#I LOVE THESE ASKS AND I LOVE RAVAGE SO MUCH | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

theclairvoyage · 12 hours ago

Text

Homecoming (i)

Joel Miller x f!reader

Freshly divorced and knee-deep in debt, you take a part time job at a local dive bar to make ends meet, which introduces you to a sexy, mysterious contractor. The attraction between you two is instant and painfully obvious - where will it take you?

WC: 10k

Warnings: Explicit - MDNI! eventual smut, eventual romance, mentions of divorce, infidelity, betrayal, alcohol consumption, smoking, adult language, no outbreak AU

Folks - as someone who is newly divorced, making this story has been a great way to channel all the post-divorce laments and feels into something fun and healthy. And makes the single life a little more exciting. Hope you enjoy! It will be multiple parts, but I'm not sure how many as of yet. Please request/message me about anything you please :)

Divider by the lovely @cafekitsune <3

Summer 2024

A lot of things felt different today.

The usual comfy, pillowtop mattress in your bedroom now felt like a long slab of sandstone, cold to the touch from the icy night.

The sparkly, bragworthy princess cut wedding ring on your finger now felt like a heavy, rusty band of aluminum and cubic zirconia.

But most of all, you felt different.

In the blink of an eye, you made a decision that shifted everything. The carefully shuffled deck of cards had fallen onto the floor, strewn about like the once put-together buildings of a small, Midwestern town ravaged by a tornado.

You hadn’t even told your best friend yet, nor your family. This was unusual for you—but today, you felt like bearing the weight of this choice on your own. And it was heavy, a 20-pound weighted vest stitched to the seams of your skin, dragging your shoulders down with each step.

Ending a marriage is never easy. It’s never the end goal, from the time you say yes, to the time you say your vows.

Your mind races back to the first date you had with your soon-to-be ex-husband, almost a decade prior. The sweet, chivalrous gentleman who had been too scared to kiss you goodnight now seemed like a very distant stranger. Pictures from that very first date are still stuck to the walls of your living room. Oh, how you dread peeling those pictures off the wall.

And though the stone of dread was burning massive holes in your stomach, there was a glimmer of hope in the corner of your mind. You weren’t sure what it meant, but you knew you’d ride it out of this house and onto the next part of your journey like a magic carpet.

Fall 2024

Divorce was many things, but expensive is not the one you worried about the most. Until now.

Sure, you no longer had to split your paychecks into your personal account and the joint account, so it made it seem like you had more money, but that wasn’t the case. Rent, car payment, utilities, student loans, and the list goes on. And on. And one income instead of two hurts.

Your day job was cushy. But the debts of having to close joint credit card accounts with balances, lawyer fees, and furnishing a new townhouse had sucked you dry. It was time to supplement that income until the debts were paid off. Your family had given you a bit of change, but you threw it directly into your now-empty savings account.

Now, you find yourself scrolling through Google, analyzing the part-time jobs in your area. Cashier. Cashier. Clerk. Call center specialist. Customer service representative. Bartender. Cashier.

Bartender?

You click on the ad for a part-time bartender at a local dive bar, The Home Stretch. It’s one you’ve been to before, usually after a long workday or on a random Friday night with your friends. 15-20 hours a week, and not much other information besides “Call the bar and ask for Steve if interested.” It’s reminiscent of a Craigslist ad, which disgusts and intrigues you.

You scrawl the number on a nearby Post-It note and stick it on the back of your phone. I’ll do it tomorrow.

And you did. Steve is a gruff man in his early 60s eager for some help behind the counter of a dive bar he inherited from his father. “Preferably someone with a nicer ass than mine,” he’d said. You chuckled over the phone and mentioned you’d been to the bar many times before.

“Good, won’t need to show you the whole thing, then,” Steve had replied. “Just come in whenever you have time this week, and we’ll get started.”

“Sure thing, Steve. Thanks a lot,” you replied, not realizing until after that he’d already hung up.

Later that week, you show up at the bar around 8:30 PM after a long day at the office. The door swings open with a loud creak, alerting everyone in the vicinity of your presence. Less than 20 pairs of eyes, mostly from middle-aged men, dart quickly in your direction, forcing you to pause. You gulp and force a weak smile that doesn’t reach your eyes.

An older bald man perched behind the bar stares at you a bit longer than everyone else. A pair of bent, yellowed reader’s glasses threaten to slip off the tip of his nose as he scans you. You see the lightbulb illuminate in his head as he recognizes you.

“Hey, I’m Steve,” he says brusquely, reaching a callused hand to shake yours. His grip is firm, but short, and you guess that’s how he is as a person, too.

“Hey, thanks for agreeing to meet with me,” you say, introducing yourself. He waves you off, like he had nothing better to do.

“Come back to the office and we’ll chat. Too many damn eyes out here,” he rasps, forcing a quiet chuckle from you. His reclusive attitude is a fresh shift from the fake cheery types you constantly deal with at work.

Steve leads you to a small office not far from the restrooms, a quick 20-step walk from the front of the bar. It’s stuffy and old and clearly hasn’t been updated since the early 80s. Wood panel walls, dirty linoleum floors, and a couple of file drawers stand out to you as you examine the small space. There’s no desk, but rather a cracked slab of countertop with three beat-up, green-cushioned barstools underneath. The only sound is the loud buzzing of the fluorescent lights above, which are caked with dead bugs and yellow stains. Gross.

Steve isn’t watching you but seems to read your mind as he shuffles some papers on the countertop. “I know, it’s a bit run down. It’s on my list,” he murmurs, chuckling quietly as he gestures at one of the barstools. You sit, expelling all the air from the cushion audibly. You can feel your cheeks burn with embarrassment.

Steve chuckles again. “Don’t worry, it’s not you, it’s the goddamn stools.”

A nervous giggle escapes your lips. Steve sits at the far stool and takes his glasses off before turning toward you.

“I’ll be honest, I have no plans to actually interview you. You want the job, you got it. You seem like a level-headed gal, and not to be weird, but you’re attractive. You’ll do just fine here.”

Confused, you tilt your head at Steve while cocking one eyebrow.

“Are you sure? I haven’t worked in a place like this since high school,” you hesitate, studying his face. He laughs again.

“I’m telling you, this job is a piece of cake. And you can pick your hours. Are you married?” He asks, nodding toward the tan line on your ring finger. You rub it absentmindedly as you shake your head.

“No, got divorced this summer. Tan line won’t go away,” you respond, giving him another weak smile. He sucks his lips into his mouth in embarrassment.

“Sorry. Glad I asked, though,” he says.

“It’s alright, you’re not the first and you won’t be the last to ask me that,” you say, smiling genuinely now. Steve lets out a bigger laugh, catching you off guard.

“In this joint? Yeah, that’s a guarantee.”

Your first few shifts at the bar were a little shaky, but easy, nonetheless.

Steve trained you on the POS system the first two shifts before handing you off to Jerrica, a middle-aged woman who reeks of cigarettes. She’s tall and thin, covered in tattoos, and has the brightest blue eyes, which are lined on the bottom with thick, black eyeliner. Her deep, raspy voice and serious face are intimidating, but you learn quickly that she’s a very kind soul.

She quizzes you on the POS system and where things are located around the bar. You answer seamlessly, impressing her.

“Smart as a whip,” she beams at you, flashing some yellowed teeth as she smiles.

“I have some good teachers,” you reply with a wink.

The next month or so is a breeze for you, and you’re raking in a lot of extra cash. The hardest part is balancing the two jobs—and the many men that frequent the bar. All of them stare at you, most of them are polite, and some brave enough to ask you for your number. Jerrica warned you it would be like this, though she knew you could hold your own if needed.

One chilly, fall Friday night, a group of younger men, likely close to your age, enter the bar. It’s pretty busy—Jerrica and you have been hustling nonstop since around 8 PM. You catch a glimpse of them as they shuffle in and settle at one of the pool tables.

One of the men meanders up to the bar, and you can feel him staring at you from the corner of your eye. Jerrica takes the lead and approaches him.

“Hey, sugar. What can I get for ya?” she asks, wiping down the counter as he surveys the selection of beer and liquor. He stops and snaps his gaze at you when you walk by with a bucket of ice, dumping it in the cooler next to Jerrica.

“Her, if she’s on the menu,” he quips, smiling at you, looking almost reptilian. You size him up and arch an eyebrow, your face screaming unimpressed.

“She’s not,” Jerrica and you respond in unison, and his sly smile quickly turns to an embarrassed frown.

“J-just kidding. I’ll take a couple pitchers of Coors Light,” he squeaks, looking down at his wallet as he fishes some bills out. His cheeks are bright red. You stifle a smile and return to the back to get more ice as Jerrica pours the pitchers for him. When you come back, he’s gone and facing away from the bar.

“Poor kid, guess we ruined his hopes and dreams,” Jerrica jokes, making both of you giggle.

“He’ll get over it as soon as he finds one of his regular type bimbos,” you say. Jerrica cackles.

“I’m gonna go smoke, be back in a few,” she says, patting you on the back as she slips out of the bar.

You scan the bar, surprised by how many people are here. College football fans flock here during the fall for the pitcher specials and greasy bar food, and there’s not an empty table in sight. Thankfully, most people have stuck with ordering the pitchers, so you haven’t had to mix a lot of drinks yet.

A grunt interrupts your thoughts, and you snap your eyes in front of you to a well-built, middle-aged man in a green and black flannel, hands shoved in the pockets of his worn Wranglers. Your eyes meet and lock for a second longer than you’d like before you clear your own throat, which has suddenly gone dry.

“Sorry. What can I get you?” you ask him, noticing the corner of his mouth quirk slightly.

“Eagle Rare, neat. Please,” he responds, silky voice making the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. Fortunately, you’re adept at hiding your emotions, so he doesn’t notice the sweat form on your hairline as you try to find the bottle and pour him a glass. Or so you think.

“Here you go,” you say, propping the glass in front of him. He doesn’t grab it, though, he just stares at you inquisitively. You force yourself to meet his gaze.

Oh.

You knew from his voice that he’d be attractive, but you didn’t expect this. He’s fine fine. Curly, chocolate hair, streaked with silver. Aquiline nose. Strong, square, clenched jaw lined with a patchy beard. Thick, tanned neck. Deep amber orbs staring into your soul. He’s stoic, yet the lines on his face tell you he’s experienced all the emotions. Your heart flutters in your chest, vibrating like the quick wings of a hummingbird. Your mouth opens before you can think of anything to say.

“You got a tab?” you sputter, breaking his hot gaze to return the Eagle Rare bottle to the shelf. You swear you see him smirk.

“Yes ma’am. Miller,” he murmurs, his voice a little deeper and quieter than before. He’s staring at you without a semblance of shame, and you can feel it burning into your back. You turn to enter everything in the POS system, taking deep breaths absentmindedly.

“Nervous?” The man asks, cocking his head to one side as he studies you. If you thought you were hot before, you’re feverish now.

“W-what? No… why would I be nervous?” You stammer, arching an eyebrow as you continue messing with the POS system, ensuring that you don’t make eye contact with him. Too bad for you, because he sits down on the stool in front of you and meets your gaze.

Fuck, he’s gorgeous. His eyes communicate so many different emotions to you; primarily, amusement. There’s a hint of mischief and something a little more dangerous, a little more smoldering behind it. He cracks a smile at you, revealing perfectly straight, white teeth. You need him to leave. Now.

He chuckles before answering you. “Just seem a little uptight, s’all,” he croons, smile reaching the corners of his Hershey’s Kisses-colored eyes. Their warmth is captivating and calming, almost as if they slow time. Ironically, that’s the last thing you want right now.

“Busy night,” you reply quickly, giving him a brief smile before pretending to organize the coasters and napkins next to the POS system.

“I’ll leave ya to it, then. See ya around,” he says, standing up and returning to his table in the back of the bar. You smile back at him, baring teeth this time, and nod before turning your back to him to restock the cooler.

It’s a good thing you don’t catch the way his eyes sweep your frame, lingering on your ass for a moment longer than he’d like them to. And your smile brought some heat to the back of his neck, so much so that he feels the need to cover it up with his hand as he saunters back to the table.

Dazed and confused, you barely register that Jerrica has returned from break until the stench of cigarettes threatens to give you a migraine.

“Hey, who is that guy over there?” you ask her, turning your back toward the man and pointing your eyes in his direction. She smirks once she sees him.

“Joel Miller, and he’s a hot commodity here,” she says, chortling quietly. Her eyes sweep back to you, and she lowers her head before continuing, devilish smirk on her face.

“You interested? He really doesn’t entertain any of the women here.”

Skeptically, you narrow your eyes at her before turning around to gaze at him again, which turned out to be a shitty idea because his intense eyes are already on yours. A quick panic sets in, and you whip around to face Jerrica. She chuckles.

“Oh, he might entertain you, though… just based on how he’s staring at you now,” she teases, trying hard not to laugh.

“Jesus. I’m taking my break,” you huff, snatching your phone from a cubby underneath the bar and walking toward the back patio before she can say anything else.

“I can help you with that!” Jerrica calls out to you, her voice drowning in the sound of the bar as the patio door slams shut.

Once outside, you close your eyes and inhale deeply. The brisk autumn air sooths your airways, and you can feel your heartbeat finally slowing to normal pace. The fire pit in the middle of the patio is calling your name. You plop down in one of the freezing metal chairs next to it and watch the flames dance, not noticing the squeak of the patio door as it opens.

“Mind ‘f I sit here?” A deep, rich voice asks, startling you from your trance. It’s that sexy rugged mysterious man, Joel Miller.

Fuck.

You shake your head and gesture to one of the chairs, not meeting his eyes. “No, go ahead.”

He half-smiles and pulls back one of the metal chairs next to you, sitting with an audible groan. You chuckle quietly.

“Somethin’ funny?” he asks, eyeing you inquisitively.

“Sounded like it hurt,” you tease him, still not looking at him. He laughs. Not only does it sound genuine, but it awakens something in your belly you didn’t expect. Something molten. You look at him, discovering that once again, he’s already looking at you.

“Finally,” he says quietly, almost an exasperated whisper, eyes traveling your face as he takes a sip of his whiskey.

“Hm?” you ask, confused. He finishes the glass before setting it on the empty chair next to him, swishing the spicy liquid around his mouth before swallowing. You study the muscles in his neck and jaw as they flex and groove. He turns to face you again.

“Y’been avoidin’ my eyes,” he says, tilting his head at you ever so slightly, as if silently asking you why.

The heat in your belly rises, enveloping your chest and neck. You scoot away from the fire to cool off.

“Oh, s-sorry. I try to keep my distance from customers. Makes work a little easier,” you stammer, hoping he’ll buy that. It’s not wrong, but it’s not the main reason you avoid his gaze.

“I see,” he says, raising an eyebrow at you that indicates he knows. His gaze flicks down to your hands, which are held up near the fire. “Are y’cold?”

The heat in your chest says no, but the shivering of your limbs says yes. You shake your head.

“I’ll be going back inside soon. I’ll be fine.”

He stands suddenly, and you wonder if you’ve upset him—that is, until you see him shrug off that green flannel.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Well-built doesn’t seem to cover what you see as he shows off his bare forearms and the muscles peeking from beneath his worn t-shirt. You can tell he’s done manual labor for a long time from the carving of his muscles and the scars that litter his tanned, freckled skin.

