#wordless ways to say i love you

[paperpocalypse]

fish dad.

50 Wordless Ways to Say “I Love You”: 8. Buying them something unrequested because it made you think of them.

Pairing: Sparrow!Ben Hargreeves x Reader

Word Count: 3,161 words

Warnings: Swearing, one brief depiction of blood/death, Sparrow!Ben

“Before you say no –”

“Hell no,” Ben hisses at you. “I’m not babysitting it.”

“Before you say no,” you repeat earnestly, legs dangling freely as your forearms stick to Ben’s windowsill, “just consider how this would benefit you. The public loves Fei’s birds. Animals are badass.”

“Oh, yeah, I’ll throw a fucking two-inch fish at the enemy and Dad will promote me right back to Number One. Thanks.”

“His name is Ben, Jr., and I’ll have you know that he killed at least two other fish while he was with his previous owner.”

You hold the plastic bag containing the blood-red betta fish out towards Ben, who curls his lip in distaste. Still, you notice how his eyes linger on the slow, wave-like motion of Ben, Jr.’s fins before sending another glare at you.

“I have more important things to do than take care of a fish,” he says condescendingly.

You tilt your head.

“Like what?”

“Like fighting crime, dumbass!”

(Ben does not peel you away from his window for your feigned naivety, which is an improvement from last year.)

“Please, the Sparrows have nothing to do these days except walk around and look cool. My niece is staying over for two weeks, and she literally likes to sleep with the fishes.” You cut a thumb across your throat for emphasis. “Just look after him for two weeks, Ben. For me?”

He scoffs. “What makes you think I’d do anything for you?”

“Because I’d do anything for you.”

Ben’s mouth snaps shut. He makes a face as if he’d just chewed up a whole lemon, and you stare openly at his scrunched nose, Ben, Jr. dangling from your hand.

A gust of wind blows past the building. You shiver, knees scraping against the rough brick wall.

“Bullshit,” Ben finally manages.

“It’s not bullshit.”

“It is.”

“Why?”

He leans over his bed towards you, splaying his hands over the comforter. “Because if you’d really do anything for me,” he murmurs, voice a low, bitter drawl, “you’d join the Sparrows. Not unload your pet on me like a deadbeat parent.”

Your smile slackens just slightly. As it does, Ben rolls his eyes and pushes off the mattress.

“That’s not fair,” you mutter, breaking eye contact. “You know why I don’t do that anymore.”

“Your past is an explanation, not an excuse.”

Guilt-tripping me for being a child soldier is kind of a shit take, Number Two, you want to say, but you don’t.

Ben, Jr. flits back and forth in his little bag, appearing to sense your agitation. You take a deep breath in through your nose and fix the original Ben with an irritated look.

“Look, I came here to ask for a favor, not to have this conversation for the millionth time.” Setting Ben, Jr. on the windowsill, you reach back to unzip your backpack. So much for your good mood. “I guess I’ll just give him to Jenny instead.”

Ben narrows his eyes at you.

Right before you can store the fish away and start your slow descent, a tentacle reaches out and takes the bag from you.

You frown. Ben clicks his tongue and places the fish on his desk with more delicacy than you know he would ever admit, avoiding your quizzical look all the while.

“You owe me. Don’t go crying to me if Fei’s crows get to it,” he grouses.

“Keep your door closed,” you reply tersely. “You already do that, don’t you?”

He doesn’t answer. “Do I have to buy the stupid tank, too?”

“Everything he needs is in my car.”

With that, you heft yourself up and over the windowsill, hopping over the bed and landing solidly in his room. Ben stiffens when you nudge his shoulder with the back of your hand and head to the door.

“Where are you going?” he demands.

You look over your shoulder at him, still a bit miffed but ready to get a move-on.

“To get Ben, Jr.’s stuff. Come on and help me?”

Despite his grumbling and complaining, Ben trails after you down the hallway towards the stairs.

—

At first, he tells Grace to take care of the fish, but that order is quickly retracted when the robot malfunctions and starts dumping a shit ton of food into the tank. After that, it seems that taking care of “Ben, Jr.” is solely his responsibility. Fuck.

He takes great pains to ensure that nobody else knows about his situation, but this lasts for exactly two days. At least Sloane, the most tolerable Sparrow next to Chris, is the first to know.

“What’s with the fish?” she asks upon slipping into his room to borrow his blue Copic marker, staring at the five-gallon filtered monstrosity you had called an adequate temporary tank.

“Stupid present from a fan.”

His sister tilts her head. She approaches the tank, squatting down to trace the glass, and Ben resists the sudden urge to tell her to back off.

“Must be a pretty big fan. Look, it even has our colors.” She’s right. Though it’s mostly red, there are blue details at the bases and fringes of its fins, something that Ben had noticed the moment you shoved it into his life. “Did you name it?”

“Of course not. I don’t even want it.”

The quiet, piercing way in which Sloane regards him is unsettling. He meets her gaze head-on as she stands back up.

“Well, if you don’t want it, I’ll take it. I’ve always wanted a pet,” she says.

“No,” he replies without even thinking.

“Oh.”

There’s another excruciating moment of silence where she looks at him, and his short temper flares. He hates it when she acts like she knows something he doesn’t, like a mother waiting for her child to understand the bigger picture.

There is no bigger picture. He knows this – his ranking’s higher than hers for a reason, after all.

“What, Sloane?” he snaps.

She smiles, and his anger quickly turns to dread.

“I saw you carrying the tank up with [Y/n].” Oh, for fuck’s sake. He crosses his arms as she continues, her tone airy and wistful. “You should be nicer to your friends, Ben. We don’t have very many of them.”

“It’s not a gift,” Ben tells her sourly. “I’m stuck with it for two weeks while their fish-killing niece is staying over.”

“Well, it’s nice of you to look after it. You usually don’t do things for other people.”

He bristles. She says it like he’s getting soft.

“We’re exchanging favors. I’m not doing this to be nice.”

“Oh.”

No matter what he says to try to convince her, Sloane doesn’t seem to take him seriously. Nobody in this goddamn academy does.

“Just – take the marker and leave,” he ends up saying – to set a boundary, not to admit that she’s right in any way, because she has the wrong idea about all of this. “And close the door.”

Sloane nods. Casting one last glance at the tank, she takes her leave without another word, closing the door after her with a soft click.

Ben is alone once more. He glowers at your fish as it hovers near the surface of the water.

“You’re a pain in my ass, you know that?”

Ben, Jr. just flutters his fins.

—

At the end of the first week, you drop your niece off for a sleepover and then stop by the academy to check on the fish.

“Wow, he looks good,” you exclaim, admiring Ben, Jr.’s vibrant, healthy colors.

“Why do you sound surprised?” Ben retorts.

You raise an eyebrow at him. “I mean, you were pretty reluctant to take him in.”

“I wouldn’t kill your fish on purpose.”

“Have your siblings met him yet?”

He sends you a look of poorly masked bemusement. “Sloane saw him.”

(You know that Ben doesn’t really bother with personal matters when it comes to his siblings. Some of the Sparrows (read: Jayme and Alphonso) would probably try something stupid for shits and giggles, anyway, and you would rather not let that happen.)

(But still, you entertain the idea of the others learning that Ben can, in fact, take care of something other than himself.)

“Oh, okay. You know, she’s always seemed like the type to get a pet. A little, fluffy white dog, or something like that.”

Ben shrugs disinterestedly.

Grabbing the bottle of fish food, you sprinkle a little bit into the tank.

“You said he killed at least two other fish.”

Looking back at him, you sigh. “Yeah, his previous owner dropped other male bettas into the bowl and made them fight,” you answer, watching Ben, Jr. slurp up the flakes with a frown. “Asshole got bored after a while, though, and I managed to buy this little guy. Good thing, right?”

“What kind of loser watches fish fights?”

“Losers who like how easy it is to cause them,” you say. “Male bettas are really territorial, so it’s on the owner to keep them in the right environment. Otherwise, they’ll end up hurting other fish and getting hurt themselves.” You roll your neck to the side, feeling the vertebrae crack. “Mind if I sit on your bed?”

“What do you think?”

“No?”

“Don’t put your shoes on the sheets. They were just cleaned.”

“Sure thing,” you respond, taking your shoes off and making yourself at home near the foot of his bed. “So, how was your week? Kick any ass?”

“Flew to Philly and fucked up some kidnappers. It didn’t even take ten minutes.”

“Whoa. Cool. I looked at spreadsheets and confronted Janelle about eating my lunch in the break room.”

Ben raises an eyebrow at you, blatantly unimpressed. “Doesn’t having such a boring-ass life bother you?” he asks.

You consider, drawing your legs up to cross them. Does it bother you? A nine-to-five office job, mediocre workplace drama, a normal sister with a normal daughter that visit your normal apartment twice a year. Bills. Overpriced tea. Decently ironed shirts in different colors. An old cat that follows you to the bathroom when you wake up in the middle of the night, skin sticky with sweat and head pounding with dreams of blood on your teeth and your old teammate with his skull cracked open like an egg.

“Civilian life isn’t boring,” you conclude. “Especially if you can scale buildings.”

“Whatever you say,” Ben drawls, sitting down in his desk chair, elbows on the armrests and legs spread as if he’s on a throne.

“Come on. Every superpowered kid thinks about what they’d do if they were normal.”

You don’t miss the way his jaw clenches.

“We’re not children anymore,” he informs you. “My power is a gift. I’ll always be a Sparrow. It’s who we’re meant to be.”

Wetting your lips, you scratch the back of your neck. Every time the two of you are together, the conversation inevitably circles back to the academy. It’s his life. It’s all he’s ever known and all he has, all the bells and whistles attached. Sometimes, you wonder if you would’ve had the same sentiments if your team was – better. Stronger.

In a fucked-up kind of way, you’re glad that it wasn’t.

Three sharp knocks interrupt your train of thought.

“What?” Ben sounds a little more annoyed than usual.

The doorknob turns, and you’re met with Fei’s carefully neutral expression, a single finger still raised from pushing the door open. A crow is perched on her shoulder.

“I’d appreciate not speaking through the door. It’s time for dinner,” she reports, inclining her head towards you. “You’re welcome to join if you want.”

You glance at Ben. He meets your gaze, then rolls his eyes.

“I don’t care if you stay or not.”

Geez, what a bastard. You kick at his ankle. “I wasn’t looking for your permission,” you chastise. You turn back to Fei. “I’d love to join your dinner meeting, as long as I get to sit next to Benjamin over here.”

“Don’t call me that.”

The corner of Fei’s mouth twitches. “All right, then,” she says, turning. “Hurry up and get Chris. I’m not going to wait until my food gets cold.”

As she leaves, you stand up along with Ben. “Her crow didn’t even look at Ben, Jr.,” you note.

“Her crows don’t do anything she doesn’t want them to do,” Ben says, putting a hand on your back and pushing you out of his room. “Now hurry up.”

—

You answer after two rings. Or three. Or five? He can’t count for shit right now.

“H … Hello?”

“[Y/n],” Ben mumbles, relieved. He fumbles with the phone, managing to pin it between his shoulder and ear before it slips and clatters to the floor. “Shit. I dropped you … pfft …”

He hears you snort quietly. “Ben, are you drunk dialing me at two in the morning?”

“Nooo. It’s three in the morning, dumbass. Three-oh-two.” Something in his throat catches, and he hiccups loudly, then giggles. “Thanks for pickin’ up. I hate leaving messages.”

“Well, I just woke up, so I guess you’re lucky, huh?”

“Why’re you whispering?”

“Because my niece is sleeping –”

“I lost your fish.”

“… What?”

“I lost your fish,” Ben repeats, and unexpectedly, sorrow wells up inside of him. His eyes sting, and he hangs his head, chin dipping down against his chest. “I can’t find him.”

“Did you look inside his little cave?”

“No, ’cause he left me. He left because he hates me soooo much.”

“He doesn’t hate you, Ben.”

“Yes, he does,” Ben insists. “’Cause I hate him. All he does is swim around and hide, and I hafta fuckin’ feed him and clean his stupid tank. And he can’t even be with other fish because he fights and kills them, and he flares at me when I put my face too close. I hate Ben. So now he’s … he’s gone.”

There. He finishes his explanation in one breath, then listens expectantly for your reply so he can argue some more. When you take too long to answer, Ben almost cries.

“Why’d you take such good care of him, then?” you eventually ask.

“Because you like him,” Ben slurs. What kind of question was that? Stupid.

“You could’ve just told me if he was too much. There are other people who can take care of him.”

“I’m good enough to take care of your fish. You asked me first. Don’t ask anybody else.”

“I didn’t ask anybody else, Ben. I knew you’d do a good job.”

“But I lost him.”

“Again, did you check his cave?”

“No.”

“Check his cave, dingdong.”

He pointedly looks away from the tank. “No. He needs to stay lost. He’s better that way.”

“Ben –” You sound exasperated, but then you laugh. It bumbles through the haze in his brain and he smushes his ear against the receiver to hear it better. “Fine. Do you know why I like Ben, Jr.?”

“Hell if I know,” Ben mutters.

“Because he reminds me of you,” you reply. “He deserves to be treated well. Thanks for doing that for me, Ben.”

This is frustrating. You’re frustrating. “I don’t get you,” he complains, eyes closing. “He’s just a fish.”

“That’s all he needs to be for me to like him. Look, check the cave or not, but he’s probably still there. Enjoy your hangover tomorrow.”

“You’re so fuckin’ mean,” he grumbles into the receiver.

You laugh again.

“Pot calling the kettle black. Go to sleep.”

“You go to sleep.”

You hang up. Ben drops the phone and stumbles to his feet, then stumbles toward the tank and squints into the dark maw of the small cave in the corner.

Sure enough, he spots Ben, Jr. snoozing inside.

“Go to sleep,” he also tells him.

Less miserable now, Ben is somehow able to remove his socks and unbutton his shirt before flopping limply onto his bed and drifting off himself.

—

At the end of the second week, you crawl through his window and announce that you have a confession to make.

Ben’s smile drips with arrogance. “Sorry, but I don’t date, sweetheart,” he says.

“I’ll make sure to cry in my bedroom later,” you reply wryly. “Not that kind of confession. It’s about Ben, Jr.”

“What about him?”

“Well …”

You linger on the word, and Ben crosses his arms impatiently, shooting a glance at the fish that had taken over his room for the past fourteen days. Ben, Jr. looks perfectly fine to him. He had fed him, kept the tank clean, even gotten a stupid moss ball after Sloane mentioned them in passing. For all intents and purposes, he’d spoiled the shit out of your fish. Surely him just being alive was good enough for you.

“‘Well’ what?”

“He wasn’t for you to just babysit,” you say, hands raised like he’ll unleash his tentacles on you. “He’s a gift. For you. I figured a trial run would’ve been better than just dropping him off, no takebacks. And my niece really does kill fish, so two birds with one stone, I guess.” You pat the top of the tank with an almost shy grin. “If you still don’t want him, I can take him today.”

