#the new way of drawing is called 'not caring'

[nana-au]

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥JJK bfs take care of their sick gf

  ｡･ﾟﾟ･Nanami & Gojo･ﾟﾟ･｡

Word count: 1.1k

Nanami:

The moment your throat so much as tickles, Nanami does his damndest to get you back to your usual self. It feels strangely paternal how attentive he becomes, not allowing you to lift a finger for yourself. 

You first notice that you woke up sweating, your throat dry, and your eyes heavy. You check to see you still have another 3 hours before work but God you need some water. It’s all you can think about and you stumble into the kitchen, filling a glass. You drain the cup of its lukewarm water clearing your throat repeatedly as you notice it doesn’t go away. You fill it up twice. Then thrice. You begin to panic, realizing you feel freezing cold and boiling hot all at once. 

“Baby? Where’d you go? Come back to bed sweetheart.” He stumbles out, entering the threshold of the kitchen. You hate the fact you are trying to blink back tears, you always become such a baby when you get sick. “What’s wrong doll?” he asks you, pulling you into his bare chest. You babble out that you don’t feel good and his big hand goes to check your temperature. His cool palm feels good against your burning forehead and you can almost make out the concern in his eyes. He clasps his hands in yours and walks you into your shared bathroom, helping you down on the toilet seat before rummaging in the medicine cabinet. He pulls out the thermometer and you stick your tongue up for him to place it under. While you two wait he strokes your hair wordlessly. You can tell he is barely awake, eyes squinting and his hand in your hair forgetting to move. 

The thermometer beeps and he pulls it out from under your tongue. He puts the results up close to his eyes, forgetting his glasses on the bedside table. He doesn’t tell you the number because he knows it will only make you upset. “Looks like we’re gonna spend the day at home.” 

The two of you call out of your respective jobs and Nanami gets to work. He draws you a warm bath with lavender soaking salts, helping you strip from your night clothes. You sniffle and you hardly notice the fact you are giving him pathetic puppy eyes once your shirt comes off. He clicks his tongue at you, telling you that you have nothing to worry about. “I’m here,” he reassures you. 

While you soak he sets up the couch for you with a pillow and blanket. When you're out and after he assists you in putting on clean clothes and fuzzy socks he already has your breakfast on your lap. “Do you need me to feed you too?” he teases, squeezing the plump skin of your cheek. He puts on your favorite show and rushes to get you a pain reliever and vitamin c gummies. He makes sure to sit on the couch with you so you don’t become lonely but is quick to get up when you need a cold cloth against your face. While you nap he runs a few errands, grabbing your favorite sport drinks for extra hydration and the soup from your favorite place. He spends the rest of the day with you, tending to your every need. Nanami refuses to entertain you when you babble about how guilty you feel that he is taking care of you. “Focus on getting better and I’ll focus on making you better,” he promises.

Gojo:

Gojo knows that he can’t take away your cold, but he will make sure your high-strung personality doesn’t get in the way of you getting better.

He can’t take you seriously when you throw your head back and groan. If he didn’t know any better, he would’ve thought you got news the world was ending. You went to the doctor for your yearly check up when they discovered a fever and swollen lymph nodes. You were shocked, you felt completely fine. That was until you woke up the next day with the worst sore throat of your life, paired with a perfectly obnoxious cough. When Gojo called you that morning you made a huge deal about it, telling him not to come over and to cancel your plans for the rest of the week. He mentioned dropping off some cough syrup and you frantically told him to skip it. You would be fine! He just had to stay away. You would die if you got your boyfriend sick. 

At around 6pm, the white-haired sorcerer was at your door carrying a grocery bag of goodies for you. You groaned, exasperated that he showed up. You were fine! It was him who needed to stay away. He flashed his teeth at your reaction, pushing past you and setting out the supplies he got you on your coffee table. “I got you the cherry flavored cough drops, I hope you don’t mind. I wasn’t sure what you would like.” You made sure to thank him before feebly attempting to kick him out. He crossed his arms at you, eyebrow raising, “Or what bunny?” You throw your hands up and sit down on your couch in a huff. The abrupt action causes you to break out in a coughing fit and Gojo rolls his eyes. He unwraps a cough drop and once your coughing fit calms he pushes the red menthol past your lips. You start to speak up before his finger hovers over your mouth, “Quiet,” he commands. If you felt even an ounce better you would have rolled your eyes, but instead you obeyed. He began moving the couch pillows down to one end before sitting down, leaning against them. He pulled you close into his arms and laid your head against his chest. Grabbing the remote, he turns up the volume of the movie you had playing and sits there in silence with you. You two hadn’t been dating for very long and it was odd to be quiet with him. Your relationship was founded on the chaos you two thrived on. But here the two of you were, dead silent with his slender fingers rubbing soothing circles on your skin. You grew incredibly sleepy from soaking in his warmth, the dialogue in the movie turning into radio static in your mind. Satoru’s chest was moving you up and down to the rhythm of his breathing and his left hand was tangled in your hair, massaging your scalp. You were probably drooling from how relaxing it was but you couldn’t muster the strength to bring your hand up to wipe it. “Just rest,” his voice broke out from your fading thoughts, “Satoru’s got you,” if you were any more conscious you could have heard the smirk that his words broke through. 

#jjk fluff #jjk gojo #jjk x reader #jjk x you #nanami kento #jjk nanami #jujutsu nanami #nanami x reader #kento nanami #jjk kento #gojo saturo #gojo satoru #gojo x reader #jujutsu gojo #gojo x y/n #nanami x you #nanami x y/n #gojo x you #gojo x yn #jujutsu kaisen #gojo fluff #nanami fluff #saturo fluff #kento fluff #jjk au #satoru gojo #kento x reader #kento x y/n #saturo gojo x reader #gojo satorou

[fungal-rot]

Save A Horse, Yadda Yadda…

pairing: Joel Miller x reader

summary: you find yourself getting distracted by the man next to you. his thick fucking thighs always grabbed your attention

warnings: 18+, smut, thigh riding, slight degradation, bit of dirty talk, reader gets called a good girl, oral (f receiving) but literally for a second, use of pet names (honey, baby, sweetheart)- lemme know if i forgot anything

w.c.: 2k

⁺˚°｡⋆♱✮˖☽𓋼𓍊◯𓍊𓋼☾˖✮♱⋆｡°˚⁺

It was a relatively slow, easy day in Jackson. You had got caught up on house chores, which albeit, there wasn't much to do anyhow. Joel did patrol early in the morning and had the rest the day to wind down, and Ellie was hanging out with Dina.

Flipping through a book, only paying half-attention while you skimmed the pages, you caught yourself stealing glances at Joel who sat beside you on the floral printed couch. He whittled away at a block of wood, working on a new little side project with careful focus. The sound of a sharp blade gliding across the surface of each corner was the only thing that could be heard.

Perhaps that's what was distracting you.

Slow.

Or perhaps it was the way his biceps flexed under that shirt of his, or the way his veins seemed to protrude from the top of his hands and up his forearm with each thought out stroke.

Maybe it was also the way he was sitting with his legs spread, letting the wood shavings and chips fall to the floor that he always promises to 'clean up after.' How his thighs appeared thicker, meatier when he's sat like this in that pair of denim that you innocently, accidentally, shrank just a tad bit when you last did laundry.

Your own thighs clenched together.

Easy.

"Don't hurt yourself now." Joel's low voice brought you out of your stupor with a snap of your head, uttering a small noise of confusion.

"You're thinkin' too hard." Joel clarified, flicking his gaze to you briefly as he swiped another stray chip from his lap.

'Smartass.' You thought before letting out a soft hum in reply and lean back against the couch, closing your book and tossing it onto the coffee table.

There was a beat of silence. Your eyes trailed over Joel's body again, breath hitching with the image of his large, broad frame.

He seemed to have noticed the way you eyed him so hungrily while lost in your thoughts, his gaze following yours to his lap. With a smirk, Joel took the opportunity to spread his legs a bit wider, knee pressing against yours subtly.

You watched and squeeze your thighs together once more.

Gotcha.

"Hey," he murmured before setting his project down on the end table next to him. "What's goin' on in that pretty li'l head'a yours?"

“Nothing,” You answered, the side of your face turning up somewhat with a wince at how quickly you responded.

Joel scoffed and folded his arms over his chest and sat back, head tilting disbelievingly with a cock of his brow, “Yeah? So y’ain’t starin’ at me like some piece’a meat?”

You rubbed at your nose as you felt the all-too-familiar warmth of embarrassment kiss at your face, but you couldn’t deny it. Joel had meat for days under all that clothing. So thick, and big, and-

“Lookit ya! You’re still doin’ it.” Joel gestured a hand towards you, brows drawing together with a shake of his head.

“Am not!”

“Bullshit!”

He turned his head and scratched at his chin, nails scraping the graying facial hair before he looked over at you again. His eyes trailed you up and down, and with a sigh he grabbed at your hips, eliciting a surprised yelp from you, and settled you onto his lap.

“What’re you doing?” You asked, instinctively placing your hands on his shoulders for stability.

“It’s not what I’m doin’,” he muttered and hooked a hand in the bend of your knee, gently making you spread a bit wider, “It’s what you’re doin’.”

Your brows furrowed this time, nose scrunching with confusion. You part your lips to speak, to ask what the hell he’s talking about, but that all quickly went down the drain the moment he had you roll forward.

A soft moan replaced all words instead, your eyes fluttering shut as you ground against him.

“Mhm,” Joel noised, watching you with a stoic mask. “ ‘S’what I thought.”

He kept force-rocking your body, arms flexing and grip tightening.

Back and forth, back and forth.

“Joel,” You panted, eyes screwing shut with a fall of your head.

“Hm? That feel good, baby?” He cooed, voice mockingly sweet. You nod and he watched with a smug look plastered on his face. “Yeah, poor thing jus’ wanted some attention, huh?”

Joel’s cock began to twitch inside his already-too-tight pants- which, by the way, he knew for a fact was your doing- and he unclasped his belt skillfully with one hand, undoing the button and lowered the fly.

“You’re gonna ride my thigh,” He instructed, pulling out his half-hard length from his briefs, “an’ I’ll think about lettin’ ya cum.” His other hand slid down from your hip and to your knee, giving a light squeeze.

Your eyes snapped open. What the fuck does he mean, ‘I’ll think about it’?

“Aht!” He could see the disapproval etched on your features, the way your brain was racking up some counter argument. “Don’t wanna hear it. Y’already lied twice t’me now; so excuse me for not playin’ nice.”

Joel swiped a tongue over his bottom lip before giving his cock a tug, “An’ I think I’m bein’ awfully fuckin’ generous lettin’ you hump my leg like a damn bitch in heat.” His voice was low, almost inaudible as he narrowed his eyes.

With a huff of air, you continue rolling your hips, forward and down. Then you tried moving side-to-side, chasing after a high that wasn’t there. Your body slowed before stilling completely and take in a sharp, frustrated breath.

“I didn’t say stop,” Joel gruffly spoke, eyes piercing into your skull.

“I’m not getting anywhere, Joel,” You complained before letting your head slump into the crook of his neck. What was once a pleasurable feeling, dry-humping his thigh, got uncomfortable fairly quickly with the way the seam from your jeans dug into you.

“Kinda the point, ain’t it?” The man retorted and tilt his head down to take a look at the pitiful frown on your lips. He chewed at the inside of his cheek for a moment, feeling his heart soften. Joel was mean, sure, but he wasn’t evil.

Finally, Joel conceded and tapped at your leg, “Alright, get up.”

He held your hands to spot you as you slid off his lap, back to your feet. Then his large fingers worked to get your pants off, helping you shimmy out of the denim. Joel gazed at your lower figure fondly, a faint smile creeping on his face as he hooked his finger into your panties, swiftly tugging them down. The man let out a low whistle at the sight of your slick-coated folds, then leaned in, tongue seeking out your entrance briefly before swiping back up to your clit. Your breathing hitched, legs twitching at the new pleasure making your stomach burn hot, then he pulled away again, not before leaving a delicate kiss under your navel.

“Come on back, honey,” Joel’s voice eased from his stern tone, now more gentle and loving. He guided you back over his thigh and closed a fist around the head of his dick once more. A shudder ran up your spine as your lips came in contact with the fabric of his pants, your arousal already soaking the denim. Before you could start moving again, he gripped your chin in his free hand, lightly squeezing to make your lips part and directed them over his length. “Spit.”

Complying willingly, you let saliva gather in your mouth and drooled all over the head and top of his fingers.

“Good girl,” Joel praised lowly and began stroking himself. “Go ‘head, sweetheart.”

Once you got the green light, your hips shifted tentatively before falling into an easy rhythm. An airy sigh pushed past your lips in content as your head fell back into place on Joel’s shoulder. A hand came up to hold it in place, fingers carding through your hair.

“That’s it, baby, jus’ like that.” He murmured, fist tightening around his dick as he watched you greedily get yourself off. Moans and grunts and breathy exhales sounded through the room, along with the wet smacking of Joel’s cock gliding through his hand.

“Actin’ like such a needy slut,” Joel commented, lip curling into a snarl before a low chuckle rumbled in his chest. “Can’t go two seconds without makin’ a mess’a yourself.” The way Joel went back and forth from degrading to loving then back damn near gave you whiplash.

You mewl into his shirt and clench around air, hips picking up speed while you gripped his bicep. Joel’s thigh was damp with your arousal, the warmth seeping into the fabric and vaguely hitting his skin.

“Or a mess’a me,” He added with a pleased glint in his eyes. You felt his body shake with each passing stroke of his fist. The fact he was getting off to you getting off on him made you shiver with delight. Heat began to build up in your core, stomach fluttering and tightening while goosebumps erupted across your body. You lift your head from his shoulder and crash your lips against his messily; teeth closing, tongues swirling.

You retreat, just enough to speak, “Joel,” the pitch of your voice raised in warning, hips stuttering as your forehead rest against his.

“No,” He denied flatly.

“Joel,” You repeated. Pathetically, Joel thought.

“Gotta learn your lesson somehow,” he countered with an unbothered face, tone lacking sympathy. “If ya wanted some lovin’ y’know ta ask. I’ll take care’a ya.” His own breathing hitched as his thumb swiped over his slit, wiping precum down the underside of his shaft as that close feeling creeped up on him as well.

“But ya didn’t do that, didja? Then you lied-“

“I didn’t wan- fuck- didn’t wanna bother you,” You explained in a hurried slur of your words, throwing your head back while desperately trying to hold off on your orgasm.

Joel’s face softened, but just barely. His tongue clicked, gaze trailing down your neck and to your breasts that subtly bounced with each move of your lower body, then to your pussy gliding back and forth across his denim clad thigh.

Fuck it.

“Okay,” he breathed out with a curt nod and grasped your chin once more, leading you back to face him, “You’re gonna cum- but you’re gonna look at me when ya do, got it?”

You nod against his palm, brows curving inward as your eyelids flutter; the coil on the verge of releasing.