“Here,” he says, walking behind you to place the flannel over your shoulders. The act catches you off-guard, and you’re frozen in place. His hands smooth the fabric over your traps, sending electricity from the source to your spine. The scent of his flannel drapes you, also—a rich combination of amber, pine, and whiskey.

“Oh, that’s nice of you. Thanks,” you say, watching him as he walks over to the empty chair housing his empty glass. You smile at him once he makes eye contact with you, and his pupils dilate imperceptibly.

“Don’t mention it. I’m gonna order another whiskey, y’can wear it as long as y’need to,” he says, half-smiling at you again. You watch him as he re-enters the bar, paying close attention to how his jeans hug all the muscles below his torso and acquainting yourself with his confident saunter.

“Jesus,” you whisper to yourself, burying your nose in the collar of his flannel and taking a deep breath. The smell is so good, so unique—it’s not something you’ll forget easily.

You check your phone and notice that your 15-minute break is well over. Absentmindedly, you slip your arms in the sleeves of Joel’s flannel and head back inside. It’s still busy, but people have shuffled out, meaning the night is starting to end. Thank god.

As you step behind the bar, Jerrica smirks at you as she notices your new garment. You shake your head and roll your eyes at her before grabbing a pad of paper and pencil to take inventory of the coolers. She sidles up to you, giggling.

“Yeah—he’s interested in you,” she rasps, making your spine stiffen.

“He’s just being nice. It’s kinda cold out there,” you say, waving her off. She giggles again.

“Uh huh. You gonna keep it?” she teases. You shake your head before heading back into the kitchen toward the walk-in refrigerator, feeling his eyes on you. Your stomach twists and flips as you picture his face, arms, and hands from just moments ago on the patio.

When you come back with a basket full of beer, you notice his seat is empty. Disappointment rushes over you. You see a stack of cash and a receipt next to the POS system. Jerrica is pressing buttons on it.

“He left this for you,” she says, smirking at you again. She points toward the stack of bills and the receipt, which is flipped over. You notice some blue ink scrawled almost illegibly on the middle of the paper.

It’s a phone number; with an area code you don’t recognize. There’s a message underneath.

Call me sometime. Keep the flannel.

-Joel

Your chest feels tight, and your stomach is flipping in overdrive. You re-read the message probably 20 times before folding it into your pocket.

“I told you!” Jerrica says, pointing her index finger at you. “You better not let that one go.”

“I don’t even know him, and once he finds out I’m divorced, he’s probably going to change his mind,” you say, scowling at her. She huffs, irritated.

“He’s divorced, too. You forget he’s older than you. I’ve never seen him give his number to anybody in the 5 years he’s been coming here,” she says, impressed.

“I’ve been out of the game way too long, Jerr—I don’t even know how to approach this,” you admit, embarrassed. She grabs your hands and squeezes them.

“He’s a good guy. He’s not the frat boy type, obviously. Just call him and go from there,” she says, giving you a reassuring smile.

“Call him? What is this, 1995?”

She guffaws. “Honey, he’s old like me. He’s probably no good at that texting stuff.”

“I guess we’ll see,” you say with a snicker.

Later that evening, after a great close, you sink into the couch in your living room. The cushions envelop you, along with the borrowed flannel you’re still wearing. Joel’s scent is still clinging tightly to the fabric, entrancing you each time you inhale. That, and the lingering stench of beer and tobacco.

You check your phone. It’s late, and you need a shower. You sit up, rubbing your temples. Joel’s face invades your thoughts every few moments. Usually, when you meet someone new, you have a hard time picturing their face in totality—like you can only remember fragments. Your brain fills in the missing pieces with faces you already know, creating a strange amalgamation of a person.

Joel, though? Nope. You remember every detail, from his patchy salt and pepper beard to his tanned, lined forehead. You remember the way he looked at you, how his eyes bore into you like a laser beam. And each thought makes your stomach churn.

Perhaps it was too soon to get back into the game—though you were free now, and you had nothing but time. You enjoyed his attention and admiration—it was much different than the attention you didn’t receive during your marriage. And he was divorced, too, so maybe he had some words of advice for you.

Absentmindedly, you rub the skin on your empty ring finger. The tan line has faded over time, and you’ve grown accustomed to the absence of the once-heavy ring you wore. You turn on the shower and disrobe, tossing the stress on the ground along with the pile of clothes.

As you scrub the day away in your scalding shower, a thought emerges.

You step out, dry off, and reach for Joel’s flannel after moisturizing your bone dry, red skin. You button it up until you reach your chest, leaving a scintillating section of skin exposed. The flannel is long enough that it covers the most private parts of you, but the tops of your thighs peek out.

After checking yourself in the mirror 30 times, you pull your phone out and snap a mirror picture. You compose a message to Joel’s number, which is still unsaved, and type a quick sentence before attaching the picture.

I think I’ll keep the flannel if you don’t mind.

You crawl into your crisp sheets, put your phone face-down on your nightstand, and count sheep.

Saturday morning rolls around, and you’re squirming under the sheets. Not because you didn’t sleep well, but because a vivid dream surged through your mind. One that involved your hot, naked skin sandwiched between your sheets and the hot, naked skin of a familiar man.

As you lie there, you replay the montage of events in your head. His hot breath in your ear, whispering sweet praises. His teeth scraping the skin on your neck and chest, leaving little petechiae in their path. His strong hands gripping your ass as he plunges deeper into you, bringing you closer to the edge with each thrust.

You sit up and rub your eyes, grabbing your phone to check the time. It’s almost noon, and you’ll be back at the bar in roughly 4 hours.

3 new messages.

Suddenly, you aren’t groggy anymore, remembering the risque text you sent to Joel before you slept. Your stomach somersaults as you open the messages.

Joel: Jesus Christ.

Joel: Looks way better on you anyway.

Joel: What a nice way to wake up.

Your neck heats up at his compliments. You type a witty response.

You: Thank you. Surprised you can text more than 2 words at a time. You chuckle before putting the phone down and getting ready for the day, still clad in his flannel shirt.

Saturday night at the bar made Friday night seem like a cakewalk.

The place was packed wall-to-wall, teeming with drunk football lovers of all ages, races, and creeds. Jerrica and you barely had time to take your singular break—and Steve helped man the bar all night, which said a lot. One young bartender called in, and the other two showed up hungover, so they were worthless.

You half expected Joel to come, but he never showed up. You ignored the cold feeling of disappointment curling around your ribs, and instead reminded yourself that you really don’t know him, and he has a life of his own.

Now, it’s 1:00 AM, and the bar is starting to empty, lifting some weight from your shoulders. The place is filthy—bar food everywhere, chairs strewn about, trash littered on the floor and tables. Jerrica emerges from the patio, blowing the last puff of cigarette smoke out before stepping into the bar.

“I’ll clean up, hon’—you take your break,” she orders you, tone half serious, half playful. You nod, trading the towel you’d been using to wipe the counter for a bottle of beer. Steve doesn’t mind whether you have a drink or two toward the end of the night during your break, and you haven’t indulged until today. An ice-cold domestic beer sounded heavenly, like stumbling upon an oasis after trekking through the Sahara for days.

You step out onto the patio, plopping down in your usual chair in front of the fire pit. It’s cold tonight, but the heat from your sweaty skin keeps you from noticing. You kick your feet up onto a nearby chair and lean back, gazing at the stars while you take swigs of beer.

The patio door screeches as it opens, but you’re too tired to look up. Probably another patron needing a smoke break.

“Thought maybe y’weren’t here today,” a familiar, deep Southern voice fills the air. You snap upright in your chair, repressing the grin threatening to push against your cheeks.

“Could say the same for you,” you tease him, watching him approach you. He’s got a ratty, long-sleeved Texas Longhorns shirt on and the same beat-up Wranglers he had on yesterday. You take a slow sip of beer, catching the way his eyes lock onto your lips as they kiss the bottle.

“Watched the game at my brother’s. Figured it’d be a shit show at any bar within a 50-mile radius,” he says, swishing around the whiskey in his glass as he watches you.

“You’d be correct, sir,” you reply, tilting your head back to down the rest of your beer. Joel gulps audibly—hearing you address him that way and seeing your exposed neck do something to him, something he needs to stifle.

“Couldn’t resist stoppin’ by, though,” Joel says, ambling over to the chair occupied by your legs. The pitch and tone of his voice have changed, from friendly to raspy, almost sultry. Your pulse quickens. You raise an eyebrow at him.

“Why’s that?”

He chuckles lowly, his deep chocolate eyes transfixed on yours. The heat coming from them is enough to make you sweat, and his velvety laugh makes your core ignite.

“Think y’know why,” he responds, sipping his whiskey, eyes unmoved from you. The scenes from your dream emerge in your head, forming knots in your stomach. The hairs on the back of your neck prick your skin as they stand.

A few moments pass by before he sets his glass down on an empty chair. Hands free, he lifts your ankles up and sits in the chair, propping your feet on his lap. His thumb strokes the skin between your shoes and the bottom of your cargo pants, sending tiny sparks through the pores there. This is the second time he’s touched you, and both times it’s felt like mild electrocution.

“If you’ve come to retrieve your flannel, you’re out of luck. It’s not here,” you taunt him, steering the conversation where you both want it to go. His hand slips under the leg of your pants, stroking the skin on your shin and calves. You twitch at the new sensation.

“Ticklish?” he asks, stopping to grip your calf lightly. You shake your head.

“Wasn’t expecting that,” you admit, your voice quiet. The tension between the two of you is palpable, almost painful. The primal urge to jump onto his lap and kiss him has you in a chokehold. He grunts, interrupting your carnal thoughts.

“Heard you’re divorced,” he says, fingers massaging the tight muscles of your calf. It’s slightly painful, but the release of tension feels amazing.

“Is there a question in there?” you quip, raising a brow at him. With a laugh, he nods.

“Yeah, finalized a few months ago. Started working here to pay off some debt from the split,” you respond, trying to remain lighthearted.

“Been there myself. S’not a fun time. Got any kids?”

You shake your head. “Neither of us wanted them in the beginning, and then he changed his mind.”

He purses his lips, nodding slowly. “S’tough but makes the split easier when y’ain’t got any.”

“I take it you have kids?” you ask, curious. He nods again.

“Just a daughter. She’s in college now. Split up when she was real young,” he tells you, moving to massage your other calf. He lightly digs into your flesh, hitting a knot in your mid-calf. You yelp and grip the arm of the metal chair. Your reaction embarrasses you, and you clap your hand over your mouth. Joel’s pupils dilate ever so slightly, the corner of his mouth rising slowly in a devilish smirk.

“Sorry. That hurt?” he asks, switching from kneading to light stroking of your skin.

“Just tight, is all,” you reply, the heat from the back of your neck moving to your ears.

“Mhm. Don’t need that now, do we?” he says, increasing the pressure of the strokes as he tries to tackle the knot. His hands feel good, and you find yourself closing your eyes as he works the knot out. You resist the urge to moan as his fingers massage your tight muscles.

His fingertips slow their pace after a few minutes, stopping to rest at your ankle. You open your eyes and look at him.

“Reckon y’gotta get back in there,” he says teasingly, squeezing your ankle. You sigh heavily.

“I know. Thanks for the massage. What do I owe you?” you ask him, pulling your feet off his lap to stand. He watches as you adjust the waistband of your pants, accidentally revealing your navel to him in the process. He clutches the glass of whiskey in response.

“Another glass of whiskey,” he murmurs, before dropping his voice to add, “And maybe another picture of you wearin’ my shirt.”

Your heart jumps into your throat, and you force a swallow to shove it back down into your chest. You take a step toward him, and he stands from the chair. He’s a little taller than you, but not by much.

“I usually don’t send strangers multiple pictures of me… especially ones where I’m not wearing much,” you tease, watching the way his eyes trace your lips. You swear you hear a growl bubble in his throat.

“Guess I gotta work on that, then,” he says, itching to caress your lips with his finger.

“Well, you know where to find me,” you respond, sidestepping him to return to the bar, huge grin plastered on your face.

2:00 AM rolls around, and Joel’s still at the bar. You emerge from the office with your things to find him propped against the bar, chatting with Jerrica. He’s facing her, but his eyes move to you, sweeping up and down your frame as you approach.

“I’m heading out. You good to take me home, Jerr?” you ask her, clocking out on the POS system.

“Of course. Let me finish up here and we’ll go,” she says, squeezing your arm affectionately. She bids Joel farewell before finishing up her closing duties, leaving you two and the magnetism between you alone.

“I’ll take you, if y’want,” Joel offers, fishing his wallet out. He grabs a stack of bills and divides them, placing one half on the bar and giving the other to you. Warmth blooms in your chest. He tips you way too much, but it’s a kind gesture.

“Sure, I’d like that. It’s not too far from here,” you tell him, “Just let me tell Jerr.”

“Not a problem,” he says, hopping up, shoving his hands in his pockets as you walk over to Jerrica to tell her.

“Better get yourself a breath mint,” she whispers, pinching your arm lightly. You sniff your breath in the palm of your hand and wave her off.

“I’m good. Nothing will happen anyway,” you say, rolling your eyes. She giggles, pulling a stick of gum out of her back pocket.

“Just take it, and no tongue on the first one!” she teases you. Your neck flushes again, but you pop the gum into your mouth and make sure it’s chewed up enough to hide in your cheek before Joel sees.

You’re giddy as you exit the bar. Joel’s hand finds your lower back as he guides you out the front door and through the parking lot to a fancy pickup truck parked in the spot furthest from the door.

“You’re one of those people, huh?” you ask him. He chuckles.

“I could use the steps. S’lotta work fillin’ in paint chips from door dings, too,” he grumbles. He walks you over to the passenger door and opens it for you, offering his palm as leverage as you hop into the elevated seat. His hand is warm, and a little sweaty. You wonder if he’s nervous, too.

He trots over to the driver’s side and starts the truck, turning the volume knob down as Waylon Jennings croons over the speakers. You smirk at the small action, wondering if he’s embarrassed by his music choice or the fact that he was likely singing on his way here.

You guide him to your place, which is less than ten minutes from the bar. He’s a great driver—calm, smooth, and not too fast. His right elbow is propped on the center console, just inches from your arm, though you keep your hands clasped in your lap. Your nerves ignite as you get closer to your place, anticipating what may or may not happen once he drops you off.

He pulls in the driveway of your townhouse and parks the truck.

“I’ll walk you up, stay put,” he commands softly, getting out of the truck and walking to your door. He opens it, offering his hand again as you step down.

The knots in your stomach are so tight, it feels like you might throw up. You can’t remember the last time you were so nervous with a man, if ever. You let go of his hand once you’re on level ground, wiping your clammy palm on your pant leg. He follows you to the front door, hand locating your lower back once again.

“Do you want to come in? If not, it’s okay. I know it’s late,” you offer, gauging his face as you press the keypad to unlock the door. His flaming eyes and the clenching and rolling of his jaw say yes, but the stiffening of his shoulders betray his hesitation.

“Mind ‘f I use the restroom?” he asks, gaze flicking between both your eyes. You smile warmly at him and nod, not missing how his eyes lock onto your lips immediately.

“Not at all,” you reply, opening the door and pointing toward the bathroom, down the hallway beyond the living room and kitchen.

He saunters down the hall, hopefully not noticing the way you’re checking him out, marveling at how well his jeans fit him and that goddamn suave walk of his. He shuts the door, and you exhale deeply, pressing your back against the now-closed front door.

You ponder the next steps as he’s in the bathroom. One, he could just leave. Two, he could kiss you goodnight, and then leave. Three, he could… well, you can’t think about option three, which closely resembles your dream from the previous night.