He’s a gift.

Ben blinks. He clears his throat.

“It’d be a pain in the ass to move the tank out,” he mutters. When he sees your eyes light up, he glares up at the ceiling.

You hum lowly. Rubbing your chin, you start to walk towards him.

“So do you want the fish or do you want me to –”

“I want the damn fish,” he snaps. His cheeks flush as you get closer, and he drags his hand down his face in an attempt to scrub the heat away.

Snickering, you stop. “Okay, then. That’s all I wanted to know.”

He grunts.

His brow furrows as you spin on your heel and wave at Ben, Jr. before making your way to the window. You push the window up, and a balmy summer draft blows in.

“What are you doing?”

You put your foot on the sill and stick your head out. “Leaving?”

When Ben seizes your arm, your skin is already rough, but he maintains his grip despite the discomfort. “It’s almost six-thirty.”

“Yeah, your family dinner meeting. Don’t be late.”

“Stay for it.”

“Oh?” Your lips curl upwards. “You want me to stay for dinner again?”

Scowling, Ben lets go. Whatever sensation that’s prickling his chest seems to expand twofold when you duck back into his room.

“No. Forget it.”

“Nope. I’d never turn down a free meal,” you state. “Might as well beat Fei to it, huh?”

You leave the window open, leading him to the door. He doesn’t realize that he’s caught your wrist again until you’re dragging him down the stairs, babbling on about how Ben, Jr. might be okay with other fish if he gets a bigger tank.

Ben doesn’t care. Not at all.

#wordless ways to say i love you #source: @50-item-writing-prompts #ben hargreeves #sparrow!ben #ben hargreeves x reader #sparrow!ben x reader #the umbrella academy #tua #the sparrow academy #tua ben #tua fanfic #fanfic #reader insert #fluff #something something ben confronts his self-hate via a fish named after him #blahblahblah

[paperwayne]

worldy things.

50 Wordless Ways to Say “I Love You” ➡ 21. Sharing your umbrella with them in the rain.

Pairing: Titans!Rachel Roth x Reader

Word Count: 1,232 words

Warning: Religious themes

Rachel tries to make herself invisible at church.

Churches are houses of God, after all – and whatever she is housing, it is the opposite of holy, restless in her legs, itching anxiously in her chest as she sits in the pew and lets the sermon scrape the inside of her damned skull; but she stays, if only for Mom, who plunges herself into religious routine like it’s the only thing that can save them.

(So far, no luck.)

“Want some gum?”

“Sure.”

But even if church turns out to be a bunch of baloney (she banishes this thought immediately just in case it’s not), Rachel is still glad that you’re here.

Most of the members avoid talking to her. Just like the last church, they had said hello for the first attendance, eyes raking over her black clothes and black nail polish and purple hair, and figured that she was another poor, devil-worshipping teenager –

(We’re so glad you’re joining us today

We’re so glad to be here)

– and even now, Raven forces a smile as uncertainty and pity crawls from their hands to hers when she shakes them at the church door. And hey, it’s better than what she gets at school, but pity doesn’t make her feel like any less of a freak.

“… I have some Snickers, too,” you whisper as the speaker continues, pulling a handful of candy out of your pocket. “Want some?”

Rachel holds out a hand. You press one Snickers Minis into her palm out of sight of Mom, looking straight ahead during the deal. Mischief and boredom and friendliness spark underneath her skin at the contact. She squeezes her fingers around the chocolate (it’s an ‘R’), pleased, and stuffs it into her bag for later.

The sermon goes on. She keeps quiet again, listening as best she can; the preacher has a kind aura but talks for way too long, and she only grasps some of his points before getting swept up in boredom again. The verses for today are easy to understand, anyway. (If only the message translated better in real life.)

“Love is patient, love is kind …”

Rachel glances to the side, through the window. The world outside is gray and dim – it’s going to rain.

Mom didn’t bring an umbrella.

By the time the postlude starts playing, the gum is tough and flavorless between her teeth. You lead Rachel out of the sanctuary when your mom starts talking to someone and her mom goes to talk to the pastor.

“Let’s go outside.”

“Are you sure? It’s pretty bad out there.”

Finger guns. “Brought an umbrella.”

You disappear into the coatroom, then pop back out with said umbrella, and the two of you push the doors open to the thick, sharp sound of rain bursting against concrete.

Rachel does not mind the rain too much. In fact, she usually likes it so long as it’s not thundering badly. A harsh storm, raindrops sharp, air heavy and fresh – it’s probably the closest thing she’s ever felt to true peace. Purity.

Up goes the umbrella. Out into the rain go you and Rachel.

“Whoo,” you say. “It feels like hail.”

“Hell?”

“Hail,” you enunciate with a snort. “Rain is, like, the opposite of hell.”

Your tennis shoes are already soaked, and so are the edges of your pants. Rachel had always wondered why you only dressed halfway for church, pairing a nice, ironed shirt and khakis with those old, scuffed-up shoes, but she’s figured that it’s not important enough to ask. The soles of her own shoes are pretty worn too.

When you make your way to your family’s car, you ask if she’s coming over for lunch.

“I don’t know,” Rachel replies, though she’s been craving your mom’s layered three-bean dip for the past week. “I haven’t done the geometry homework yet.”

“It’s just lunch. You can go home to work on it after.”

She raises an eyebrow. “You won’t make me stay until your mom has to kick me out?”

“What? Me? Never.”

You laugh, the umbrella slipping in your hand. Rachel grabs the handle before it falls, and her grip is right above yours, so that the coldness of your skin comes with the flash of amusement and fondness that prickles her nerves like a bad shock. She withdraws.

“So, yay or nay, Rachel?”

“I’ll ask my mom.”

Rachel catches the tail end of your slow, thoughtful nod, and she folds her arms around herself as a rain-laden breeze passes underneath the umbrella.

“She doesn’t like me, does she?”

You say it so matter-of-factly, Rachel can’t help but wince. “She just doesn’t know you like I do,” she counters honestly.

“Aww.” You grin, but it’s a little smaller than usual. “Is it because I tried to talk to you during prayer?”

Rachel shrugs, looking at the puddle at her feet. That had been an issue, but only a minor one. Mom doesn’t like you because you have a weird knack for nailing issues on the head, while Mom would rather say that everything was okay until they are. But talking about that will bring up a whole load of things that you probably shouldn’t know about.

“I’ll come over for lunch,” Rachel says. “Don’t worry.”

Looking over your shoulder, you nudge her and dig your free hand into your pocket. “Hey, who said I was worrying about anything?”

You worry about a lot of things.

“Rachel.” The sound of Mom’s voice through the rain makes Rachel’s head snap up. “There you are. Are you ready to go?”

“Yeah. I mean, actually”—Rachel gestures to you hopefully—“um, can I ride with my friend to have lunch at their house?”

“You can come too, Ms. R,” you pitch in. “My mom always makes too much food.”

Mom looks very reluctant. She has her purse over her head for cover from the rain. It does a poor job. She glances over you and then at Rachel, who puts on her best, pleading look.

After a few moments of standing in the rain, she finally acquiesces. “Well, alright. Thank you for inviting Rachel for lunch. I can pick her up at three.”

“Sweet! Thanks, Ms. R.”

(Maybe ‘Ms. R’ is a bit too casual.)

“Thanks, Mom,” Rachel says, stepping out from the umbrella for just a brief second to hug her. “Uh … you should get to the car. Your clothes are getting really wet.”

“I’ve noticed,” Mom tells her resignedly. “You have fun, sweetheart. Stay safe. Be good. Call me if you need anything.”

Rachel nods quickly. “Mhmm.”

As Mom hurries off, heels clicking, you suck in a breath. “Yeah, she definitely doesn’t like me.”

“She’s glad I have a friend, at least.”

“So we are friends! I knew I could get you with junk food. You had that kinda vibe.”

Cheeks warming at your teasing coo, Rachel rolls her eyes. “Thanks.”

As your mom comes out of the church, umbrella-less just like Rachel’s and slightly irritated because of it, you turn to Rachel.

“Mario Kart after lunch?”

“Only if you want to lose.”

The car’s headlights flash, and you open the passenger door. “Ooh, okay, I see how it is. Now I’m definitely gonna beat you.”

Rachel shakes her head, slipping into the backseat. You follow soon after, folding up the umbrella and shaking it out.

“I’d like to see you try.”

#wordless ways to say i love you #source: @50-item-writing-prompts #rachel roth #raven #rachel roth x reader #raven x reader #titans #titans imagine #dc #dc fanfic #dc imagine #reader insert #friendship #romance ?? #fanfic #*slaps roof of fanfic* this bad boy can fit so much symbolism in it #and very badly lol #tw religious themes #tw religion

[born-to-lose]

29: Giving them a kiss before going to work and they are still in bed (Aleksi Kaunisvesi)

Part of the 50 wordless ways to say "I love you" series

Tag list: @warriorteam1924 @the-killer-queenie @dumbass-of-darkness @bloody-lip-season @disrespectfullcalum @kyrju @smells-like-perfect-senses @sweetnightowl @whoreforblindchannel @kellyrosie @thetimecrystal @tryingtoliveintheshadows @wow-ihateithere @fedorable-killjoys

Tip me if you want!

You could definitely imagine a better way to spend Aleksi's first day at home after Blind Channel's European headliner tour, but you also couldn't take the day off from work because it was going to be quite busy today.

Your boyfriend had only arrived in Finland late last night and when you picked him up, he was too tired to even report on the tour in detail, so he went straight to bed - but not before you smothered him in kisses and told him how proud you were of him.

Obviously, you didn't want to wake him up because the last month had been so exhausting that he really deserved and needed a good night's sleep now. You knelt down on your side of the bed to give him a light kiss on the temple, whispering, "Goodbye honey."

You stayed there for a moment longer, wishing you could just snuggle up to him and not leave the bed for the next couple of hours, but then the clock on the wall behind him caught your eye. As you realized you had to leave now or else you'd be late, you sighed and stood up, grabbing your bag and closing the door behind you as quietly as possible.

#mel writes #aleksi kaunisvesi #aleksi kaunisvesi x reader #aleksi kaunisvesi imagine #aleksi kaunisvesi fic #alex mattson #alex mattson x reader #alex mattson imagine #alex mattson fic #blind channel #blind channel x reader #blind channel imagine #blind channel fic #50 wordless ways to say i love you

[scorndotexe]

i will defend scorn's combat (and scorn in general--some people have valid complaints but generally people are fucking stupid about it) with my dying breaths but as much as i genuinely loved the scorn experience and want to tell all my fellow freaks on here about it i also wanna say. the combat may frustrate you. you may not like the puzzles. it's not a walking simulator but you may feel like it's too slow-paced. leave the creatures alone. look up walkthroughs if you just want to skip the puzzles. can't fix the slow-paced aspect though, at that point you're not the target audience.

#i want people to play it so badly or at least experience it in some way #but i don't wanna be responsible for people being. fucking stupid about this game #OH ALSO if you're not into wordless storytelling you won't be a fan #there *is* a story but it's not told to you and there *is* lore but you have to pay attention #to the environment and to the details and themes #can't stand when people say there's no story #of course there's a story #i really love scorn *because* it's vague and *because* i have to think about it #i love thinking about stories and themes and messages #i wish i got to do it more in video games #anyway. if you're like me you'll probably love this game #persimmon's rambles

[spiderrmax]

thinking of reblogging a writing prompt list

#specifically rhe 50 wordless ways to say i love you one #ive been enjoying writting drabbles. they cause less burnout #im just scared no one will request lol

[willowser]

your little angel of a son inherits katsuki's bad temper, and it manifests in his terrible fours.

there's an awful little shriek that echoes throughout the house and katsuki is on his feet and halfway to the living room before his eyes are even open—but the only danger awaiting him there is a pouty little brat.

his son is sitting amidst a swarm of toys that have been strewn about haphazardly, and his arms are crossed and big fat tears are in his eyes and he looks mad as all hell. you do, too, sitting across from him with a deep frown, holding the ripped page of a book from his little shelf.

"no sir," you warn, "we do not treat our things this way."

you incite a meltdown.

katsuki feels his own temper flaring—half from shock and awe at his little mini-me and also from the exhaustion wearing him thin—when your son kicks his legs out in a burst of rage, letting out another little shriek of anger. your cheeks puff up, wearing the same furious expression, and at the hiss of his name, the little brat jumps to his feet and snatches a toy truck nearby and launches it across the room.

"oi!"

your son's attention snaps to katsuki, startled, losing a hint of anger as he pouts at the floor.

"what'd she just tell you?" and when he gets no response, katsuki prods with a, "hah? answer me."

but the little boy only stamps his little feet and grunts out a furious, wordless sound that has katsuki's lip curling. you let out a heavy sigh, shaking your head at him before frowning down at the torn page in your hands, and then katsuki is planting a hand on the back of his son's head and steering him towards the front door.

"time to take a walk."

the boy goes, even though his arms are crossed and his eyes are downcast. he only resists once, as katsuki tries to shove his little feet into his shoes.

"i don't wanna." he mumbles, face scrunched and wet before promptly looking away.

"i didn't ask."

"hmm!"

katsuki has to resist the urge to pinch his own son.

they get out the door eventually, and the little boy stomps along for the most part, no longer needing a guiding hand on the back of his head once they get around the block a time or two. neither of them say anything.

fatherhood has taught katsuki a lot of things, which was expected, but the one thing that's surprised him is—he's learned all the things he doesn't want his son to be.

the first of them being angry. not the way katsuki was, mean and selfish, throughout his childhood; hateful and careless, in his teens; shut off and simmering, even now.

he waits until the tension has melted off his little shoulders, until his little face has dried and evened out. his arms swing at his sides, occasionally coming up to wipe his snot with the back of his hand, and he eyes the few wildflowers they pass with a little hum and a small smile.

katsuki tugs once on his ear, frowning down at the little brat when he peeks up at him. "that how you're supposed to treat your mama?"

he doesn't answer at first, leaning his head all the way back and clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth, until katsuki stops walking. "no, sir."

"how you s'posed to treat her?"

"with love."

"how you s'posed to treat your toys?"

"with care."

"uh-huh," katsuki squishes his son's cheeks in his hand, shaking his head lightly from side to side until he starts giggling. "that how you acted today?"

"no, sir."

"that how y'r gonna act again?"

"no, sir."

"okay," katsuki murmurs, nodding once before letting him free. the little boy bounces on his feet and sucks on his lip, grinning when his tummy is pinched. "now pick those for your mama."

and he does, carefully plucking a small handful of flowers from the grass as they make their way back home, and just before he runs up the steps to the house, katsuki's little angel of a son hands him the biggest one.