“Repeat it.”

A heavy sigh escaped your lungs, “I look at you wh-when I c- oh, fuck-“ Your eyes widened, cunt clenching as your body convulsed and writhed over top of him.

He smirked proudly when you couldn’t even finish your reply. Your slick spread further over his leg and he relished the feeling. “Good fuckin’ girl, that’s it.”

You continue to ride your high out, eyes never leaving Joel’s. His lips press against yours once more, tongue flicking over your bottom lip before pushing it in. Your hands came up to cradle his face while you swallowed down every single moan and grunt leaving Joel’s throat just as he spilled himself into his fist.

Breaths labored, chests heaving, and legs trembling. You break the kiss and smile down at him before planting a quick peck to the bridge of his nose, making him smile.

“I love you,” Joel whispered, wiping the mess off his fingers onto his pants. Eh, they needed to be cleaned anyways.

“I love you,” You say back. He lies down, pulling you on top as he catches his breath. “I’ll wash your jeans for you next time I do laundry.”

He hums softly, closing his eyes and slips his hand under your shirt, soothingly running his nails up and down your back, “Sounds good,” There was a beat, then, “Jus’ don’t shrink them any further.”

⁺˚°｡⋆♱✮˖☽𓋼𓍊◯𓍊𓋼☾˖✮♱⋆｡°˚⁺

thank you for reading <3 and thank you for all the love on my previous fics. for the longest time i never posted any of my stories to tumblr because i felt they weren’t “good enough” haha. it’s genuinely keeping me motivated to keep writing and hone my skill, so please feel free to keep reblogging and/or leaving a comment <3

#joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel tlou #joel miller tlou #the last of us hbo #tlou #joel miller x you #pedro pascal #the last of us #joel miller the last of us #joel miller imagine #joel miller fanfic #joel miller smut #joel x reader #joel the last of us #tlou hbo #tlou fanfiction #the last of us fanfiction

[bel1ewrites]

Good Luck, Babe! (Sam Carpenter x Reader)

a/n: Long time no see......... Originally this was a Wanda Maximoff fanfic, but I needed Sam in a tank top again. ps. listen to Good Luck, Babe! by Chapell Roan if you want to understand this more or watch Stardew valley female farmer x Haley edits.

Description: You'd have to stop the world just to stop the feeling.

WC: 2.9k

Warnings: Bar bathroom sex, bottom!reader, top!Sam, farmer!Sam, internalized homophobia, brief kissing of men :(, angst, mentions of alcohol

IT was getting difficult to keep track of the number of shots you’d gone through, each one drowning out your regrets more than the last. The bar was stuffy. It was full of sweaty bodies and slurred words, Friday night drawing most people from town to wind down from a week full of work. It was always a risk coming here, you knew that.

She frequented this bar, sipped on whiskey and laughed lightly with the other farmers at the bartop. But you didn’t care. Besides, you weren’t there for her! You weren’t. You were there to find a new boy to distract yourself with, to spend the night next to. 

The martini you’d ordered sat untouched in front of you, taunting you quietly as if reading your thoughts. 

“Hey there pretty lady,” a voice called from behind you, raised slightly so that you could hear him over the chatter. 

You turned on your stool, eyes met with a man. They all looked the same to you: like, well, men. This one had glasses, which was a good thing you’d supposed. He was handsome enough. His hair was dark, near black, and slicked back with a thick layer of gel. The thought of running your hands through the sticky mess made your stomach churn. Not because you didn’t like man hair! You just didn’t like gel, which was a valid reason that had nothing to do with his gender.

Running a hand through your hair, you put on your best smile and lowered your eyelids -a trick as old as time-. “Hi,” you said sweetly, offering him your name. His eyes lit up, beer hanging comfortably in his hand. 

The background noise grew louder, hoots coming from a number of men somewhere behind you. A mixture of, “Took you long enough!”s and “Look who decided to show up!”s grabbing your attention. You brushed it off, stayed facing away from the ruckus and tried to focus on gel boy’s words. 

“Pretty name for a pretty girl,” he said smoothly, eyes running down your figure. “I’m Har-”

“Alright boys enough!” a familiar voice shot out through the room, rasped syllables filling your ears and sending shivers up your spine. You didn’t turn around, wouldn’t. Your feet stayed planted as her laugh sparked your body to life. 

You thought long and hard. Thought about what to do, where to go. You should stay, there was no reason to leave. And anyways, the night was far from over. The clock behind -Harley? Hardy?- the man read half past nine. No, you would stay and have fun with Har-what’s-it and you would go home with him if he asked and you wouldn’t think about a certain farmer with black hair and impressively skilled forearms. Forearms that were sculpted from lifting and plowing and planting. Forearms that you wanted to watch move as her hands found their way-

“Um, hello?” Har-gel asked, scratching his neck with his free hand. His cheeks were tinged with a slight pink. He seemed like a sweet guy, one who would marry a sweet girl and have babies with her. A girl who wasn’t you. 

You grasped the collar of his shirt, pulled him down towards you with your back pressed against the bartop. “Can we makeout?” you asked, eyes flicking down to his parted lips. They were chapped a little. You looked away from them. 

He didn’t hesitate, just placed his beer on the surface behind you and boxed you in with his arms, hips pressing to yours as he moved closer between your legs. 

The kiss was fine. It tasted like beer and the stubble on his chin poked yours painfully. It was fine, his tongue was in your mouth and like, that was fine you guessed. He was respectful with it, hands not venturing from their spot behind you. You waited, kissed back, went to run a hand through his hair and thought better of it. You waited some more. 

After what seemed like an eon, he pulled back. His cheeks were bright red and his glasses were foggy, lips a little swollen as his breath rushed out from them. You didn’t feel much of anything besides indifference. There was a pit in your stomach, one that you ignored entirely. It was probably something everyone experienced when they kissed a man, one that was meant to be pushed aside. 

“Wanna get out of here?” Har-don asked, gazing down at you with a look that was definitely meant to be attractive, and probably would’ve been if not for the shots in your system. 

“Yeah!” you said, smile painfully forced, “Just let me go use the restroom really quick.” he backed up as you went to stand, digging through your purse and setting two twenties down next to your drink. 

Your legs carried you to the women's room, hands fussing with the tangles he’d made in your hair. The dress you wore was one of your favorites, one that screamed summer. It was the perfect length for going out, not too short but not too long. It flowed around you as you pushed the bathroom door open, sighing with relief when you realized you were alone. 

When you met your eyes in the mirror, you couldn’t help but look away. You were ashamed, you felt like a fraud. The pit in your stomach grew, so you washed your hands to distract yourself. The water was cold as it rushed out of the faucet, soothing your overheated body and disarrayed mind while you watched it hit your skin. You stood there with your hands under the water for longer than normal, not even glancing up when the door opened.

Briefly, the sounds of the bar flooded the bathroom, fading as the door swung shut. Subconsciously you reached out, pushed on the soap dispenser and watched the foam fall into your dripping hand. You just needed a minute before you went back to the sweet man with the glasses, a second to collect yourself. 

“Got a lot on your mind?” a woman asked from behind you. Well, not just a woman. The woman. 

The woman who you shared your secrets with, who held you when you cried and listened to you say things like, “it's just not the way I am, Sam,” after the two of you got done fucking. She was the woman who made you believe in love, who showed you how colorful the world could be. 

Her hair was pulled back, a few stray pieces falling messily around her face. It was still dark, but the summer sun had brightened it up a little bit. She was clad in her work clothes, tank top tucked into her jeans, boots laced perfectly. It was easy to tell what she’d been up to the past few months, her toned arms and tanned skin hinting at long days spent on the farm. You forced your eyes away from her figure in the mirror, looking back at your hands in the water. 

“Nope,” you sighed, turning the water off and drying your hands. “Just freshening up.”

She huffed out a laugh, crossed her arms over her chest. “I don’t blame you,” she admitted. “I’d wash my hands after that little show too.”

You couldn’t help the heat that rushed to your cheeks, movement halting momentarily, hands frozen in brown paper towels. You hadn’t meant for her to see that, not consciously at least. You just needed to distract yourself, just needed a minute to focus on something other than her. 

“If you came in here to slut shame me, I’m not in the mood,” your voice was cold, eyes catching hers in the mirror. You still hadn’t turned to face her. You couldn’t

Her brows pinched together, lips parting to say something before shutting again. Her tongue darted out the wet them. She took a step closer. “I didn’t mean- well, I did, but I’m sorry.” 

You shrugged, “not like I care.” You shoved the paper towels into the trash can next to you and leaned into the mirror, running a finger under your lip to fix the smudges there. The reminder of the feeling of stubble against your chin made your stomach churn, but your face remained impassive. 

You can hear Sam groan from behind you, probably pinching the bridge of her nose between her pointer and thumb. “I hate when you say that.” 

“Say what?”

She took another step closer, the sound of her boots hitting the floor sending shocks to your system. “That you don’t care.”

You stayed quiet, looked at yourself in the mirror. You saw a girl, a fraud, a liar. You saw your future flash in front of you, an unhappy marriage, nothing more than some man’s wife. 

She was right behind you now, close enough that you could feel her presence like a promise. She put her hand on the counter, leaned forward until you could see her face in the peripheral. 

“Look at me.” she pleaded lowly, desperation in her tone. It was impossible to keep your eyes from meeting hers. She stood behind you, arms at her sides and gaze burning into you. Her body pressed into you as you leaned away from the mirror, her hands falling to your waist. “Tell me you want me to go,” she sighed, burying her face in your neck and inhaling. You couldn’t help but fall further into her. 

You said nothing, your own hands moving to grasp at hers and drag them up your body until she was hugging you from behind, breathing you in and squeezing. 

“Tell me to leave,” her voice was muffled in your neck, lips moving against your skin as she placed kisses there like last resorts. 

You shook your head, lashes fluttering as you gave into the feeling of her again. Her eyes met yours in the mirror, hands squeezing your flesh. You couldn’t help the gasp that escaped you when she bit you softly, teeth digging into your jugular. 

“Say you want this,” she spoke the sentence like a prayer.

You couldn’t manage the words.

“Tell me you want me,” She ordered, voice hard. Her breathing was heavy, you could feel her hands shake slightly from where they were pressed into you. “Say it or I’ll leave right now. I swear, I’ll leave and pretend you never existed.” The words were sharp and final. 

All you could manage was a nod, brows drawn together in want. She moved, taking her face out of your neck and towering over you, though your height differences weren’t drastic. Her hands skated down your pelvis, landing on your hips and squeezing, pulling you into her. 

“Use your words,” she pried, eyes dark and pupils blown. 

You couldn’t. Your mouth was glued shut, it was impossible to say anything to her, impossible to do anything other than shake your head and squeeze her hands on your hips. You were so lost in her that you forgot all about the bar, all about the bathroom, the unlocked door. There was nothing but her. Her hands, her hair, her face, her mouth. 

She moved her hand, pushing you forward with a grip on the back of your neck and folding you over the counter. Heat rushed through you, settling in the bottom of your stomach and making you close your eyes. The counter was fairly long, seemingly built for fucking on top of. 

“Don’t worry,” she reassured you, her hand trailing down your back, the other still on your hip. “I’ll get you to say it.” 

You let out a high pitched squeak, a mix between a whine and a sound of shock when she pulled the skirt of your dress up, pushing it past your lower back. 

Her fingers ran over your skin, nails digging in as she dragged her hand lower and lower, pushing into you and leaning forward to speak in your ear. You moaned quietly, hips moving against the pressure of her still hand, seeking relief. “Would you have let him bend you over this counter,” she asked, kissing your shoulder. “What would he say if he saw this? If he saw you all desperate and needy for me, whining and begging for me to fuck you,” she looked at you, face pink and lips parted, and hummed. 

When she started moving her hand you had to bite into your lip to keep quiet, so hard that you were afraid you’d bleed. Her fingertips pressed into your clit, moving in calculated circles just how you liked it. She’d always been so good at reading you, at figuring out just what made you tick, what made you need her. 

“Please,” you panted when she slowed her hand, watching as she smiled menacingly from behind you before pulling the last layer of fabric down your parted legs. When she put her fingers back they were met with slick heat, the sound of her groan only making your need worse.

“Say it,” she said, running her fingers through you, feeling the way you wanted her. Her breathing stuttered when you let out a needy sound, her fingers pressing tight circles right where she knew you wanted them. It was too slow, you needed more.

You suppressed a moan, covering your mouth with your hand. 

“You used to be so good for me,” she pouted, pulling your hand away from your mouth and holding it behind your back with her free one. “What happened?”

Without warning, she slid two fingers into you, pulling a deep moan from you, too loud for a public bathroom. Her fingers pushed down, finding the spot that only she knew before you could even comprehend it. She fucked you like she meant it, hard thrusts powered by months of pent up need. It was scary how fast she was able to build you up, how fast she got you panting and begging. 

“Fuck,” you whined, straining your neck to look back at her for the first time, as opposed to her reflection in the mirror. 

“Face forward,” she ordered, pounding into you harder, “look at how pretty you are, taking me like this. Tell me you want this, baby.” Her voice was dripping with need, the steady rhythm of her thrusts hauling you closer. 

“Harder,” you groaned, pushing back into her and leaning up on your free arm. The fabric of your dress rubbed against your skin where it lay, the sensation was so dirty. You were being fucked over a bathroom sink, watching yourself get more and more pathetic as your ex buried her fingers in you.

Her thrusts grew softer, slower, enragingly delicate. “Say you fucking want me.” Her words were a stark contrast against the way she fucked you, the way she drew it out.

“Please, please Sam. I need it.” your mouth dropped open, little sounds flowing from it as she sped up again, fucking you just how she knew you liked it. Your eyes were closing of their own accord, struggling to stay open and watch as her muscles moved while she fucked you against a bar sink. 

“Good girl,” she smiled, letting go of your hand to rub your clit again. You almost fell as the pressure inside of you skyrocketed, becoming almost unbearable. “Now tell me who you belong to.”

You couldn’t comprehend her words, too focused on the orgasm that was quickly approaching, preparing your body for the shock of it. “I’m so close, baby, I’m so close. Just like that.”

Your cunt was throbbing with need, finally reunited with the person who knew you the best. All those months of fucking yourself would never amount to the way Sam did. The way she commanded your entire being.

She stopped moving. All movement stopped. Her hands, her body, her mouth. You almost cried as her fingers stilled inside of you. The orgasm rushed away, dissolving into painful pleasure and disappointment.

“No, no. Why did you stop? Sam, why?”

“Tell me who you belong to.”

“Wha-” she started moving again, slowly rubbing a spot deep inside of you. You sucked in a breath. You were so turned on it hurt, wetness running down your thighs.

“Say it,” she stressed, fingers moving on your clit again, your orgasm sparked back to life, slowly building again. The longer you waited the faster she went, working you back up until you were on the edge, one move away from cumming. 