As you hear the sink in the bathroom turn on, you scurry over to the kitchen sink to wash your own hands, giving you a quick distraction from your nerves. The door opens as you scrub your hands, fingertips pressing hard into your palms to relieve some tension.

His footsteps approach you just as you’re drying your hands, your back facing him. He gets closer until you feel the warmth of his body radiating behind you. He takes the towel from you and places it on the counter before placing a firm, strong hand on your shoulder and turning you toward him.

Fuck. This is it.

Hand still clasped to your shoulder, he stares into your eyes and moves in closer to you. The proximity of him and the realization of what’s about to happen has you seeing stars in the corner of your eyes.

After what feels like eons, Joel’s lips finally meet yours, softly and pliantly. The kiss is tender, but deliberate, like he knows exactly what he wants, but needs to make sure you’re at his level before progressing. The hand on your shoulder wraps around your upper back, and his other hand grips your waist to pull you flush to him. His warmth is hypnotizing, and you melt into him, completely at the mercy of his touch.

You respond, wrapping your arms around his solid torso, feeling his strength and the span of his back as he deepens the kiss. His scent overwhelms you, giving you a euphoric head rush. He tastes like whiskey and mint, and you wonder when he slipped an Altoid or piece of gum into his mouth between the bar and now, like he knew this would happen. Butterflies scatter throughout your body at the realization.

His firm hand on your upper back moves to the other side of your waist, and he hoists you effortlessly onto the kitchen counter, taking you by surprise. You squeak, and he breaks the kiss momentarily to laugh, the deep, silky sound shooting straight to your core. His palms rub on your thighs before traveling up to grip your hipbones, calloused fingertips grazing bare skin between the waistband of your pants and the hem of your shirt. You moan lightly at the touch, spurring him on. His hands reach further under your shirt, stopping at your sides, thumbs swiping at the soft skin surrounding your navel.

Joel’s lips travel down your jaw and land on your neck, teeth grazing and tongue swirling on the sensitive skin. You moan again, louder this time, as his mouth sends shockwaves of pleasure up and down your spinal cord. He groans in response, gripping you tighter and kissing up to your earlobe. Your legs are hooked around the back of his thighs, pulling him close, and you feel his arousal on your hip.

You’ve never been kissed like this before, not even the first time you made love with your ex-husband, or on your wedding night. It feels surreal, almost cinematic—like you’re shooting a love scene with a hot stranger, ignorant to the surrounding cameras and crew. Your body is aflame with passion, burning you from the outside in—the flames twisting around each vein inside you, heating the blood that travels back to your core.

Joel breaks the kiss and presses his forehead to yours, panting. Both of you exchange labored breaths for a few moments as you recollect the last few minutes.

“Think I better get goin’,” he whispers, leaning in to kiss you gently before hoisting you off the countertop.

“Too much to handle?” you tease him, walking him to the front door. You hear him growl, and in the blink of an eye, he grabs your waist and pushes you against the front door before closing the gap between you, his hips flush with yours. There are only inches between your lips, but you can taste the hunger emanating from him as he stares into your eyes.

“You have no idea what I wanna do to you, darlin’,” he hisses, hands squeezing the globes of your ass as he leans in to kiss you again. You moan into his mouth before reaching up to tug at the curls on the nape of his neck, pulling his lips off yours. He sucks in a sharp breath.

Oh. He likes that.

Still clutching his curls, you rub your thigh against the erection threatening to bust his jeans. “I think I can guess,” you tease him, moving your leg up and down his length. His eyes close in pleasure, and he groans softly. You cup his jaw and bring him in for one more searing kiss.

“No need to rush things,” you coo, stroking his bottom lip with your thumb as he watches you, wrecked. He chuckles before letting go of you, throwing his hands up in surrender.

“Alright then. We’ll take it slow,” he rasps, smoothing curls out of his sweaty face.

“Does that mean you want to see me again?” you ask coyly, batting eyelashes at him.

“I’m lookin’ forward to it,” he replies, kissing you one more time before heading out to his truck.

Fucking hell.

Only been a few hours, but it feels like days

Only been days, but it feels like months

Life moves fast when you’re doing what you want

I guess I’m doing what I want, hope you’re doing what you want

The next four weeks didn’t go at all how you expected them to.

You worked at least 3 shifts at the bar each week, and Joel didn’t show up once. Worse, he didn’t text or call you, either. You went from understandable—because he’s probably busy—to confused, then upset, and finally, bitter.

And then you sat down and had a real conversation with yourself about expectations. Were they too high? Were you out of the game too long to scrutinize this logically? Were you being too clingy? You’d only texted him a few times, noticing that the messages hadn’t delivered normally, like he didn’t have service or blocked your number.

The fiery kiss you two shared lingered in your mind every day. The morning after it happened, you’re positive you’d lied in bed for an hour just replaying each moment before daydreaming about how the night would’ve progressed had he stayed over.

The combination of his rough and soft touches had you aching for him—the firm gripping of your hips as he lifted you on the countertop, the soft strokes on your delicate skin. The way his lips and tongue moved so smoothly with yours and the flaming trail they’d left on your neck and jawline sent shivers up your spine. And left you unbelievably horny.

Each time you’d thought of the passion, the feelings of regret and embarrassment soon followed. Though that was the single life, you figured. It was time to accept the new normal.

Now it’s Friday night, and you’re late for your shift at the bar. You’d left the office late after enduring a chaotic day, which put you directly in the crossfire of rush hour traffic. That, and a perfectly timed late fall, early winter freezing rain spell had immobilized traffic and put you a couple hours behind. You called Steve and Jerrica—they were understanding, of course. But the stress of your day and the feeling of letting the bar down had you in a foul mood.

You roll in at 8 PM, more than 2 hours after you normally come in. Flustered and frustrated, you power walk to the back office to drop your stuff off, noticing that it’s busier than normal. Finally, you make it behind the counter. Jerrica is pouring some pitchers but glances your way with a smile.

“Jesus, Jerr. I’m so sorry. It was an awful day,” you lament, pulling your unkempt hair out of your face. You looked a mess, wearing a slightly small t-shirt and old, ripped jeans. Not exactly cold-weather friendly, but that’s what you get for giving yourself 5 minutes to change.

Jerrica chuckles as she hands the pitchers off to customers. “I understand, hon. Really, it’s fine. We’ve had a good crowd tonight.”

“Thank god. Need me to stock anything?” You glance at the cooler, noticing that it looks a little barren.

Jerrica nods. “Please, and I’m low on ice, too.”

Eager to fix the mess you helped create, you start to work. Four buckets of ice, several trips to the fridge and back, and one sheen of forehead sweat later, everything is stocked. The bar is still busy, but a rare quiet moment where everyone seems to have a full drink gives Jerrica an opportunity to take a smoke break.

“Be back soon. Don’t hurt ‘em now,” she teases you, squeezing your upper arm as she trots toward the patio.

You take a moment to scan the tables, nodding or waving at most of the regulars. It’s a relief to work in a place like this, where the majority of them are nice, blue-collar folks just trying to relieve the tension of the American work life, and you know they appreciate the work you put in.

Your heart stops when you see a familiar head of curly hair atop broad shoulders in his usual spot. And of course, as usual, he’s already looking at you. There’s a smile on his face, and fuck, he looks good. He looks a little fatigued, obvious by the faint, dark circles under his eyes and overgrown stubble, but nonetheless thrilled to see you. The curls on his head are mussed and flattened in certain spots, like he had a hat on for a while and hasn’t had time nor energy to fix them.

And then you remember you haven’t seen or spoken to him in about a month, and the polar vortex swirls in your chest. You smile at him, though it doesn’t reach your eyes, and distract yourself with organizing the cash drawer, hoping that he feels the cold front.

Jerrica returns from break, sidling next to you. She must feel the ice emanating from you.

“He asked about you,” she says, not looking up at Joel. “Said he’s been crazy busy with work and hasn’t had good cell service where he’s been. Some odd job a few hours away. He seemed real sorry, honey.”

A heavy, resigned sigh escapes your lungs. You close your eyes and lean your head back, inhaling deeply before facing her. She was the first person you told about the kiss and the subsequent ghosting. She then let you know that Joel was a successful contractor who’d been running a business with his brother for years, a detail he neglected to share with you. You knew you were probably being harsh, but a little communication would’ve put you at ease.

“I get it, just wish he would’ve told me. It would’ve taken two seconds,” you say, closing the drawer and turning to face her. She mirrors you.

“You look exhausted, girlfriend. Take a break and take a beer with you if you need it.”

“Fine,” you reply, feigning stubbornness. Jerrica laughs before handing you a bottle of your favorite domestic beer. You grab your sweatshirt from under the register and slip out back.

Thankfully, it’s empty out here, leaving you alone with the crackling flames of the fire pit. And though the beer is the same temperature as the air outside, it feels damn good as it washes down your throat. You sit as close as possible to the fire, propping your elbows on your knees as the warmth invades your space.

Like clockwork, the patio door swings open and out comes Joel. Your back is facing the door, but you know it’s him—the familiar scent and staccato of his footsteps give him away. Two hands lightly squeeze your shoulders, making your scalp tingle and chest tighten. He starts rubbing them softly.

“These are tight,” he murmurs as his hands work up your traps and neck, shrinking the knots embedded in the muscles there. His deep voice is raspier than usual, like he’s been yelling.

“Been stressed,” you respond, closing your eyes as he rubs the stress out of you. You want to be pissed, but don’t have the energy to put up a front anymore.

“I can help ya with that,” he murmurs. You puff out a quick breath, frustrated—at him, and at yourself for being frustrated with him. Joel squeezes your shoulders a little tighter, leaning down. His beard tickles the skin on your temple, and your pulse quickens.

“’M sorry,” Joel hums, lips close to your ear, “I shoulda called, or let you know what was goin’ on. Been busy myself.”

“I understand, Joel. It would’ve been nice to know. I thought maybe it was me,” you answer quietly. He sighs in response, letting go of your shoulders and plopping down in the chair next to you.

He places a hand above your knee and squeezes lightly. “You did nothin’ wrong. The opposite, actually. I ain’t been able to get you outta my mind since I left that night,” he admits, chuckling softly. Finally, you bring yourself to look at him.

He looks exhausted up close, the sharp edges of him a little worn, but still ruggedly handsome. His eyes are less amber and more muted brown, like they haven’t seen the light in a few days.

“You look tired,” you say, reaching up to fix some of his messy curls. He closes his eyes as you touch him, like it provides him with instant relief.

“Like you wouldn’t believe,” he murmurs, pulling your hand from his head toward his mouth, planting a soft kiss on the top. The gesture floods you with guilt. He smiles at you, a silent It’s okay.

“Wanna make it up t’you,” he adds, kissing your hand again before returning it to your lap.

“I’ll allow it,” you tease him.

“Let me drive you home. Tommy has my truck, and it’s slick out there,” he asks, squeezing above your knee lightly. The now serious tone of his voice indicates that this is not a request, but a soft command. You cover his hand with yours and squeeze in response.

“That would be great,” you respond. “Though I’m going to need a long shower—I didn’t have a chance to take one in between jobs.”

He raises an eyebrow as he removes his hand from your leg, jaw clenching as he imagines what your body looks like naked and soaked. He can only imagine it’s perfect, given how good you look in clothes.

“Gonna make the rest of the night difficult,” he laments playfully. “Guess I deserve it, huh?”

You shrug, doing your best to stifle a smirk. It feels like time to head back in, and Joel senses it too.

“S’alright, I’ll be waitin’ for ya when it’s time to go,” he says, scooting closer to the fire. He turns to watch you walk back into the bar, and you catch him as you glance back right before the patio door closes, his eyes glued to your ass. Your cheeks and neck flare with heat.

The rest of the night was filled with nervous anticipation. You went from telling yourself that you’d get a repeat make out session from the first night, to entertaining the possibility of having sex with Joel. The thought of it frightened and thrilled you—it would be the first person you’d slept with since your ex-husband.

After a smooth night, closing time rolls around. After several mop buckets and restocks later, you emerge from the back office. Joel is waiting for you at the bar, the usual stack of bills propped on the counter in front of him.

“I wanna know details,” Jerrica whispers in your ear as she walks up with you. Your cheeks heat up again, and you widen your eyes at her, an unspoken Shut up.

“You’ll be the first to know,” you reply, sly smile playing on your lips. She giggles, waving bye to Joel as she makes one last round of the place before locking up. Joel is watching you approach him, equally giddy and nervous as you. He’d been thinking about what would go down tonight, too—and boy, he was ready to give you everything you wanted. The electricity between you fizzes in the air, like a firework moments away from exploding.

“Ready, darlin’?” Joel asks, standing from the stool and shoving his wallet in his back pocket. You nod, the nickname charming you.

Joel walks you to your car, and again, his hand finds home on your lower back. It’s a gentlemanly gesture, but the feeling of his hand on you makes your core throb. He opens the passenger door for you, offering a hand as you shift weight on the icy pavement and get in your car. You have a nice sedan—one of the only things you purchased on your own during the marriage, much to your ex’s chagrin.

Joel handles the slick roads like a pro, never losing traction. He remembers exactly where to go to find your townhouse. Throughout the ride, you find yourself growing sleepier with each passing streetlight. You’re so tired, you hadn’t noticed he laced his fingers with yours on the center console. It was sweet and domestic, like you’d done it a thousand times before.

You arrive, and like last time, Joel tells you to stay put while he trots around to open your door. Your eyes fight to stay awake—the stress of the day is threatening to drown you. Joel notices.

“Tired, sweetheart?” He asks, wrapping an arm around your waist as you walk inside through the garage.

“Me? Never tired,” you lie, sleep already taking over your voice. Joel laughs as he helps you walk up the few steps that lead into the kitchen.

“Let’s get you to bed, huh?” Panic sets in. You don’t want him to leave, and through the blanket of fatigue covering you, you feel guilty.

“Joel,” you say, turning around and putting two hands on his chest. He looks into your eyes, trying not to laugh at how sleepy you look.

“Hm?” He responds, smirking at you.

“Please stay with me,” you ask. The smile fades from his face as he notices the expression on your face, like you’re worried about him leaving in the middle of the night. He cups your face in his warm, rough hands, marveling at how gorgeous you are, even in your half-asleep state.

“’Course. I’m not goin’ anywhere.” You wrap your arms around his torso, burying your face in the crook of his neck. He responds immediately, enveloping you with his strong arms, kissing the crown of your head softly. He hoists you up, searching for your bedroom in the dim lighting of your place. He finds it, nudging the door open with an elbow before gently placing you on the bed.

“Let’s get you some clothes,” he soothes, flicking one of your nightstand lamps on. The low light paints him in an amber glow, and though your eyes are half-open, you watch him amble around your room.

“Top drawer,” you mumble, pointing at your dresser. He opens it up and pulls a big t-shirt out.

“Wait, I need to shower—I ne—,” you stammer, before Joel shushes you.

“S’okay. Y’can shower in the morning. Let’s get you to sleep, sweetheart,” he coos, helping you sit up. You feel like a helpless baby, but you’re so exhausted. You’d have slept in your jeans if he wasn’t here.

He undresses you, peeling the sweaty shirt from your torso. His breath catches in his throat at the sight of your half-naked torso, dotted with tattoos and soft skin, mesmerized at how your old t-shirt bra complements the tone of your skin and the curve of your breasts. You’re beautiful, even in your rattiest clothes. He pushes the soft tee over your head, doing his best not to ogle. You unclip the bra underneath the shirt, pulling it through one of the arm holes. Joel chuckles.