#cw children #i firmly believe katsuki just has to give the kid one look and he's like. oh shit. #LMAOOOO #dad's up. #bc katsuki isn't going to take him throwing shit around akfjeiqql #NOT IN A BAD WAY HE'S JUST. LIKE. ABSOLUTLY NOT HAPPENING BUDDY. #he's a firm dad but. he makes sure his son knows he's still loved ofc 😌 #✿ thoughts: bakugou #✿ theme: dad bakugou

[mariahcarreyyy]

https://www.tumblr.com/pa-the-tic/739789955544596480

Max would a 100% say that after overstimulating the shit out of u

🙈 anonnnnnnnnnnnnnn i love you for this im in my max era rn nsfw 18+ work under beware ⬇️⬇️

Mmm thinking about Max fucking into you with you on your back to watch you pretty face as he makes you come over and over again. On his mouth, his fingers, his cock. His eyes stubborn on your tear-stained cheeks and biting his bottm lip whe ur pathetic whines fill the room.

"M-Max, I can't, can't, no more, please," you sob when his thick hands trail over your tits and down to your red, puffy clit.

He tuts disapprovingly, slapping ur clit in a way that has your back arching and vision clouded. "There we go-- fuck, shatje, cum all ov'my cock, yeah, 'jst like that, good girl."

The blond above you fucks you frantically through your (third, fourth, fifth?) orgasm and the clenching of your hot, wet pussy around his cock tips him over the edge. Once he's absolutely sure his all of his cum stuffed you full, he pulls out slowly before immediately shoving his thick digits inside your hole. A loud yelp slips past your lips at the pressure, and your thighs clamp around his arm instinctively. No more, no more, no more.

Max's brows furrow, and he inches closer to you, parting your legs with his body. "Why are you closing your legs, baby?"

And like. Max looks so genuinely confused it's almost adorable. Well, as adorable as he can get with his veiny hands between your thighs. You let out an embarrasing mixture of a moan and whine, attempting and failing to close your legs around Max's hips.

"Your legs were made to stay open," Max grumbles, annoyed at your resistance. "so I can enjoy the view and touch, taste what's mine whenever I want."

Max's fingers are still inside you, plugging you up with his thick, warm cum like you were made for it. Made for him, his cock. A determined sigh leaves your lips, and you obey his wordless demand, spreading your shaky legs as much as you could.

"No, shatje, that's not enough, spread 'em a little more," he sighs, lazily thumbing at your clit like it doesn't make it impossibly harder for you to keep your legs open.

It's all toeing the line between pain and pleasure, but you can take it. You know you could. The hot praises Max whispered beside your ear as he pounded into you from the back told you as much. So, you do.

"Just like that," Max groans at the sight of your fluttering pussy around his digits. "Perfect. Always perfect f'me."

#mariahcarreyyy . . . blurbs #max verstappen x reader #max verstappen x you #max verstappen smut #max verstappen imagine #max verstappen fanfic #max verstappen fluff #max verstappen x y/n #mv33 smut #mv33 fic #mv33 x reader #mv33 imagine #mv1 fic #mv1 smut #mv1 x reader #f1 x reader #f1 fanfic #f1 imagine #formula 1 imagine #formula 1 x you #f1 fic #f1blr #formula 1 x reader #formula 1 fic #formula 1 fanfic #formula one x y/n #formula one x reader #formula one imagine #formula one fanfiction #formula one x you

[arminsumi]

★ 'Cause I'm Sagittarius

Pairing : Gojo / fem reader

Synopsis : birthday boy Gojo Satoru unwraps and enjoys his gift — which is you!

Warnings : 🔞 MDNI/18+ content, riding, some hair pulling (him), light size kink, deep penetration, f*ngering, f*replay, cr*ampie (reader is on birth control)

Content : smut, birthday sex, some pining/love sick Satoru, some plot

Note : this is my happy birthday to this man 😗✌️

The glitter on his skin shimmers under the chandelier light. There's confetti stuck in his hair, which has been ruffled up throughout the night. Crimson and burgundy lipstick kiss marks decorate his face and neck, but he wipes them off when he sees you arrive.

Gojo Satoru certainly didn't expect to see his high school crush at his 34th birthday party. You're the one he used to be obsessive and desperate about when he was 17. Unbeknownst to him, Shoko invited you — she had to practically beg, because you lived so far away from Tokyo. Shoko convinced you after telling you how much Gojo Satoru still blabs about you to this day.

You completely steal his attention without realizing. Your oblivion charms him even more.

But each time Satoru tries to reminisce with you and bask in your company, it only lasts a few minutes because he's stolen back by the smothering crowd.

And then for the first time in years, he feels annoyed to be the center of attention.

Can everyone disappear except for her; I just want us to be alone together.

Someone gives him a plastic crown at some point in the night. It adorns his snowy head it until it falls off while he's dancing — and wow, Gojo Satoru dancing is a spectacle.

The way he moves his body to the music captures your attention and you stare.

You and him make electric eye contact. He sends a wink your way and you bite your lip back to him. It takes him aback and he stutters on the dance floor. Just this small, wordless interaction between you and him — even though you two haven't seen each other in years — is enough to excite him and get his heart pumping harder.

He pries his dance partner off of him, half-heartedly apologizes to her, and then desperately follows after you as you get lost in the hazy crowd.

Satoru finds you, he looks sweaty from dancing. He grabs your arm, mutters a breathless hey and asks if you want to go somewhere quieter with him. So you giggle and agree, taking his hand and letting him lead you out of the heat of the party.

Clutching his gift, you acknowledge the pile of presents that are piled up in the foyer. It makes your gift seem pathetic, but Satoru's eyes glitter when you give it to him and he pockets it as if you've gifted him your heart.

Just flirting and talking back and forth with you for a bit makes his cock harden. He can feel each inch slowly grow and press against his inner thigh, making a prominent bulge in his tight suit pants.

"Sorry I didn't bring you a good gift..." you say.

Satoru gives you bedroom eyes, then replies with, "But you brought yourself..." he rasped, "How about I unwrap you?"

⁕⁕⁕⁕

Trapping you in a heated, sloppy make out, Satoru slithers his tongue past your lips and groans into your mouth. You've lured him upstairs.

His pale, veiny hands slip under your dress and massage your thighs and hips, inching up until the bottom curve of your ass shows.

He leads you down the empty hallway, and desperately opens the door to his bedroom by pressing his back into it, never breaking from your lips as he pulls you in with him.

You gasp when he finally relieves your tension by rubbing the heel of his palm into your pussy. His big hands cup and squeeze it.

Satoru's jaw juts a little as he sucks a mark onto your neck. You lace your fingers into his hair and squeeze your thighs together. His dick throbs when you start begging him to rub your pussy.

Lowering your panties until they rest mid-way between your thighs, he gathers your juices on his fingertips and rubs up and down your puffy clit for a bit before sinking his middle finger into your pussy to stimulate your G-spot.

You pull on his hair and he moans, "Fuck, pull my hair harder."

Now this is the attention he actually needed tonight. Your fingers snuggling into his white hair and pulling on it while he snuggles his fingers in your slippery pussy.

Satoru stretches you out on his fingers and toys with your G-spot until you're trembling. Then he withdraws before he starts working up your orgasm.

When you try undress yourself, he stops you.

"I'm the birthday boy and you're my gift," he smirks, "Let me undress you."

And he starts undressing you like he's unwrapping a present. Satoru's nimble fingers peel off your dress and panties and unclasp your bra. His touch is cool against your hot skin.

He drifts his fingers up the middle of your back with a touch so light it's ticklish. It's on purpose, to make you shudder and tense your back into an arch.

"You're really g-good at this..." you breathe.

"Yeah, I know. It's 'cause I'm a Sagittarius." he replies smugly.

He unbuckles his belt and slides it off.

⁕⁕⁕⁕

The party is still ongoing, and guests are craning their necks and darting their eyes around in search of Gojo who just suddenly disappeared with you.

Satoru wants you to ride him; he begs like a spoiled prince.

"Come on, please, I wanna see those hips bouncing on my lap." he coos.

His eyes light up when you agree to ride him. The next request the birthday boy has is if he can do it raw, and he doesn't expect you to agree so his jaw drops open when you nonchalantly agree, telling him to go ahead and cum inside too if he wants because you've got birth control.

Soon you're bouncing up and down on his bare cock and he's relishing in the sight of your body jiggling. He tilts his head back and bites his lip, hungrily feeling up your breasts and your back.

"Faster." he groans, "Don't get sloppy now. Keep bouncing those hips on me or I'll do it myself."

When he feels his orgasm build up, he grabs your hips harshly and takes control.

"Fuck, Satoru!" you gasp, melting against his broad chest, cheek squishing against his pink nipple.

He pounds his cock into you at an angle that turns your brain to mush and slurs your speech. You hiccough and curse, feeling his big cock's tip rubbing deep inside you.

"Oh my god," he chuckles through a moan, "That pussy's so clingy. You're driving me insane, baby."

His muscular thighs hit your ass, his tight, full balls slap against you as he goes as fast and hard as he can. "That's it, just lay on me and take it."

"I'm so close, gonna cu—mmm! Cumming, 'mmm cumming, Satoru!" you scream. Good thing the party downstairs is so loud.

He groans and gets off to watching you orgasm on his cock. You cross your eyes, feeling his dick rubbing so deep makes you cum like a slut.

"Fuck, I'm cumming too. Take it." he grunts, fucking you hard but holding back his true strength.

It feels like his breath runs out when he cums. He gasps so dramatically and spurts out a huge load of cum deep into your hot, tight pussy. His toes curl and he pinches his eyes shut, while his lips naturally stretch into a slutty O shape.

You slide off his sensitive cock and whimper, feeling so empty after getting stretched open so much.

Rolling off each other's bodies, glowing, panting like you've run a marathon.

He hardly looks roughed up like you do; his hair is tousled from the sex, yes, but his skin glistens and glitters with sweat and body glitter, giving him this ethereal beauty. He has to close his eyes after cumming so hard and so much. His balls feel empty.

Satoru lays with you for a while, massaging your sore parts with his big hands.

"I'm so glad you came tonight." he says cheekily. "Wanna go out for coffee sometime?"

© arminsumi

I do not permit the copying/reposting/translation/plagiarism of my works. Do not steal what I've worked hard to create.

This is fictional work.

#smut #mdni #🔞.smut #gojo smut #gojo satoru smut #gojo x reader smut #gojo x fem reader smut #gojo #gojo satoru #gojo x reader #gojo satoru x reader #jjk smut #jjk x reader #jjk x you #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen smut #jjk x reader smut #jujutsu kaisen x you #jjk gojo #jujutsu gojo #gojo jjk #satoru #gojou satoru x reader #jjk satoru #jujutsu satoru #jujutsu kaisen satoru #satoru gojo #jjk fic #gojo fic #satoru x reader

[unmarlou]

i know you.

pairings. luke castellan x daughter of zeus!reader.

summary. when luke starts sneaking back into camp to see you, he’s changed.

lacy says. being a daughter of zeus isn’t relevant at all to the story i just needed an empty cabin to use LMAO.

· · ౨ৎ · ·

you thought back to the first time you noticed it.

it wasn’t the first time he visited, or the second, or even the third. it was right around when you got comfortable with him again, when you began to forget that luke was no longer welcome here and that you’d be a traitor all the same.

the sheets of cabin one were never scratchy so long as he lay in them. his bare rising and falling chest was rhythmic underneath your ear, the only sound being a mixture of leveling breaths and a distant wind chime hung at the big house.

minutes had passed and still he was wordless. breaths kept hitching as if he were going to say something, but suddenly thought better of it and let go.

his delicate hands rested on your body, one hand mindlessly moving up and down your exposed back, the other on the forearm of yours that was strewn across his abdomen. this was typical of his visits, though the lack of conversation was not.

not that he’d tell you much, he was always reluctant to give answers or explain himself, something you had to adjust to from being so used to a luke who’d divulge all his secrets from just the bat of your lash.

but he did love to ask about you, what were you up to? what new skills had you learned? did you miss him?

the answer to the latter was always, of course. and on cue he’d lean in closely, a lovely hand on your chin to make your eyes meet, and whisper, “soon you won’t have to, i promise.”

but tonight there was none of that. he was silent and as much as you tried to ignore it and simply enjoy the time you had, it plagued your mind. shifting your eyes to see him, his gaze was fixed on the wall ahead, his expression indiscernible.

fully lifting your head from its place of rest, if he wasn’t touching you, you would’ve thought he didn’t even know you were there. the spaced out look on his face was slightly unnerving, causing your hand on his stomach to reach up to his cheek. leading his face to yours, his eyes slowly peeled off the wall to you.

there was a pause in time, where it seemed like he was just looking through you. windows to the soul were facing each other but his were boarded up and sealed off. concern rose in your chest while also feeling slightly dejected, though it might’ve been selfish to think that way in the moment.

with a soft and kind face, your thumb ran tenderly along his scar, the way you used to do all those years ago. like a shift in the tide, he immediately awoke from his trance, closed his eyes, and heaved a great sigh.

the smallest bit of relief came to your aid in knowing that trick still worked. he was still your luke.

upon opening his eyes, they shot back and forth between yours, his hands miraculously remembering you, and flexing for a stronger hold. though you were in his arms, something told you he was still worlds away.

he reached forward and brushed his lips to yours, with the gentleness of handling porcelain. the warmth of his skin was a brief reminder that despite your worries, blood circulated his body, he was here; he was real. he guided you back to his chest, and now, even the wind chimes were silent.

he’d wait for you to fall asleep before he left. however, a secret you’d take to the grave was that you never were sleeping- only pretending- in an attempt to savor his touch, his scent, his very essence. you never did know the next time he’d grace cabin one.

the light had gone out long ago, moonlight now clinging to the walls. his flesh left yours, and your distorted gaze fell on his back. it was littered with scars, mostly old but a few noticeably new- you suddenly understood why he’d insist on holding your hands when sharing a bed.

you watched his large frame lean down, acquire his shirt, and slip it on. as routine he’d sit on the edge of your bed, tying his shoes, readying to creep out the door and away. he once again wore that disturbingly blank expression.

he then did something out of the ordinary: he continued to sit. you tried your best to maintain an even breathing pattern, to raise no suspicions, but it didn’t seem to matter- he hadn’t cared to look back at you a single time.

moments passed on before his head fell to his hands. you could make out the arch of his spine beneath his shirt as his face pressed into his palms. he labored multiple breaths and you fought the urge to take him in your arms, to cradle his fretting mind.

more and more time passed and you found yourself genuinely dosing off, the long day- and now night- catching up to you. your eyes inherently closed and your mind half gone, you finally heard the distant sound of luke’s footsteps and a familiar creak of the door, before allowing a world entirely of your own take over.

-

the crunch of the underbrush made your stomach whirl with each step.

“luke-”

“shhh!”

he was a fair ways ahead of you, weaving through the trees with stealth. he wore a long sleeve underneath his t-shirt, indicative of the chill in the air; you were in pajamas, indicative of just getting out of bed in a rush.

you were tossing and turning this night, unable to forge comfort in your bed, when you heard the snaps of twigs in the distance. the last wordless visit from luke still reeling in your mind, even after weeks, allowed you to peek out of the window, just to be greeted with the far shadows of familiar broad shoulders. so here you were now, trailing behind him in the woods.

the lack of light made it hard to pinpoint where you were exactly, but it seemed familiar enough not to panic. luke was here, he’d never let anything happen to you.