“I’ll stop again and walk out of this goddamn bathroom so fast,” she growled over your moans. It was so hard to focus, you needed her so bad you couldn't breathe. "Who do you belong to? Who else fucks you like this?"

“You,” you choked out through a whine. Her thrusts sped up. You pulled her in with no resistance, clenching around her fingers and dripping with need “You. I belong to you, I’m yours. No one fucks me like you do, no one touches me like you do. Please let me cum Sam, please.”

The world seemed to pause when she leaned into you, kissing your neck and fucking you like you earned it. She was giving you all of herself, showing you who you belonged to and who you needed. Your brain was foggy, no sound came out of you as you came, cheek pressed against the counter and hands clenching into fists. Your elbow had given out, leaving you arched into the bar sink.

"That's it," Sam cooed, slowing down to fuck you through the wave of your orgasm, "You're so pretty."

Shock after shock hit, each one leaving you shaking even as she rested unmoving inside of you. "You did so good."

Your whole body was on fire, throbbing and twitching as you worked through it, Sam whispering praise in your ear.

She kissed your cheek, a sound of protest leaving you when she pulled her fingers out of you. You stayed still, your body moving with the force of your breaths.

"I locked the door when I came in," Sam smiled, rubbing your back soothingly.

You would ask her later, when you regained your ability to speak, how she knew to lock it. You would ask why she followed you, why she cared after you left her like she meant nothing. But for that moment, all you could do was lay there and listen to her love you.

#wlw #sapphic #lesbian #chapell roan #samantha carpenter x reader #sam carpenter #sam carpenter x reader #scream #screamxi #scream au #lesbianism #melissa barrera

[str4wbaeby]

𝓶𝓪 𝓶𝓾𝓼𝓮 pt.1

ᵒᵇˢᵉˢˢᵉᵈ ᵃᵘᵗʰᵒʳ ˣ ᵇᵒᵒᵏʷᵒʳᵐ ʳᵉᵃᵈᵉʳ

his presence lingered in every corner of the bookstore, name spoken in reverent tones by both staff and patrons alike. and who he might be? the literary virtuoso, Ren Takahashi, who recently emerged as a new generation fiction writer, standing as a towering figure in the realm of literature. despite being a new name in the writing community, he was quick to rise to fame with the release of his latest masterpiece, which depicted the story of a yearning painter desperately in search of his muse; the story mainly revolving around the theme of lovesickness.

being an avid book lover, it was not unusual for you to keep up with the latest updates in the community, be it newly released books or the newly emerging writers. for you, Ren was not an unfamiliar name but you never really felt truly drawn to any of his writings, which often tended to revolve around a similar theme of infatuation and obsessive love.

as you made your way through the aisles, you couldn't help but notice the prominent display of his new novel on the central shelf, the vibrant red cover drawing you in. opening the glass panel, you carefully took the book out. as you started to read, your expression quickly shifted with eyebrows furrowing into concentration as your lips curled into a smile of intrigue. turning the pages with a gentle flutter, you seemed to absorb each word presented before you. completely enamoured by the book, you failed to notice the presence of an unknown figure, leaning against the opposite bookshelf, eyes longingly staring at your small figure

"so, do you like the book?", the figure softly spoke out, careful not to startle you while clearing his throat in the process.

needless to say, you were a bit startled at first but the gentleness of his voice oddly managed to calm you down almost instantly. you were never really much of a talker, thanks to your introverted nature and not wanting to make this interaction any awkward, you just found it easier to nod your head in response. your eyes were still fixated on the pages, only to look up at the figure once you were satisfied with thorough scanning of the book. infront of you stood the most gorgeous men you have ever laid your eyes upon in your 23 years of living. luscious long hair tressed a shadowy cascade against his pale porcelain skin, hazel eyes twinkling under the bright store lighting as his 6'2 figure stood towering over you, leaning against the wooden shelf in a relaxed stance.

a shade of pink subconsciously coated your cheeks, as you struggled to maintain eye contact with the handsome stranger.

"do you come here often ?", his velvety voice echoed in your ears, slowly luring you in like a siren's song. at the sudden loss of words, all you could do was nod at his question in agreement.

noticing your flustered state, he chuckled softly, silently taking in your adorable expression and soft features.

"say, would you like to have a cup of coffee with me at the nearby cafe? I've heard their pastries are quite popular here"

the proposal was unexpected. especially coming from someone like him; someone as beautiful as him. you were average to say the least, easily passing as just another face in the crowd. why would he want someone like you?

quickly snapping out of your trance, you politely denied his offer with a firm "no". but why? didn't you like him too? the dejected look in his eyes reminded you of a lost puppy. concealing the pain with a fake smile, he handed you his number in a piece of paper, telling you to call him if you ever wanted to talk or had a change of heart regarding your little coffee date. or he could just show up at the bookstore to meet you again? you wouldn't suspect anything, right? it'll just be another coincidence, after all! ♡

with a seemingly disinterested look, you took the paper out of his hand, only to catch a quick glimpse of something that caught your eyes.

"(555) 867-xxxx

- Ren Takahashi "

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘

#yandere scenarios #yandere imagines #yandere oc #male oc #yandere male x reader #yandere #yandere oc x reader #yandere boyfriend #yandere prompt #yandere insert #yandere fic #yandere x reader #yandere male x you #x gender neutral reader #x reader #x reader insert #gn reader #mochiii.writes

[vixstarria]

Communication

Surprise surprise, they're no good at it.

This is a continuation of my in-game bardlock series, seeing as I left a large gap in it between an intimate and emotional scene and a whole bunch of unhinged fucking. Sorry about that.

Takes place after Intimacy but can be read as a stand-alone!

Read on AO3

Astarion x f!Tav

Early Act 3. It has been nice, but it's time Tav and Astarion actually figured out what it is they're doing and what comes next.

Tav is a half-elf bardlock. I'm calling her Tav in this fic, but if you know you know.

Hurt/comfort, some fluff and a drop of humour (I am me after all) if you squint, love, angst

TW: some very casual violence and murder

Approximately 3.9k words. 

“Well?” A very giddy Astarion had appeared behind Tav. “Let’s go!” 

The party had finally reached the outskirts of Baldur’s Gate and were setting up camp near Rivington, after a brief excursion in the area. 

“Go where?” she asked.

“Anywhere! I haven’t seen these streets in sunlight in two centuries.” 

“Now..?”

The city was flooded with refugees. Some child whose mother was definitely not coming for her had seemingly declared herself adopted by the group. There was a towering pile of corpses just outside one of the nearby gates. A circus was in town.

It was nice to finally be back in civilisation.

“Yes, now! Forget the bloody tent, maybe we’ll find an inn to sleep in for a change.”

Nothing had been arranged, set up or planned yet. They had only the vaguest notion of where they were going.

“Sure, a walk sounds lovely right now,” shrugged Tav.

It very quickly became obvious that finding an inn would be nigh on impossible. The streets were crowded with refugees, frantic citizens and all those who would either try to keep them in order or prey upon them.

“Are we going anywhere in particular, or are we just... going?” Tav asked, trying to make her way through the throng. She had never seen Baldur’s Gate this busy before. 

“There is something I’d like to show you,” answered Astarion. “Some place, to be exact. It’s- hey!”

He realised that he was talking to no one, as they had been separated by a group of dwarves pushing their way through between them. Tav smiled at him over their heads, raising her arms in an open-palmed gesture of defeat and resignation.

“Can’t you keep up?” Astarion sighed, rolling his eyes, and reached for her, taking her hand and linking his fingers through hers.

This… This was new, particularly in public, and Tav bit her lip, fighting not to smile, as he guided her after him. 

Astarion glanced back over his shoulder at her, to see her grinning. 

“Oh shut up,” he huffed, before spilling into a smile too, despite himself, and drawing her close to kiss her.

“Half-elven whore,” a nearby elven woman muttered to her companion in elvish, tsking in distaste at the sight. Either she did not expect to be heard or understood, or simply did not care.

Astarion turned towards the woman, with a glower, but before he could retaliate with his own snide remark, Tav told the elven woman to go fuck herself with a splintered broom, in perfect elvish, and pulled Astarion further down the street before the woman thought of anything else to say.

“Such... delightful use of the True Tongue, dear.” Astarion seemed in equal parts impressed and taken aback. “Don't tell me you’ve been holding out on me this whole time..?”

“Oh, no, I only know a little bit,” laughed Tav. 

“Do indulge me.” 

“No, it’s really hardly anything,” she shook her head. “I can count, exchange pleasantries and profanities, know a few songs I can’t translate, and a few odd phrases.” 

“Such as?” 

“I can scream for help in elvish, for one,” she offered. 

“Why would you need to scream for help in elvish..?” 

“Men are more likely to come running if they think it’s a little elven maiden they’re rescuing,” she explained with a sigh. 

Astarion mulled that over with a frown for a bit. 

“I’ll have to take your word for that... What else? And for hells’ sake, just say something, I enjoyed hearing it.” 

She said the first phrase that came to mind.  

Astarion stopped dead in his tracks, with what Tav knew to be the expression he held when he was doing his best to keep his face straight.  

“So let’s start with what you think you just said.” 

“...Shit. ...Uhh.” Tav gave Astarion a sheepish look. “‘My small children have had nothing to eat for days.’?” 

“Darling,” he said, cupping her cheeks, trying not to laugh. “My love. That’s not quite it... Now, how many people do you think you’ve told you’ve ‘eaten nothing but small children for days’..?” 

“Ah... That explains the reactions,” Tav said thoughtfully. 

“Horror?” Astarion finally snickered.

“Usually laughter... I just figured most elves were assholes.” 

Eventually Astarion brought them onto a rooftop that offered an impressive view of the city and surrounding regions.

“It’s so strange to be here in daylight,” he murmured. “This was one of my spots,” he said, turning to Tav. “I used to come here at the start of my evenings, alone, and just… enjoy the peace and quiet for a while.” Astarion took a pensive look around. “Admittedly, the tiles weren’t as hot at night, and all the bird shit wasn’t as prominent.” 

They found a place to sit down.

“I thought you would try to get your job done as quickly as possible,” said Tav.

“There had to be a certain balance to it.” Astarion shook his head. “Start prowling too early, and the potential targets wouldn’t be ripe for the picking yet. And even if I managed to get someone back to the manor early on in the evening, it would only mean I would have to ‘entertain’ them longer.” He shut his eyes and leaned back against a chimney. “It was better to take some precious solitary repose, when I could.”

“Do you think you might have taken me back to Cazador if you’d met me back then?” Tav asked quietly.

Astarion opened his eyes and frowned at the sudden question. 

“Not if I’d ever seen you perform, no,” he deliberated. “I never went for the bards. They were almost my co-conspirators, though they didn’t know it. I couldn’t waste them.” He paused before continuing. “But otherwise, if I’d just bumped into you at a tavern… Probably, yes. A pretty, reckless stray… You would have been perfect. …Would you have followed?” He asked, glancing at her.

“Probably,” she replied, staring off into the distance.

They sat in silence until Astarion broke it with a question.

“Will you stay with me when all this is over?” 

Just the sheer amount of effort he put into trying to make that question sound casual spoke volumes. 

It caught her off guard. They’d spent many evenings in his tent lazily basking in vague fantasies about an ‘after’, usually concentrating on the idea of being able to stay in bed all day, or the concept of their hair and fingernails being free of dried blood and entrails for a change. They’d never actually discussed any realistic nuance of this ‘after’. Or what it might look like, other than what it wouldn’t look like. 

“Are you certain you want to take Cazador’s place in the ritual..?” she asked, carefully. 

“Why shouldn’t I?” Astarion immediately sounded defensive. 

“You don’t even know what it entails or means, not really...” 

“It means having everything I’ve been missing the past two centuries, what else is there to know?” He scoffed. “...You haven’t answered my question,” he said after a pause. 

She said nothing for a while, looking down at her fingernails. 

“Stay and do what..?” 

“Anything!” he exclaimed. “Anything you want. We could do anything. Do you have any idea what I will be capable of? Of the power I will hold. The influence.”

“Yes, yes, legions of wolves, turning into mist,” she recited. “What else… Commanding ghouls, I think?” She threw her head back, looking at the sky. “I’m not sure why you would need to do any of that, though.”

“Unimaginable power, and you mock it…” Astarion said indignantly. “I suppose you would rather go frolic in the woods with Halsin..? …Oh don’t look so shocked, I’ve seen how he looks at you. Sleeping in the dirt, living off the land. Is that what would make you happy?” 

“He looks at you the same way! And must you jump to extremes?” She let out an exasperated sigh. “Even if I were interested in Halsin, there is ample space between sleeping in the dirt and sleeping in that gothic monstrosity, in which I might find myself happy.” 

They sat in silence for a while. 

“I don’t think you should go through with it,” she said, finally. “Something about it just doesn’t sit right.” 

Astarion looked at her with an unreadable expression and didn’t say anything. She continued. 

“I know enough stories - and before you roll your eyes at me, there is usually a grain of truth to them – and I’ve read between the lines of enough history texts, to know there is no such thing as a jolly vampire lord that just has a grand ol’ time carousing in their castle. It’s always centred on cruelty, misery and violence.” 

“I suppose you know plenty of stories of jolly vampire spawn,” he spat. 

“Some, as a matter of fact. They usually revolve around romance and redemption.” She sighed and continued, as he let out a bitter laugh. “I’ve never heard of any demonic deals that ended in anything that wasn’t disastrous, either. The point is, nothing that involves blood or soul sacrifice has ever made anyone happy.” She looked in the direction of Cazador’s palace. “We should kill Cazador, burn it all to the ground and dance on the ashes. I will be by your side. And yes, I want to stay with you. Of course I do.” 

“For how long?” Astarion asked quietly, after a pause. 

“...What?” 

“How long will you stay by my side? You have another... 100 years, 150 at best? I can’t offer any solutions to that as a spawn.” 

She blinked, realisation dawning in her eyes.

“...Astarion Ancunin, did you just say you want to spend the rest of eternity with me?” 

“Oh don’t you bloody dare turn this into a joke,” he bristled. “Just for once.”

“Not a joke, but…” She paused and gave her head a brisk shake, as if to snap herself out of a daze. “Just so we’re absolutely clear, what are you saying?”

“Isn’t it obvious..?” The grin that had crept habitually onto Astarion’s face felt like a suffocating mask. She only stared back into his eyes, unblinking, waiting for him to continue. “I could turn you. Grant you an eternity.” ‘With me’, he wanted to add, but the look in her eyes made the words die on his tongue.

None of this was going the way Astarion had expected. Not that he had planned any of this… Still, he’d made certain assumptions. He’d anticipated the conversation and day would flow somewhere along the following lines: re-affirm his plans for Cazador. Exchange words of undying love and devotion. Maybe, maybe make love to her again, later, in celebration. Instead everything was slipping like fine sand through his fingers. Words simply wouldn’t come out of his mouth. Everything he thought he might say suddenly felt pathetic.