“S’magic, how y’all do that,” he says, making you giggle. You lie back, ready to fall asleep. Joel pats your leg.

“Y’can’t sleep in jeans. What d’ya sleep in?”

“Panties,” you mumble, eyes closed. “Middle drawer.”

Joel clears his throat uncomfortably and opens the drawer, impressed with the variety of underwear he sees folded in it. He pulls a pair of blue cotton and lace panties and returns to the bedside, trying like hell not to imagine what you’d look like with these on. And though his desire for you is strong, he is ever the gentleman, wanting never to overstep your boundaries. He pauses next to you. You sit up, exhausted but aware of his hesitation.

“I’m gonna use the restroom, darlin’. Be right back,” he assures you, his soft, deep voice caressing your eardrums. He steps into the bathroom connected to your bedroom and shuts the door softly.

You take the cue and peel your jeans and underwear off, replacing them with the blue panties, appreciating his respect for you and your privacy. You lie back down and turn your lamp off, your tired eyes quickly welcoming the darkness that paints the room.

Half-asleep, you slip under the sheets on one side of the bed, back facing the bathroom door. Moments later, Joel emerges quietly, and the telltale clink of a belt buckle tells you he’s taken his jeans off. Though moonlight seeps through your blinds, it’s not enough to see him as he prods toward the bedroom door to shut it.

He gets into bed and reaches for you immediately, the warmth of his body cloaking you like another blanket. You reciprocate and wrap your arms around him, inhaling deeply as he nestles you against his chest. The scent of him is hypnotizing—amber, pine, cedarwood, and whiskey. A blend that is eclectic and brooding, yet warm and romantic. He strokes your hair as you melt into him, your legs tangled together under the crisp sheets.

He presses his lips to your forehead and whispers goodnight before sleep finally takes over you.

Taglist: @burntheedges, @tuquoquebrute, @syd-djarin, @danaispunk, @anoverwhelmingdin <3

#joel miller x reader #joel miller smut #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x you #pedro pascal fandom

59 notes · View notes

holographic-mars · 1 year ago

Note

okok so this isn't exactly coswave related, but i love your soundwave sm. would you happen to have any hcs about soundwave and ravage and their dynamic?? btw i love your art and im eating it nom nom

YES LETS FUCKING GOOO you have no idea how much I love soundwave and cassette relationships so THANK YOU FOR ASKINGGG

Cassette and carrier dynamics are very unique and fluid depending on the mechs involved. Every carrier has a different dynamic, so it’s not always a “parent/child” “boss/grunt” or etc etc kinda dynamic.

The relationship between cassette and carrier oftentimes transcends our understanding of relationships.

For soundwave and his cassettes, the dynamic is very very close and friendly! They love eachother and protect eachother but there’s no designated caregiver—the role is often stepped into, so it’s very malleable and sort of depends on the circumstances. With that being said though, that doesn’t mean there isn’t a subtle hierarchy.

Soundwave was found by Ravage, Laserbeak and Buzzsaw in the Dead End and the four (Rav and the birds were already in a mutually beneficial arrangement) eventually formed a very strong bond. Ravage is kinda the head honcho—she’s not the boss per se (that title affectionately goes to Soundwave) but she ensures safety and security for the pack. Ravage’s approval is generally a MUST for anything to happen.

Soundwave rarely goes anywhere without Ravage. If Soundwave is present, it is an almost guarantee that ravage is somewhere close by. If Ravage isn’t available, Buzzsaw and Laserbeak will be (note: rumble and frenzy also have a strong bond with soundwave but they tend to be more independent from the carrier. They still love and protect eachother, but they’re speciality is more like the horrible roommates who help soundwave blow stuff up).

Ravage is a very tactile mech, believe it or not. She’s either wound around soundwaves ankles, perched on his shoulder, or in his lap. Touch was grounding for Soundwave during their time in the Dead End and old habits are hard to break (ie ravage refuses to stop).

Ravage grooms like a cat. She’ll wrestle soundwave to the ground to groom her face. The birds aren’t safe either. She’ll grab them out of the sky and sit on them to groom them. Rumble and frenzy are about the same size as Ravage (she’s a big girl) so she tackles them easy. Nobody is safe.

Soundwave has cat tendencies bc of ravage. His tape deck whrrs when he’s happy/content and it resembles a purr (he learned early on that it’s a calming gesture and an easy way to calm ravage down, later learning that it works for the other cassettes as well. Now it’s more subconscious than anything else). They also headbutt to show affection—a rare occurrence outside of their cassettes—but they’ll bump their head against the birds if they’re on her shoulder or gently headbutt one of the twins after a particularly difficult battle.

If Ravage is pissed off she gets petty. She’ll hide your stuff, she’ll tear stuff up, try to ‘accidentally’ trip you, etc etc. and honestly Soundwave can also get petty. They’re no better than she is. When they get into arguments it’s horrible for everyone around.

Small coswave note: ravage knew soundwave had a crush on cosmos before soundwave even did. She stalked cosmos obsessively and made note of every little way he acted around soundwave. Only the best for her kit (don’t worry, she begrudgingly approved eventually)

That’s all I can think of right now but yeah they mean. So much to me. THANK YOU FOR THE ASK I LOVE THESE AND ENJOY YOUR ART MEAL EEHEHE ❤️❤️❤️🛸🛸

#I LOVE THESE ASKS AND I LOVE RAVAGE SO MUCH #I jokingly call soundwave a kitten and now you know why #soundwave #cassettes #transformers #maccadam #maccadams

39 notes · View notes

thegameartist03 · 2 months ago

Text

so i found out that Soundwave has a face under there (and that he was raised by Ravage, Laserbeak, and Buzzsaw)

#gamma’s art #maccadam #transformers #soundwave #i love heem and his cassette family #hc for me specifically that Soundwave is the most smiley Decepticon ever but no one knows because he wears a mask #projecting onto him cause i enjoy wearing a mask outside and am almost always going :D under there #also hc that he got those lil cat ears on his helm because of ravage #Ravage and Laserbeak and Buzzsaw being tired parents that care so much for their large son #and then later two chaos twins show up and Soundwave asks if he can keep them /hj #my first proper tf fanart btw!#of course it’s these guys

148 notes · View notes

cantheykillmacbeth · 1 year ago

Note

the ravager from terraria calamity mod could kill macbeth since it is an amalgamation of corpses

Yes, the Ravager from the Terraria mod Calamity could kill Macbeth!

In its official in-game lore, it is referred to only with it/its pronouns, and is explained to be the product of a ritual to ward of Daedron's armies, created from the corpses of the casters' fallen allies. While the exact identities of the warlocks that created it are not specified, the Ravager still applies for the Gender Clause and, with similar justifications to Frankenstein's Monster, the Unconventional Birth Clause.

Thank you for your submission!

#asks #unconventional birth clause #gender clause #terraria calamity #terraria #calamity mod #terraria calamity mod #ravager calamity #calamity ravager #i love terraria and calamity so much but they sure do fuckin love using the word golem for no goddamn reason huh #still planning on making a texture pack that changes that shit one day

94 notes · View notes

spikeyjo · 3 months ago

Text

i say "im doing data entry, it's boring" you say "it could be worse. you could be entering me" roll for initiative

#seriously what the fuck am i supposed to say to that #bestie i hate to tell yall this but i aint fucking anybody. its just not happening #ive never been a top ive never claimed to be a top #but these goddamn feminine men be coming into my inbox like ;-;#IM A MAN. THAT DOES NOT MEAN I TOP #And secondly man i already said in my bio that i aint interested in this shit dude #i couldnt care less about your hole. truly.#like much care and love to you on your journey but like #what about me says im gonna ravage your hole #when my entire bio says hey i dont care about sex. i dont want sex. please dont talk to me about sex.#I CANT MAKE IT MUCH CLEARER #im lazy too so if you think in the shape that im in now... that im gonna thrust ur ass for twenty minutes #you got another thing coming!!!#literally i am that post where someone sends an ask saying fuck me please #and the guy responds bitch im trying to survive a category 5 hurriciane #like fucckkkkk i damn near broke a rib dude i do not want to fuck you right now #or ever. but especially not right now #god feeling your ribs shift in the middle of a scene #makes me want to gag

0 notes

tonycries · 6 months ago

Text

BRAT!

Synopsis. Scream it! While he’s still asking nicely, that is…

Pairings. [SEPARATE] Gojo x Reader, Sukuna x Reader, Choso x Reader, Geto x Reader, Nanami x Reader, Toji x Reader

Content. MDNI, fem! reader, creampíes, getting reader to not be quiet in béd, CÚMPLAY, spítting, Sukuna’s second tongue, oraI (fem rec), pússydrunk boys, squírting, six eyes, face-sítting, pússy-slappíng, true form Sukuna, chokíng, markíng, exhíbitionism (Nanami), víbrators, dp, slight voice kínks, pet names, swearing.

Word count. 5.9k

A/N. Love y’all, have a good leak day <3

♡ TOJI FUSHIGURO - Let it all out!

“Doll…” he drawls out, that tiny scar at the end of his smirk dragging roughly against your glossy pout. And when Toji’s given nothing more than a few of your muffled, bit-back whimpers, he’s insisting - begging, “My stubborn girl-”

Five thick fingers wrap delicately around your neck - jostling your fucked-out expression up to his greedy gaze, “Cat got yer tongue?” As if to fuck the answer out of you, his hips are ramming angrily, knocking rawly into your bruised g-spot. “Don’t tell me you’ve been hah- fucked dumb already? Wha’s the problem, ma?”

It’s been hours now, and Toji’s absolutely wrecked - blood thumping in his ears, broad chest heaving with short rasps, stars bursting behind his half-lidded eyes after each sloppy thrust. And, yet, he still has enough sanity left to notice when you’re biting down brattily on your knuckles, throat tight with all those sweet moans being held back.

See, that’s when Toji gets impatient.

“Fine- be as quiet as your pretty lil’ heart desires, then.” Your eyes are widening at the mushy twitch of his rotund tip - still leaky, still angry. “We’ll see how long that lasts, anyway.”

Just that dark little promise is enough to make you keen - and he’s chuckling, “Now now- what did I say-” Those soft pads of his fingers glide up in a gentle curve towards your lips - but the way he just shoves them inside is anything but. Rounded tips constricting into the very back of your throat, “Ya wanna be quiet? Then, commit to it like the big girl you are.”

Big fat tears spring up to your eyes when he’s hiking a powerful thigh up, pressurizing the ruthless pace of his achy cock even more. Bullying into your velvety walls like he was angry, knocking all the air in your lungs with every glide of his swelteringly hot head along your cervix.

“Hngh-” you gurgle past his swirling fingers. Your nails piercing ravaged red lines where you’re gripping helplessly onto his wrist, “T-To-ah!”

There’s such a deafening squelch gushing out of your messy cunt when the mean digits on his free hand push down about halfway at your stomach, feeling for the branding little nudge of his fat cock. Toji’s mouth drops in awe at the milky white coating of his cum. Dredge after dredge soiling your inner thighs, forming a creamy little ring where he was pushing his thick hilt into you over and over-

“Shit-” his Adam’s apple bobs with a heavy gulp. Mindlessly, he’s falling down onto his elbows in exhaustion, bending you in half like a little ragdoll underneath him. “N’ suddenly I’m the one speechless, doll- Hahah-”

The heavy thwack! thwack! thwack! of his still painfully-full balls make your head spin, and Toji’s drinking in your little gasps like a starved man. Slow, languid, eyes drooping shut. “S’this why- hngh- s’this why my girl’s bein’ so quiet all of a sudden?” Hips stuttering forwards like he was losing control, just filthy, lusted-up little half-thrusts and drags of his length down your gummy channel. Even that was too much for his poor, overworked cock - painting your insides full with his thick, translucent precum with every swallowed-up inch. “Too cockdrunk? Too hah- full of my cum t’speak?”

You were so close - so overstimulated - you could barely string together a sentence. And you couldn’t have answered even if you wanted to - because your lovely boyfriend only rummaged his fingers deeper inside your mouth. Fuck- it felt so dirty having him fuck you like this - spitting against your lips, twitchy cock mashing deep into all your sensitive spots. Like he was reaching into your lungs - into your barely-lucid mind until you couldn’t do anything but nod.

“Mmmpf- I-” you’re managing out, the words coming out in a thick, garbled mess that makes his cock throb. “Hngh- yes yes yes-”

“Awww, fuckin’ knew it.” he coos, and it’s all the warning you’re getting before two big strong arms of his haul you up. Falling back onto his muscled thighs in a sitting position - with you all speared like a slut down his unforgiving cockhead. Being bounced up, up, up your limp body nothing against his inhuman strength. “Shit- fuckin’ knew it- My poor girl got fucked so good she couldn’t even speak, huh?” Toji just throws his head back at the answering clench of your elastic walls, molding around each one of his ridges and veins. “How cute–”

You cower under his weighty gaze, unable to escape. To do anything other than take it when his bicep bulges around your waist, tightening like a vice. “How so very-” Abs clenching when they ram- up- “cute-” He’s gritting his teeth, baring you with such a sweet, sultry smile, one that ghosts the very shell of your ear, “But why don’t you jus’ cum f’me now, ma.”

You don’t know whether his own words have Toji reaching his high - or maybe the sight of you does. Because all you see is black tinging your vision - then white, seeping out of the corners of your puffed-up folds, sopping a wet puddle into the non-existent space between you two.

He’s so vocal when he fucks you through your orgasm, raspy baritone wrenching out little praises like a mantra- “Yeah- yeah there we go. Louder f’me- scream it all out. I know you can do it.”

“P-please, Toji.” You don’t know what you’re begging for - and Toji doesn’t mind. Only pinning your body to his hulking one, holding you so close that your whimpered out moans are almost inaudible over his cushiony pecs. Babbling out, “Please- f-fuck it feels too good hah- m’cumming- m’cumming m’cumming-”

“Such a chatty girl, moanin’ so fuckin’ loud.” he titters. “Don’t you dare hold back that pretty voice from me, m’kay?”

But only when your orgasm bates into tiny tingles, only when your syrupy sweet moans turn quieten down - only then does Toji pull away. Shuffling onto his knees until his hot breath was fanning your eagerly quivering cunt, soft tongue dragging up your painted white slit, “So let’s see if you scream twice as loud for this, my girl.”

♡ NANAMI KENTO - Shhh…

“My love…” Nanami breathes out in a ragged pant, his hot breath breezing down your spine. Arching up so sultrily when the pistons of his hips slow down, aching for more more more- “Is something hah- wrong?”

It takes you a second to raise your bleary head up from where it rested amongst all the papers on the desk, the satin of your office skirt hiking up even further when you’re rutting your hips back in a quiet tandem. “N-nothing, Ken–” your words come out hushed - hurried.

And oh your husband looked so unfairly attractive when he was concerned, blond brows furrowing in the middle, running one hand through his disarrayed hair, the other pulling your teary eyes up to his. “You’re just being so-” There’s an experimental mash of his fat, rounded tip into your mapped-out g-spot, as if to confirm his suspicions. And Nanami grunts at the sight of you biting down on your lower lip, “-quiet…Now now-” His thumb comes to gently pry away your worried lip from under your teeth, “-what’s wrong?”