“luke!” your plea was as hushed as you could make it, still hoping for him to stop.

his turnaround was harsh, almost deliberately so. “what?”

his voice ran through the gaps in the trees, causing him to peer around quickly, fearing he’d been too rash. he took a deep and silent breath before stalking back to you.

standing in front of you, the moonlight streaming down encased the two of you just enough to create an illusion of privacy.

he repeated, “what?” he spoke just above a whisper.

“i w…” he practically winced at your tone, a silent reminder alongside his eyes bearing into you with expectance, “where are we going?”

luke had an affinity for being unable to conceal his facial expressions, especially when he was met with a question he thought was stupid. you hated being the subject of this look.

“i just need to check some things out, i’m not staying.” his bluntness would’ve been a sufficient distraction of its own had it not been accompanied by obvious impatience.

with best efforts, you ignored this, always finding it in your heart to be rational and sympathetic. your manner softened as if handling a temperamental child while giving him the opportunity to reciprocate, “i just,” a breeze brushed hair over his shining eyes, “i miss you.”

he was once again boarded up and sealed off. the lack of acknowledgment written on his face was equally hurtful as it was frustrating. seconds passed with his unfazed expression searching yours, and finally, unable to take the haunting gaze, you reached a hand up to brush his moon-illuminated cheek.

without hesitation he maneuvered away, fervent with avoiding your touch. he cleared his throat, “you should go back to your cabin.”

slowly recoiling and folding your arms in front of yourself to conserve what little warmth you had, he didn’t take a second look back before starting on his trek again.

you couldn’t even begin to feel hurt when anger was seeping in and taking over. years of relentlessly critical thoughts came flooding back all at once; how passive he was, how much you were willing to risk for him, how his face would fall to dissatisfaction when he thought you weren’t looking.

unable to help yourself, you called after him, “what do you want from me, luke?”

his halt was abrupt and he peered over his shoulder, “what?” he sounded incredulous, like the proposal of this question was just as stupid as before. his head whipped back to you, his eyes fixed and dark.

tension that had been built over time was boiling now, “you’re shutting me out! you left!” hopelessness was rising in your chest as his jaw clenched in challenge, “what am i supposed to make of that?!”

wind whistled passed trying to take your clothes with it. his familiar nose twitch gave away your getting to him, though he was quick to relent. you spoke again, “tell what it is that i’ve done. tell me what you expect of me.”

“i don’t expect anything of you. i’m not here for you.”

you were staring into his eyes, desperately scouring for something more yet you were met with stone. gods he was so beautiful. why was he breaking your heart?

with a release of pained air, your face remained carved with fury; you were not going to give him the satisfaction of seeing you cry. you began taking steps back, feeling your head shake slightly but being set on letting that be the last words that hung between you.

turning to leave, he was quick to grab your forearm, his grasp tight and unwavering despite your flexes. you were met with an unnerving glint, “don’t even think about going to chiron.”

the most painful part all of this was luke believed you could betray him just as he did you. never once did the thought of telling cross your mind.

the fatal flaw of loving luke castellan was that even now, looking up at him for a fleeting moment, there was a longing for his comfort. eyes flicked to his chest and you felt as though you could fall right into it without conviction. but the trees rustled above, and reality swept in.

you wrenched your arm from a hand that was once so loving, and unable to stand his gaze much longer, followed the path of least resistance back to camp.

-

the smell of campfire engraved itself into your clothes.

stepping onto the marble stairs leading up to your cabin, you bid a goodnight to the friends you’d be leaving behind for rest. the echo of laughs and avid chatter filled the cul-de-sac of cabins, the camp turning in for sleep with spirits still souring after a night at the amphitheater.

the hearth in the center of your earth raged on, casting everyone in a homey glow. shouts of sleep well! and don’t let the stolls bite! were strewn across porches. giving your final farewells to the outside world, the door of cabin one was opened.

immediately you saw him. to be fair, it wasn’t like he was hiding, and it wasn’t difficult to spot the only person inhabiting the whole place. he sat on the edge of your bed, facing the door, his head hanging into his hands. you felt as though you’d seen this before.

“luke?” your voice seemed impossibly small in the expansive room.

his shoulders instantly tightened as he looked up. catching his full appearance, you took a discreetly sharp inhale of surprise; he was pale, an indescribably striking pale, accompanied by a tear stricken face. his cheeks were glossed from leaking eyes, and his hair was slightly tousled, like he’d been running his hands through it too many times.

this was unlike anything you’d ever seen before, let alone from luke. straight edge, always tidy, never-let-them-see-you-at-your-worst- luke.

you began to thank every god quickly and individually that none of your friends had asked to come back to your cabin to continue the fun, as they usually did after campfire.

“i’m-” his voice was hoarse, “i’m sorry, i…” he shook his head, not finishing his thought before shutting his eyes in an attempt to stop his tears.

you stood frozen at the entryway, still taking in the sight. you truly didn’t think you’d be seeing him again, or at least not like this. you’d been trying your hardest to beat down any remaining soft spot for him after his dismissal of you last time, trying to hold true to your anger.

he wasn’t making it easy.

the air had become stiff despite a breeze sweeping through and a sour taste was advancing on your tongue.

he lifted an arm off his knee and extended it to you. such a small act, yet it incited an internal battle between your heart and your mind. you weren’t sure when the dense pit in your stomach had arrived but were sure it was here to stay.

your eyes on his- they seemed a harsher brown than you were used to, in contrast to his newly stark complexion- they were filled with the most desperation one could have. he was pleading.

he slowly became closer and closer, yet he hadn’t moved from his place on the bed, and you found yourself no longer in the entry way. your heart had presently won. it hammered in your chest, shouting words once spoken aloud, i’m here regardless of the pain, a promise.

reaching his strong hand, placing fingers in his palm, irreverent shock jolted you into the moment. he was cold to the touch, iciness spreading up your arm and tying itself around your neck.

it made your next action quick and practically thoughtless, taking an immediate seat on the edge next to him, still holding his woeful eyes. his heavenly face trembled with more emotion than it could handle, and he fell hastily into your shoulder with a heart-shattering sob.

he clung to your torso like a lifeline, tears warming through your shirt. you deemed the feeling of his shivering body against yours the worst you’ll ever know.

as if his torment was a weight now on both of your shoulders, you two slipped onto the floor, melting into the foundation. but your arms never relented from his. the hiccups of his cries seemed to echo in the vast space.

“i’m sorry.”

“i know.”

“i’m so sorry.”

“i know.”

and so this continued. his consistent beg for forgiveness and your incessant declaration of understanding, repeating it so many times it didn’t even sound like english by the end.

cradling him and his fretting mind now, the way you were sure may castellan had when he was young and scrapped his knee, making claims of knowing the pain he was experiencing.

a hand reached down to his cheek and led his face to yours. as a pure act of admiration, your thumb ran tenderly along his scar. watching him intently, you saw a flicker- if only for a second- of the boy you loved, once not hurt by the world he was subjected to.

a whispered, “i know.” meant you did, a solemn swear. it meant don’t tell me to go away from you because i know. it meant his anguish was not his to bear alone.

it meant you knew him regardless if he could recognize himself while looking right in the mirror.

“i know you, luke.”

· · ౨ৎ · ·

#luke castellan #luke castellan fic #luke castellan x reader #luke castellan fanfic #luke castellan x yn #luke castellan angst #luke castellan imagine #charlie bushnell #percy jackson #pjo #pjo hoo toa #percy jackson x reader #Spotify #percy jackson fic #percy jackon and the olympians #percy jackson fanfiction #fanfic #pjo fanfic #pjo imagine #charlie bushnell fanfic

[itaipava]

— different ways to say 'i love you' with f1 boys.

˒ ⌕ LANDO NORRIS

the “i love you” that rolls off the tongue so naturally.

the daily i love you between two people who have been together for so long. the kind of i love you said in the morning while rushing around the house, stopping just a brief moment as you pass by each other in the living room, followed by a loving peck on the lips; that sweet little moment before the morning continues.

˒ ⌕ DANIEL RICCIARDO

the loud “i love you.”

because he wants to let others know just how in love he is with you, let the whole world know, let the trees and the sky know. the kind of i love you, yelled with a gleeful grin on his face as he pokes his head out of the window, the wind rustling his hair, his hand waving at you while the car drives off. perhaps your whole neighborhood heard him but you’re too occupied with smiling and waving back at your idiot to care.

˒ ⌕ CARLOS SAINZ

the wordless “i love you” shown through actions.

his love is felt in that meal he prepared for you on a date night because he found out it’s your favorite recipe and he’s been secretly learning to cook it for the past week. it’s felt in the little things he does for you like when he helps you with your chores without you having to ask. his i love you is not something you hear often but you feel the depths of his love in silence.

˒ ⌕ CHARLES LECLERC

the “i love you” said with subtle touches.

there’s something about the way his fingers roam your body in the morning, even before you wake up. in the way his pinky looks for yours when you walk side by side, and also the way his fingers gently trace every detail of your face when you look at each other; as if he wanted to explore with his fingers every universe in you.

˒ ⌕ LEWIS HAMILTON

the “i love you” demonstrated by subtle gestures.

the loving way he brushes your hair out of your face as you speak so he can see you better; the way he gives you his jacket so you can cover your lap when sitting when you’re wearing a skirt/dress; the way he tucks the blankets around you in the middle of the night so you don’t get cold, it’s the warm, comforting hug followed by a beautiful and bright smile he gives you every time he gets home; it’s little things, but that’s how you know how much he loves and cares about you.

˒ ⌕ OSCAR PIASTRI

the “i love you” is said through gently messages.

it’s through little things like “let me know when you get home”, “did you sleep well?” “i’ll always be here” “did you eat today?” “how can i help you?” “want something from starbucks?” that’s where he demonstrates his love for you; it is through gentle and subtle messages and words that make your heart race and you fall a little more in love with him.

˒ ⌕ MAX VERSTAPPEN

the “i love you” said through the look.

the purity and genuineness of his love is visible through the sparkle in his eyes every time he sees you; enchanted by every little detail of yours that he loves so much. for him, you are the most beautiful work of art that exists and that no artist will be able to capture your brilliance and your beauty. and he is so lucky to call this work of art his.

#f1 fic #f1 fanfic #formula 1 fanfic #f1 x reader #lando norris x reader #lando norris fanfic #lando norris imagine #daniel ricciardo x reader #daniel ricciardo imagine #daniel ricciardo fanfic #carlos sainz x reader #carlos sainz fluff #carlos sainz imagine #charles leclerc imagine #charles leclerc x reader #charles leclerc fanfic #lewis hamilton fluff #lewis hamilton x reader #lewis hamilton imagine #oscar piastri x you #oscar piastri fanfic #oscar piastri imagine #max verstappen fluff #max verstappen x reader #max verstappen imagine

[inklore]

code breaker

premise: there’s always been something there, between the two of you. unspoken and filling in the cracks of those moments where joel is helping you out of a tough situation and your offering up a thank you and sweet smile. if only it didn’t take bloody knuckles and some band-aids to finally crack the code of that something.

pairing: joel miller x (f)reader

word count: 6.2k

warnings: eighteen+ content, unprotected p in v, smut with feelings really, fem receiving oral, friends to lovers, mutual pining, fluff, mentions of violence and blood, alcohol mention, toxic exes and relationships discussed, dirty talk, biting and love marks mention, lots of banter, au (preoutbreak).

note: i meant for this to be darker but it turned out wayyy more fluffy and i’m actually really happy about it. i hella edited this but it still feels choppy so if it is i’m sorry ya girl has bad eyes lmao. gif made by me so don’t be an ass and steal it tysm <3

There’s words you should be saying right now. Expressing. Spilling from your mouth in a heap of thank you, I appreciate you, what would I do without you always being there for me…

But they just can’t seem to come out. The speech part of your brain—and your heart—aching and prompting you to speak. To show courtesy, your vocal cords refuse to let you get out. Like your mouth has forgotten its purpose, your throat hoarse from screaming Joel’s name in the chaos of thrown fists, people shouting, men trying and failing to haul Joel’s weight off of the bloodied body below it.

The blood on his knuckles pulls your eyes in like a neon sign: caked, dark, and drying the longer the air gets to it. If it hurts Joel doesn’t state it—show it as he grips the steering wheel. You’ve never thrown a punch before, have never seen something like this up close and personal. You excelled at resolving conflicts before they arose. Never let arguments get past the phase of unfair yelling. But you would assume his knuckles must be aching, even if only a dull pounding.

You know for certain your ex's face is.

Good. 

You hadn’t expected him to show up at the bar, your job. Hadn’t expected him to start in on the possessive act—coincidently the local patrons were less than surprised at the all-too-cliché behavior. The town having labeled him as bad news ages ago. Something you had to learn the hard way, when you finally took off those rose colored glasses. 

Joel had been staring at you for the duration of the exchange. Even after your ex left to hang out with a group of his buddies in the corner, his gaze lingered on you.

"You alright?" He asked as he slid his glass towards you, his forearm leaning against the bar. A wordless nod letting you know he wanted another. 

"Yeah, he’s not the first creep I've had to deal with. It's in our DNA as women to deal with the lesser species of the male population."

"Can’t tell if that makes me feel better or worse as a father."

"Oh," you send him a sweet smile. Setting his refilled whiskey in front of him, "no creep dare mess with Sarah. I’ve seen her make jocks cry."

"That’s my girl, taught her well." The grin he wraps around the rim of the glass makes something girlish—and foolish—spark in your stomach. 

Maybe if you had a man like Joel in your life, you would be less likely to keep making the same mistakes with no-good assholes who are good for a week and bad for the rest of the 358 days. 

A girl can dream. 

And she has. Embarrassingly. 

The two of you had continued to talk, your hip pressed against the bar as you cleaned a glass; perhaps you had been smiling and laughing too hard at what Joel was saying because your ex was back and grabbing you from across the bar in an instant.

An action that quickly landed him passed out and bloodied on the bar floor, and your boss trying to make sure Joel hadn’t taught him too good of a lesson to have him see God. 

And while the adrenaline of shock had been bruising your heart against your rib cage, your lungs devoid of air—when Joel had put his non-bloody hand against your arm, calling your name (the white noise of the commotion in the bar creating an impenetrable barrier to your ear drums), a warm thumb under your chin pulling your attention away from the limp body on the floor and up into his eyes—that adrenaline melted and turned into serendipity. 

Gratefulness. 

Those girlish sparks turning into an entire flame that quickly engulfed you as he asked if you were okay. As he comforted you with a barely there touch on your arm and chin, concern in his dark eyes. Concern for what? Frightening you? 

When your gaze is drawn to his knuckles, his body language responds with a grimace. When you see the gashes only bone against bone brings. 

He’s worried he’s upset you. As if he's done something wrong.