“Turn me? To become one of your spawn?” Astarion opened his mouth to speak, but she talked over him. “Two centuries as something you say is less than a slave, a puppet, and you would so easily offer the same fate to me..?”

“First of all,” he sputtered, “I don’t know why you immediately assumed there would be others. Secondly,” he continued, slowing down, “there is another way, or so I’ve read. You wouldn’t be a mere spawn, but a-” Astarion winced, cutting himself off. “Never mind,” he said, shaking his head. This was rapidly spinning further and further out of his control. “I thought you trusted me?” he asked instead.

“It’s not about trust,” she said. “If you had the choice between a hundred years of absolute freedom or being enthralled to someone for eternity - doesn’t matter who - me, Gale, your long-lost grandmother, anyone! What would you choose?”

“I would never compel you,” said Astarion, his voice tinged with a hint of pleading.

“That’s not the point,” she said, looking away, running her hand through and tugging at her hair. “Let’s just head back. We still need to set up before it gets dark, and I promised Karlach we would visit that bloody circus…”

Something inside Astarion shattered and spilled, ice-cold, over his heart as she got up and walked away. 

Not even an hour had passed since some of the happiest moments he’s had in centuries.

They walked back in silence. 

Eventually they came upon an outpost of Flaming Fists and steel watchers, who had appeared on the road they had taken into the city. They were apprehending everyone trying to pass through, whether they were leaving or entering. 

“Let’s try a side street,” offered Astarion. 

They found and made their way through a narrow alleyway. It was empty. Suspiciously empty, in fact - no children running through, no one out for a quick smoke, no drunks pissing on the walls.

Sure enough, once they were halfway through, three goons intercepted their way, stepping out of a doorway. Two humans and an enormous half-orc wide enough to block out most of the passage. 

“Alley toll.” One of the thugs flashed a malicious grin, eyeing Tav up and down. “Better pay up, doll.” Three more jeering hoodlums appeared behind them as he spoke, armed with crude but lethal weapons. 

“Attempting to detain a Council battlemage on duty? Bold but stupid,” she said gravely. “Hand over your profits and Lord Gortash won’t learn of your little enterprise. This is your only warning.” 

Trying to bluff and deceive her way through, per usual. Was there even a Council anymore? Did it employ mages? No matter. Whether due to the fact that she and Astarion had decided to wander the streets of the city in civilian clothes, without armour, or simply because the lust for money and violence had gotten the better of the would-be muggers, they paid her attempt no heed. 

The leader laughed.

“Or, how about we have some fun with you, and your Lord Gortash can come and collect your body from the river once we’re done with it?”

Astarion’s blood boiled.

He reached for his daggers, thoughts racing. Why in the hells had they come here barely armed..? They were surrounded, but perhaps if she blasted the three in front of them they might run through..? But they were probably too close for that… Could she misty step behind them and get away? His undead body would most likely survive whatever came, even with the tadpole. 

“Take the ones behind,” Tav snapped, and Astarion followed her lead, as he had grown used to, silently praying to no particular deity that she knew what she was doing. 

He ducked as one of the goons bellowed and swung a sword at him, dodging the blow to come up next to his attacker, burying a dagger between his ribs and another in his guts, for good measure. At least the alley was too narrow for all of the bandits to come in on them at once. Behind him, Tav spat some incantation that he wasn’t familiar with.

The next lout came at him, only to stop short, as Astarion scrounged up his meagre magical abilities to hurl a firebolt at his face, making the man yelp and grind to a halt in shock and pain. Astarion’s dagger followed through his eye socket shortly thereafter. 

The entire altercation with the two thugs took mere seconds. Another controlled shout from Tav followed behind him.

The last of the muggers on Astarion’s side backed away, looking at the scene unfolding behind Astarion with a horrified expression, before breaking into a run and disappearing. 

Astarion turned back to witness Tav standing with her arms crossed, looking unaffected, just as the half-orc who had been behind the group’s leader pulled his sword back out from the leader’s stomach, having impaled him from behind.

Tav barked another command as the leader collapsed, and the half-orc slammed the head of his other cohort, who hadn’t understood what was happening yet, against a wall, with a resounding crunch. 

A domination spell. 

Astarion felt nauseous. If his body had been capable of producing bile, it would have crept up at the back of his throat. For once, the smell of freshly spilled blood all around them was repulsive to him.

 “Kneel,” Tav commanded, calmly. The half-orc’s body immediately dropped to its knees, with a thud that spoke of damaged kneecaps.

“I’m running out of time. Do you need him?” She stepped over the body of the group’s dying ex-leader and walked around the half-orc, to stand behind him. 

Disgust and revulsion continued to claw at Astarion’s insides. 

“…What?”

The half-orc’s eyes were void of any emotion. A small mercy.

“Blood. Do you want his blood, before I spill it?” she said nonchalantly.

“…No,” he swallowed. Not like this…

He watched as she slit his throat, carefully standing behind him to avoid blood spraying over herself. Comprehension returned to the man’s eyes just as he made his last gurgling sounds, before stilling forever. 

“That was despicable,” Astarion hissed, finally breaking his gaze away from the body. “Compulsion? Really?!”

She gave him an incredulous look, momentarily speechless.

“This is what I do!” she exclaimed. “This is how I protect myself. You know this! What the fuck did you expect - that I would set off a fireball in an alley?! Or make one of them have a fit of giggles?!”

“You didn’t need to do anything, I could have handled all of them,” he countered.

“Oh, stand behind you like a meek little lamb?” She scoffed. “While neither of us are even wearing armour, and they’re on both sides? Don’t be ridiculous.” She crouched to wipe her dagger on the dead man’s clothes. “What does it matter, anyway,” she said, offhanded. “Dead is dead - who cares how they got there?” 

“It was just like Cazador all over again,” Astarion said, bitterly. “Watching my siblings torture each other, for his amusement, waiting for it to be my turn to be compelled.”

She stilled as she crouched, not looking up at him. 

“You fucking hypocrite,” she said, finally, rising. 

“What in the hells are you talking about?” he grimaced.

“Comparing me to Cazador, when you’re planning to take his very place.”

“How dare you?” Astarion felt the last of his composure leaving him. “I am nothing like Cazador, and I never will be,” he growled.

“No?” She narrowed her eyes. “You’re already thinking of your own spawn. Maybe you would keep your word and not compel me, but you would be curious. All that power that you’ve been wishing was yours for 200 years...” She gesticulated, tilting her head. “First just one teensy little slave - someone who’s wronged you, maybe, someone who deserves to bear your ire. Then, perhaps someone convenient, in a place of power. Someone like what you would have been, had Cazador not botched your death so bad that it became public. Then another. And another. And what will you do with them once you have them? Take them for midnight picnics and host slumber parties?” 

She spat on the ground. 

“I’m going back to camp.”

She stormed off, fuming, exiting the alleyway and mixing into the crowd. Astarion followed at a distance, discreetly wiping the blood that had landed on his hands on the shirt of a random passerby that stumbled out in front of him. He gritted his teeth, watching her.

It had taken every last bit of his self-control to not snap back at her during her little tirade. 

He wanted to stalk off in the opposite direction, but frankly all his things were at the campsite, and he still needed the group’s help, both with Cazador and the tadpole. And he couldn’t discount something else happening to her on the way back. 

No, none of this was what he thought would end up happening today. Was this the end..?

It didn’t matter, he thought. Let her be stubborn. Let her accuse him of gods know what. He would do what he had set out to do. Hells, even if she changed her mind later - it would be too late. Let her live out her “hundred years of freedom” in regret.

And how fucking dare she?! Insinuating that he was or could ever be anything like Cazador. After all he had given her. His trust. His love. He didn’t have anything else. Not as a spawn, anyway.

But perhaps she would change her mind, after she gave his proposal more thought..? He could talk her into it, couldn’t he? He’s talked so many people into doing exactly what he wanted them to do…

There was no point in anything otherwise. It was all for her. All he wanted for himself was revenge. Freedom. Safety. But all the power in the world was meaningless if he couldn’t share it with her.

Astarion winced at the thought, hating that it even crossed his mind. If only he could claw it out of his brain and smash it against the cobbles beneath his feet. How much simpler life would be.

He would not grovel. He would not apologise. He would not change his mind. And he would rather die, again, than be caught running after her like a dog. 

Astarion cursed, slipped into the shadows and turned invisible, breaking into a sprint. He wouldn’t be able to replicate the trick for a while now, if the need arose, but he couldn’t care less. 

He raced up sets of stairs, speeding through a terrace, dodging the patrons of whatever establishment it was he was going through, and leaped, unseen, onto the next building’s, until he was ahead of her, descending back onto the ground and losing his invisibility around the corner from the main street, stepping out just in front of her. 

He caught a glimpse of her scowling and furiously blinking away tears just before she crashed into his chest with a light gasp, as he wrapped his arms around her. She was stiff and rigid, but at least she didn’t try to push him away. Still, a part of him was screaming that it was already too late.

“I don’t want you to have to commit those atrocities when you’re with me,” Astarion murmured into her hair, holding her close.

“You’d rather commit them yourself?” she retorted, her voice weak.

“I don’t want to,” he said quietly, as she seemed to become more malleable, and sank into his embrace, slowly wrapping her own arms around his back. “But I will if I have to. For you.”

“That makes two of us, I guess,” she managed, sounding choked up. 

Astarion took a deep breath, relieved. Mine… Still mine… He thought to himself, touching his forehead against hers and stroking her cheek. Someone in the street heckled them, yelling something about getting a room.

“I already don’t have much to offer, beyond all my burdens,” he whispered. She looked up at him, eyes glistening. She tried to protest, but he pressed a finger to her lips. “I want to do what I can, for you. For us. What good am I if I can’t even keep you safe?”

He pressed his lips against her forehead as she hugged him tighter. He had no idea whether he had convinced her of anything, or if she simply didn’t have the will to argue anymore, but for now it didn’t matter.

“I will love you no matter what,” she breathed.

Another jeer followed from the crowd, and someone cursed at them to get out of the way.

“A legion of wolves sounds tempting right about now,” she added, as he smiled.

“Do you still want to get Karlach and go to that circus?” he asked.

“Fuck the circus,” she mumbled into his shirt. “But I guess we should.”

They made their way back to the camp, fingers interlocked again. The silence that stretched once more almost felt comfortable this time.

~~~~~

Thanks for reading!

Series master list

Next in series - A night at the inn

AO3

~~~~~

Tag list:

@littleenglishfangirl @something-pithy @darlingxdragon @tallymonster @tragedybunny @spunky-89 @acourtofpenandpaper @yoonshope @lariatbunny @whiskeyskin @asterordinary @wingsy-keeper-of-songs @spacebarbarianweird @brabblesblog @littlejuicebox @icybluepenguin @snowfolly @ayselluna @mj-bites @bardic-inspo

#astarion #bg3 #baldur's gate 3 #astarion fanfic #astarion fanfiction #astarion x tav #astarion x f!tav #bg3 fanfic #bg3 fanfiction

[cathartic-crypt]

im continuing my benny posting by sharing my benny hcs. in no particular order. and very quickly typed up. enjoy ^_^

- tattooed. he has lots and lots and lots of tattoos from when he was a boot rider. all kinds of tattoos. some desert themed, some things based around him, some others depicting things he just likes. he doesnt mind them much nowadays, hes so used to them that he sees them as part of his skin. although hes a little bit iffy about showing others his old tattoos. hes got an image to upkeep after all - speaking of boot riders. he got a canine knocked out by bingo during their fight. so he got a gold one fitted shortly after he became the leader of the chairmen. and it glints like hell - he wears lots of gold jewellery. especially pre-war rings. he prefers engraved ones, ones with little images etched into the metal or ones with short messages rather than ones with gems. he also wears a cross necklace under his shirt - despite his gun and necklace...hes not christian. like at all. he doesnt care for religion and hasnt read anything about the engraving on his pistol or the meaning of necklace. he just likes how flashy and elaborate the imagery looks - by the time the courier rolls around hes 31. he's also 5'5". - he has a dad bod. i will personally fistfight anyone who draws him muscular and dehydrated. living the cushy and comfortable life of a casino boss means hes not some lean bodybuilder - however...thats not to say he ISNT strong or that hes unhealthy. he has a really high endurance, and can last for a long while out in the desert. also he doesnt like admitting it but hes probably a fraction better at straight up punching someone than shooting them at point blank range - since he was always outside and always doing something, he used to have super calloused hands. but again, casino life means theyre much more pampered and soft now - however hes still got one hell of a grip. he can very easily grab you by your shirt and throw you out of the front door without even breaking a sweat - hes Bi. theres literally no way he isnt, fuck you. BUT he really isnt one for meaningful romantic connections, he much prefers something quick with zero extra baggage (i.e. one night stands, friends with benefits) - hes super nosy. and almost terrifyingly good at recognising and remembering faces. he sees a new face in the tops that he doesnt instantly match to a regular? he needs to know their name. and then he promptly loses all interest because the mystery is lost and the people turn out to be, by all things considered, really fucking boring - even further...anyone who doesnt fall for his charismatic charm (or, even worse, doesnt care about his reputation) becomes a nuisance and he NEEDS to at least form some sort of impression on them, be it good or bad. like full on “if you dont form an opinion about me i will pull my own hair out” - he used to have an absolute love for geckos. he didnt tame them, he was more so inclined to hunt than to nurture, but he would feed scraps to the younger ones - which meant they began to follow him around from time to time... not anymore though. he thinks theyre dirty and brutish and a reflection of what it was like to be a boot rider - hes called Benny Boots (mockingly) by people around the strip. at least by those who knows about the three families past. other than that his last name is Gecko. he also personally calls himself Benny 'New Vegas' sometimes as a sort of boastful title because he thinks hes the shining face (not the heart, mind you - thats House) of the strip - hes a huge morning person. its something he picked up, and cant get rid of, from the boot rider days. he wakes up super early in the morning, rising with the sun - and hates sleeping in because he feels like hes wasting time. he goes to sleep pretty late, since new vegas is awake at night, but he doesnt feel tired. a couple hours of sleep is good enough for him.

#ooouoououh this was rlly fun to think abt ngl :3 #it talks #fallout #fallout new vegas #fnv #benny gecko #fnv benny #benny fnv #benny new vegas #fallout headcanons #headcanon #head canon #bootriders #fnv the tops #the tops

[cipheramnesia]

Dr. Stevenson would have had to take Athena when she was a very young child. Maybe four years old, give or take. It could happen so many ways but it would have been so very easy for her to put just a little pressure on one or two people to have CPS take custody of the girl. This is all just a dream, and Athena's whole life after that is one neutral colored room after another with a slightly different ergonomic office chair every few years, and her only solid memory to hold on to is a reflection of light off water. Sand and water, surrounded by big trees with branches all bent heavy and green. A half open, half broken rusty gate clinging onto a couple concrete pillars long bereft of their accompanying wall. Athena would hold onto that for dear life, treasure any little sliver of color from a light blue hoodie to a cheap pair of headband bunny ears to blue and yellow rain-boots. They would have accumulated over the years of the taped on monitors, blood draws, urine samples, hair clippings, annual spinal tap.