“S’jus’-” you hiccup, eyes flitting to the closed storage room door. “-m’ so close n’ someone might hear. I know Higuruma also has overtime-”

Shit - you’re so far into your little rant that you don’t notice the way his entire body stiffens, jaw clenching at the mention of your - and his - coworker. You can only gasp when Nanami’s towering figure just shoves you deeper into the cool mahogany desk. One hand on your head, the other wrapped nicely around your blabbering mouth.

“You’re right-” Nanami breathes, words tinted with a slow, dangerous purr. And it makes your velvety walls just seep a fresh gloss of your sweet sweet juices down all his long, hard inches. “-better not make a noise unless you want to get caught then, because m’not going easy on you today, darling.”

And fuck, Nanami likes to think himself a practical man - a sensible man, even. But right now all he could see was red - nothing past the way that other man had been eying you a little too closely these days, laughing at your jokes a little too loud.

Don’t get him twisted, he knows you’d never do anything - you were his pretty lil’ wife after all, the love of his absolute soul. But sometimes, he just wanted to make you scream it out.

Your pretty eyes bat hypnotically over your shoulder, “K-Ken- oh!”

Only to be shut up by the furious pummeling of all his rock-hard shaft, the sheer girth of it already making you keen. It’s enough for honeyed moans to bubble up in your throat, ticking in time with that angry pulsing of his thick tip massaging your plushy walls.

“Shh shhh-” Nanami coos, and you feel his abs ripple from behind you when he leans his weight down, down, down to pin you even more helplessly against the desk. Those thick fingers of his cover your mouth even firmer, “We hafta be quiet, remember?”

If he was looking for an answer, then Nanami fully and thoroughly fucks it out of you.

Those important documents are shuffling around everywhere, flying off the desk when you’re scrambling towards absolutely anything to keep just an ounce of your sanity. Because Nanami was hammering into you in such powerful, pressurized thrusts. Hard enough that you could feel the line of his hip bones along the fat of your ass, the circular smacks of his heavy balls along your thighs. Sure to leave marks that that sinfully short skirt of yours wouldn’t cover.

“Ken! Ken- oh my god-”

All you get in response is the sudden slowing of his mean pace, until your heady moans are softening down to mere whimpers.

It still feels so dizzyingly good this way, having your snug hole stretch limitlessly around his girthy shaft. Knocking so deeply and thoroughly against your womb, clenching your saturated walls down with every graze of the neat tufts of blond at his hilt.

“What did I say?” His mouth comes down onto yours in a heated clash of teeth and tongue and moans. So many rasping grunts furling from out of Nanami’s throat, spitting into your mouth, “Hafta- be hah- quiet. Or else Higuruma is- gonna- hear-”

And that hypnotizing push and pull is punctuated by the greedy drag of Nanami’s thumb down your clit, spelling out little patterns. Over and over-

Thud!

“Hah- I don’t-” you’re startling when he hikes up a leg onto the desk, the change in angle making you all but scream out into his ravenous mouth. “Don’t think I even- care anymore ah!” Every one of those syrupy sweet moans falling from your lips have Nanami hammering in even deeper, rattling the desk with his strength. “Just wanna- just want you to-”

You’re gasping at the familiar work of his fingers on your sensitive nub - a flurry of letters all over. K-E-N-T-O-K-E-N-T-O-K-E-

“Say it.” he bites down on your earlobe. “Spell it out f’me.”

“M-m’gonna-”

K-E-N-T-O-K-E-N-T-O-K-E-N-T-O-

“Scream it out, no need to be embarrassed.”

“Cum!” you’re sobbing. Heaving for air when he doesn’t take even a second to slow down, “M’gonna cum, Ken. M’so f-fuckin’ close.”

His next words are murmured at the crook of your neck, dangerously above your racing pulse. Making you flinch at the sharp teeth indenting over your skin, “Then cum.”

Oh and when you do it’s like something snaps. Because all you know next is that you’re being fucked through such a delicious high. White-hot pleasure having you quivering deeper into Nanami’s hold, dragging out each one of your peaks. Your throat feels raw, head swimming so much that you almost don’t hear-

“Just the way I like you.” Leaving a lingering peck at your collarbone, “All gorgeous and-” At the sensitive underside of your jaw, “-blissed out and-” Before you’re jumping at sharp canines sinking down into the side of your neck. Hard. Possessive.

It hurts - but it hurts so good that you don’t even register the way Nanami’s eyes flit to the door - slightly ajar now. Voice rising in volume when he finishes, “-mine.”

♡ GETO SUGURU - We’ll piss off the neighbors

“Mmpf- S-Sugu…”

“S-S-Sugu-” your beloved boyfriend is just leering, his velvety voice pitched dramatically high. Shoving apart your dangling legs so burningly wide to bully that furiously shuddering hot-pink vibrator even deeper inside your insatiable cunt.

He’s grinning such a dangerous grin down at you, “Now, why don’t you lemme hear those pretty moans of yours like usual, gorgeous- instead of holding back?”

And all you can do is squirm around mindlessly when he’s feeding your sloppy cunt inch after smooth inch of more of the thin vibrator. Rummaging around your clingy walls so much, “Come on now-” A taunting thumb of his glides along the intensity meter - Setting 1, Setting 2. Before finally resting smugly on Setting 3. Long, dark lashes bat at you, “You’re breaking my heart here!”

“P-please!” you sob out, before immediately worrying your lower lip shut. And Geto notices - of course, he does. The determined smirk on his face turning into something a little colder, a little more predatory.

“Aww, my poor baby doesn’t wanna speak with me.” he’s goading, leaving your plushy walls stretched full with the blissful girth of the vibrator. Letting you all but cockwarm it while he’s running a rigorous thumb over your puffed-up clit, “Tha’s fine. Whatever my girl wants, she’s gonna- get.”

Geto’s sharp tongue is running lewd stripes up and down the crook of your neck, kissing and sucking on the corners of your lips as if he isn’t driving you insane. As if he isn’t driving himself insane. The achy, fat tip of his reddened cock kissing wetly at your glossy folds, weeping hot precum that sticks to your slit, trickling down the buried hilt of the vibrator. Oh, how he knew - had planned out - exactly how he was going to make you scream.

But for now, he’s only pursing his lips together, letting you babble and whine unfairly to yourself.

“S’not- not that I hngh!” your entire body jolts when he’s wordlessly increasing the intensity - Setting 4. Nervous eyes flitting down to where Geto’s lengthy cock was sitting prettily across your open legs, throbbing. Waiting. “Jus’ the neighbors- hah- we got another noise complaint, Sugu–”

He still doesn’t budge, still doesn’t say a word. This time his fingers are toying your finger even sloppier. Tweaking and circles lazily along the sensitive nub, making you all but scream-

“Please- I promise-” you’re bucking your hips up for more more more. Feeling the sopping smack! of his hefty shaft come down on your skin, splattering translucent dredges of his syrupy precum all over your skin. “Promise s’jus’ that Sugu.” Shaky fingers of yours wrap around his long, inky hair - hauling him close to meet your lips, and you could feel the ridges of Geto’s toothy grin when you crack, “Feels so good- too good. N’- jus’ want your cock- hngh! Promise was jus’ trynna be quiet because the walls are th-thin and the-”

And then it feels like you’re being split apart, such a thick intrusion to your already filled-up cunt. Soft, supple walls being contorted around the vibrating toy - and Geto’s addition of his thick, weepy tip.

“Say please, then.”

You’re so completely and utterly fucked out that you barely even hear him at first - body moving before your mind when your lips sag open. Jumbling out a mess of, “P-please.”

“Hmmm…” Geto pretends to think, but he’s still circling open your elastic entrance to fit his needy cock inside. Taking it slow, sensual - making sure your silky sweet walls are rubbing against each and every one of the prominent veins down his middle, the rotund end of his head shoving its way inside. “S’not ‘nough - how about ‘please, Sugu’?”

“Please, Sugu!” Your nails claw their way down his broad, milky shoulders - leaving red, red marks that make him groan. That make his hips jut forward in a solid, thorough thrust, “Please- d-don’t care about the n-noise complaints hah- jus’ wanna be full of all of you.”

Geto doesn’t know if he can move, fuck, he doesn’t even know if he’s breathing. Eyes widening, head thrown back at the slightest feeble clench of your velvety walls desperately trying to accommodate around his cock and the vibrator.

It takes beat - two, of him grinding in filthy gyrating motions, abs flexing when his slender waist surges forward. All the way until that divot at his tip was branding into your spongy cervix, painful, cum-filled balls sticking thoroughly against your ass. Somehow, he’s managing to roll his eyes, “D-didn’t hafta hah- say that much, gorgeous.”

There’s a sharp flick!

Setting 5.

The heady room is instantly filled by both of your moans - so loud. Yours higher-pitched and cracking pathetically at the end, Geto’s throaty, like they were being dragged from his throat against his will.

Immediately, he bores down at you with a bit lower lip, eyes half-lidded, the corners of his mouth curled up in what almost seems like a smile. “Guess I better quiet down myself- hngh- huh?” he gasps - heaves - tremors of the vibrator rubbing up so deliciously at the underside of his throbbing shaft, jostling with each hastening ram into your gushing cunt. “B-because now that I finally got you to scream out f’me-”

You’re mewling when his thumb comes up uncharacteristically gently to swipe away your own lips from underneath your teeth - a habit, almost, at this point after you’d gotten a very huffy email about being too disruptive at night. Like right now. “-I don’t wan’ ta hear anythin’ else. And that includes noise complaints - because soon m’gonna move ya to our own house, pretty, don’t ya worry. And there-” Your forehead is branded with a soft kiss, your g-spot with a rough ram. “-you can scream as much as ya want.”

♡ CHOSO KAMO - “Please please please.”

Choso couldn’t stop even if he tried - he couldn’t hold back even one of those broken, whiny pleas wrenching from his rosy pink lips. So loud, deep voice pitching up highly at the end every time the weepy divot at the very end of his fat tip reached into the spongy bottom of your pussy.

“Baby- please, baby–” he drags out your sweet little nickname, two of his sizeable palms coming to splay out on the curve of your hips. Just dragging your gummy cunt down like a cocksleeve, helping you ride him in easy, relentless grinds. “Does it feel good? Tell me- does it- hah-”

His breath hitches with a sudden shudder when your fingernails dig into the side of his pale neck, using the leverage to just ram your cunt down in thorough, hypnotic gyrations.

“Please!” Choso’s gasping, eyes rolling to the back of his head. You’re jostling slightly precariously on his slender hips when he’s planting two feet flat on the silky sheets to buck up, up up- “Tell me- tell me how it feels, baby.”

Your fingers tighten involuntarily at the sound of his greedy beg, making him let out such a guttural groan. The sound sends shivers running along your spine, all the way down to where he was jackhammering into your ravaged cunt. Thumbing apart your swollen folds to keep them spread enough for him to bully his girthy hilt into. So depraved. Needy. “S-so good, Cho-”

It was an accident - really - you didn’t even mean to let the little compliment slip. But it’s enough for Choso’s eager cock to expand even girthier inside you, all the blood in his body rushing to stretch your elastic walls to their limits. You could feel him everywhere, molding you to the very shape of his cock.

“Yeah? Oh yeah?” he’s hissing, craning his neck up to mesh your lips together sloppily. Languid, delirious - kiss-bitten lips smacking when they’re sucking on your lolled-out tongue. Fuck, how he missed your voice. “Tell me- ngh! Tell me more, please.”

Oh, but really - your sweet sweet boyfriend was so pretty like this underneath you. Milky skin damp with sweat, his dark eyes dewy with tears and locked on you, mouth parting open in ragged grunts. Your favorite little melody - it made the way you bite your lip stubbornly all the more sweeter.

There’s another glissading stream of his sweltering hot precum coating your inner walls, sloshing around in a syrupy slow rhythm inside you. “Please-” He’s crying out again after a few more branding smashes into your bulging g-spot - lips wobbly as if he was on the verge of bawling without your voice. “Wanna hear your sweet moans, y’know? S’my f-favorite song-”

And you swear your hulking boyfriend’s mouth was upturned into such a pretty pout at that very second, soft planes of his hands caressing up and down your bent thighs. You can’t help but hum, making his head feel so lightheaded with that teasing quirk of your lips.

Or maybe it was the way your fingers clamped down tighter around his neck, sure to leave a perfect array of bruises from your splayed-out fingers. Jerking him even closer- “Fine- open that mouth if you love my voice so much.”

You’re barely even finishing the sentence before his jaw slacks open, tongue darting out - just in time to catch the steady glob of syrupy saliva you spit out. Right onto the middle of his tastebuds, Choso’s immediately slotting his mouth against yours in an even greedier mess of a kiss.

“Didn’t think you- hngh! like my voice that much, baby.” you’re humming, letting him hurl into a frenzy of powerful mashes into your g-spot. Some missing - drawing long, eager glides of his rounded, thick head along your cervix. “I like yours too, y’know. So much.” Leaving a lingering drag of his jutted-out bottom lip between your teeth, “S’why I ah- hngh- held back- love hearin’ you.”

And oh, every honeyed word of yours goes straight into twitchy cock, pulsing painfully into your mushy walls. Curving upwards so deliciously, Choso’s hold on you tightens - enough to draw blood, you might think, had he not cut his nails just earlier.

He’s fucking upwards into you so solidly hard - feverish drags of you down his massive length only getting rougher and rougher until he couldn’t-

“Don’t do that, silly girl- mm- can’t live without hearing those cute moans of yours, m’kay?” Big fat tears gloss down his sharp cheeks with how stimulated he was right now, and you could feel the weighty shifting of his balls. So tight they almost felt like they could burst. “So be loud. Be as loud as possible f’me- tell me how it feels, how you ah- want more- a-and-” His fingers now cup your face, leaving all the laborious duty down to his frantic hips. Yet, Choso didn’t mind - anything that let him glide a thumb along your spit-glossed mouth, tugging out your bottom lip from where you were trapping it between your teeth, “-and say my name.”

You do - and it’s just about all you can manage out when you’re leering down to bite on Choso’s sensitive earlobe. Exactly where you knew would make him shiver the most, rutting up animalistically to bounce you up even deeper, “Then cum f’me, Cho.”

And he thinks he will - fuck, at the sound of his name rolling off your saccharine sweet tongue he couldn’t hold back even if he tried. But not before teasing a hard roll of his thumb along your clit, “F-fuck you little- ah! You first, since you’ve been hah- holdin’ out on me. N’ this time-” His glinting eyes narrow, sharp canines bared in such a viciously fucked-out grin that it makes you clamp down - hard, “-you’re gonna be the one hngh- crying out, baby–”

♡ RYOMEN SUKUNA - CHATTERBOX!

Now, usually when Sukuna had you all splayed out like this - your trembly thighs balanced on either side of his head, puffy pussy lips so sopping wet it made his mouth water - he knew you’d let out a few pretty noises.

A mewl when his hot tongue laps up the syrupy juices sopping from either side of your slit, a moan of his name when all he does is card the very edge of his soft muscle between them. And finally - finally - his favorite, a whiny beg for, “P-please, Kuna- no more teasing!”

How cute.

When you miss the first - he doesn’t think much of it, instead too engrossed in thumbing apart your swollen folds, admiring the way your greedy cunt was already glistening and winking down at him so sweetly. Spitting a fat wad of his saliva right on the bullseye of your entrance. When you miss the second, he’s concerned, humming a raspy growl at the back of his throat while wrapping two plump lips around your throbbing clit.