When he insists on driving you home you don’t argue. Wouldn’t dream of it even if the circumstances were different. It wouldn't be the first time he drove you home because your beat-up car wouldn't start or because the weather was bad and your anxiety was high.

That’s the thing about Joel. 

He was always there. 

If you needed help, he always seemed to find time. 

Because of this, and the aforementioned beating your toxic ex to a pulp, you shouldn't be allowing the silence to spread between the two of you like strangers. Like something in the air was making everything awkward, like you hadn’t sat in his truck a dozen times before. Like he hasn’t gotten you out of a pinch (minus the blood) before. 

And after he’s pulled into your driveway, engine turned off, the cicadas and crickets filling the silence, it’s Joel who finally speaks. 

Who cracks that barrier you have mentally been trying so hard to climb over. 

"I’m sorry if I," he clears his throat, flexes his fingers against the steering wheel. "If I overstepped." 

And the ridiculousness of him even apologizing has your mouth finally moving into action. "Joel, no, oh my gosh, no." Your palm presses against your chest as you look at him apologetically; you should be the only one saying sorry, thanking him, worshiping at his feet for this. "I should be the one saying that. I should have handled it myself or-"

"Or what?" He looks almost angry, shocked at your words. "He had a hold of you, and no disrespect, but I ain’t ever seen you kill a fly, let alone throw a punch at someone." 

"Hey! I could punch someone." 

"Could and would are two different things." 

"You sayin I couldn’t?" 

"I’m sayin' you wouldn’t." 

"Not tough enough?" 

"Your heart's too big." 

"If you knew how hard I was holding back the urge to prove you wrong by bruising that bicep of yours, Joel Miller, you’d think differently." Your scowl and threat only seem to amuse him because he’s grinning at you. "You’re lucky you’re injured." 

"I’m shaking in my boots." 

"As you should be." The laugh the two of you share makes your cheeks burn.  On the outside, many could and have labeled Joel as a complicated man. A man who takes a lot of nudging and persistence to get to know past that surface-level workaholic grump he sometimes displays. But he’s a man who would lend a hand at the drop of a hat. A man with honor embedded in his very DNA.

There’s a list you’ve kept in the back of your mind that has every bullet point filled out and doodled hearts around the edges of all the reasons Joel is a good man. A man you trust. A man you adore.

"Thank you, Joel." He starts to shake his head, but you stop him with your palm resting on his forearm, "thank you. "You're right, I don't think I even know how to make a proper fist, let alone connect it." Your soft laugh makes the corners of his lips tick up. "You didn’t hesitate to help me. You never do. It means a lot to me, I hope you know that."

He nods, his eyes only on your face. Listening. Taking in every word you’re saying, even if you know he hates the fact that you’re thanking him for this. But he deserves to know how much you appreciate him.

Your hand moves to his wrist, gently yanking it away from his vice-like grip on the wheel. Your index finger runs along a vein at the top of his hand—the one spot the blood didn’t cake on to. "Does it hurt?" 

"No. Between the callouses and the whiskey, it’s nothing more than a cat scratch." 

"You should still get it looked at."

"You’re looking at it, aren’t ya?" 

Your eyes roll. "I’m not a doctor, Joel." 

"All a doctors gonna tell me is to be more careful, hand me a band-aid, and charge me three hundred dollars."

"Well, in that case," you drop his hand and grab for the door. The dry summer air ineffective to your already burning skin from the man whose raising his brows at you, "I got band aids in the house, and I didn’t get to finish my shift, which means you owe me three hundred in tips alone sooo."

"There's barely three hundred people in this town, and you’re tellin me you make that in tips?" 

"Joel, just get in the damn house." You order, slamming the door of his truck and walking up the path to your front door. Smiling when you hear him huff and grumble under his breath as he gets out. 

A hiss—and a scowl so deadly it could scare away even the biggest and badest of grown men—has Joel’s hand twitching in your hold as you run a wet cloth along the tops of his knuckles. The fabric pulling up the caked on flecks of dried blood, the surface of the cuts along the bone already starting the healing process from being clotted with red. 

"I thought you said it didn’t hurt?" You smirk playfully. 

"Whiskey’s wearin' off," he grunts. 

"Or," you dab the cloth in the small cap of saline solution you’ve pulled from your first aid kit under the sink. Bringing it back to his skin to press gently across his cuts, his body tensing. "You’re human after all," his eyes roll. 

"Don’t alert the press." 

"Oh, they’ve already been informed." 

His hand rests on your thigh as you ball up some tissues to dry the area around his knuckles. Enough to keep the band-aids—the only thing he would allow you to use because gauze would just get in the way at work, he informed you when you insisted—from falling off. The heat from his palm burns through your jeans, and it's a blessing in and of itself that you're ignoring how it makes your insides feel; how your body's warmth is no match for how hot he feels. His legs are spread, body slouched against your couch, his knee against yours. A closeness he’s never been before. A casual touch and directness between friends that shouldn’t be making you feel feverish and cheeky. 

When he flexes his fingers a couple times and his fingertips run along the top of your thigh, you find yourself wishing you’d worn a dress to work. A skirt. Anything to have been able to feel him do that against your bare skin. A thought you chide yourself for. A thought you hope isn’t written all over your face when you look over at Joel and he’s staring at you. Eyes darker, expression unreadable and stoic, in that way you can never tell what emotion he’s feeling at that exact moment. He gives nothing away but still sends your stomach plummeting. 

After the band-aids have been stuck and you’ve cleaned up the mess on your coffee table you offer him a drink. 

"Unless you have to get back to Sarah, then I understand."

"She’s with a friend tonight." 

"You gonna tell her how you saved the day, all knight and shining armor style?" You tease as you walk back to the living room with two beers in hand, putting one in Joel’s outstretched one and the other to your lips. Taking a sip as you take your place beside him once again, this time a leg pulled under you as you face him. 

He snorts, "don’t know about all that."

"I’m sure word has already gotten around. Her friends are probably gabbing about how heroic Mr. Miller is, a real prince charming." You laugh when you see his grin. 

"Or," he says, swallowing the sip he's just taken. "She’ll give me that death glare that all teenagers possess after puberty, you know the one?"

"Oh, I know the one. Mine was so fierce my mother banned it from our house."

"It’s deadly."

"Truly."

"I’m sure prince charming will be the last thing connected to my actions. Rage and jackass sound more on the money." 

You frown. Watch as he stares down at the result of the rage he thinks will now be accompanied with his name. Tarnishing it that now people will forget the kindness that was once there, the man whose hardworking now turned into something vile all because of an act of heroism some might find obscene; with how much blood and possible damage it has caused to one mans face, you could understand why such an act would be. 

But to you—and those who knew how horrible your ex had been, how he had deserved every bone crunching punch, every spit of blood and teeth choked on—you knew that what Joel did was right. And maybe, somewhere deep down in those morals against violence everyone gets handed out to them at birth, you knew that Joel could be sitting in a jail cell instead of on your couch if those punches had been any worse. If it had been pure untamed rage like some will say. 

"You’re a good man, Joel. So you potentially hospitalized an asshole, who hasn’t?" Your heart leaps in your chest when he laughs, and you thank God that your joke landed. Thank him that this man with his disheveled hair that's begging to have a hand run through it, work shirt and jeans looking like they’ve seen better days—is in your life. Not every girl has someone willing to bruise another man's face while destroying the hand that's needed to do their job properly.

No one had acted as quick as Joel had. 

Joel Miller was a good man. 

"What did you see in him anyway?" Joel asks, taking another sip of his beer. His gaze is drawn to you from the hole he was burning into his hand. 

And if you were being honest with yourself, you didn’t know. 

Couldn’t answer that question with the full truth because you didn’t know why you always went for the assholes. The guys who liked to scream instead of talk it out. Who liked to steal money from your wallet for booze or a habit they couldn’t kick. The ones who never remembered your birthday but made sure didn't forget theirs.

Your father had been a great man. Your mother an amazing woman. You couldn’t take the easy way out and blame it on family trauma. 

So you answered with the only viable reason that came to mind. 

"Loneliness makes you ignore all the bad stuff." You take a sip, swallow it down (washing away the pinpricks of potential embarrassment for being so brutally honest with Joel). "It makes you talk yourself out of throwing all their stuff to the curb or burning it in your backyard, because it’s not always bad. Some days are good. Some of them wait to be assholes before the novelty wears off; others wait until you're two years in and they’ve already slept with half the town behind your back. And some will bring you flowers every time they mess up, until one day you look around and realize you don't have any room to put this new vase and there's dried flower petals all over your floors. But hey, at least you’re not lonely, and your house smells really good." 

The smile on your lips fades when you see the look on Joel’s face. See that he’s finding no humor in this story. And the gulp that swallows down the beer in your hands burns your throat the entire way down. Your cheeks are burning, and you have to look away from him. Distract yourself by picking at the label on the bottle. 

"Or maybe it’s as cliché as saying I haven’t found the right one yet." You try to save, nervously chuckling under your breath. In hopes that he forgets everything you’ve just said and clings to this one shitty joke. 

"Look at me."

You do, and you wish you hadn’t. The roughness of his voice makes your stomach swoop and fall like a rollercoaster of emotions you did not prepare yourself for. Hadn’t imagined this being in your future when you’d walked into work. But you’re looking at him. Meeting his eyes. Seeing the stern glower in them before he speaks. 

There’s a million things you imagine him saying. Telling you how much better you are than that, than all of those meaningless assholes. How you deserve better, and you’ll find it someday. Hell, you expect him to scold you with how low his brows are.

What you don’t expect is to feel his lips on yours. His fingers digging into the skin at the back of your neck, his chest inches from your now-heaving one. And it renders you speechless. Still. Your brain not computing with the signals your nerves are giving off right now. 

When he pulls away and looks at you, it takes you several blinks to meet his gaze. The air in your lungs weighing your chest down. You shouldn’t speak. Should allow yourself to get your bearings in order. To catch your breath and sort through everything you’re feeling right now. "Was that a pity kiss?" 

"A what—pity kiss?" 

"Cause of the," you swallow, lick your lips, "of the aforementioned assholes?" 

Joel’s breath fans across your face when he chuckles, "anyone who’d pity kiss you deserves to be added to that list of assholes. And I might be on many asshole lists, but hopefully not on yours." The fingers on your neck skate forward to your cheek, thumb pressed gently along your jawline. His features grow serious again. "I didn’t just knock that asshole out because he had it comin'. And if you haven't noticed, I’m either working or at home with Sarah. Both keepin' me more than busy."

"Too busy to be making house calls for leaky faucets and tarnishing your good name with your fists?" 

"Exactly." 

There's a long pause between you two, as if you're both waiting for the other to say something, anything, to put these unspoken mutual feelings out there.

"Joel, are you saying you coming over to fix my faucet and staying for the occasional beer was you…flirting?" The grin he gives you makes you laugh, "who taught you how to flirt? And please don’t say Tommy."

"No. If I had listened to him we’d be–" he doesn’t finish. Just shakes his head and chuckles under his breath. 

And maybe affirmative action with your hands wasn’t your forte, maybe you couldn’t do what needed to be done when it came in the form of actions. But when it came to words, to saying what you wanted, needed, craved when it was right here in front of you being hinted and teased at, you didn’t hesitate. 

"Maybe you should have listened to Tommy." Your hand mirrors his own, resting on his cheek. You already knew he ran hot from his palm alone. But his cheek feels just as warm as you do, burning right through to your bones. His gaze falls to your parted lips, and a decision is made in the seconds it takes him to return his gaze to yours.

An agreement. 

"C'mere." His lips collide with yours in a heated kiss of nicks of teeth and tongue that taste like whiskey and beer and something that your brain will forever recognize as Joel. A taste you know you’ll be wanting to swallow down again and again. To feel the burn of his beard against your chin until your skin is raw and blotchy from how hard his mouth is devouring yours. An arm wrapped around your waist pulls you into his lap, and your forgotten beers spill and stain the cushions of your couch. "Shit, sorry, let me," Joel starts, but you stop him with your hands on his cheeks. 

"Leave it, just come here." You insist, lips returning to his. 

"Yes, ma’am." His smirk molds to your mouth, wipes away as his tongue runs along your bottom lip to press against yours. A hand on your ass squeezes and presses you forward so you’re grinding against his lap. The seam of your jeans rubs up against the wet patch that's quickly forming on the fabric of your underwear, becoming sticky and clinging to your pussy. Joel's other hand runs down the column of your neck, gripping and pulling you away from his mouth so that his lips can latch onto your sensitive skin. A gasp leaving your lungs, teeth and tongue making you shudder and cling to his shoulders. 

Shoulders you don't let go of until your back hits the mattress and you're both pulling your shirts above your heads, your fingers quickly working the clip of your bra, joining the discarded pile of shirts and shoes on your bedroom floor.

Your heart feels as if it’s beating a hole through your chest, like it’ll fall into Joel’s hands as he leans over your body, knees between your open legs, as his palms run down your chest, between your breasts. Over the globes of them, calloused thumb circling around your nipple. Your breath caught in your throat as you press yourself up into his touch. He’s taking you in, letting his eyes trail every dip, possible mole, scar, and marking on your skin. How your chest heaves in response to his hand. How your breasts fit in his palm. How you gasp and cry into the air when he leans down and swirls his tongue around one of your nipples before sucking it into his mouth, teeth lightly scraping against the sensitive flesh when he pulls off and does the same to the other one. 

His mouth finding its way back to yours again. His hips canting against yours; you can feel his cock digging into your thigh. And when you let your hand skate between the two of you to give him more friction. A dizzying desire to feel more of his heat and need for you burning through your skin and to your core, where you truly crave him. 

The deep grunt that falls from his mouth and onto your waiting tongue sends a shockwave of arousal through your entire body. Being. You want to hear it again, want to pull every noise from this man with your body and mouth until you are both drained and cursing yourselves for not doing this sooner. And you know he wants to do the same. Wants to catalog every pressure point and sensitive bit of your flesh so he can draw this out, can rile you up with a simple touch, scrape of teeth, run of his tongue along your jugular. Until you tell him how badly you can’t stand not having him inside of you. 

He's leaving a trail of kisses down your stomach, his fingers digging into the skin above your jeans, holding your hips still. Preventing you from moving them the way you want to from each press and prickle from his mouth and beard—scalding the nerves of your skin and making your insides whirl. 

"Lift your hips for me, sweetheart." Joel murmurs into your skin as his fingers curl into the waistband of your jeans. Your body feels barren and cool away from his heat as he sits back on his knees, your hips lifting as he frees your legs from their confines. His thumb runs along the lace of your underwear, dipping lower and lower until it’s pressing into that wet spot. A silent, smug praise tugs at the corner of his lopsided smile as his eyes look up to yours.

If your mind was working coherently and not filled with Joel Joel Joel (the way he smells woodsy and rugged, the way something deep and gruff reverberates in his chest when your teeth sink into the skin of his neck, and how he keeps looking at you like a fine art piece hung in the Louvre. Movements quick and gentle as he pulls your underwear down your thighs, making quick work to push your legs apart, fingers digging into the back of your thigh as he lets himself take his time adorning you fully on display for him) there'd be a sassy remark aimed at him.