Sometimes she'd go days without food, or her room temperature would swing from frigid to boiling, then the big orderly and the phlebotomist with Dr. Stevenson's sharp voice over them all would come in. "Be careful," she'd snap out, slapping off hands that gripped too tight, never once spoken out of love or even empathy. "Don't damage her, we don't know if we'll ever find another one." The concern only spoke of a rare and treasured object, perhaps a Cartier wind up music box. The others calmed her like an animal, "easy girl, just a moment and it's over." Sometimes when there was a new phlebotomist, Athena got a small piece of candy. She never had the same one more than a few months. She'd try to savor the hard lollipop or drop of chocolate and ignore the sound of Dr. Stevenson through the hollow doors, "This subject is on a specialized diet to ensure consistency of results, you are not to bring any such personal items-" and it went on.

Learning math and reading and writing after a fashion, information provided by Dr. Stevenson with grudging irritation, but once in awhile short and tantalizing sidepaths of the personal. "These sides are you, much like you and the light, you control both sides with the shared information. Oh, nevermind. Figure it out yourself." Athena would never know what kind of a monstrosity Dr. Stevenson was building from her blood and their studies, only the day that something went terribly wrong, and Dr. Stevenson didn't come to see her anymore. The time she'd showed the room the light and it hurt Dr. Stevenson, she still came back a few days later, but this time she left and Dr. White started taking care of her. He was much nicer, but wouldn't let her have her room in the dark, and did not think all the work Dr. Stevenson had been doing was very interesting. Sometimes he would talk about Dr. Stevenson's huge promotion with a sure bitterness. He showed up with a younger girl he called Alice.

#girl bites god #long post

[the-gayest-sky-kid]

my souheki warriors kill this gacha video now

#guys guys guys dazai literally admires him and looks at super deduction with awe in his eyes and gets so excited when he gets to explain why #ranpos special. because ranpo is a normal human whos exceptionally smart!!! #and he thinks thats so fucking COOL that he calls him the strongest member of the agency do you GET IT #AND AND AND #this is more like speculative and my own opinion but. dazai someone whos been considered isolated BECAUSE of his intellect being able to #converse with ranpo and plan shit do you understand that #ranpo may not be able to get him in the way chuuya does but he is a perfect example of it getting BETTER. that someone can be so deeply #admired and wholeheartedly cared for despite how differently they see things and shit #theres also the sort of way ranpo is the opposite of dazai in a sort of. ranpo externalized his feelings (the tism) and viewed the world as #full of monsters that knew something he didnt #but dazai internalizes that view and found himself lacking #both are very the tism #again thats all my own analysis and conclusion drawing of course #back to facts. RANPO GOING LIKE YEAH SURE WELCOME NEW GUY IN ENTRANCE EXAM #DAZAI TRUSTING HIM TO NEGOTIATE WITH BRAM IN THE PLAN TO KILL FYODOR. AND RANPO RUSHING TO DO THAT???? #GRATATATATATRARARRARA #also there has to be something very fun and relieving about talking and planning with someone who understands everything youre saying #anyway souheki they will never get u like i do im sorry that bitch did you like that #souheki #aethers rants

[heartbeetz]

I NEED to get back into oc f/os. I just remembered my old casino themed anthro shark guy. He never got a solid enough ref sheet (or lore, really) for me to feel comfortable making him one of my f/os but maybe I should remedy that at some point. Big Jack.........

#his name is Jasper Roulette but everyone calls him Big Jack #he's a ''professional'' underground gambler and great white 'card shark' #insists he's an ex crime boss but won't tell anyone what that entailed #well... he WILL. but it's a different story every time. always a lie and often over the top #nobody knows for sure if any of it's true or not. but pretty much everyone either 100% believes it or is too scared to contest it #bc his persona around other casino goers is this rough and tough type guy and he has the looks and talk to back it up #really though even IF it's true he's pretty harmless now. his whole thing is ''yeah I used to do that but I'm turning my life around'' #which others are skeptical about but is mostly true. he's kinda just chilling #he's a cheat and a showoff and an asshole but he's more intimidating than he is dangerous #and he has way more money than he cares to do anything with (where he got it who's to say) so he doesn't mind just handing it out #he was the first character I made for a little game / visual novel I wanted to make at one point but ended up giving up on #it was just about sharks in an underground casino #the idea was you could play little mini games and have conversations with them #and if you made the conversation go in the ''right'' direction there'd be little collectibles that opened new paths #but it never went anywhere other than some ideas and a very rough drawing of Big Jack (which actually came first lol) #unfortunately I designed him IMMEDIATELY before I got super into Sparker as one of my f/os so he got swept under the rug real bad #sorry sharky 😔 #roz posts

[stellarsightz]

What is the flavor of fear?

Sublime, my Brother.

(Alternate version under the cut)

#murder cult almost got wiped out. but we stay silly :3 #no hes not bald. yes he has hair. i was just too lazy to draw it #anyways. new art experiment featuring my altmeri listener called lynwalynn from my second skyrim playthrough #(no i havent finished playing it lol) #he and his twin sister used to be part of dark brotherhood in cyrodiil before the unrest. fled the country. got separated #lynn did some crazy sidequesting and became the archmage of winterhold. got bored so he joined the thieves guild. became a nigthingale #banged brynjolf. got into an argument w him and had a messy breakup. left the guild bc things got really awkward w bryn #eventually re-joined the dark brotherhood and became the listener. and now hes just chilling and doing illegal shit w cicero by his side :) #he and his sister (named baltana; my first skyrim babygirl) accidentally reunite and catch up. he discovers that his sister also #did some crazy sidequesting on her own and that shes the dragonborn the vampireslayer of dawnguard and used to be the harbinger #of companions (but left bc she fucking hated their racist nordic supremacy bullshit) #yes he is fucked up yes hes almost like any other listener you can find on ao3 i dont care #i made a self-sacrificing almighty hero on my first playthrough and thought it was bland as fuck so i just said #yknow what. how about i made the wettest most pathetic nasty fucked up guy instead. AND they split the titles bc theres no way only #one person can do all of those things. like i get it but i think its just. boring if you're the all-powerful big strong good guy #skyrim tes #the elder scrolls #dark brotherhood #artists on tumblr #digital art #my art #long tags #oc: lynwallyn

[ambreiiigns]

i almost made it part of my brand that i like ugly middle aged men but like. then i see some of y'all's ugly middle aged men. and i almost feel bad abt calling MY middle aged men ugly

#sorry but. good lord. i draw the line there #i can't even vague abt his name bc i do not remember it. but. *** **** *** **** *** *** ******* ****? y'all. batshit #i almost respect you for it but also not bc you're being too annoying and not ashamed enough #and like. you should be. way more ashamed than you are. but also i respect you #i'm also generally having identity crisis abt my ugly old men thing bc the latest one i got #he is old. but like. i don't know if i have the right to call him ugly #he's not like insanely stunning but also maybe for my standards #like. he's fine maybe. he's like. at the very least. average #like... do i still deserve my title (*ugly* middle aged men enjoyer)..... i don't know #oh nay #what is wrong w me like. why do i care #this post was triggered by 1. someone being too passionate abt the guy in the *** on my dash and #2. my being Not Able to stop thinking abt the new old man today

[jimmythejiver]

So Ang aka Recapkid aka Handsome Hugs aka whatever the fuck they calling themselves now* poisoning the discourse while doing exactly in rl what his art portrayed (allegedly) is why we don't get to have nice shit in ZADR fandom anymore, huh.

*My knowledge of Rek/Recapkid saga ended initially when they first made their first dramatic exit in fandom. Everything after is what I had to track down to verify tonight.

#there'll always be wolves among the sheep and obviously fuck your fandom if it hurts people yada yada #idk what to believe but it is apparent something is not right with ang beyond drawing sick cartoons #i've seen them get harassed and bullied years ago and they were toted as a fandom martyr #but i don't have a reason anymore to think the alleged abuse accusations about them is false anymore #and perhaps their victims did retaliate in such a way to ruin their life and have them lose their job health insurence #but by not taking the end of life care and persist to taunt them and play victim ang has made their case look worse and indefensible #that no matter how you slice it no matter what ang has went through and what they did or didn't do to these people they created bad optics #i predict we're going to get another monster ballooned into a bigger monster here and no apology or accountability #this person is like if chris chan had gotten nearly as far as john k. in terms of legitimacy and cult of personality #i'm not being glib if the full story is true #they were exposed time after time but kept muddying the waters like an abuser does by calling their victims the abusers #and people eat it up as lies spread around the world before the truth can put its shoes on #and then leave truth freezing in the rain when it's already not welcomed as lies makes itself at home with your hot cocoa and blanket #i was never invested in rek as i knew od rhen as a person like i saw so many in fandom were #but i see what looks like a bullying campaign and condemned that #but now i have to question if they staged the bullying and exit for sympathy points to fit a narrative #because no former child turned adult would doggedly follow around their abuser from account to account #because they stumbled upon or hacked their adult account and were traumatized to vengeance and decided they need to ruin lives #no it is because ang or rek or whatever couldn't fucking disappear for real and stop bothering these people and prey upon some new ones #again allegedly and just my opinion #idk the real facts than the they said she said of it all

[maikaartwork]

Artists, let’s talk about Instagram commission scammers

There’s been a huge rise in commission scammers recently, mostly on Instagram. A lot of new artists don’t know what to look out for, so I figured this might help people.

How they begin

Usually the scammer will write to you asking about a commission. Something deceptively cute - mostly I encounter asks about pet portraits, with one or two photos sent. They’ll probably try to sell you a sweet little story, like “It’s for my son’s birthday”. They will insist that they love your artwork and style, even though they don’t follow you or never liked a single piece of your art.

What to look out for:

Their profiles will either be private, empty, or filled with very generic stuff, dating at most a few years back.

Their language will be very simple, rushed or downright bad. They might use weird emojis that nobody ever uses. They will probably send impatient “??” when you don’t answer immediately. They’re in a crunch - lots of people to scam, you know. 

They’ll give you absolutely no guidelines. No hints on style, contents aside from (usually) the pet and often a name written on the artwork, no theme. Anything you draw will be perfect. Full artistic freedom. In reality they don’t really care for this part.

They’ll offer you a ridiculous amount of money. Usually 100 or 300 USD (EDIT: I know it might not be a lot for some work. What I mean here - way higher than your asking price, 100 and 300 are standard rates they give). They’ll often put in a phrase like “I am willing to compensate you financially” and “I want the best you can draw”, peppered with vague praise. It will most likely sound way too good to be true. That’s because it is.

Where the scam actually happens

If you agree, they will ask you for a payment method. They’ll try to get to this part as soon as possible. 

Usually, they’ll insist on PayPal. And not just any PayPal. They’ll always insist on sending you a transfer immediately. None of that PayPal Invoice stuff (although some do have methods for that, too). They’ll really, REALLY want to get your PayPal email address and name for the transfer - that’s what they’re after. If you insist on any other method, they’ll just circle back to the transfer “for easiest method”. If you do provide them with the info, most likely you’ll soon get a scam email. It most likely be a message with a link that will ultimately lead to bleeding you dry. Never, and I mean NEVER click on any emails or links you get from them. It’s like with any other scam emails you can ever get.

A few things can happen here:

They overpay you and ask for the difference to be wired back. Usually it will go to a different account and you’ll never see that money again. 

They’ll overpay you “for shipping costs” and ask you to forward the difference to their shipping company. Just like before, you’ll never see that money again.

The actual owner of the account (yes, they most likely use stolen accounts to wire from) will realize there’s been something sketchy going on and request a refund via official channels. Your account will be charged with fees and/or you get in trouble for fraudulent transactions. 

You will transfer the money from your PayPal credit to your bank account and they will make a shitstorm when they want their money back, making your life a living hell. They will call you a scammer, a thief, make wild claims, wearing you down and forcing you into wiring money “back” - aka to their final destination account. 

Never, EVER wire money to anyone. This is not how it’s supposed to go. Use PayPal Invoice for secure exchanges where the client needs to provide you with their email, not the other way around.

You can find more info on that method HERE.

What to do when you encounter a scammer:

Ask the right questions: inquire about the style, which artwork of yours they like, as much details as you can. They won’t supply you with any good answers.

Don’t let the rush of the exchange, their praise and the promise of insanely good money to get to you. That’s how they operate, that’s how they make you lose vigilance. 

Don’t engage them. As soon as you realize it might be a scam, block them. The sense of urgency they create with their rushed exchange, and pressure they put on you will sooner or later get to you and you might do something that you’ll regret later.

Never wire money to anyone. Never give out your personal data. Never provide your email, name, address or credit card info. 

Don’t be deceived by receiving a payment, if you somehow agree to go along with it. Just because it’s there now doesn’t mean it can’t be withdrawn. 

Here is a very standard example of such an exchange. I realized it’s a scam pretty fast and went along with it, because I wanted good screenshots for you guys, so I tried going very “by the book” with it. 

Please share this post, make it reach as many artists as possible. Let young or inexperienced artists know that this is going on. So many people have no idea that this is a thing. Let’s help each other out. If you think I missed any relevant info, do add it as an rb!

Also, if you know other scam methods that you think should be shared, consider rb-ing this post with them below. Having a master post of scam protection would AWESOME to have in the art community.

#art resources #artist help #artist advice #commission advice #scammers #instagram scam #please share with your fellow artists

[kentopedia]

nanami kento, who hates dating, and didn’t do much of it in his early twenties. but now, he’s almost thirty, watching all the people he works with settle down, have kids, and he thinks he wants that. so he might as well try.

so satoru sets him up on a few dates — friends of friends, he calls them. and at the end of every one of the dinners, kento goes home empty, exhausted, because he knows what they want is not the same.

still; he thinks maybe he’s being a little self-destructive, maybe too picky, maybe he just got so used to being alone. with satoru’s insistence, he gives all the women another call, invites them over to his apartment.

the first time was a disaster… kento had barely set the dinner on the table before his cat had hissed at her, scratched her down the arm in a thin gash. and though it did draw blood, it was hardly enough to warrant that reaction.

he didn’t even try to stop her as she picked up her bag and left, huffing like she’d been morally offend. kento, though, could only smile to himself in amusement.

because maybe kento was a poor judge of character, a man who was secretly hoping nothing would pan out — but his cat could certainly tell the good from the bad.

it became a little game to him, after that. seeing if anyone could win his pet over, and if they could, perhaps they were the one. his darling animal was a fickle thing anyway. a bit too defensive, quick to bite anything threatening after years on the streets.

naturally, no one came back twice.

he was close to giving up, accepting his solitude because he was tired of empty conversations over dinner. but then, he ventured out over the weekend to a new coffee shop, during hours he normally didn’t spend out of his home, and met you.

though you only talked for a moment, kento felt like maybe he’d known you in a past life. a part of him thought maybe it was strange, the way he kept coming back to talk to you, catching you at the end of your shift to see if you wanted to grab a coffee sometime.

by the second date, kento started to think you could turn out to be his best friend.

by the third date, kento wondered if soulmates were real.

on the fourth date, almost two months later, an appropriate time to get to know someone when you were as reserved as kento, he invited you over for dinner. it was, perhaps, the final confirmation he needed to let himself be with you.

he let you through the door, smiling softly as you told him about the book you were reading, and hung his coat on the rack. a moment later, you stopped, distracted, hands covering your mouth in a gasp.

