutting anything anymore’ you said. You voice had involuntarily gotten softer.

‘Mmhm.’

His hips moved a bit harder, smooshing you into the hard wooden counter, and this time you felt his bulge push into you. Your face was burning at this point. It took every ounce of strength in you to not moan.

‘You—Miguel, come on. You’re terrible at this, just—let me do it’ you insisted, trying your best to cover up how flustered you sounded.

You ended up pushing his hands aside so you could try to take over, but you didn’t anticipate what being free would do to him. His hand came down and firmly squeezed your right buttock between his fingers and palm.

You squeaked aloud, much to his amusement. He leaned down and whispered into your ear.

‘Yes, chef.’

‘MIG—’

He ducked to the opposite side as you tried to hit him with the spatula, squeezing harder as you tried to get him. You felt the tension rising.

‘Mig, you—ah—’

You involuntarily moaned as he squeezed and spread your ass for his bulge to push into, eagerly giving one sharp grind to your backside. You pursed your lips, but it was too late.

‘Mm… Miguel’ you whined.

‘Ahuh?’

You failed to make a jab at his cocky attitude, and that was enough to let him know he’d won. You were overtaken by the pleasurable throbbing in your clit, the hot pulsing of blood through your veins. You couldn’t help it. He was such a gorgeous man.

‘That’s it’ he purred. He leant in closer as he started to grind. ‘That’s what I want.’

A shaky moan escaped you again as he started to grind harder. You felt his breath stirring against your neck.

‘That’s what I want’ he repeated. You felt him lick his lips.

‘Oh, mi amor… Fuck it—I need you, now.’

Miguel suddenly swiped everything aside with one swing of his huge, muscled arm, leaving the counter bare for him to drop you onto it. He lifted your body was terrifying ease.

‘Ah, Mig—’

You were dropped with your torso face down on the counter, hands spread flat to the surface on either side of your shoulders, but he quickly grabbed your wrists and held them behind your back with just one of his huge hands.

His hips hit you again; you were the perfect height, with your toes just barely touching the floor. He started to push your legs aside.

‘A-Ah—Mig—’

His thumb began to shimmy your loose joggers down. He was painfully slow, letting you stew in the tension as bit by bit you were drawn to nakedness against him. ‘Gorgeous, gorgeous’ he purred.

Inch by inch he slid them, inch by inch, until at last they fell unceremoniously to hang around your ankles. You shuddered as the cold air hit your wet thighs, and audibly gasped as he spread you wider. The cool air hit your bare pussy right as his calloused finger did.

‘Mi amor’ he breathed.

Your leg twitched as he spread your lips, coaxing just the tip of his finger against your clit. Your hips bucked and he chuckled.

‘Just—f-f, be quick, please—’ you panted. You heard him tutting again, but most of all you heard him shifting his feet. He was getting into a more stable position.

‘Okay, okay. Mi amor is impatient. I got it.’

His hand retracted and in seconds you felt the warm bite of his bare skin on yours. He yanked his own loose joggers down and let the thick, wet tip of his cock brush your clit, nudging at it with aggravating slowness.

‘You want quick? Alright, let’s make this a quickie then.’

With a rough grunt Miguel slipped his cock up into your cunt with one smooth thrust, bottoming out in barely a second. You were winded by the force.

You could feel his body was now taut against yours, crushing you hard into the counter. You could feel his muscled, fat thighs against your legs, his balls squeezing against your pussy lips, his pelvis squishing your ass up and his curved belly against your back.

Miguel sighed, hard, and then immediately went into pounding you against the kitchen top.

You lay forward and you took it, letting him unload all of the days stress inside you.

He started out fast and hard, with one hand on your hip over the curve of the counter and the other holding your wrists behind your back. He was grunting hard and breathing harder, open mouth panting so loudly that you could hear it over the rain.

Every two or so pumps he’d let out a sweet, low, husky moan, and you’d tense so hard he felt it.

The sensory overload began to spiral you into a brainless puddle of mewling pleasure. The hard smack of his hips on yours, the soft squish of his warm, thick belly on your back, the sound of skin on skin clapping as his hefty thighs dug you into the sharp counter edge, and most of all the embarrassing squishy noise of his cock bullying your pussy, it was euphoric.

Between the vigorous fucking and the sweet symphony of noise, you snapped.

‘F-Fuck, daddy—’

‘Oh, good, good’ he groaned. ‘Ay coño—say that again, please.’

‘Daddy—’

The word was beaten from your mouth as he thrust you into breathlessness. Every pump of his hips jolted you almost two inches forward, filling you with his thick shaft, and every quick snap back dragged you down with him.