The callus of his thumb nicks your swollen clit, eliciting a whimper from your lips, your hips following the descent of his finger as it spreads you apart. Trailing a line from your clit to dip into your entrance, gathering your arousal on the pad of his finger, his eyes on yours as he presses it against his tongue. A burning hunger in his eyes as he sucks your wetness from his fingers. 

You're a panting mess by the time Joel positions his head between your legs, arms wrapped behind your thighs, lips, teeth, and tongue trailing up your inner thigh. Your fingers clench the blanket in anticipation, need, and want. The closer his mouth gets to your center, the more you can feel his hot breath moving in, the potential love bites and marks he’s leaving on your inner thigh—all a certain type of torture you don’t think you’re strong enough to put up with right now. 

You lift your head to start begging, to plead with your torturer, but he’s speaking before you can. 

"Wanna take my time, sweetheart." His tongue swirls at the joint of your inner thigh. And just as earlier, the words you mean to get out, to speak from the storm cloud of lust in your head, die in the back of your throat when Joel runs the flat of his tongue up the seam of your pussy. The torturous muscle wraps you around his tongue, following the slowest path to your clit, until the tip of his tongue flicks, making a pattern of strokes and licks, until his lips wrap around the swollen nerve, making you feel delirious. Keeps pulling gasps, moans, and pants of pleasure and ecstasy from your parted mouth; head thrown back on pillows; legs trembling around his head from the blazing fire that grows and grows the more he consumes you.

The more his nose nicks your clit when he fucks you with his tongue, the more his fingers dig into your quivering legs to keep you anchored to the bed and his mouth. 

It feels like hours with how slowly he goes. Keeps you dangling from the ledge with every stroke and suck. Every soothing indent his fingers are leaving in your thigh. Your skin slicked with sweat, knuckles cramped from its grip in the blanket. When your moans go up in pitch he goes slower in that motion, that spot that has you seeing stars. Then he lets your breath come back to you with slow strokes of his tongue at your entrance, giving attention to the other parts of you that you didn’t think could elicit such erotic noises from your lungs. 

Your fingers find their way into those disheveled strands you’ve been waiting a lifetime to thread through. To pull and keep yourself from the feeling of floating away from the intensity of the pleasure. From your orgasm coming closer and closer until you’re panting his name, "Joel, Joel, Joel–fuck," your body shaking, the cries pulled out from this man burning your throat as you finally fall from the ledge and into him; his tongue coated in you, his chin wet with your essence. 

Your body sensitive and heavy as you come down, a sweaty heat making you feel sticky. Joel’s fingers seem to bypass every sensitive part though, as his palm caresses the tops of your thighs, your hips, your curves, the side of your breast. Until he’s reached your burning cheeks, mouth pressing the gentlest of kisses to your lips. The kiss was slow and gentle. Your arousal coats your taste buds when his tongue meets yours.

The kiss feeling more intimate than before, more heady. Knocking you right back on that loop you just got off of. That ache and throb he just sedated starting again in your belly, moving to where your thighs are soaked. 

"You’re overdressed," you murmur against his lips. Joel kisses you again, your open mouths exchanging a breathy chuckle.

"Do you wanna change that?" 

The question holds more than just the surface level of a joke and an answer of "yeah, obviously."  There’s a seriousness to it that makes you pull back from his lips and stare up at him. His thumb traces a soothing pattern into the bottom of your chin, his eyes holding an unspoken reassurance that he’s fine with it ending right here. With him just pleasing you, getting to take you apart and reassemble you with tender touches and a torturous mouth.

It can be all about you.

It is all about you.

You deserve nothing less.

His eyes and soft grin speak unspoken. 

Your nod is slow and reassuring. Your fingertips copy the motions of his thumb against the patches of skin in his damp beard. "Unless you’d rather help me get the stain out of my couch that you caused."

"I caused?" His brows shoot up. 

"It's to be expected when you can't keep your hands off of me," you say before shrieking as he pinches your side. His lips kissing your scowl away—a problem you foresee in the near future.

The kiss lasts for minutes (centuries you wish). Your fingertips never lift from the other's face, moving along jawlines, chins, and cheek bones. His chest comfortably against yours, giving you that heat you missed so dearly. His cock still stiff and hot in his jeans, grinding slowly against your pelvis. 

Is this how it’s supposed to feel? When feelings haven't even been discussed yet, but you just know? Already know what each touch, kiss, and caress holds behind it. Telling a wordless story in the way he had wanted to give you pleasure first—to taste—and take his time making you feel everything his mouth could do. Everything he wanted to do to you.

He wasn’t thinking about himself after the fact. Wasn’t rushing to put you in a position that made it all about his pleasure. Giving you little to no space to cool down, regain your bearings, and have that fire slowly relight and become more tantalizing, as he is right now.

You really did date assholes. 

Your fingers move to his chest, splaying your palm along his body until you’ve reached where he’s hard and pressing against you. Your fingers curl around the outline of him. Stroking, massaging. 

"I want you, Joel." You breathe into his mouth. 

He growls against your lips in something akin to frustration and agony. It makes something inside of you sink, overthink that maybe he doesn’t actually want to push it past the points you’ve already reached. Maybe it’s too much, all too soon, for this new territory of your friendship—even if it already seemed a little too late with the couch confessions and his saliva still coating your center. 

He must see the thoughts volleying in your head because he’s scolding himself under his breath and shaking his head. A soothing touch placed on your skin. "I feel like I’m some horny teenager again, with how bad I want you." His chuckle soothes your heart, "I don’t have-"

And you can't help but laugh at his waving hand towards his pockets and the sentence he's about to finish.

"Jesus, Joel. Bless anyone who's ever thought you were the ungentlemanly type." Here you were worrying about whether or not he wanted you, the proof being clearer than just his dick against your fingers. While the only thing on his mind was protection. 

"Glad I’m amusin’ to you." 

Cupping his cheeks, you pull him back to your lips. "All a girl wants is a decent man to make her laugh, not break her heart, and be able to make her come. And so far you’ve done all three." You let your tongue slip between your mouths and run along his bottom lip, "I’m good if you are." 

I’m clean.

I take a little pill every day because life is chaotic enough and I don’t want any surprises. 

We’re protected.

Now take me already.

The drag of your tongue, the roll of your hips against him, the little whimper you let out when he bites your lip—speaks for you.

It’s all either of you needs to rid Joel of his jeans: hands tangled in belt loops, tugs, pulls, pushing until he’s completely bare in front of you. Your breath hitches when you feel the underside of his cock spreading you and running along your clit slowly and languidly. The heat of him feels nothing compared to your own, the throb and ache of requisite in every roll and drag. 

And when neither of you can stand it anymore, when he’s grunting and you’re begging, he leans up on an elbow, hand wrapped around his cock, lining himself up to your entrance. Your breath leaves your lungs, stomach falling falling down to where he’s pushing into you. Stretching you, filling you until there’s no telling where either of you ends or begins. Attached by that intangible string of pleasure and bliss of only being able to feel each other.

"Fuck," Joel groans. Mouth finding your shoulder, breath hot and heavy. His thrusts start leisurely, taking his time in that way you’re learning he loves to do. Loves to compartmentalize up what you need—more, faster, harder. Going off of the moans panted into his neck, nails digging into his back. 

There's a hand gripped in the pillow beside your head, another at your breast, his mouth connected to your neck, your jaw, your chin, your lips. His hips slamming against your open thighs, thrusts deep, sharp. His cock hitting places that make your back arch, his name strung together with pleas for more. The slapping of skin and wet squelching of bodily fluids between the two of you making a symphony of lewd delight. 

When the hand at your breast hikes up one of your legs, the cry you let out is swallowed by his mouth. The deeper he fucks into you, the more your body shakes, the more you feel him completely consuming you. turning you into someone who will never get enough of this. Of him. Of how good he's making you feel. 

"Sound s’pretty," his tongue brushes against the underside of your chin, teeth nipping at the bone. A trail of him brought down to the shell of your ear. Where his heavy breaths and grunts fill you just as his cock does. Fills you to the brink of pain turned satisfying pleasure, as each stroke brings you closer to a precipice he’s already pushed you from. "Can’t believe I held myself back from you."

"Joel."

"I should knock out every asshole who thought to hurt you, t’not love you the way you deserve. Put you first," he slips his hand between your slick bodies, palm hot against your pelvis as his thumb rubs fast tight circles around your clit. His words getting filthier, ragged. Becoming heaving breaths against your ear as he fucks you faster. As his thumb matches the pace, as you grow closer and closer. Led by his words and pushed over by his cock. 

"That’s it, sweetheart." He’s encourages as you come. As he fucks you through it, as that white-hot heat makes your body contort against his. Cling and squeeze around him. The string of groans and curses, your name mixed with something incoherent but soft and deep, makes your chest swish—bit into your skin as Joel comes not long after. 

And after the two of you have cleaned up enough to call it satisfactory, two new beers condensing on your night stand. Your cheek pressed into his chest as your bodies lay pressed together under your sheet. His chin resting atop your forehead, a soft brush of fingertips at your spine—there’s cheesy grins on your faces, "Tommy’s going to have a heyday."

"He owes me fifty bucks."

There’s faux shock on your face when you turn and lean on your elbow to look at him, "excuse me?"

"He didn't think I'd ever tell ya," Joel shrugs as his hand caresses your shoulder. A fondness in his eyes, "I never do anything for myself." You press a kiss to his thumb, "I think we both deserve something good for once though." 

"I guess I solved the mystery of how to get Joel Miller to be soft," you joke. Nip at the skin of his thumb playfully. 

"I ain’t soft." He grumbles.

"Postcoitous Joel disagrees with that statement," you say. The dramatic roll his eyes do makes you laugh. Your teeth nipping his thumb harder, a bite this time, you shift so you’re on top of him. Sitting up on your knees. "Since this bet is half at my expense.."

"Expense, huh?" His palm grabs a handful of your ass and squeezes, causing you to rock in his lap. His cock already twitching to life again.

"I think we should get you your money's worth," you smirk.

"That's the smartest thing you've said all night," his fingers tangled in your back hair, pulling your mouth down to his in a hard kiss, before you get the chance to at least pretend to be offended.

#joel miller smut #joel miller x reader #joel miller one shot #joel miller x y/n #joel miller imagine #joel miller x you #pedro pascal smut #joel miller fluff #the last of us smut #joel miller fic #joel miller fanfic #the last of us fic #pedro pascal fics #joel miller #joel miller fanfiction

[born-to-lose]

32: Washing their hair in the shower (Joel Hokka)

Part of the 50 wordless ways to say "I love you" series

Tag list: @warriorteam1924 @the-killer-queenie @dumbass-of-darkness @bloody-lip-season @disrespectfullcalum @kyrju @smells-like-perfect-senses @sweetnightowl @whoreforblindchannel @kellyrosie @thetimecrystal @tryingtoliveintheshadows @wow-ihateithere @fedorable-killjoys (feel free to ask to be taken off the list anytime)

Tip me if you want!

You and Joel were showering together - actually showering. Not with the intention to have sex, just to be close to each other because there were few things as intimate as taking a shower with your partner.

After you had washed your bodies, you put some shampoo on your hands, rubbed them together and gently started washing Joel's hair, threading your fingers through his blonde strands and massaging his scalp.

He hummed softly as you did and closed his eyes, both to keep the soap from getting in his eyes and to enjoy having you wash his hair.

Of course, he returned the favour and washed your hair as well. You always did this when you showered together and you were glad that you could do it again after not seeing him for a month.

When both of you were done rinsing your hair, Joel turned the water off and wrapped his arms around you, staying silent for a moment before kissing you. "That's one of the things I missed the most," he murmured.

#mel writes #joel hokka #joel hokka x reader #joel hokka imagine #joel hokka fic #blind channel #blind channel x reader #blind channel imagine #blind channel fic #50 wordless ways to say i love you

[userlando]

my only sunshine — george russell

george russell x fem!reader [1.9k] summary: george feels like the whole world has come crashing down, but he luckily has you to pick him up. warnings: 18+ explicit smut & language, hurt & comfort a/n: i felt so so bad for george last night that i couldn't help but imagine how it'd be like to comfort him afterwards. i wasn't originally planning on writing smut but figured i'd throw it in there. anyway, hope you like this, lmk if you do!! <3

Silence. It’s all you’re in after the day has slid toward its end, the rumbling of the car providing you with the slightest comfort as you sit next to the man who’s given you so much. So much love, hope, inspiration and everything that you can’t seem to reciprocate at the moment because you can see that he’s dissociating, eyes staring off into the distance but it’s like he’s not looking. Just… seeing.

His hand in yours is warm, clammy, but he’s holding it tightly like he can’t seem to bear to let it go in fear of breaking down completely; Like your hold is the only thing tethering him to sanity. It makes your stomach twist and your heart ache with gruelling worry.

He mumbles hello’s and thank you’s as he guides the both of you through the lobby of the hotel, saying nothing as you press the elevator button. You can’t stop looking at him, wondering what he’s thinking but you know it can’t be anything good judging by his glassy eyes, red-rimmed with unshed tears.

George had been so close to podium, so close to getting that win he deserved and fought hard for. It had almost felt like reality slipped from your fingers as you watched his car lose control, taking him out of the race before any of you had time to blink. The garage had been in despair for your boyfriend and so had you, conflicted with Lewis’ win as he raced toward the finish line. Nothing has quite managed to break your heart as hearing your boyfriend’s voice over the radio, holding back tears for the sorrow he must’ve been feeling.

You stare at the tension in his back as he walks into the hotel room, shuffling through your thoughts and wondering whether you should speak or not. You know from experience that he’ll come to you eventually, and he will seek comfort in his own, wordless way but it doesn’t stop you from desperately wanting to reach out to him.

George turns when you drop your bags on the floor, giving you a slight smile that doesn’t reach his eyes and you give one back.

“Go have a shower, I’ll order us something to eat.” You grab his hand in yours and watch as his fingers scramble to hold on, head nodding slowly. You press a kiss to his open palm. “Go.”

He goes without any preamble, leaving the door ajar and you walk around the room to redress into something comfier before calling for room service.

It’s a hot and stuffy night, but you welcome the slight breeze when you crack open the balcony doors and walk outside to take a look. It’s a gorgeous city filled with good memories, and you’d hate to think that tonight would taint them.

The sound of the shower running acts as background noise, and you get lost in your thoughts before the creak of the bathroom door pulls you out of them. You turn around and timidly walk inside, trying to tamper the sudden speed of your heart at the sight of your boyfriend walking across the room in his underwear; scrubbing his wet hair with a towel with way more aggression than necessary.

It’s the first sign he’d given you that he’s angry, ever since he first jumped out of his crashed car. He sniffles, the sound too loud in the silent room and you gingerly sit on the bed because you don’t know what to say to make it better.