“kento! she’s the cutest cat i’ve ever seen, you didn’t even show me pictures!” you exclaim, and, a few feet away, crouched down. “look at her pretty eyes…”

“careful,” kento said, “she’s not very—“

but the cat approached your outstretched hand, sniffed once, before letting you scratch her under her chin, purring loud enough for kento to hear across the room.

“shes such a sweetheart, you told me she was mean!” you smiled, making a cooing noise as you threaded your fingers through her fur. “kento’s a liar, isn’t he… you’re so precious.”

a few moments later, she snapped her jaw at you in a biting motion, and you only laughed, withdrawing your hand. “alright, i get it, i won’t bother you anymore.”

though she still brushed against your legs, just as she did kento’s, and seemed to communicate some sort of message to him.

“do you want any help cooking?” you ask, tucking your hair behind your ears. “i’m a disaster in the kitchen, but—“

“sure,” kento said, his chest tightening as he blinked back at you, only in his apartment for minutes and already looking as at home there. he wondered if it was possible to fall in love so quickly. “but only if you want to.”

#this is very silly #i just wanted to get it out of my drafts #i’ve had this thought for a while but #i decided i didn’t want to write a whole drabble so now you get this #kento being inexperienced at dating & not enjoying it is very special to me #and so is him having a cat tehe #selfship coded i suppose bc reader is me but it’s not that obvious i hope #beloved kento 💋 ୧⋆ ˚｡⋆ #nanami x reader #xoxo rylie 💌 ୧⋆ ˚｡⋆ #jjk x reader #nanami x you #nanami fluff #nanami x gender neutral reader

[ceilidho]

prompt: simon notices you in the stands (welder/amateur rugby player au). (nsfw, 1.9k)

-

She’s in the stands again, and he doesn’t know who for. 

The same bird as the time before, and the week before that. Always a few minutes into the match, like she snuck in through the backdoor. She always leaves in a hurry, up and out of her seat with her jacket already tugged on, her strides quick on her way out the main doors. 

In the years since joining this amateur league, Simon’s never been tempted to talk to any of the people in the stands. For the most part, they’re there for one of the other players anyway. Wives, girlfriends, sisters—the odd cousin or fuck buddy, those girls dipping in and out, replaced by newer, sparklier versions of each other, the older ones licked clean. 

His focus narrows when he steps onto the field anyway, shrinks like horse blinders sunk down over his skull. Hardly a reason for him to spare more than a glance towards the stands.

Rugby’s not a sport for spectators. At least, not such a low level league. Barely amateur—just some of the locals with a bit of built up stress and aggression to work off. It’s why he’s here after all. Simon spends the hours of his day hunched over sheets of metal and carbon steel, sweating into the metal mask pulled down over his face and staring without blinking into the heart of the flame just inches from his face. 

His nerves are a closed fist in his chest and it grows and grows until he steps out onto the field of the local rec centre and hears the timer overhead start to count down and feels someone’s chest cave in when he drives his shoulder into their solar plexus, hears the breath whoosh out of them, their next breath in thin and febrile. 

It sets his head right. Violence with no consequences. At the end of the game, he looks the man he just bruised and bloodied in the eye and shakes his hand. Puts the world to rights. 

And he needs nothing more than that. His bills are paid, bloodthirst sated, thirst quenched when the team hits up a pub after the match, after which he slinks off into the night to head home with his hood drawn over his head, the size of him rarely inviting more violence. Occasionally it happens that someone with the bad luck of choosing him to mug wants to prove that they have the bigger cock, but that never ends well. Not for them at least.

Simon would fight for a living if welding paid him less. As it is, he satiates that beast in him on the field or the occasional back alley, and it keeps him in check.

But now there’s a bird in the stands drawing his eye and distracting him from the match. It rubs him the wrong way. The blood pumps through his veins more viciously, and the pretty thing in the stands watches the game completely unaware, a serene smile on her face. His gaze keeps being pulled towards where she and a couple clusters of fans sit and nurse paper cups of tea.

She cups both hands around her tea and he wonders absently whether she’d have to hold his cock the same way. 

It’s Gaz who calls him out on it first, panting hard after the first period and frowning at the scoreboard. “Not to be a dick, but that was bollocks, Simon. Never seen you miss a pass like that.”

Few people could get away with speaking to him like that, but Gaz is right. He’s been playing like shit, too preoccupied by the bird watching him with wide, rapt eyes. 

He doesn’t know how to apologise though, so he doesn’t. “Graves is a useless twat. Can’t throw for shit.”

Gaz rolls his eyes. “Not saying he isn’t, but you’re distracted. Where’s your head at?”

“Stay out of it, Garrick,” he says, not even bothering to meet his gaze, the warning clear in his voice. 

“Sorry for caring,” Gaz shouts after him as Simon jogs away.

He asks around at first, trying to find out if she’s someone’s relative or girl, but all the guys just shrug, no answers. If she’s someone’s, they aren’t staking a claim on her. It’s good news for him. Bad news for anyone else taking an interest in the girl that comes to their every match to cheer them on.

His urges sit deeper than the abyssal plain.

She’d probably turn tail and run if she knew the hunger festering in his belly. She sits sweet and innocent in the stands cheering him on and all Simon can think about is pushing her knees up to her ears and feeding his fat cock into her pussy. Shoving his tongue into her cunt, licking her from hole to hole. Sucking each puffy lip into his mouth until her moans go garbled, eyes unfocused. 

No, Simon thinks when she jumps to her feet enthusiastically at the end of the match, she probably wouldn’t like that. Women rarely do. Objectifying them and all those other terms that Gaz likes to wax on about, Johnny nodding along like he isn’t the same kind of mutt as Simon. 

Even during the day, she troubles his thoughts. Troublemaker. He thinks of her when he cleans and buffs in between passes, mind not lulled into the rhythmic emptiness of usual. Even the sound of steel sizzling in his ears doesn’t clear her from his thoughts. Instead all he can think of is her walking into the shop in a little skirt and top, and dragging her to the back where he’d bend her over the closest desk and pull her panties to the side before sinking in to the hilt, mask still on. 

He’s never gotten his cock wet on the job—never been tempted to. For her though, he’d make an exception. 

By the next match, Simon’s made up his mind. When he sees her sneak in after the match has already started, he feels his blood pump harder, his tackles extra rough. His opponents walk away wincing and cursing him under their breath, but it only makes him preen when he glances over to find her watching him, hardly able to pull her eyes away. Price would call it peacocking. He wouldn’t be wrong. 

He approaches her himself at the end of the match before she’s had time to pack up and leave, leaning over the railing separating the field from the stands, covered in sweat and grass stains and bleeding from his right eyebrow.

She stares up at him wide eyed, looking a little lost for words. “Hi?”

“Got somewhere to be?” he asks, blunt. He’s never had it in him for pleasantries. Why waste time when he can see even now the way her eyes rove over his chest appreciatively? 

“…No,” she finally answers, shaking her head. “Just home for supper.”

“Look like you could use a good fuck. Come round back with me?”

The blatant proposition makes her eyes widen, but Simon doesn’t see the problem. Figures if she doesn’t have a man, there’s no issue with him trying out for the part. He waits her out though, vaguely admiring the pert shape of her mouth, lips round with shock. 

Finally they come back together and she chews on her lower lip nervously, caught off-guard but considering it. He doesn’t hold it against her. His bird’s pretty enough, but he doubts she ever puts herself in the position to be asked. He sees the yes in her eyes before she says it.

Still, he enjoys the way she stutters it out softly, eyes downcast. Simon doesn’t bother with his goodbyes to the guys still on the field before ushering her out of the arena and down the hall to the locker rooms with a hand on her back. He drags her into the first empty supply closet he finds, locking the door behind them. She breathes a bit heavily, almost stumbling over her feet, and that’s the eagerness he’s been looking for. Proof his bird’s just as hungry as him. 

She definitely is, Simon thinks, smug when he hoists her up and her legs wrap around his waist without a second thought, her eyes already glazed over. Like she’s been waiting for this for weeks, cunt already sopping wet when he nudges her panties to the side with his knuckles and buries his cock into her. She grips him like a vice, slack jawed and whimpering into the stretch. He likes that. He likes it more when she digs her nails deep into his back, leaving her mark behind. 

“C’mon, don’t get shy on me,” Simon huffs into her neck when she tries to grab his hair instead, what little of it she can. He stares with eyes half-lidded at the way her tits bounce with each thrust. “I like it rough.”

She clenches up at that, dripping wet. Almost a shame that he couldn’t get his mouth on her first. He’ll have to follow her back home like the mongrel he is, mess her pretty bedsheets up and make her scream until she can’t even face the neighbours the next day. 

He doesn’t need her to tell him to know that she’s a good girl, doesn’t do this ever. Only for him. He can tell by how tight of a screw she is, practically purring in his arms; it’s a fight to bully his cock into her. It’s nice when she stutters it out though, strokes his ego the right way. 

“D-didn’t think you’d notice me,” she says, all shy even with her legs spread. 

“Hard not to, pet,” Simon teases, endeared by her soft edges. His slot right in, if not a bit jaggedly. “Been panting after it for a while, haven’t ya?”

“I just wanted to get out of the flat for a bit,” she whispers.

That shifts his perception of her a bit. Infinitesimally so, but still. He didn’t expect the bird to have a lonely flame in her heart. 

“Well, I noticed,” he grunts, and then bends to suck at the salty skin at the crook of her neck before pumping a load into her.

She’s a real good girl. Comes nice on his cock and muffles her whine by biting into his shoulder. He can’t wait until he’s covered in her bites, until his nipples hurt from making her chew on them and his neck is littered with hickeys like a schoolboy. 

Taking her home is easy enough after that. She lets him drive them both back to her place, handing him the keys with a little yawn when he tucks her into the passenger seat of her own car all limp and pliant. 

And he’s right, of course. He makes a right mess of her bed come morning. 

When he leaves after a morning fuck in the shower and breakfast, the cold sinks into his stomach like a lead weight. The fist in his chest is clenched as ever; Simon hadn’t noticed it loosen in the bird’s presence, but he feels it now drawn tight again. Maybe he thought fucking her would finally shake her from his head, but instead it’s made it worse somehow. The lonely flame in his own chest flickers.

He stands in the middle of the sidewalk and thinks it over while angry nine-to-fivers snap at him before really taking him in and scurrying along. Then he turns back around, heading back the way he came.

The next time Simon sees her in the stands, he feels his smile like a phantom limb. He doesn’t have to ask to know she’s there for him.

#ceil writing #cod mw2 #cod x reader #ghost x reader #ghost/reader #cod simon riley #ghost cod #simon ghost riley #simon ghost x you #simon ghost x reader

[joelscurls]

best kept secret

pairing: dbf!Joel Miller x f!reader

words: 6.7k

summary: In an attempt to keep your relationship secret, Joel agrees to a blind date set up by his best friend / your father. You don't take it well.

warnings: 18+ minors dni, pre-outbreak, age gap (reader is in her early 20s, Joel is 36), secret relationship, angst, explicit smut, oral (f!receiving), unprotected piv, semi-public sex, car sex, creampie, some fluff; lmk if I missed anything!

a/n: so sorry it took me almost a month to post something new ffs - life got busy and my inspiration simultaneously disappeared. but we're back, baby! anyway, dbf!joel owns my ass, so here's my rendition of him. as always, ty to my baby @javisashtray for reading this over for me and helping me through the creative process <3

Joel’s bedroom window offers a perfect view of the sunrise; of shy, pink light creeping over treetops and the roof of your dad’s house across the street.

It’s gorgeous — breathtaking, even — maybe because you can count on one hand the number of times you’ve actually seen the crest of morning. You’re far more privy to late nights and sleeping in as long as you can push it,  never been one to be up with the lark, so to speak.

You don’t mind the early wakeup call, though, not when it’s this: Joel’s head tucked between your thighs, his tongue rolling lazily over your clit, your eyes still adjusting to the light as he spreads you open for him.

He’s humming against you, his coarse beard tickling soft skin, thumbs dug into muscle to hold you in place as your back bows reflexively off the mattress. He looks so sweet like this, so eager to please, staring up at you with blown pupils.

“C’mon baby,” he purrs. “Just gimme one before you go.”

They’re the first words he’s said all morning, the first thought that’s necessitated utterance. His voice is hoarse and deep and drips honey-sweet at your core. 

Even so, despite how badly you want to — because you always want Joel’s mouth on you — you’re not sure you can. 

Because you need to get home before Denise next door leaves for her early shift. Before Susan a few houses down takes her dog out for a walk.

Before the neighborhood wakes and somebody sees you leaving Joel Miller’s house. Or worse, before your dad catches you slipping into the house in yesterday’s clothes, your car in the driveway still cold.

But with another experimental flick of Joel’s tongue, you forget all that, a content little sigh slipping past your parted lips, betraying you.

Just one, you tell yourself, and then you’ll head out.

“Fuck, okay — yeah,” you breathe, twisting your fingers into the roots of his curls.

With your permission, he buries his nose in your mound. Licks at you again — with more purpose, this time. One long, drawn out lap followed by another.  

He’s so gentle with you, so careful, caressing your folds with his tongue like they’re made of paper. It’s a dizzying juxtaposition to the way he laid you down last night and fucked you, teeth scraping your neck and cock bruising your cervix.

You’re still sore, your walls tender where he stretched them, but your pussy is drooling nonetheless, surely making a mess of the bedsheets underneath you.

Because you’re insatiable when it comes to Joel. 

For the past few weeks, since the first time you’d found yourself in his bed, you’ve craved him. Regardless of how sated he’s left you each and every time, you’ve needed more. 

It’s dangerous and stupid and undeniably wrong, having a fling with your dad’s best-friend. But you’re finding it difficult to consider the morality of it all when just his tongue makes you come harder than any other man’s cock ever has. 

That tongue, now dipping into your apex, drawing more slick out of you as his thumb finds your swollen clit — It’s overwhelming how good it feels, how good he is at this.

He’s bringing you to the edge languidly, savoring the taste of you, the feel of your silky flesh. It’s like he doesn’t want this to be over, needs to stretch the moment as far as it’ll go, milk every last second before you slip from his grasp.

But it’s going to end soon; it’s inevitable with the way he’s laving your pussy, the crushed velvet of his tongue gliding through your folds so wet and warm. Your orgasm is building, and you’re powerless to stave it off any longer.