And when you miss that last one - oh, now you’re gonna get it.

Smack!

All give digits of his thick fingers come down hard on your hovering pussy, sliding a glistening syrupy wet sheen down to his wrist.

“S’this boring to you, woman?” the famed king of cures spits his words with a low, threatening rumble of his sculpted chest. And it’s all you can do to throb, whirling your glassy eyes down at his half-lidded, darkened gaze, “Anything else you’d rather be doing right now?”

You’re shaking your head deliriously - but that’s not enough for him, of course.

There’s another oozing little throb from your cunt - rewarded with another branding smack! across your sensitive clit. “Don’ wanna use your big girl words, hm?” Sukuna raises a brow, still holding such dangerous eye contact with you when he hollows out his cheeks, long tongue lolling out to make out with your pussy. “Fine then- let’s let this cute pussy speak for herself, hm?”

There’s only a drawn-out, sloppy squelch ringing through the heady air when he lays his tongue flat across your glossy lips. Just teasing around the very edge of your gushy entrance before the very tip of him dances up, up, up.

“Hngh!” you’re gasping at the feeling of him grazing over your clit in a sultry push and pull - and the sudden wetness of something else swirling around your syrupy sweet hole. “Wh- is that-”

“Shhh, didn’t ya wanna stay quiet, brat?” Sukuna cuts through your words, velvety coo making you just arch down harder to drag your slobbering cunt all across his eager face. And where that mean mouth of his was teasing you, his other - larger - tongue on his stomach was picking up wherever left off. More, even. “So shut up and let this pussy talk, why don’t ya?”

Ah, it was impossible to escape him. Two big beefy hands were steadied firmly around your quaking thighs, hauling you right onto his swallowing mouth, grinding you against his jaw like his favorite meal. You’re being bounced, almost on top of him - his other tongue driving you insane.

Reaching all the spots you could’ve never even imagined. Arching into you almost as deftly as his cocks, bullying past your puffy lips and into every bulbous areas of your sensitive spots. Fucking you so thoroughly-

“Hey-” There’s another reminder - one of Sukuna’s free hands planting a solid smack onto the very bulge of your elastic walls around his tongue. “Think she said she’s getting close- Almost didn’t hngh- catch it ‘cause you’re being a bit too hah-” He’s craning his thick neck back in for a messy kiss against your clit. “-loud-” Again. And again and again- plump smirk glittered with all your sweet sweet juices. “-dontcha think?” Smack! You’re whining in response, drunken hips pushing down as if to shut him up, “S’like you want to hngh- moan f’me. If you wanna then why are ya being so- fuckin’- stubborn.”

And fuck, you were so far gone that Sukuna almost didn’t expect a response. Half-lidded gaze locked on the trickle of drool slobbering down your slack mouth, eyes bleary, soft whimpers barely even audible over the sinful squelches! from down below. You were so loud, so drippingly wet in each one of your noises that it has him running his free palm over the outline of his aching cocks.

“B-because-” your wobbly voice makes his fat tips just gush out in thick ribbons of precum, seeping through the fabric of his decadent yukata and onto his fondling palm. “Felt embarrassing- the position a-and hah! got nervous I’d be too whiny or somethin’, Kuna…”

“That so?” Sukuna simpers, voice a little more silky soft than before. And the gentle smack! on your cunt reads as more fond than punishing, “Stupid brat- ya think I’d be like this if I didn’t like your pretty noises?” As if to prove his point, the two hands on your body ride you harder down his mouth. Sloppier. More depraved. “Nervous for what- s’jus’ me, y’know?” Tonguing back teasingly over your glossy clit, his eyes just bore into yours. Baritone vibrato pulsing down your achy pussy, “And I love every lil’ thing you do, my girl.”

His guttural moans are still echoing from the very base of your cunt when you cum - so hard. Violent, even, that Sukuna has to wrap his strong arms around you to keep you from escaping. It’s all your poor pussy can take. Waves of pleasure taking you away. Gushing and gushing so hard-

“Sh-shiiiit-” Sukuna utters - and it’s only then that you realize just how much you’d cum, quivering hole letting out bursts of your syrupy sweet slick. Just coating the entire lower half of his face, his cheekbones, down to his pecs in everything you’d squirted.

And while his lower tongue still laps at your honeyed juices, letting each bead slide down the muscle. He licks his lips with a sigh, “Let’s ask this gorgeous cunt if she can do that on my cocks now, too, hm? N’ this time- ya better scream f’me.”

♡ GOJO SATORU - Shut up.

“Sweetheart…”

“Satoru.”

“No-”

Maybe it was the way your sorry boyfriend was just aching to hear your sweet sweet voice moan around his name, maybe it was the way he’d been spending hours already groveling and worshiping your body. Or maybe it was the way your clingy walls just pulsed all around his weepy cock, squelching in a way that makes him salivate.

“I told you, my girl–” he soothes out in an almost-whiny tone. Pressing an overly-wet peck at your forehead, your nose, on either side of that scolding pout on your glossed-up lips. “I’m- sorry- I’ll listen to whatever hah- gossip about your favorite show next time just please-”

Two rough hands rest at the globes of your ass, purposefully jostling your fucked-out body to face him - he wasn’t letting you escape any time soon.

There’s the slow, lingering squelch of Gojo rolling his hips forwards in such a dizzying tandem. Shoving you further and further up those expensive silken sheets at the hotel suite he’d booked for tonight - all for his little apology.

“I s-see that lil’ smile-” he’s grunting, forcing two fingers around your face to look right into his greedy gaze. “Aww, come on- wontcha forgive me? M’begging here- begging.” And when you’re still keeping your mouth stubbornly shut, he’s throwing your limp legs over his broad shoulders. Running a syrupy slow circle over your neglected clit, “-promise I won’t fall asleep next time ya hah- t-talk my ear off.”

You have to admit that every saturated glide of his throbbingly fat tip has your jaw slacking further and further. Honeyed moans just bursting behind your lips, he’s stretching you out so sinfully.

And, yet, it was so fun to see the strongest all broken down like this - eyes drooping almost closed, pouty lips with a glistening sheen of spit, little whimpers sounding at the back of Gojo’s throat every time he’s knocking right into your bulged-out g-spot. It drove him absolutely insane to see you purposefully hold back your pretty moans.

“No no no no no-” he’s frantically prying away the knuckles you’re biting down deliriously on, trying to ease out those soft little whimpers and mewls. “My stubborn girl.” Pecking lingeringly at your lips, “Won’t you just scream- f’me-”

With a singular, jutting slam! of his hard hips against yours, you’re just keening - because Gojo was just crashing angrily against your poor g-spot. No longer teasing grazes and glides along your soppingly wet walls, just daring you to beg for more as you always did.

No, he was pressing into your g-spot with ferocious power, muscles rippling across his hulking body when he’s sliding his fat cock back, back, back- Only to reel all the way forwards, the very curve of his globular head curving thoroughly against your sweetly sensitive spots. Again. and again. And again and again-

“Ah!” you’re scrambling up onto your elbows, connecting your forehead with his own. “S’too-”

You didn’t know what you were going to say - to have him beg more- to have yourself beg for more? But whatever it was clings to your heavy tongue when you’re raising your head up to meet your boyfriend’s.

Because oh you knew that flushed, blank expression on his face, the slight crinkle of lightning at his eyes. This fucker-

“Whoops.” Gojo’s grinning, not a drop of regret in his words. “Guess I must’ve hngh- accidentally used six eyes when I-” Another nudge of his rotund head against your g-spot, only picking up in pace. Only plugging you full of his deep, grinding inches - fucking you so thoroughly into the mattress that you could hear the bedframe creaking in protest, your own cunt squelching ravagedly. “-hah- fuck this cute pussy. But hey…” He leans his face even closer, that infuriating curl of his lips only growing, “-I don’t hear ya complainin’ now, do I, sweetheart?”

“Especially when m’ruining you right-” Splaying out all five of his long, pale fingers across your stomach - drawing an invisible line where he was branding the imprint of the very top of his length into the bottom of your pussy. “-here?”

Fuck, he had you exactly where he wanted you.

“Y-you’re so-” you’re managing to gasp, eyes narrowing as he leans in even mockingly closer. But you can’t hide the slutty bliss in your tone, the way you tug and tease his soft, snow strands. “-so infuriating, y’know. I shouldn’t even hah- be lettin’ you off the hook this easily.”

He’s moaning twofold, like the sound of your voice electrifies him. Hefty shaft twitching with each piston, painfully tight balls just clenching so painfully. “Yeah- hahah- yeah, isn’t it because you love me?”

The entirety of his body shivers when you lock your legs tightly, bowing his body even closer to stick to yours. “It’s because-” you purr, batting your lashes so sultry. Spitting against his lips, “-you’re such a pain in the ass, Toru.”

And then he’s cumming - and cumming and cumming so hard that Gojo doesn’t have the time to be embarrassed. All he can really think about is the syrupy slow slosh of his seed painting inside your gummy walls, shooting out in thick dredges.

You giggle, eyeing down at the puddle of cum and saturated slick oozing down your thighs. Leaking out of your weepy slit, “Heh…for someone that wanted me to hngh- s-speak up so much, you sure are weak, Toru.”

The second roll of his nickname on your tongue is enough for Gojo to be gushing out another wave of potent cum into your snug channel. Hissing, he’s swiping at the creamy ring forming around his hilt, pooling the mess on the large pads of his fingers before-

“Maybe s’better when you-” Bullying them between the seam of your mouth, he’s swirling around your hot tongue. “-don’t speak.” Your answering glare is enough, “J-just kidding!”

A/N. If y’all need me I’ll be in my prayer circle manifesting for a Gojo comeback…

Plagiarism not authorized.

13K notes · View notes

mrchoppedslefthand · 4 months ago

Text

Homicipher Random Headcanons/Scenarios [NSFW]

Edit:11/07/2024

I desperately needed to post the random head canons and scenarios of our husbands that my brain kept cooking up (+ some from discord friends), so the list is not organized. Also, since we shape shift, I'm going to assume we can choose whenever we have a cock or pussy (because I want to be fucked and do the fucking) Anyways...enjoy the food thought.

Characters: Mr. Crawling, Mr. Chopped Mr. Silvair, Mr. Hood, Mr. Gap, Mr. Machete, Mr. Scarletella

Warnings: mentions of NSFW, mentions of some canon-typical violence, implications of dubcon, mentions of somnophilia, implied cuckold

Mr. Crawling

He can be submissive top. Constantly asking you if you love him during intimacy. He would ask if you enjoy playing with him as you pound yourself onto him. He would be a moaning mess and probably wouldn't know what to do about it as he clumsily places his hands around your waist.

He would definitely eat you out without you asking once intimacy had been initiated.

Afraid of hurting you, he wouldn't be too rough, instead he would be more tender and gentler when it comes to intimacy.

He definitely would love it when you play with his hair, allowing you to braid it or do whatever as long it doesn't involve cutting his precious hair.

He actually gets jealous easily, but he doesn't verbalize it, instead he shows it through his actions.

He is better with his hands, than his cock. So sometimes you prefer that over his cock. His cock is more on the average/smaller side and it's cute.

He definitely has a praise kink.

Mr. Chopped

He lacks a body, so to make up for it he is extremely expressive and open with his feelings. Which makes him a little fun to bully, to see all those cute expressions he could make.

He probably would be very good with his mouth and tongue, let him be your personal rose toy/fleshlight if you will. He can't fight back and have no choice but to whimper about it.

Imagine getting sick and fainting with him nearby, he can't move or do anything but helplessly cry for you to wake up and starts crying out help for Mr. Silvair to come help him and you.

Maybe one day, for a day of tricks and pranks. Mr. Stitch will allow Mr. Chopped a day in his body, so they swap places, stitching Mr. Chopped in place of Mr. Stitch's head. It had been a very long time since Mr. Chopped felt sensations beyond his head, so he happens to be very sensitive and clumsy with his hands. Everywhere you touch overwhelms him, he melts and becomes a moaning mess, but Mr. Chopped isn't the only one feeling all these sensations. Mr. Stitch can still feel it too. He is intrigued by today's type of play.

He definitely would be more on the whiny and needy side when it comes to pleasure, he lacks a body, but he can still feel lust. He can't do anything about it, which makes him extremely needy and extra pouty.

Mr. Silvair

Definitely would have had intimacy with other ghosts/humans before to research the body and performance during mid transformation if it differed.

Imagine one day he finds a mysterious liquid that fell from the 'other world' and feeds it to you, himself and the other ghosts in your crew. Only to find out it was an aphrodisiac. It was the first time he felt such a strong sensation of lust. At first, he mistakes this strong desire to be violence, so he starts to self-inflict wounds onto himself. You attempt to stop him, but soon find yourself to be underneath him as he bites into your neck, drawing blood. Surprised at seeing the often-composed man, turning into a ravage beast. You somehow manage to find something to tie him up and have your way with him.

He probably likes overstimulation on you...but also himself. He would love to research on how much his body can go and handle.

He would actually be a switch, for research purposes. To take and give he'd do anything for research. It had been long long ago since his body used to be human, and he often forgets about his own experiences if he doesn't write them down, but no worries, he has you by his side now to keep remembering.

Mr. Hood

He is quiet but speaks whenever he finds it suited for. But if you need him, he would be happy to talk with you.

He is a bit insecure about his body, he doesn't have arms or hands or even legs, he is an entity of nothing. The clothes are what shape his form, and well maybe he not entirely a entity of nothing. You had a glimpse before, a small glimpse and sensation of a squishy and somewhat slimy part that had belonged to him. You never mentioned though, but if it was you'd love him still anyways.

He realized that some words had been a bit harder for you to keep in mind and remember and so he thought of a special way to get you learning. Learning with what humans call pleasure. He fucks you and asks you what certain things are, and if you get it wrong, he denies you from coming. You have become determined to learn your words properly even more so now. Because if you remember you get rewarded with the most absolute fulfilling fuck of your life.

Since most of his body is invisible or nothing. If you mouth fucked him you would be able to see that real good, it is strangely erotic watching your cock move inside his mouth.

Mr. Gap

When you're sleeping, sometimes he might just cuddle against your leg or lower half. He loves the feeling of warmth, compared to his hollow darkness.

He definitely seems like the type of person to eat you out while you're asleep. Playing around and waiting for you to wake up to watch your reaction. Of course, he would only do this though if he knew you'd allow it. He values consent.

Imagine taking your backpack to school and you have to take out a pencil for a test. When you open your backpack, you realize it is just an empty void and hear a voice asking for your heart in exchange for the pencil. Yeah... you accepted your fate. You just failed your exam...

When you become a moaning mess under him, he can't understand but he knows that from your sweet voice, and moans, that it's a good thing. He knows to keep continuing.

One day Mr. Gap gathers his usual newspapers that fall from the rubble or somehow manages to grab one from the human realm. He notices a magazine that discusses about marriage and giving rings on the fourth finger. Intrigued about this idea, he asks you for your all four of your fingers, but you misunderstand and refuse to give him your fingers. He's sad but soon you later find out that he was asking for your hand in marriage, literally but also figuratively.

Mr. Machete

We would wonder aimlessly for an eternity together searching for his/your home. But eventually our subconscious would recognize each other as home instead.

He would definitely mock and laugh at how fast you would falter/melt under his touch. Calling you "weak" for coming so fast but would give kisses here and there after the mocking.