‘Miguel, mm—daddy—’

Your toes tensed and scrabbled against the smooth kitchen floor, desperate for any kind of stabilisation as he threw your body back and forth against the countertop. He was hitting deep, desperately pounding and rubbing against your sweet, velvety cunt. He wanted to feel those muscles squeeze every ounce of stress out of his body.

‘Mm—one more time, one more time, come on—’

‘Daddy, please—’

You could feel sweat beading on his belly and on your back, which turned the erotic smack even more enticingly wet. Sweat dripped down your forehead onto the counter as you screamed.

‘AH—!’

‘You wanna call me old now, huh? Mm, fuck, take it— Take it—'

You started to pant in time with each thrust, a quick and rhythmic beat that just kept increasing in pitch. He was getting harder.

‘Uhn—uhn—uhn—uhn—’

‘F-Fuck that’s it—’

With a dreamy little smirk Miguel grabbed the used spatula and gently tapped your spine, indicating his plan. You moaned.

‘Please, fuck—’

The smack made you scream as he thwacked your right buttock with the smooth side of the wood. You felt his fingers squeezing and petting the little red mark as he continued to thrust, soothing out the sweet pain.

‘Good, good, well done’ he purred. ‘Is that good, mi amor? You want another?’

‘Please, please yes—’

Thwack.

You were drooling at this point, your thick saliva coating the counter in smears. He could feel your legs shaking, your cunt quivering as he thrust into it. You heard him groan.

‘I want you to cum for me’ he panted, dropping into his typical bark of a voice. He was ordering you. ‘You’re going—mm—you’re going to cum on my cock, you got that?’

‘Y-Yes’ you mewled back.

Miguel drew back until his cock was tenderly pushing only about three or so inches inside you. He took one good look here, admiring his veiny shaft slowly pumping in and out of your perfect, creamy little hole, before shifting his free hand down and beneath your belly.

He lay his own hefty body over your lower spine until you were nearly crushed, and he began to stimulate your swollen clit as he pulsed his cock.

Your hips jerked, your feet scrabbling at the floor. You screamed as he tugged on your wrists.

‘There, mi amor, así así’ he praised breathlessly. 'Así así.’

You physically stamped your foot as he drew his cock bath and forth over your g-spot. It was almost too good, too stimulating. Drool pooled and slipped from your wet lips as you pleaded for release.

‘Pl—please, please—p-please—’

You squirmed hard in his vice-like grip, but he wouldn’t let up. He pumped you until you squirted all over his soft, rounded belly, coating his hairy pelvis with pearly strings. He pumped harder.

‘Come on, come on—’

You blurted a few gibberish phrases before screaming into your own orgasm, and with a satisfied groan Miguel allowed himself to cum inside you. As you tensed and clenched and quivered he filled you up nicely, pumping rope after rope of hot, thick cum into all the space he could find. You tightened so hard you could feel every vein on his shaft pulsing as it expanded and relaxed.

‘Ah…. Ah, f—fuck….’

Miguel drained himself empty and then slowly slipped out. ‘Fuck... I needed that so badly. Thank you, thank you mi amor.'

You were left standing at the counter with shaky legs. The apron was now stuck to your skin by sweat, sticking to every contour, and your thighs were unbelievably wet. You felt something warm slide down your inner thigh to the floor and winced.

‘Ah…. A-ah…’

Miguel came in to kiss the crown of your head. You felt his hands helping to pull your joggers up as he pet your hips, soothing over the little red marks he'd left. ‘Mi amor’ he whispered affectionately. ‘Mi amor.’

You leaned into his touch as he rocked you. His kisses trailed down from your hair to your shoulder, smothering you in post-cum affection. You could feel the sweat on his shirt where it was clinging to his pecs. You giggled internally at how hard you'd made him work.

'Are you okay?' he whispered.

'Yeah. Yeah I'm fine, Miggy.'

'Are you sure?' he insisted. You let out a breathy little laugh.

‘I am, very sure. Well, I mean.... Look, that was, amazing, but—I-I don’t know if I can finish cooking'.

Miguel tilted his head and noted the way your legs were trembling beneath you, and slowly a sympathetic smile spread across his face.

‘Yeah…. Do you, want to maybe just order something in?’ he asked softly.

You eagerly nodded. ‘Yeah. Yeah. Let’s just order in.’

#miguel o'hara #miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o'hara fanfiction #miguel o'hara x you #miguel x reader #smut #miguel o'hara smut #atsv miguel #+18 or +adult only #dadbod miguel #smut fanfiction

849 notes · View notes