You know that it’s something that he’ll eventually get over. Not completely, but the feeling of sadness and disappointment will dissipate with time. Right now, he just needs to lick his wounds.

He flings the towel in the direction of the sofa, missing it completely and it falls with a thump on the floor but you don’t focus on it for too long, watching George as he finally meets your eyes.

He’s been crying.

George’s eyes are red, watery and it makes your heart clench fiercely as you stretch your arms out for him to fall into. He doesn’t say a word as he lets you hold him, the shaking of his shoulders a clear indication that he’s finally broken down.

“You’re okay.” You whisper into his wet hair, holding his head so delicately as you fight your own tears off.

He doesn’t say anything as he cries and you don’t even know what you whisper to him, but it seems to work because his sniffling eventually fades off. You stroke his wet hair and kiss his head, pulling him in closer to you, like it’s possible to be any closer than you already are.

“I fucking had it.” He says it so quietly that you almost miss it.

But it’s there, and he sounds angry with himself.

“I know.” It’s all you can say, knowing that there’s nothing else that can help him.

“I just had to go fuck it all up.”

You tighten your grip on him, guiding his head from your chest to look at his face. It’s heartbreaking to see the dried streaks on his cheeks, long eyelashes clumped together from the tears but he looks as beautiful as ever.

“You didn’t fuck anything up.” Your voice is firm, thick with emotion but you power through. “Shit happens, you can never predict the outcome of these races and you know it better than anyone. It was a long race, and you did your best. That’s all you can ask of yourself.”

He shakes his head.

“I should’ve done better.” His eyes fill with tears again, eyebrows scrunching up in anguish. “I could’ve done better.”

“Maybe so.” You brushed a thumb under his eye. “But you did your best at that moment, baby. It’s a tough track.”

He made a noise of dissent and you leaned forward to press a kiss to his warm cheek, keeping your lips there. The way he subconsciously leaned into it made your chest tighten in adoration.

“You’ll always be amazing to me, Georgie.” You whispered against his skin. “I don’t know if that counts for something, but it’s the truth.”

He turned his head so your lips caught the corner of his, making you smile.

“It means the world, and you know it.” He said, squeezing your hip. “I love you.”

“I love you.” You waited until he turned his head fully, accepting the kiss that he was quick to press to your mouth.

It was like a switch had been flipped the moment your lips opened up to each other, George placing both hands on either side of you so he could guide you up the bed until he was looming above you. You sucked in a well needed breath when he trailed his lips down, kissing and sucking your jaw and throat in urgency.

“George…” The sound of his name from your lips made him stop and glance up, eyes trained on you. “Are you sure you wanna do this now?”

His answer came in the form of a kiss that stole the breath from your lungs, your legs caging his hips in and bringing your crotches together. The shudder that he let out was like music to your ears, low and heavy. Almost like some weight had been lifted off his shoulder and just that alone made you want to do more, to distract him from tonights loss and show him how great he was.

“Nothing I want more.” He murmured against your lips, fingers slipping into your joggers and underwear, slicking up his digits.

A shudder left your lips, hands gripping his shoulders and spreading your legs wider for him to properly settle between as he slowly fingered you. It was quick, thumb circling your clit just the way he knew you liked until you were coming apart under him.

He loved on your lower lip as you cried out your orgasm, eyes trained on your face because he just couldn't look away from how pretty you looked. It made him physically hurt how much love he had for you, how grateful he was that you managed to pick him up so easily when all he wanted to do was close in on himself.

No one had ever managed to simultaneously fill him up with so much love and inspiration like you did, and the adoration he felt for you in that moment felt like too much to bear. So, he hurried his movements when he felt you starting to shudder from overstimulation, reaching down to push his underwear far enough to get himself out of the confines.

"George, please." Your pleas made his hands shake as he slid the length of his cock up your pussy, wetting it in the process and hearing you moan. "Please, just hurry up and fuck me."

He didn't need to be told twice, notching himself by your hole and glancing up at you; waiting for your nod of consent before he pushed himself inside. The both of you moaned in unison, George's mouth dropping open at the combined feeling on your tightness and wetness, the warmth enveloping his cock as you reached your hands up to grab at his damp hair.

"Oh, fuck." He bottomed out, arms shaking to keep himself hovering over you. "Fuck, you feel good."

You pushed your chin out and George almost smiled at the gesture, knowing what you wanted without you having to verbally tell him. He got down on his elbows instead, caging your head in before he leaned down and licked into your mouth.

His thrusts were jerky, like he couldn't focus on one thing and you really couldn't blame him. It was clear that he needed the release and you desperately wanted to give it to him, clenching around him and hearing him moan against your ear; voice hoarse and broken.

It wasn't long before he was burying his face in your neck, hips working into you harshly before he grunted and buried himself to the hilt. George came with a bitten moan, shuddering as he shot off inside of you and it made you tighten up weakly, prompting another sound from his mouth.

The both of you laid wrapped up in each other, listening to each other's breathing and the silence dragged out for so long that you'd almost expected George to have fallen asleep. But then he made a noise in his throat and picked his head up from your chest to peer up at you.

He looked more relaxed than before, but there was still a sadness in his eyes that nothing but time could wipe away. You picked up a shaky hand to brush a finger under his eyes, watching his long eyelashes flutter at the touch.

"Japan will be yours." You said in a whisper, like it was a secret and it made George smile sadly.

"Don't hold your breath." He said it so self-depracatingly that you shook your head in a stubborn manner.

"I'll hold my breath, Russell. Better yet, I'll be right there to scream the loudest for you."

That prompted a laugh out of him, pushing into your hand when you swept his bangs out of the way.

"Thank you." He murmured and your face softened at the sincerity in his voice. "I don't know how you manage to do it, but you always make my losses hurt less."

"I'll always be here, you know that."

He nodded because yeah, you always were and you had never proved him wrong. It made something spark in his chest, something that felt a lot like hope and determination for the next weekend.

He'd bring the win home. If not for himself, then for you.

#george russell #george russell x reader #george russell x female reader #george russell x you #george russell smut #george russell fic #george russell fluff #f1 #f1 fic #f1 x reader #f1 smut #f1 fanfic

[theemporium]

[2.9k] when your boyfriend is giving his piano more attention than you, you set out to remind him just where his hands should be instead. (smut)

based off this request

.

It was torture.

Pure fucking torture. 

That was the only way to describe his current predicament, and yet, a sadistic part of him enjoyed it. He enjoyed it far more than he should have. He enjoyed it more than he ever thought he would. He didn’t even know if he wanted it to stop, even if his body was begging for it too. 

The situation leading up to this moment was stupid, honestly.

Charles loved the piano and it was a fact known to everyone. Despite the love and passion he had for racing, it had become a source of frustration in more recent months—something the people close to him knew all too well. And even if he kept loving it, there was times where he needed to step away from the sheets of data and the SIM car set up in the spare room of his apartment. 

There were times he just needed a release. 

And, it came in the form of the piano. 

At first, it was just a simple skill he decided to pick up in hopes that it would be a nice distraction from the endless hours he spent worrying about racing. Then, it became a hobby, a genuine interest to further the skill he had and become better. He was competitive after all.

Then, it became a way of expression. 

The notes flowing as his fingers danced across the keyboard felt freeing. The way the instrument did exactly what he wanted when he wanted it was something he lacked in other aspects of his life in recent years. The compositions were something to be proud of, a mark he could leave on the world beyond his career in motorsports. 

The piano became an outlet for Charles, something he became more reliant on in the last few weeks than he even realised. 

And it left you as a very sexually frustrated girlfriend.

You loved Charles. There was never a doubt in your mind that you loved Charles. You loved and supported what he did, you encouraged him to express himself whether it be in words or notes played on the piano. But, something bitter and resentful bubbled inside you at the fact you were fighting for your boyfriend’s attention, and your competition was a fucking musical instrument.

It just became easier for him to vent out his frustrations in a wordless hobby, and you understood that. But you missed him. 

You missed his touch and the way his fingers would glide over every inch of your body. You missed his kisses and the way they would leave you panting and breathless. You missed the way that when you were with him, you were his whole fucking world.

You missed your boyfriend’s attention just being on you, so you decided to teach him a lesson.

Maybe it was cruel. Maybe it wasn’t cruel enough. Maybe it was exactly what your boyfriend needed to remember the pretty girl he got to call his. 

“I didn’t say you could stop playing, Charles.”

He let out a shaky breath, a shiver running down his spine as his eyes snapped down to the keyboard beneath him. His hands were hovering over the white keys, his fingers itching to move but his brain was blank. Every single coherent thought was lost and he couldn’t fucking remember how to play a chord, let along a song.

But you asked him to keep playing, and who was he to deny his girl?

Even if said girl was currently lying on top of the grand piano he bought a few months back, clad in some lacy number he swore he had never seen before as her hands glided over the body he should have been touching, kissing, loving.

“Play, Charles. Show me what you’ve spent the last few weeks composing instead of touching me.”

He cleared his throat, his brain scrambling to remember the song that flowed so easily for him mere hours ago. But now, all he could think about was the noises that you were making, that you sounded better than any song he could ever compose. He was thinking about how he could listen to your pretty moans for the rest of his life.

His fingers were moving, slower and less confident that he would usually play, but he couldn’t bring himself to care as he watched you closely. 

The slick, black wood beneath you was cold. It was cold and refreshing against your heated skin as you ran your hands down your stomach, your touch feather-light and teasing as you heard your boyfriend let out a strangled moan. 

Your eyes were closed but you could imagine it so clearly. You could imagine the flush on his cheeks, the colour sweet and pink and a colour you wanted to pain the world. You could imagine the dazed look in his watercolour eyes, the same look he got when his head was between your thighs and he had no expiration on when he had to pull away. You could imagine the way his broad shoulders tensed, the stiff movements as he tried to grasp onto whatever self-restraint he had left.

“Cherie, please,” he whispered, almost too low for you to hear. 

Your lips twitched upwards. “Play me your pretty song, baby.” 

He was distracted, and his playing told you as much. He was distracted with the way your fingers glided over your nipples, the way they hardened beneath the lacy material you wore that barely covered them. He was distracted when your other hand slid lower down your body, as your fingers slipped past the waistband of your panties.

He was distracted by the small gasp that left your lips when your fingers pressed down on your swollen clit. He was distracted by the needy whine you let out as your fingers glided along your soaking cunt, collecting your arousal before you finally slid one finger inside yourself. He was distracted by the way your body squirmed and arched as you touched yourself, as you moaned his name with his broken playing in the background. 

Charles was completely enraptured by you. He couldn’t fucking get enough of you. He didn’t care about the piano or his song, he didn’t care about anything other than the pretty girl fucking herself in front of him and the fact his cock was straining in the confinements of his boxers and sweatpants right now. 

He needed you. He needed you so fucking bad.

“Let me,” he croaked out, his eyes locked on the way your back arched off the piano. “Let me make you feel so good, baby. I can make you feel so good.”

Your head turned to the side, your eyes fixated on his glassy eyes and pouty lips. 

“Charles,” you moaned, your face contorting as you felt the coil in your stomach tighten.

“Please, baby, please,” he continued to beg, one hand dropping away from the keyboard to palm the length of his cock over his sweatpants. “Anything you want, let me give you it.”

You tucked your lip between your teeth. “Anything?”

“Anything,” he repeated breathlessly. 

“Make me come, Charlie,” you whispered. “Show me what a good boy you are.” 

The words had barely left your lips before his hands were on you. His fingers were digging into the fat of your thighs as he turned your body to face him, as he pulled you towards the edge of the piano until your panty-clad cunt was inches away from his face.

His fingers ran over the lacy material of the nightgown you were wearing before he pushed it further up your stomach, until it pooled just above your belly button. He looked up at you, his eyes meeting yours as he leaned down to lick a strip over your clothed cunt.

“Fuck,” you groaned as your head fell back against the piano, your eyes fluttering shut as his tongue pushed against the material of your panties. “Charles—”

“I know, cherie,” he murmured, his words hot and breathy against you as his nose nudged against your clit. “I know, I know what my baby needs.”

“Thought you were my good boy,” you goaded, your hands fisting the material of your nightgown as his arms wound around your thighs to lock you in place.

“I am,” he mumbled, his eyes falling shut as he placed kisses along your inner thighs, the slight stubble on his cheeks scratching against your skin in a way that made you arch closer to him. “Gonna show you how good I am.” 

The sound of fabric ripping was the least of your concerns as he tossed them away, the cool air hitting your exposed cunt for less than a few seconds before his mouth was on you. Charles loved being between your thighs, he could have spent his whole life between them if he got the chance. 

And now, with your thighs squeezing his ears and the sounds of your pretty whines echoing through the room, he realised just how long it had been since he had found himself in this position. That between the countless meetings, back-on-back race weekends and constant travelling, that he hadn’t been giving his princess the love she deserved. 

That he had been depriving himself of his favourite meal.

“Charles!” You cried out as his tongue sloppily lapped at your cunt, appreciating groans vibrating against you as your legs squeezed around him. You tried to clench your thighs together, only for him to pin your legs open again. 

Charles was a starved man, and he was fucking devouring you. 

The words leaving his lips were better off being incoherent to you. Phrases mixed between French and Italian that you didn’t quite understand, but it was hot as he lapped and licked and sucked and kissed every inch of your needy cunt until your thighs were soaked and you were certain that you were dripping down onto the keyboard.

“Shit, shit, shit,” you whined, your hands darting down to entangle themselves in his thick curls he had grown out. He let out a needy noise from the back of his throat, one that had his fingers digging into your skin so tight that you were sure it would bruise in the morning, but you didn’t care. “Right there, baby, fuck! Feel so fucking good, Charles, so good—oh!”

Your nails scratched against his scalp as his eyes fluttered shut, as he groaned against your cunt until you were coming. Your body tensed and shook, your moans pathetic and loud and just the way he liked it. His name was like a mantra on your lips, repeated over and over like a prayer. 

But Charles didn’t stop.

The swipes of his tongue were slow and lazy, but he didn’t stop even after you came. He licked up the mess he had made, he pressed your hips into the piano as you wiggled and squirmed under his hold. He enjoyed the dull pain as you pulled on his hair as he licked your wet thighs and needy cunt until you said the single phrase that could make him pull away from between your legs.

“Please, Charlie,” you whispered, breathless and whiny and greedy for more of him. “Need your cock.”

The noise that left his lips was some pathetic mix of a groan and a whine as he pulled away from you, his lips and chin glistening with your release as his tongue darted out for one more taste. He pushed himself up onto his feet, the piano bench now long forgotten as he quickly shoved his sweatpants and boxers down to his knees. 

His hand slid up your leg, lightly slapping the side of your thigh until you lifted your head to look at him. 

“Turn around, baby,” he murmured, his voice lower and gruffer than it was before. “Show me that pretty ass, cherie.”