“Joel,” you warn, his name a high-pitched whine. 

“Shh, I know babygirl; it’s okay.” 

Two of his fingers hook at your entrance and push in, pacifying you as his thumb continues working your clit. “I got you. Let go for me, sweetheart.”

The soothe of his voice floods your senses like nitrous; renders your body loose and your head foggy. You come apart with a string of shattered breaths, eyes rolled back and fingers twisted into the duvet.

Joel talks you through it: that’s it, pretty girl; so good for me; always so good for me, and though he sounds so far away, his words are the only thing keeping you tethered to reality.

The world comes back into view slowly. Air settles in your lungs. And you can’t help but laugh at how fucked-out you feel when you peer down at Joel, his gaze already locked on you, expectantly.

“Okay?” he asks, rubbing at your inner thigh.

“Yeah,” you exhale, corners of your lips pulling taut. “More than okay.”

He smiles back at you. Props himself up with hands planted either side of you on the mattress and hovers over your feeble form.

“Good,” he whispers, dipping his head down to kiss your forehead, your nose, your mouth. He licks into you, letting you taste yourself on him — a little sweet, a little bitter — and his lips are so soft that you nearly melt. “Did so good, angel.” 

You want nothing more than to spend all day in this bed with him. Return the favor a few times over. Learn what he looks like in the afternoon sun against the backdrop of navy blue sheets. What he tastes like after his coffee rather than before.

“I don’t want to leave,” you admit against his mouth and he frowns, taking one of your hands in his. He presses a kiss to each of your knuckles, one by one, his eyes never straying from yours.

“I don’t want you to either, darlin’. But you can come back tonight, yeah?”

Tonight. Hours away. A whole day between now and then. But it’ll have to do. 

“Tonight,” you repeat. Solidify it. 

You slink home just as the street lights dim.

The house is quiet when you enter, apart from the incessant ticking of the grandmother clock in the living room. It sets off a throbbing in your head, a dull pang right at the front of your skull that you massage with two fingers as you ascend the stairs.

You move cautiously up each step, wincing at every creak of old wood. It must take minutes to reach the second-floor landing, and then you’re tiptoeing past your father’s room, listening for signs of sleep behind the seal of his door. Sure enough, you catch it, a single, drawn-out snore, loud enough that you let your feet fall, shuffling the rest of the way to the bathroom across the hall.

You immediately crank the shower on, climbing in as soon as you see steam. Lathering your skin with citrus-scented body wash, the smell of sex washes off your body and down the drain.

The warm water soothes your sore muscles; bittersweet relief. You stand there until the stream grows icy, stepping out and toweling yourself off just as you hear the familiar blare of your dad’s alarm on the other side of the wall.

By the time you’ve dressed and made your way downstairs, he’s already in the kitchen, nursing a cup of coffee with his back to you. 

Sink empty, counters borderline sparkling, a coaster tucked under his warm mug — your father is a neat man. He does not take kindly to mess.

God forbid, anybody disrupt the sacred balance of his home; move something and forget to put it back, break something of his that should be kept intact.

“Hey.”

“Hey, kiddo,” he yawns. Turns to face you. “You were up early. Heard the shower going.”

“Couldn’t sleep,” you lie.

“Something on your mind?”

Heat blooms across your chest and up your neck. There’s no way he knows — you’ve been far too careful. Still, you’re on edge, and the question lodges itself between your ribs uncomfortably as you frantically search for an answer.

“Uh, n-no,” you stutter. “Just work stuff, I guess.”

He seems to buy it, reaching for the percolator and re-filling his mug with a sigh, “Just gotta give it time. You only just started. Plus, it’s your first job out of school. They don’t expect you to know it all right away.”

It’s good advice, if not misguided. You nod as if you’re absorbing it, taking it straight to heart. As if your mind isn’t preoccupied.

You grab a mug from the cabinet. Fill it with coffee and creamer. Perch yourself at the breakfast table and take a slow, steadying sip.

The caffeine has just about seeped into your bloodstream when-

-there’s a knock at the door.

Your dad shoots you a puzzled look, one which you immediately return. Who could that be, so early on a Wednesday morning?

And when he pushes open the door to reveal none other than Joel, you just about fall out of your chair. Your nails absentmindedly dig into the wood of the table in an attempt to brace yourself.

“Oh, buddy — hey! Come on in,” your dad says, patting him on the back as he steps over the threshold. “Wasn’t expecting you.”

You grasp the handle of your mug like a lifeline. For a fleeting moment, you worry the ceramic will shatter in your hands.

Joel is dressed — blue cotton t-shirt covering his broad back and the deep, red scratches you left there when you dug your nails into skin, your legs hiked over his hips and your face tucked into his chest.

The pair of boxers peeking over the waistband of his jeans are different from the ones you pulled off of him last night, the ones he shimmied back into before you slept cradled in his arms.

He’s a different Joel here, now — your father’s friend, your neighbor — not the man who breaks you down with his tongue or the one who calls you his good girl while you take his entire, throbbing length. 

No, this Joel, standing in your kitchen in the presence of your father, has never betrayed him. Hasn’t tasted his friend’s daughter or felt the tight embrace of her wet, warm cunt around his cock. This Joel is reliable, honest, not one to do harm.

You do not desire this Joel, cannot. You must look at him with apathetic eyes. Must keep the boat of your longing at bay. 

Easier said than done. It’s as if your desire for him is a feral beast, fed by his touch and left starving in its wake. You feel like you’ve just run a marathon, sweat beading at your collar as you not-so-subtly follow the subconscious flex of his hands, the bunching of fabric over his biceps.

His voice bounces off the backsplash, and your fingers tighten around the handle of your mug.

“Yeah, I uh — I went to make myself coffee and realized I was out. Was hopin’ you might have some to spare?”

He can’t be serious. He came over for coffee? He couldn’t get some on the road?

“I’m afraid she took the last of it,” your dad’s eyes point to you, and you ignore the burn of Joel’s gaze when his follow.

“Ahh,” he says. “‘ts okay. I’ll grab some on my way in.” 

His fingers taptaptap on the edge of the countertop, bottom lip tucked between his teeth like there’s something else. Another reason he came here.

And then you spot it — your wallet, dark red leather, poking out the top of Joel’s back pocket. 

You must’ve left it in his room before you hurried home. Somewhere amongst the mess of trinkets and trash on his dresser. You half-remember dropping it there last night as he’d kneeled in front of you and peppered kisses up the length of your leg.

Thankfully, your dad is oblivious as ever, giving Joel the perfect opportunity to inconspicuously slip you your wallet when he turns around and crosses the kitchen, placing his empty mug in the sink. 

Joel sidesteps once, twice, extending his arm and snapping it back as soon as you have the wallet in your grasp.

Your father clears his throat. Spins to find Joel exactly where he was. “I’ve been thinking,” he starts, wrestling a slice of bread out of the bag and dropping it into the toaster, “I gotta set you up with this co-worker of mine, Deb.”

Joel freezes. You watch as the color drains from his face and his large hand anxiously cards through dark curls. You’re pretty sure you freeze too, breath caught somewhere in your throat until your dad turns to you and you remember to exhale. 

“You know Deb, right, honey?” he asks. You mentally flick through the rolodex of your dad’s coworkers. 

There’s Leanne, tall redhead, hosted a potluck a few months back at which you tasted the worst mac & cheese you’ve ever had. And Barbara from accounting, who he got into a heated argument with over who makes the best BBQ in the city. You only remember her name because he hadn’t shut up about how wrong her opinion was for a full week. 

This woman actually thinks the Smoke Shop has got better ribs than Lou’s. I said to her, Barbara, your taste buds must be absolutely torched.

But Deb? You don’t recall a Deb. Still, you’re pretty sure you hate her, just in hearing her name in this context. 

You shake your head, no. 

“Well, I guess you haven’t seen her in a while. She was there that day I brought you into the office.”

“When I was ten?” you retort. 

“Yeah, I guess it was that long ago, huh?”

You shrug. He returns his attention to Joel. “Anyway, Deb – she’s around your age, just got divorced about a year back, and she’s a real nice woman. I think you two would really hit it off.”

“Is that so?” Joel replies. You swear his voice wavers. If your dad notices, he doesn’t say anything.

“You’ll like her Joel, I promise. I mean, when’s the last time you went out with a nice lady? Not since – what was her name — Jean? And if things were going well with her, I’d hope you’d tell your old friend.” The toaster pops, and he retrieves his slice of toast. Grabs a butter knife from the utensil drawer.  

“No, I ain’t seeing Jean,” Joel sighs. Flashes you an apologetic glance as your dad slathers his toast in artificial purple jam, blissfully unaware.

“Well, you gotta get back out there!” 

Joel’s gaze rolls to the ceiling. “I don’t know – I’m just not real interested in datin’ right now.”

You exhale, then — a quiet declaration of relief that seems to go unnoticed — unperturbed even when your dad continues his pitch. 

I’ve known this woman for years Joel, I’m telling you, the two of you’d be the perfect match; she’s a looker too, real pretty.

Ew. Tuning him out, you check the clock, find that you only have a few minutes before you need to get going. You stand from the table and make your way toward the sink with your now-empty coffee mug in hand.

Would I ever lead you astray? your dad is asking just as you brush past Joel. His hand, idle by his side, catches the fabric of your blouse and you have to fight to ignore the pinprick of electricity it ignites under your skin.

“No, I know,” Joel grumbles. “I trust your judgment ‘n all, ‘ts just-”

“Will you just give her a chance?”

“Jesus; fine.”

The mug slips from your grip, falls into the sink with a clang.

Your dad glares at you, expression softening only when you gesture to the still-intact ceramic lying on its side in the basin.

He’s quickly distracted, then, jotting a series of numbers down onto a scrap of notebook paper, the blue ink pressed in so hard that it’s beginning to bleed through. 

“Atta boy,” he drawls, sliding it across the counter. Joel pinches it between two fingers, folds the paper without looking at it and stuffs it into his front pocket. 

“Promise you’ll give her a call tonight? I may or may not have already talked you up, and I need to know you’re not gonna make me look bad here.”

Joel has to see you staring at him out of the corner of his eye. He must. If looks could kill, he’d be six feet under already. But he’s refusing to meet your gaze, eyes glued to the cabinet directly in front of him as he nods. “Yeah, I’ll call her tonight,” he says, a small, unconvincing smile pulling at the corner of his lips. 

He’s actually agreeing to this?

You need to get out of here before you say something rash.

The anger bubbles in you slowly, then all at once, threatening to boil over as you slip on your shoes and sling your bag over your shoulder. 

Marching toward the door, you offer a half-hearted bye, not bothering to look back before you leave.

The office is already milling with people by the time you stroll in, ten minutes late. 

The conversation between Joel and your dad is still running laps in your head as you sneak past your boss’s door.

It sticks there through the morning and well into the afternoon, your dad’s words an incessant earworm: I think you two would really hit it off.

The thing is — you can’t blame Joel for saying yes to the setup. Not really. Your situation is complicated, messy, bound to end badly.

Maybe he’d be happier with Deb. 

They could take walks together, stroll through the grocery store or down the street  hand-in-hand. Throw dinner parties and shamelessly gush about their relationship to their friends. All without fear of being caught doing something wrong.

Because that’s what this is, you and Joel — it’s wrong. Not like you weren’t already well aware of that. Leave it to some woman you’ve never met to rub it in.

The day passes infuriatingly slow.

The pile of emails in your inbox only grows larger by the time you’re due to clock out, stack of reports on your desk barely touched. You wince when your boss stops by your cubicle on her way out, eager for an update.

“Sorry, Linda; a couple of these were more time-consuming than I’d hoped,” you lie. But you can tell she doesn’t buy it, not one bit, her expression souring as you shuffle through papers.

“I need these done by the end of the week, no matter what.”

“Of course,” you mutter, face heating with embarrassment. “I’ll get them done and on your desk by Friday.”

“Thanks.” Her heels are already clacking on tile when you open your mouth to apologize again, your sorry lost to the ether.

You gather your things and scramble to your feet as soon as she’s out of view, not sticking around to watch your computer power down. By the time you get to your car, Joel’s number is already dialed on your phone.

He picks up after two rings.

“Darlin’ — are you okay?”

It’s admittedly uncharacteristic for you to call him so early. You usually wait until after dark, when you’ve both retreated to your respective bedrooms, away from listening ears.

But this can’t wait. It’s been eating at you all day, digging into your work. If you don’t talk to him about it, you’re going to end up unemployed. You don’t bother to ask if he’s still on the job site, around other people. “You’re going on this date.” It’s not a question. More of an accusation.

“Baby,” he sighs. You try your best to ignore his molasses drawl and the way it seeps into your chest. 

“Why didn’t you say no?” 

“How could I?” he groans. “There’s your dad, askin’ me if I’m seein’ someone, sayin’ he’s already told this lady about me – what am I supposed to say?”

“I don’t know.” Your voice comes out a whine. “Make something up. Tell him you’ve taken a vow of celibacy.”

He laughs, low and breathy on the other end. “Yeah, baby. Think he’d believe that one, f’sure.”

“Fuck,” you huff. “I just— I don’t-“

You want to tell him not to go. To cancel. Fake his own death. Do whatever it takes to get out of this. But you have no right, not really. The two of you aren’t dating. You don’t have any control over what he does or who he sees. And you don’t want that, no. You just want him to choose you.

“I don’t wanna go, darlin’. I really don’t. But if I do this, I think it’ll get him off my back for a while. He won’t have a reason to suspect that I’m foolin’ around with his daughter.”

Fooling around. His phrasing is a metaphorical punch in the gut.

It’s not exactly a lie. You haven’t put a label on this thing, whatever it is. It’s been purely physical: lips slotted to lips, tongues pressed together, swapped sweat and saliva. But hearing it reduced to two words, words with such a casual connotation — as if you haven’t been driven by overwhelming desire — makes your stomach churn.

Joel doesn’t seem to clock it when you go quiet, a cocktail of rage and sorrow sloshing around your insides. “It’s for the best,” he adds, a shot of hard, burning liquor. 

“Yeah,” you say defeatedly. Choke back the pathetic tears that creep up your throat. “For the best.”

He ends the call with the excuse of bad cell reception. Promises to talk to you later. You’re not sure that you believe him.

The phrase fooling around curls up in your head, a wet dog, its fur dripping into the crevices of your rattled brain the entire drive home.

You dodge Joel’s calls for the remainder of the week.

There’s no use in talking to him when you have nothing to say, when you know any words you attempt will be overtaken by tears.

Even so, it doesn’t stop him from trying. His number lights up the screen of your phone at least twice a day.

He leaves voicemails that you do not listen to. You can’t. The last thing you need is his syruppy drawl in your ear. You’ll break; you know you will.

So instead, you delete them. Rid yourself of temptation.