He'd probably be into throat fucking and laugh at you looking pathetic, he loves reactions that aren't boring, so seeing you choke on his cock seems like a great idea.

He definitely would come inside most of the time.

When he fucks you, his cock would probably bulge out a little from your stomach, fascinated by it he'd roughly press his hand down near that area.

He is our beefy dumb macho, perfect.

If you mouth/fucked him he would tell you he feels nothing, but his eyes would already be red and tearing. He's a pathetic coward.

Mr. Scarletella

He belongs to you, and you belong to him, together forever, in a hellish world. He loves the destruction you bring into his life and does the same for you.

Oh boy, he would absolutely devour you, his queen, in pleasure. Fuck you stupid to the point you're just a blabbering mess, hands on waist, and long fingers in your mouth, as he pounds deeply into you.

He seems like the type of guy to fuck you during your period.

Definitely gets jealous easily and he makes it know when he gets that way.

Imagine your fucked/fucking another ghost and you hear static within the distance, the sound slowly starts to come closer and closer until you hear the static in the room. Your crimson servant arrives and witnesses your fantastic display of intimacy. Jealous, he kills them and becomes extra possessive and quite terrifying, but you love it so much. How he seems so lost and pathetic without you.

You don't know his name, but neither does he know yours. Despite this disconnect, you still manage to give him some sort of other named to be called. It's connected to your name, but he knows it's not all of it, he can't fully whisk you away, but he's okay with that. You are still bound to him for an eternity anyway.

If Mr. Scarletella went back to the human world with you instead, he would appear to be the one most suited for fitting in. Just slack some foundation on his face, make him wear gloves and he would blend in quite well. Well...except for his odd habit of asking every stranger for their name and laughing and giggling crazily each time.

He would have a praise and degradation kink, he's not a whore. He's YOUR whore. He likes being YOURS.

#文字化化 #homicipher #homicipher headcanons #headcanon #my headcanons #mozibake #mojibake #horror games #horror vn #visual novel #mr crawling #mr chopped #mr chopped head #silvair #mr silvair #mr gap #mr machete #mr scarletella #mr hood

3K notes · View notes

moonlight-prose · 5 months ago

Note

a request, if i may, of praising old man logan as he filfthly eats you out and it makes him combust the more you praise him? okay running away again

speak of her over my grave and watch how she brings me back to life

a/n: look at him taking off his glasses in absolute shock of this ask- no okay does old man logan have a praise kink? i would raise it higher and say every version of logan has a massive praise kink. this is a man who wants to know he's doing good in life. his love language is acts of service so he might get to hear a pretty thank you. also i'm not sorry for how feral this got. i have no explanation.

summary: he knew he loved you when your words begin to piece his heart back together. he knew he loved you when he flourishes at your praise. he knew he loved you when nothing in this world could matter but the sound of your voice telling him you love him too.

word count: 3k+

pairing: old man!logan x f!reader

warnings: EXPLICIT SO MINORS DNI, oral (f receiving), praise kink, logan is obsessed, dirty talk via reader, he is so pretty when he blushes, manhandling, cumplay, cumeating, overstimulation, crying, he's needy in this one, angst, tortured soul of an old man, reverence, religious trauma + greek mythology hints.

He can feel the strings of fate pull tight around his broken heart. In a failed attempt to draw him back together. To piece together an organ that barely beat for him anymore. He might have felt it once, before it broke. Before it gnarled itself like the branches of a dying tree, one half twisting away from the other in a desperate attempt of survival.

He deemed it a useless part of his body until you came along. You with your smile that held enough cloying sweetness to choke him as he stood helpless. Silently begging for you to say his name. To bring him back to life.

Whatever horrors that plagued his mind—endless nightmares that promised nothing but anguish—suddenly came crashing to a halt at the sight of you. So pretty in your denim jeans and velvet top. An angel seated in the center of a bar that held more filth than you deserved to be near. Logan couldn’t fathom that luck struck him this hard.

Not when death had already claimed his soul; notched yet another tally in the endless wall of people that came before.

He felt the dirt pack under his nails as he clawed his way out of the grave he put himself in. Years spent alone—a man lost to the ravages of time—had turned him bitter. With rough edges and biting words that stung far more than he intended. How could he believe he deserved to live after he contributed so much to the endless pool of blood that tainted his soul? How was he allowed such softness after biting off bits of brutality his whole life?

Logan was pretty sure he survived on borrowed time that had already run out. He could feel death breathe down his neck as the days went on. A reminder that what little of his life remained would be spent suffering. And he found that accepting it was easier than battling against the will of God, or whoever toyed with his lifeline.

It was far easier to die than find a reason to live.

Until you said his name.

Softly. Sweetly. Reverence wrapped in a tight grasp of need.

You brought him back from the edge—took his hand and refused to take no for an answer. You and the safety of your touch; the promise in your kiss. You dragged him into a life he didn’t earn; one that almost tasted too sweet—too sour.

After near a decade of being buried beneath the dirt, he felt himself collapse above ground and suck in his first real gasp of fresh air. Alive, once more. Hell spit him out with a vow of love and who was he to argue against it.

His fingers dug into your plush thighs, tugging them open to see what lay between. He marveled at their softness, eyes wide and awestruck at the sight of you spread beneath him. You practically glowed in the dim light of the bedside table. Yellow, musty, yet angelic when it caressed your body with its heavenly touch.

He wondered if this was real life; your nails digging sharply into his shoulders gave him the answer.

"Logan," you sighed, voice high with need.

The strings pulled taught. A vice like hold that drew him to you.

Maybe that's what this unutterable feeling was. The gnawing pit at the bottom of his heart. A greed he'd never indulged before—too afraid of what it might ask for next. He wasn't a man who asked for much. Rather someone that found himself far too content with nothing. But tonight he found his lips forming the words of a false prayer that his mother taught him as a child.

Hail the angel in his bed. Hail every good fucking thing you brought into his life.

His teeth sunk into your thigh, body jolting at your responding moan. Fingers dug into his hair, tugging at the mussed locks with a high pitched whine. You were a needy little thing, but Logan found he desperately wanted to be needed.

He smiled laving his tongue over the tender spot, working his way up to where you dripped for him.

So slick. So perfect.

Saliva filled his mouth. "What do ya want baby?"

Your chest heaved; he could feel the heat of your body under his palms. "Your m-mouth Logan."

His eyes trailed along your brow covered in a sheen of sweat. The room was thick with the humid air of the outside world. But that didn't deter him from craving your skin near his. The pressure of your thighs around his head a welcome weight. If he sunk his teeth in where the curve of your leg met your hip he knew he could draw out that soft choking noise he longed to hear on days spent driving alone.

If he had his way he'd crawl into you to seek your serenity straight from the source. He'd never divulge about the ache that chewed him up on the inside, but Logan wondered if you knew. Could you tell how much he craved you? How much he couldn't live without you.

When your glittering eyes met his, the resolve he spent years building cracked like glass. You peered into him as if he was a stained glass window. A god you were more than happy to worship.

"You want me to lick this pretty pussy?" Fuck, he sounded drunk off your taste already.

His mouth hovered over your throbbing clit, your scent now filling his senses. Overwhelming him with what he wanted most. But he needed to hear it. The lilt of your begging; the soft echo of your need that washed over him like soothing river water.

He couldn't live without it.

"Yes," you sobbed, thigh twitching.

The string sliced his heart open, blood pooling onto the white bed sheets. Oh what a sweet death your love made. Oh...what a bittersweet way to go.

He'd die right now if you asked him to. Hand over his heart on a silver platter if you so wished it. Maybe that made him far too gone for his own good, but Logan couldn't remember a time in his life where he got this. Safety. The hope of love burning far too bright and far too hot for him to fly near it.

Yet there he was. Icarus happily soaring in your sun like glow.

"I got ya honey," he murmured. "Gonna take care of what's mine."

You nodded frantically—tears welling up in your eyes. "You take care of me Logan."

The breath in his chest stuttered, eyes dark as the words fell past your swollen lips. He wanted to explain why his cock twitched against his stomach. Why he now leaked into the sheet with heavy panted breaths. But every time he came up short with the words needed to form an answer.

"Yeah I do sweetheart," he breathed. "Don't I?"

"Uh-huh."

"Take care of what belongs to me."

There was no warning when his hands dragged you closer with a rough tug, mouth closing over your clit with a desperate suck. A cry wrenched from your mouth, sparks sharply traveling down your spine. He licked through your slick with a growl. Hands an unbreakable press against your thighs.

The sight of your body bowed, mouth open for small gasped breaths that never came, snapped something in his mind. He was an old man. Well past his years. But the taste of your pussy along his tongue brought back a ferocity he often tamped down in his younger age. He felt the feral want claw at his chest, and answered it with a broken snarl.

Swallowing down every drop you gave him, he plunged his tongue into your entrance, thrusting messily until a smear of your shiny slick began to coat his mouth. It covered his cheeks and clung to the hair of his beard. He'd clean it out later, taste you on his tongue until he was aching for another go. But for now he was preoccupied with the way you cried for him.

"Oh fuck!" Your thighs trembled over his shoulders, hips canting down to drag yourself along his tongue. "So good."

He shuddered, eyes rolling back at the sound of your praise. You caught it within seconds, lips pulling into a breathless smile that left him gasping for air. His teeth nipped at your thigh briefly as his hips ground into the mattress below.

"You like that baby?" you breathed, thumb smearing your own slick against his cheek.

Something hot washed over his body. A needy sick and twisted ache that he'd never indulged in before. He wanted to be a good man to you; longed to be needed. And fuck if you didn't give him everything.

You were his walking wet dream. His future handed off and wrapped in a neat little bow.

"L-Love your tongue Logan-" A high gasp tore from your throat when he dived back in. Slurping at your clit with a heady moan as you dragged him closer. "Taking care of me so well."

His hips canted down into the bed, fucking his cock along the warmth of his stomach, as you gushed into his mouth again. Eyes zeroed in on your face, pupils dilated as he growled into your flesh. You no longer could see the man you loved, but the feral side he tamped down during the day. The animal he longed to release in your presence.

"Fuck I'm gonna cum."

His arms looped around your thighs and with a sharp yank, he had his face buried deep enough to suffocate himself. You sobbed an incoherent version of his name. Nails clawed at his shoulders, but Logan could feel the pulse of your clit under his tongue.

He sucked it into his mouth with a grunt, rolling it along his tongue as you trembled with the oncoming shocks of an orgasm that threatened to destroy you.

Tears dripped down your cheeks and Logan felt the satisfying part of his heart begin to stitch itself back together. The strings were tight enough to numb his pain. To quell the flare of agony.

That used to be all he knew, all he counted on most days. When there was nothing left and he'd propped the shovel in the dirt—his grave open and waiting—he stumbled right into your arms. He found his reason for living.

Heat curled around his spine as you shook with the impending orgasm—the stimulation on your clit practically debilitating. He grunted into your soaked flesh, eyes narrowed as he chased the release that pulled his stomach taut. But this wasn't for him to indulge in; this wasn't his pleasure.

So with a throaty moan you felt reverberate along your body, he scraped his teeth along your clit and watched as your body went stiff.

"Logan!" you cried, fingers scrambling for purchase on any part of him you could reach.

You gushed into his awaiting mouth, praises of it's so good, you're so good falling upon his ears like the whimpered prayers of a devout worshiper thanking your god.

"Taste so fuckin' good," he mumbled, drunk on what you gave him.

He didn't care that you were jolting with each pass of his tongue along your pussy. He didn't care that you were shocked with overstimulation, small broken cries of his name muffled by the press of your thighs against his ears. He licked at you until he couldn't breathe. Buried his tongue into your twitching entrance and sucked out your cum with a happy hum.

"P-Please." You tugged at his hair, pulling him off you with a sob. "I-I can't anymore Logan."

"'M not fuckin' finished," he said, eyes glazed and face coated in your slick.

You made a mess of his face. The light catching along where you spilled into his mouth and along his throat. And still he wanted more. He'd spend hours between your thighs, burning your skin with his beard, if it meant he could divulge in your sweetness.

"It hurts-"

A grunt rumbled in his chest, his arms tugging you back even as your feet kicked along his back. "Just one more honey. Yeah?"

You shook your head. "B-But-"

"Thought you said it was good."

"It is."

"Then lemme be good for you." He wanted to tell you that the world went quiet between your thighs. That all his grief, all his pain, lessened when you sobbed his name.

He wanted to show you the string that looped his heart to yours—the only thing keeping him alive—and thank you for bringing him back from the dead. But words weren't his forte. Violence had become the only tenderness he knew and you didn't deserve the rough edges of an old man. You should have more.

But when you let him touch you like this—caress your skin and lick between your folds—he felt as if he was a man who finally was worthy of someone as precious as you. He could pretend he didn't bear the brunt of a fucked up soul.

The weight on his chest lifted when your tear filled gaze met his and you nodded. Small, barely there, but it was enough for him to seal his mouth back over you with a ragged moan. Your body shook as his tongue slid through the seam of your pussy. The tip nudging against your clit—careful to draw the pleasure from your body slowly.

He didn't want to give you pain. His heart wouldn't survive that. But he was a broken man; someone who begged for more even as his teeth sunk into what was already given.

You were his meal. His sacrament in the midnight hours until dawn broke across the darkened sky. You were the other half of his soul.

How could he not indulge in your sweetened tang until his tongue went stiff?

"I love you," you sighed, eyes rolled back when he sucked at your pussy, a wet low moan echoing in the air. "My p-perfect husband."

The cold press of his wedding band against your thigh drove him over the edge. You weren't officially married. Didn't have the backyard wedding with a preacher to match. But Logan had placed a ring on your finger near a year ago, sliding one over his own with the vow of forever cemented in his words.

Even if that didn't mean much in the eyes of a god who abandoned him near a century ago.

"Oh-"

Your head tipped back, mouth dropping open as his fingers dipped into your wet heat. Thrusting lazily until he found the spongey patch along your walls—driving the pad of his middle finger into it with a needy moan.

He knew it wouldn't take long for you to fly off the edge of a second release. That didn't make watching you climb to that peak any less satisfying. The sight appeased his soul. It gave him a chance to breathe; let him know that after so much bad—after so much pain—he could do something good. He could bring you to the edge of pleasure and drag you over again and again.

He could finally be the man you believed he was.

Not the animal they created.

"C'mon," he muttered. Eyes fixed on the shape of your breasts as your body curved off the bed. Hips dragging along his face with a stunted cry.

A wail bounced off the walls, piercing his eardrums with the symphony of your cries. His fingers rapidly pumped into you with a squelch that had heat burning his cheeks—lips pulling your throbbing clit into his mouth as you broke. The climax slammed into you; battering your already swollen pussy.

Logan could feel his cock swell at the sight.

"Fuckin' perfect," he grunted, teeth bared as he clambered to his knees and wrapped his fist soaked in your slick around his leaking cock. "'M gonna cum sweetheart."

Your eyes fluttered open, fingers digging into his thigh. "Please. Wanna see it baby. Look so pretty when you cum Logan."

His chest tightened, body shaking while you watched in rapture as he fucked his fist rapidly. He wouldn't fucking last, could feel the burning consume his body, but something held him back. The string around his heart yanked him away from the edge, tearing a cry from his throat when his frustration peaked.

You could see it—the glimmer of need in his dark eyes. This wasn't the first time he longed for your words. It certainly wouldn't be the last.