Your hands were braced against the piano as Charles placed one hand on your waist, the other guiding his cock deep inside your cunt until he was buried to the prim. You let out a noise of content, the desire for the slight burn of his thick cock pushing into you eagerly fixed after weeks of craving him.

Your head fell back against his shoulder, a desperate noise leaving his lips as his head dipped down to press his lips against yours. And you let him kiss you. You let his tongue swipe over your bottom lip, you let yourself taste your release on his tongue as he deepened the kiss. You let him kiss you until your lungs burned for air and your body craved for him to move.

“Fuck me,” you whispered breathlessly against his lips. “Fuck me like you miss me.”

“I have fucking missed you,” Charles groaned as he buried his face into the crook of your neck. “Missed every single part of you, cherie. You’re fucking perfect.”

“Show me, Charles,” you sighed as your fingers gripped the edge of the piano. “Fuck me on this stupid piano and show me.” 

Charles was a patient man. He was a patient man who had the tolerance and restraint that would make a saint envious. He was usually so collected, so calm and put together even in situations where he didn’t have to be.

But any semblance of patience was thrown out the window when it came to you, especially when it came to fucking you.

The room that was usually full of beautiful notes and passionate music was now replaced with the sound of skin on skin, slapping against each other and accompanied by debauch noises that left a pink tint to his cheeks.

He had one hand pressed against the middle of your back, keeping your tits and face pressed against the cool wood as he fucked you from behind. His thrusts were hard, his tempo was fast and you felt the coil in your stomach tightening faster than you ever had before.

He could feel the walls of your cunt clench around his cock, could feel the slick of your arousal staining his own thighs but he didn’t fucking care. His lips were red and raw from how hard he was biting down, his skin felt like it was on fire and his heart felt like it was going to beat out of his chest. 

And yet, he never wanted to leave that moment. 

The sight of you bent over his fucking piano, your ass jiggling with every snap of his hips and your nails desperately trying to dig into the glossy wood like you needed something to grip onto, like you needed a lifeline to ground you. The way you screamed his name, the way you screamed for his cock and the way he thrusted deep inside you, hitting that spot over and over again until you could feel him in your stomach.

“So good f’me,” he groaned as his hand groped the meat of your ass in his palm. “You were made for me, cherie, my perfect fit.”

“Charles,” you choked out between moans, but your boy knew you better than you knew yourself.

“That’s it, baby,” he whimpered. “Come for me, let me feel you. I wanna feel how good I make you feel, princess.”

The nickname wasn’t used often, but it was more than enough to tip you over the edge. The noises you let out were borderline pornographic as Charles continued to fuck you through your orgasm, as he leaned over until his chest was pressed against your back and his cock was hitting a new, deeper spot with every thrust. 

His lips were on your neck, kisses placed on your skin between whispered French phrases of praise as he finally came, as he released inside you and felt your walls clench around him like you didn’t want his cock to leave you just yet.

You were panting and breathless, your cheek pressed against the grand piano as you let your eyes fall shut at the feeling of his gentle kisses and the soft touch of his hands all over your body. Your lips twitched as you heard him murmured ‘I love you’ over and over again in different languages until he needed to pause for a breath of air.

“Je t’aime aussi,” you murmured back, your pronunciation still a little dodgy despite the time you’ve spent dating the Monegasque, but it made him smile nonetheless.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured as he ducked his head down to kiss your cheek. “I love you more than the piano, you know that?”

You snorted. “Well, I sure hope so after that.”

Charles grinned. “Nothing could ever compare to fucking you, mon amour.”

You peaked a look at your boyfriend. “Nothing?”

“Nothing,” he confirmed.

“Not even round two?” You teased. 

“Depends,” Charles murmured as his fingers pulled at the hem of your nightgown you were still wearing. “Do you have any more surprises for me?”

“I did a lot of shopping while you were gone,” you told him with an innocent smile.

His eyes darkened. “Cancel all our plans for this weekend.”

You raised your brows. “Charles—”

“We aren’t leaving the house,” he told you as he squeezed your hips. “We need to make up for lost time, even if that means fucking you on this damn piano in every single piece you bought.”

“We need to eat, Charles,” you murmured, though the problem sounded just as dumb as it did in your head when he grinned at you.

“I’ll order you food in.”

“And what will you eat?” 

Charles’ smile only widened. “Jump up on the piano again and I’ll show you, princess.”

It was safe to say, neither your friends or family heard from you or Charles until at least three days later.

.

#charles leclerc #formula one #f1 #charles leclerc x reader #charles leclerc x you #charles leclerc x y/n #charles leclerc fic #charles leclerc one shot #charles leclerc smut #formula one x reader #formula one x you #formula one x y/n #formula one fic #formula one one shot #formula one smut #f1 x reader #f1 x you #f1 x y/n #f1 fic #f1 one shot #f1 smut

[iinotinlxve]

↪✩would they hold your hand?

⤷ characters: yuuji, megumi, toge, nanami

⤷ summary: How they respond and feel about hand-holding!!

⤷ a/n: jjk has officially ruined me. thanks gege

wc: 622

↣ yuuji itadori ☆

Yes. When he can't kiss you, he's always holding your hand. In the halls on your way to class, standing and talking to Megumi, casually doing anything and his hands are interlocked with yours. They're always warm, maybe even clammy-- you're always surprised when they're cold after he's been outside.

His favorite time to hold your hand is during walks. Both of you in casual clothing, looking at all the shops lining the street. The sidewalks aren't particularly busy, and the weather's perfect.

Yuuji is a really fast walker. He's always anxious about one thing or another, and slightly more active than the average person. But recently, he's tried to slow down a little more to enjoy the moment with you. And because you tell him to...

↣ megumi fushiguro ☆

He doesn't show it, but he secretly likes holding your hand. However, he rarely holds your hand in front of other people. And when he does, he doesn't bring attention to it. Usually it's you who grabs his hand, and he doesn't let go. He only regrets it later, when he gets teased by all his friends.

However, he loves holding your hand while making out with you. He'll interlock his fingers with yours as he kisses you, enjoying how you squeezed onto his hand.

Sometimes he'll hold your hand out of anger, if you can't walk straight. Or if you started to run off somewhere and couldn't stay on track. Overall, he's not physically affectionate, but that doesn't mean he doesn't enjoy it, especially if it's with you.

↣ toge inumaki ☆

Since he can't communicate his ideas in verbal language, he relies on other methods to express his affection. So yes, he enjoys holding your hand. Just casually, almost with a slight bit of intrigue and curiosity. Like he was fascinated by the fact you wanted to hold his hand.

He's quietly affectionate, leaning his head on your shoulder. Most exchanges between you were wordless, because he finally came to terms with the fact that you were okay with his silence. At first, he thought he had to try harder. To say something to you. But he soon found out that you didn't care all that much. As long as you were with him, that was all the communication you needed.

↣ kento nanami ☆

I don't see him as a hand-holding guy, but rather the type of person to put his hand on your thigh while you're sitting down at a restaurant.

Discreetly, under the table, almost like an absent-minded habit. He enjoys how your skin feels under his touch, finding a bit of comfort in just your presence alone. Plus, his hands are so much bigger than yours- in public, your normally just latch onto his arm and walk that way.

He'd also rest his hand on the small of your back, especially when you're wearing some sort of dress. Small, discreet hand placement while you're talking to someone, gently pulling you close to him. Sometimes he doesn't realize he's doing it. When you call him out, he just apologizes with a small smile. Although, you figure he's not really sorry...

↣ satoru gojo ☆

He's holding your hand all. the. time. Dragging you along, yanking you by your wrist towards him when he mentions you in a conversation. It's almost like he's bragging. He likes clinging onto you or staying close to you while focusing on something else. He turns off his Infinity, just for you.

He also really likes hugs, squeezing you for comfort. He likes spooning you in bed, and opening his arms with a small pout as he waits for you to hug him. And if you don't comply, he'll whine and complain until you do.

He's definitely outwardly affectionate, both in front of other people and in private.

#fanfiction #x reader #jujustu kaisen #jjk x you #jjk #jjk x reader #jjk headcannons #headcannons #fluff #jjk yuuji #jjk fluff #yuuji x reader #itadori yuuji #megumi fushiguro #megumi x reader #jjk megumi #nanami kento #nanami x reader #gojo satoru #gojo x reader #jjk gojo #jjk headcanons

[moonstruckme]

Hi Mae!! I would love to read more about the dynamic between poly!marauders and reader. Like maybe some domestic fluff just showing the interaction between the boys and with reader. I love the way you write true poly with the boys together too 🥹🤍

Hi lovely, thanks for requesting!

poly!marauders x fem!reader ♡ 1.2k words

“Shit!” Sirius hisses, another piece of popcorn splintering off his string. It’s nearly all cranberries at this point, and half the length of either yours or Remus’. “How are yours not breaking?”

“Patience,” Remus preaches, eyes on his needle as he slides it smoothly through yet another popcorn kernel. 

“Sounds made up,” James scoffs. The remains of his own popcorn are littered about his lap and his fingers are stained pink with cranberry juice. His problems lie in inaccuracy as much as impatience, constantly getting ahead of himself and pricking his fingers rather than his target. Fortunately, Rugby Captain James Potter is no stranger to pain, so he only extends the injured finger towards where you sit on the floor for you to kiss each time before resuming his work. 

“Completely agree.” Sirius is quick to hop on James’ half-constructed bandwagon. “They’re conspiring against us, keeping the real secrets of success to themselves.” 

“They’re focussing on their work,” you say, grinning when Sirius’ foot nudges your shoulder meanly, “which is how they keep from messing up.” 

“Cruel,” he murmurs, but you only hum, a wordless You know I’m right. And he does, because he goes quiet. 

James could never stand silence. “It’s almost cold enough for a fire,” he remarks after nearly five seconds of it. “Maybe we could have one tomorrow?” 

“You just want to chop firewood,” Remus accuses. 

“I don’t mind,” you say quietly, looking down at your hands, and Sirius nods emphatically. Another piece of popcorn shatters in his hands, bits of it hitting your shoulder.

“Yeah, don’t deter him.” 

“I don’t even get to chop it anymore since you started buying it at Tesco,” James complains, shooting Remus a resentful look. “Now I just want to watch fire. It’s the last caveman’s pleasure you’ve left me.” 

You glance over, and Remus is looking downward, trying and failing to quell his smile. “Fine,” he relents. “We can pick some up tomorrow and have a fire.”

“Yes!” James leans around Sirius, planting a smacking kiss on Remus’ cheek. “Thank you.” 

“S’no problem.” Remus has gone all soft and blushy. You and Sirius exchange a fond, knowing look. 

“Hey, do you think we could pick up some of those gingerbread house kits while we’re there?” you ask the room. “We didn’t get a chance to do those last year.” 

“Patience,” Remus reminds you, recovering. “It’s hardly the end of November, we’ve got a whole month for that.” 

Your mouth pulls dissatisfiedly. “Yeah, but last year we thought the same thing and then we ran out of time.” 

“You know what we should do?” James perks up. “Have a competition! Whoever makes the best gingerbread house in under an hour gets—”

“No,” you all say on top of each other. 

You shake your head. “It’ll take all the fun out of it, Jamie.”

“You can’t put a time limit on creativity,” Sirius agrees. “Hey, I got three in a row!” He beams, holding his garland up for Remus’ approval, and the other boy appraises it for a second, nodding sagely. 

“Well done.” 

“Sorry,” you tell James, who’s still pouting after the hasty shut-down of his idea. “We can race at something else if you want to, but that sort of stuff is supposed to be more…”

“Peaceful,” Remus supplies, and you nod relievedly. 

“Exactly.” 

“S’fine,” James sulks. He sticks his needle through a cranberry, a pitiful whine escaping him when it comes out the other side harsher than he’d expected. He extends his hand toward you palm up, and you take it, pressing a gentle kiss to the tip of his finger. “Mm, now here.” He leans down, tapping the corner of his mouth. You smile, pecking him sweetly on the lips. He tastes like the peppermint chapstick he uses this time of year, which you love and Sirius abhors (he thinks all mint tastes like toothpaste). “Alright,” James says, lips curving against yours, “now it’s actually fine.” 

“Scoundrel,” Sirius accuses. “My poor darling, do you feel used?” 

“Not terribly,” you admit, but it’s no deterrence to Sirius, who reaches down to haul you into his lap. Your garland trails after you, overlapping with his. You settle in contentedly. 

“Who’s the scoundrel now,” James objects. “You can’t just move her about like she’s got no will of her own.” 

You’re perfectly happy to be wherever they want you, but you aren’t going to say that. “Does anyone fancy a hot chocolate? I just got those peppermint marshmallows.” 

Sirius makes a face. “No thanks. James, make the girl a hot chocolate.” 

“Why me?” James objects. 

“I’ll have one too,” Remus says. 

“It’s her idea, why doesn’t she make them?”

“Because she,” Sirius says, weaving his arms under yours to resume stringing up his garland in front of you, “is occupied. Go on.” 

James grumbles, but sets down his work. 

“Sorry,” you say, making your eyes extra big. It’s half sincere apology, half completely unapologetic beguilement, and James cracks quickly, kissing your cheek to show he’s not really upset. Then he kisses Sirius too, just for fun. 

“I wanted a hot chocolate anyway,” he says, heading into the kitchen. 

You fall into an easy silence as he works, the kettle gurgling in the background while you relax against Sirius’ chest, nearly finished with your garland. You wonder if you should offer to do his for him, even though you know the other two will definitely make fun of you for letting him off the hook. You think you will anyway. 

“Oh!” Sirius straightens, causing you to shift against him uncomfortably. He ignores the slighted look you send him, bringing a hand to your shoulder to hold you more securely against him. You’re easily pacified. “If you want to have a competition, you and y/n should have a race for who can wrap the most presents.” He looks at you. “You’re always saying you love wrapping, yeah sweetheart?” 

The endearment only slightly softens the look you’re giving him. Must everyone try to ruin your holiday rituals with racing and competitions? You know he’s only brought it up out of selfishness, too; Sirius hates wrapping gifts, and this is just another way for him to push the labor off on James and you. 

James, unfortunately, lights brighter than the tree you’d set up earlier that day. “Yeah!” He’s bouncing on the balls of his feet. Remus eyes the boiling water he’s pouring out at the same time warily. “What do you say, lovie? Maybe a couple of days before Christmas we can divvy up the presents that aren’t for us, then we just see who finishes first!” 

“Didn’t you already lose that competition the other night?” Remus quips. Sirius erupts in laughter behind you, but James only shoots him a hostile look (or his version of a hostile look, more of a squint than anything) before his eyes flit back to you hopefully. 

You roll your eyes, but this is one competition you think you might actually win. “Fine,” you say, smiling when he pumps his fist. “But I don’t think you know what you’re getting into, Potter. My gift wrapping skills are legendary.” 

“Oh, my love,” James croons, grinning as he carries in two mugs of hot chocolate. “My sweet, naive girl.” He passes one to Remus and the other to you, dropping a kiss on your temple. “I won’t go easy on you this time.”

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