But you still ache for him — a devastating truth. You lumber through the days, bones heavy with hurt. Find yourself kept up at night by thoughts of Joel and the infuriatingly soothing timbre of his voice, the intoxicating callous of his fingertips against your soft skin. 

It’s a lonely thing, yearning for Joel Miller.

On Friday, your father beams at the dinner table. He’s grinning like a child as he stuffs a forkful of rice into his mouth.

“Joel and Deb’s date is tomorrow,” he says. “Think they’ll really hit it off, don’t you?”

You’re dumbfounded for a long moment — can’t believe that this is your life now: being asked about your thoughts on Joel and the ever-elusive Deb as a couple. When it takes too long for you to answer, your father’s fork stills pointedly on his plate, and you sputter.

“Oh! I mean, I don’t know. Like I said, I don’t remember Deb.” You can’t help your condescending tone. Your dad doesn’t seem to catch it anyway. 

“Well,” he says, “I think they’ll be a match. Hoping so, anyway. The man has been such a hermit lately — maybe if he has a lady, he’ll get out more!”

“You sound real excited,” you grumble. Stab four peas on the prongs of your fork.

“It is exciting. I’ve never set anyone up before. And the best part is, the place they’re going to — the Tavern — it’s got rooms you can rent out for wedding receptions. Just imagine if down the line, they got mar-“

“Dad,” you stop him. You think you’ll be physically sick if you let him finish that sentence. “Sorry, I just — I’m really tired, all of a sudden. I think I’m going to head to bed early.”

It’s not a complete lie. You’re emotionally exhausted as a result of the past couple days. Sleep sounds like a much-needed, blissful escape right now.

Your dad doesn’t question you. He just nods. Swipes your plate from in front of you and brings it to the sink along with his.

Of course, you find it impossible to actually drift off that night. Tossing and turning, you battle the glaring urge to get up, slink into the home-office and look up directions to the Tavern. 

Not that you’re planning to go there anytime soon — you’re just curious. That’s all. 

Around midnight, you give up, pad down the hallway and into the room parallel yours. The computer dials up slowly, and you chew your bottom lip as you wait. 

You snatch a piece of paper from the printer and a pen from the #1 Dad mug that sits next to the monitor. Click on the internet icon and type the words into the search bar.

This is definitely a bad idea. Maybe the worst you’ve had in a while.

You jot the address down anyway.

Downtown Austin is buzzing with life. 

Patrons spilling out of bars, tourists striding down the street in their brand new Stetsons – it almost distracts you from the task at hand. 

At just past seven, you’d told your dad you were going out, meeting a friend for drinks. He’d been a bit taken aback, seeing as you’re not very social these days, but he’d seemed happy. Relieved. 

That’s not what you’re doing, of course.

No – in reality, you’re turning into the parking lot attached to the Tavern. It’s packed to the brim with cars, but you still manage to find Joel’s truck, its license plate number burned into the back of your mind after countless mornings of absently reading it as you snuck past.

It’s idle and empty when you inch by, and even though you knew he’d be here, on this date, your heart still sinks. Because maybe a tiny part of you had hoped he’d stand Deb up. 

You should leave. It was stupid to come here in the first place. What are you going to do — storm inside and demand that he leave with you?

You consider it for half a second, groaning when you realize how pitiful you are. Defeated, you swing your car into a spot at the back, facing the building, and shift it into park. You hug the steering wheel dejectedly.

From here, you have a straight-shot view of the restaurant’s entrance, a set of double doors at the side of the building. Groups spill out every so often, every pair that emerges causing your back to arch reflexively.

Joel and Deb are probably discussing their interests right now, bonding over a shared connection with your dad. You can vividly picture the smile likely plastered across his face — the same one you’ve elicited with sweet filth whispered in his ear.

And you’re here, sitting in your running car, watching the door. Your pulse thumps obnoxiously loud in your ears.

Minutes pass like molasses, slow and thick. You watch the clock on the car radio obsessively, betting with yourself on what time they’ll leave. After thirty minutes of nothing, you’re convinced that they’re going to close the place out.

But then the door opens again, and you straighten up, immediately met with the sight of Joel and Deb. 

She’s talking animatedly, eyes widening every few words, blonde hair wafting around her narrow face. It’s undeniable that she’s stunning, even from far away; possesses the kind of beauty you see on magazine covers in line at the grocery store. The jealousy that pools in your gut burns like acetone in an open wound.

She takes his arm as they walk toward the parking lot, and he lets her, despite the rest of his body appearing strangely rigid.

You wonder if he’ll take her home. Lead her to his truck, help her up the step to the passenger seat and sneak a look at her ass under her dress before shutting the door. If they’ll leave her car in the lot for the night, come back to retrieve it in the morning once he’s helped her forget about her loser ex-husband; let the scent of her perfume seep into the bed sheets to cover up yours.

But he doesn’t lead her to his truck. You watch as they unexpectedly turn down a row of cars, disappearing from your view completely, his arm still locked with hers. 

He could still kiss her. Press her against the car. Promise her that he’ll call — and he will, first thing tomorrow. He’s probably just being a real gentleman. Treating her like a woman he might want to marry someday. 

Maybe he knows, after just one date, that she’s his soulmate. He’ll buy the ring in a couple weeks. They’ll be engaged in a month’s time, and he’ll say he just couldn’t wait any longer. 

She’s the one thing I’ve been missing.

You stew in the agonizing unknown for what feels like hours before Joel materializes once again, backside illuminated by headlights as he strides toward his truck.

And then — he stops. You see the exact moment he notices your car in the parking lot, his eyebrows threading together and his hands splaying over his hips.

He’s staring directly through the windshield. At you.

Fuck.

He takes a few slow steps. Stops in front of the hood. Narrows his eyes and flexes his jaw.

With a deep breath, you unlock the doors. Gesture for him to get in the passenger side. 

He immediately rounds the car, prying the door open and climbing inside just as a SUV pulls out the row he and Deb had walked down. 

The door slams when he yanks it closed. The sound echoes through the cab of the car.

“You wanna fuckin’ explain what you’re doin’ here?” he snaps. You’re afraid to look him in the eye, embarrassment and now, anger, spooling hot behind your ears.

You know you’re in the wrong. You shouldn’t have followed him. But does he have to be so hostile?

When your gaze finally meets his, he looks — distraught — jaw clenched and lips set in a straight line. His fingers absently dig into denim-covered thighs.

“I don’t know,” you mumble, “I just wanted to see how you were with her.” And it’s the truth; not one you want to be admitting right now, to him, but it’s the truth nonetheless.

“Doesn’t give you the right to spy on me.”

“So what was I supposed to do? Sit at home and mope while the guy I was seeing is on a date with someone else? Oh no, I’m sorry,” you throw your hands up, form air quotes with your fingers, “the guy I was fooling around with.”

This seems to strike a nerve. His jaw twitches, and his fingers still on his lap.

“It wasn’t like that,” he grits

“No? Isn’t that all this was to you: fooling around?”

There’s a beat. Joel sighs. 

“No — fuck, no. Of course not.”

His expression softens. A crack in solid stone. “I tried callin’ you,” he says, voice barely above a whisper.

“I know,” you admit.

He nods. Another beat.

“Did you kiss her?” you ask.

“No.” He says it with intent, with promise, eyes firmly locked on yours now. 

Your mouth goes dry.

“No?”

“No,” he repeats. “I didn’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because I didn’t want to.”

“You don’t want her?” 

“No,” he says flatly, his pupils bulging in the lamplight, black bleeding into the brown of his irises. “I don’t want her.” 

“Why not?” 

He leans forward. His weight presses into the center console and his breath fans your face — warm, tinged with the scent of cheap beer.

“I don’t want her,” he says, voice an octave lower, “because I want you. I thought you knew that?” 

The radio drones between the two of you, some classic rock song you think you recognize flitting through the speaker. Your pulse beats staccato in your throat, off tempo.

“You want me?” you ask, a little breathless, and the next words you say are beyond dumb, beyond reckless, but you say them anyway. “Prove it.”

Joel doesn’t hesitate. He closes the slight distance between you and kisses you, hard, his tongue frantically sliding against yours through parted lips.

It’s sloppy, and desperate, and you feel drunk on the taste of him, on longing laced with carnal need. He’s groaning into your mouth, grabbing your head with both hands, burying his fingers in your hair — as if he can’t get close enough, as if he’ll only be satisfied once he’s swallowed you whole. You’re pretty sure you want him to.

Your hands move frantically to his t-shirt, then, bunch into the fabric and pull. You need to feel the skin underneath, need to rove your hands along his bare chest. He accommodates, tugging the shirt by the back of the collar, lips separating from yours ever-so-briefly to bring it over his head and toss it onto the backseat. 

And then he’s back on you, licking into your mouth again, eliciting a whimper from you when his hand wraps around the side of your throat, just under your jaw. 

Your palms splay across his torso, wander over warm, golden skin. You’ve missed this, god, you’ve missed this — but it’s still not enough. You need to feel more of him. In your mouth, in your hand, in your cunt — you’re not picky. Just need him in whatever way he’ll provide.

“Joel,” you whimper into his mouth, fingers winding around his bicep. 

He pulls back. Peers at you through hooded eyes. “What is it, baby?” he asks through labored breaths. 

“Need you — please.”

He immediately unbuckles your seatbelt. Lowers his seat back and manhandles you onto his lap. You go easily; slot yourself to him with legs folded on either side of his thighs. 

Wrapping your arms around the back of his neck, you grind down into his lap. His cock strains against denim underneath you. He groans when you swivel your hips and brush the heft of it again with your clothed heat.

“You gonna let me fuck you?” he asks into your mouth, his forehead pressed to yours.

Your breath catches. 

You know what he’s really asking: are you going to  let him fuck you here, in the parking lot of a public establishment, where anybody could see?

But you don’t care. In fact, you’re way past caring, the emptiness of your cunt too painful to ignore any longer. Let them watch him take what’s his.

You nod frantically. “Yes,” you pant. “Please.”

Joel nods too, as if he’s accepting his fate. He’s going to fuck his friend’s daughter in the passenger seat of her car. There’s no way around it — not when you’re begging for it. He’s going to give you what you need.

“Okay,” he soothes, “I got you baby.” 

He helps you out of your pants, then; clumsily maneuvers them down and off your legs along with your panties and tosses them aimlessly into the back.

He doesn’t bother to take his jeans off. Lets you unzip them and pop the button open, your nimble fingers making quick work of it. And then you’re pulling his cock out of his boxers, stiff and leaking in your grasp.

You steady yourself with hands on his shoulders just as he begins to pepper placating kisses along your neck. “Go ahead baby,” he whispers into your ear. “Take it; it’s yours.”

His head falls back against the seat as you stroke him a few times and line his cock up with your dripping entrance, his hands clasped around your waist. 

You sink down slowly, savoring every inch of him as he burrows in deeper. He’s so thick, stretching you like it’s the first time again, your walls fluttering as they relax around his cock.

“Fuck,” Joel slurs, fingers digging into your skin impatiently when you still, fully seated on him.

“Gotta move baby — please move.”

He’s so fucking deep, though, his cockhead bumping your cervix, and your entire body feels gelatinous atop him. A cloying sort of heat hangs around your head. You swivel your hips weakly, your forehead falling to rest on his with a heavy sigh.

Joel is happy to take control, bucking up into you so hard you see stars. You can’t suppress the string of moans that spill from your mouth, and Joel doesn’t seem to mind. He’s just as loud, anyway, his broken sounds bleeding into yours, bouncing off glass and leather.

Neither of you can muster an actual word, though, not with him rutting up into you, sheathing himself in your pussy over and over again. He’s relentlessly hitting that spot — the one that has you practically clinging to him for dear life. 

It’s approaching too quickly; he’s going to make you come.

One of your hands flies to the roof of the car in an attempt to brace yourself, flat palm pressing into it so hard you worry it’ll pop. 

Joel takes the opportunity to drag you down in his lap, spearing you on his cock, and the sudden change in angle makes you cry out.

“Oh f— ahh, oh my—“

“That’s it,” he coos, “you got it, babygirl.”

His words tip you over the edge, your entire body locking up as you gush around him. You’re wetting his lap, slick splattering his thighs, and he loves it, his fervid moan telling you so.

His movements begin to falter then, hips stuttering underneath you as he chases his own high.

“Cmon, baby,” you goad, “please fill me up.”

He grunts when he spills inside, his face nestling in your chest, heaving as he works through it and begins to come down. You don’t move, not that Joel would let you, still holding you on his lap like he’s afraid to let you go.

You nuzzle into his embrace as his cock softens inside you.

You stay like that for a while, probably too long given that anybody could easily look into the car and see you straddling him. You don’t have the energy to care.

Eventually, you lift your head from its spot on Joel’s chest. Look up at him with bleary eyes.

“Joel,” you say.

He meets your gaze, face shiny with sweat and his hair a mess. He looks gorgeous like this, you think. The way only you get to see him.

“Yeah?” He grazes along your arm with featherlight fingers. His touch raises goosebumps on your skin.

“Did you mean it?”

“Mean what?”

“About wanting me.” In truth, you’re not sure you want the answer. But you need to know, definitively, if Joel is yours. You’re done sharing him.

“Oh, baby,” he drawls. “Of course I do. You’re all I want. Do you want me?”

And it’s a stupid question. He has to know that. You’re nodding before he can even finish it. “Yes,” you breathe. “I want you, Joel”

“Then it’s settled. It’s me and you. No more…interlopers.”

You giggle. Reluctantly separate yourself from his body and re-dress. You settle back into the driver’s seat with achy legs.

You’ve never felt more content than you do in this moment.

Still, you’ll have to hide — won’t be able to share the news of your new relationship with friends or coworkers, your dad — and neither will Joel. 

You don’t care much, not as long as he’s yours, but you need to be sure he feels the same.

“Joel,” you stop him as he opens the passenger-side door to get out. He stills with one leg swung out the door.

“Yeah, darlin’?”

“Are you sure you don’t mind…being a secret? Don’t mind keeping me a secret?”

He looks at you like you have two heads.

He pulls his leg back into the car. Shuts the door and leans over the console again.

Taking your chin between his fingers, he forces your gaze. Makes sure you’re listening.

“I want you — doesn’t matter who knows or doesn’t know. Long as you’re mine.”

Your chest tightens, and your heart squeezes inside your ribcage.

“I’m yours?”

He smiles. Presses a chaste kiss between your eyes, on the tip of your nose, on your lips. The same way he did the other morning. 

It all feels somehow sweeter, now.

“Yeah, angel. You’re mine. My girl.”

end notes: tysm for reading! please consider commenting and/or reblogging if you enjoyed! I've been toying with the idea of turning this into a series so lmk if that's something you'd be interested in hehe.

Also, I hopped on the bandwagon and made a sideblog for notifs! I'll be doing away with a taglist from here on out, so follow @joelscurlsupdates & turn on notifications if you wanna be notified when I post a new fic :-)

tag list: @janaispunk @amanitacowboy @fhatbhabie @frannyzooey @lola8888673

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