So you spread your legs and sat up slowly—arms wrapping around his shoulders to bring his lips down to yours. A soft moan was muffled by your mouth; the peak of his release within reach. He could practically feel the tips of his fingers graze it.

"Cover my pussy baby," you mumbled into his mouth. "Be good for me and mark what's yours."

The growl came from the very bottom of his chest when he finally came. Your name was a bitten out snarl pressed to your mouth in an open mouth kiss as he spurted over his knuckles. He pumped his cock to milk every drop; eyes fixed on the way it covered the swollen lips of your pussy. Dripping down to your entrance that fluttered at the sight of his sweaty and crimson tinged face.

"I fuckin' love ya honey," he murmured, hand cupping your chin to drag your lips back to his. "Best thing that's happened in my life is you."

You smiled, thumbs pressing to his cheeks. "Love you too Logan."

Clutching you close, he felt the string go loose. The breath finally rushing back into his lungs at the sight of your eyes glowing with the kind of light that brought him back to the first day The night he met you in that shitty bar—alcohol the only thing on his mind until he saw you.

The night you spoke his name over his covered grave and dragged him back to life with a smile.

#logan howlett x f!reader #logan howlett x reader #logan howlett x you #logan howlett x y/n #logan howlett smut #old man logan #my writing

4K notes · View notes

sttoru · 8 months ago

Text

𝝑𝑒 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐒. nanami kento x pregnant wife!female reader. smut, pwp. cunnilingus. pregnancy kink kinda. not proof read. reader gets called ‘sweetheart, honey, darling’

kento nanami cannot leave you alone, even if you’re pregnant. he’s a natural provider and always wants the best for you. especially when you’re carrying his child—which he thanks you for every single day. one day he shows his appreciation through words of affirmation, the other day it’s with endless gifts.

this time it’s by relieving your stress underneath the table while you’re peacefully eating breakfast.

“fuck. . ken,” you tug at his hair with your free hand, the other holding the toast you’ve been nibbling on. your head rolls back and your breath comes out in short gasps as kento’s tongue flicks over your sensitive cunt.

you didn’t expect your morning to be like this, but you’re not complaining. kento always has to start off his day by worshipping your body in any type of way. he’ll rub your small baby bump while you’re cooking, whisper sweet nothings into your ear, kiss you all over while telling you how beautiful you look and even more.

this time his usual body worship had evolved into something more. from kissing your little pregnant belly and praising you for bearing his child, to him kneeling between your legs, slobbering all over your soaked pussy.

“i know, sweetheart. your dear husband will make you feel better, i promise,” kento coos, his voice muffled as his mouth collides with your glistening folds over and over again. he’s getting lost in your essence—the slick messily coating his lips.

his fingers rub your clit a little in the meantime, not forgetting to pleasure you to his best ability. your repetitive moans bounce off the walls of the kitchen, echoing in his ears. you sound like an angel and your body feels like one as well.

kento tries his best to keep his own grunts down. your cunt is dripping so much, amazing amounts of wetness cover his mouth to the point that it trickles down his chin. he’s without a doubt getting drunk on your essence.

the place between your thighs is considered a heaven on earth to the blonde man.

“mhh, are you feeling better, honey?” kento asks, opening his eyes halfway to look up at you, “am i pleasing my wife well?”

the sight of your husband kneeling in front of you, his hands holding your hips steady on the chair and his mouth ravaging your puffy folds makes you forget all about the morning sickness you’ve been complaining of.

“f-feels way too good,” your breath is shaky as you try to focus on eating. you can’t physically get that piece of bread to your mouth, your hand shaking from the pleasure you’re being granted. your pussy tingles and aches with each lick or suck—your hips trying to buck against kento’s mouth.

“that’s great,” kento murmurs, his nose bumping against the bundle of nerves that’s nestled between your folds. the place that makes you go wild, “that’s all i want.” you squeal and find yourself dropping your toast to place your other hand on kento’s head.

you tug at his hair and gain another groan from him. kento notices that you’ve stopped eating and he pulls away from your pulsing cunt for a second, kissing your inner thighs gently. “you need to eat up, darling,” kento’s hot breath hits your bare pussy as he stares at you with love and lust in his eyes, “you’re eating for two now after all.”

he taps your little bump and leans in to kiss your swollen skin. an affectionate smile appears on his handsome features, one that makes you melt immediately. you know kento won’t resume eating you out unless you take a bite of your food again.

“fine,” you pout and grab your toast. you take a small bite and at the same time, you feel kento’s lips kiss your core back. the tip of his tongue slithers up and down your slit, circling your pulsating hole before kissing your clit.

he’s taking his sweet time to make you cum. after all, this is meant to soothe and pleasure you. to take your mind off the negative aspects of your pregnancy. if there’s one thing kento can do as your man, as the father of your child, it’s to take care of you both mentally and physically, in any way you need.

“how about your breakfast, k-ken?” you ask through quick whines. your entire body feels like it’s on fire. kento’s large hands keep holding your body down on the chair so you wouldn’t have the chance to escape his loving gestures. your teary eyes look over the table, “your coffee is getting cold.”

kento chuckles at your worries. you’re selfless, even when he’s offered to pleasure you himself. he leaves a trail of kisses up and down your throbbing pussy, his saliva mixing with your slick and causing lewd strings of clear liquid to stick to his chin.

“don’t you worry. i got my breakfast right here,” kento answers softly while eating you out. every jaw movement is down with precision—it’s slow yet filled with passion. he slurps up any excess fluid every now and then, not caring if you’re making a mess on the chair or on his face.

kento smiles against your wetness when he hears you moan at his words. the way you look so ethereal, staring down at him with open lips, drooling a bit with bread crumbs staining the area around your mouth is absolutely endearing, “you’re so cute. keep looking at me, darling.”

you cannot believe this man. he’s so caring, so loving. you definitely chose the right person to marry and have children with. his rough fingers come up to rub your small baby bump again, not forgetting to show you his appreciation through subtle touches in the meantime.

“so sweet,” kento sighs as he swallows drops of your slick, “letting me take care of you like this . . . such a good wife.”

he’s getting drunk on you, definitely. the taste of your essence and the fact that you’re pregnant with his child right now—the fact that he’s the one who impregnated you and made you a soon-to-be mother—is driving him insane. his cock is dripping with pre-cum, ready to burst.

but, he’ll hold himself back for your sake. you’re going to be taken care of first since you’re his priority and always will be.

being pregnant is so worth it when your husband is kento nanami.

#sttoru writes.#jjk smut #jjk x reader #nanami smut #nanami x reader #nanami kento smut #jjk x you #jjk x y/n #nanami x you #nanami x y/n

6K notes · View notes

sunnami · 5 months ago

Text

the 5 times you did (not) love each other and the 1 time you did.

summary. as the title suggests. this one was a request! i hope you enjoyed my version of this anon.

pairing/s. poly!marauders + lily / reader.

wc. 4.1k

tags. hurt/comfort, angst, peter pettigrew mention, not proofread, like seriously, fluff, happy ending.

cws: brief mention of violence and blood.

note: i am alive?? crazy. i began this fic, whilst sick, around august, nursing the worst headache ever. i wrote the middle of this fic, sick. and i think it's only fitting that i finished this fic. sick... honestly, i did not proofread any of this, i just know i lowkey love it. after the first one-thousand words, i just spiral and become delirious, so i don't even know what happened here. my first request finished! yippee! and thank you all for 2k :< i love you all so much.

SIRIUS BLACK did not love you—not even close, not even a little bit. Not even at all.

After Peter Pettigrew’s slight against his family, Sirius would never hold warmth or pity for the skittish mouse ever again. He was played for a fool. And, he did not know which betrayal had hurt more. Peter’s—or yours. (Had you known all along of your adoptive brother’s plans? Did you not think for one second that Sirius would, without a sliver of hesitation, put himself in the way of a killing curse to keep you safe? He’d have died before ever letting the fire in your eyes wither to ashes. Clearly, you did not share the same sentiment.)

He wanted nothing to do with you. Ever. And if the rat-bastard dared to show his face, not even Death would know where to put Peter’s body to rest. Sirius would keep him alive until he begged for death—until the idea of living frightened him more than dying. And for you—beholder of his heart, captor of his soul, and co-possessor of his mind—he could only hope that you stayed far away. You had wrecked him—all of them.

He wanted—

He did not know what he wanted.

For when it came to you, Sirius Black was reduced to a man wandering the deserts—mistaking clouds for water, and the sands for grass blades. You had ravaged every fiber of his being; consumed his every thought and word. The most ironic part of all was that if you had been the one standing there—Sirius would have let you Avada him. Dumbledore could scold him in the afterlife—Sirius could care less. He’d have snapped his wand in half and asked someone else to fight you because Sirius had vowed from the moment he met you that he would never harm a hair on your head. He would never be the reason that tears stained your pretty cheeks.

Well, apparently, trust and promises were not worth a damn thing nowadays.

No, he did not love you—even as you stood on the steps of Grimmauld, your hair ruined by the downpour of rain. Your lips bruised and bitten from a nervous habit Sirius had yet to break out of you.

“I didn’t know, Sirius,” you whispered—your voice the only sound falling on his ears amidst all the thunder and lightning. He only saw you. “Y-You have to believe me. If I knew—Gods, I would have told Dumbledore in a heartbeat. Fuck. I thought you knew me better than that.”

He thought so, too.

“Did you know?” Sirius began, taking a step forward and into the storm, a demeaning sneer on his lips. “That when Voldemort stood in our home, your portrait was right behind him? That was all I could look at. If I had died—you would have been the last thing I saw.”

You had not replied.

Sirius grit his teeth. “Go,” he said, voice hoarse.

“Go!” he yelled, grateful for the rain as it masked his own tears as you flinched from the sound of his voice. Not the thunderclap, the lightning strike—but it was him who scared you.

(But you had done so first.)

When you apparated away, Sirius crumbled to the ground and pounded his fists against the asphalts where you were moments ago, screaming and cursing until he saw blood flowing with the rainwater.

It was laughable, really. The way he did not love you.

It was not love that drove him to madness, pummeling Gideon Prewett into a bloody pulp for mentioning your name during a meeting with the Order. He had presumed you to be a Death Eater alongside your brother—Sirius instantly saw nothing but red. (He condemned Bellatrix, his own cousin, for becoming a madwoman. Yet, here he was, unraveled by the very thought of you. The very whisper of your name.)

But whatever it was that had turned him into a fool and a hypocrite all at once, it was not love.

ii.

JAMES POTTER had no love for you—make no mistake about that. He loved love, and he did so fiercely and truthfully. But you and Peter had broken his trust—defiled his loyalty from the moment your brother had brought Voldemort to his doorstep. (Did you know that as he begged and screamed for Lily to hide with their son, Harry—he thought of you? For a fleeting moment, he saw your face, marked by fear and tear-rimmed eyes. And James knew straight away that he would spit on Tom Riddle’s bare feet if only to keep his family safe. If only to see you once more. Alive and well. But, you must not have thought the same—if you had conspired with Peter to sell him and Lily out to the Devil reborn.)

The thought of you breathing was enough to keep James alive.

But, that was not love. It was a mockery of it.

No, he did not feel so much as a twinge of emotion for you. Not even as Mad-Eye Moody brought your limp body back to Grimmauld. It was not love that threatened the magic in his being—that simmered in his blood until the painted walls saw an indent of his fist. (“Poor thing,” McGonagall cooed as she pressed her palm over your forehead. Despite some of the members’ growing distrust for you, you still took an Unforgivable in their stead. “We can only wait. . . Four Cruciatus curses. . .”)

What more did James need to want to rip Peter apart limb by limb?

It was not love that rooted his feet by your side. Sitting hunched on a chair too small for his height, bags beneath his eyes, and the pale of his lips becoming noticeable to everyone who spoke to him.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered to you lovelessly—hands desperately clutching your own. Sirius stood across the room, arms crossed over his chest, dagger-like eyes waiting for so much as a twitch of your finger. “I’m sorry.”

It was a plea this time.

He only hoped you did not ask him to love you. For James could give you the world, hand-pick the stars, and burrow his body deep beneath the ground if you had asked for it—but he could not love you.

Everyone had told him not to hope that you would wake up. That your pretty eyes would not flutter open, and you would no longer look at him as you had before. But James was stubborn. He was selfish as he was stubborn. He did not love you—but he needed to hear the sound of your voice. And James would take it any way that he could. The soft cadence of a whisper, or a rough utterance of a single word. Molly Weasley told him to accept reality for what it was. (“You need sleep, dear,” the matriarch fussed. “There’s nothing we can do. Look at the Longbottoms. . . We can do no more for this one as we had done for them.”)

In the still of the night, he left his reveries on the cold of your skin. “Wake up,” he demanded.

“Wake up or else you’re the traitor everyone thinks you are,” James hissed.

But his words held no heat—and his heart held no love for you.

Make no mistake about that.

Then, when you finally woke up, disoriented and throat parched—a hazy recollection of the weeks before—James made sure that no more than four people could enter the room. He did not care if a hurricane, or if Voldemort himself—James had faced him once already, after all—threatened to break the door down. You were theirs to protect.

(But not to love.)

“We need to begin the questioning, James, you know that,” said Kingsley Shacklebolt, almost exasperatedly; weary lines written across his face. James would not allow even a toe beyond the doorway. An interrogation meant you had something to do with the attempted murder of James and his family. Whether or not you were innocent, James did not care—he just wanted you safe.

(And a small part of him already knew that you were not your brother’s keeper. Just as they had absolved Sirius of his family’s sins. It would be unfair to not show you the same grace. But before his mind knew that, James’s heart and soul had known the truth all along.)

He found Sirius gently tending to your every need, and already James knew that was Padfoot’s way of begging for forgiveness. The ebony-haired man hung onto your every word. He winced when you flinched, and pressed his apologies to your forehead, rasping for a kindness he did not deserve. Not after what he did. How he turned you away and cursed your name. How they betrayed you.

James did not love you.

But what else could he call the manacles that bound his hands and forced him to his knees when it came to you?

Not. Love.

iii.

REMUS LUPIN could not bring himself to love you. But, he could not love Sirius, Lily, and James either. He was undeserving of such a privilege. But he was not allowed to love you; Remus could only hope that you saw even a shred of worth in him—to wrest each word from his lips and every breath from his lungs. But, he did not love you. No.

Because loving you meant he was to tell you of your brother’s crimes. And Remus could not hurt you like that.

“P-Peter?” you had asked, wearing the eyes of a fretful sibling. Remus lifted his hand to tuck a strand of hair gone astray behind your ear. Bellatrix had done a number on you—just as she had done to Alice and Frank. Remus was fairly certain that Sirius was off on a hunt for his cousin, his mind toyed with by the barbarity of war. What they could not do for the Longbottoms, they’d wring themselves dry to do for you. After the Lestranges’ attack, you suffered damage to your throat and memories. Remus could not bear to see you in such pain.

He could not give you love, but Remus would offer up to you his every limb, and the weary skin upon his bones.

“They. . .” Remus grimaced. How could he act as the bearer of bad news? He’d rather dive headfirst into shark-infested waters. Be anywhere else but here. In fact, Remus would rather snatch you away from the funereal walls, and hold you in his arms in the quietude of dawn, than be the one to bring anguish to your eyes. “They’re looking for him at the moment, love.”

One question lingered in your eyes: Why?

Luckily, Sirius was always the better one at sharpening a blunt knife. “He was a traitor,” he spat like acid. “A traitor to the Order. A traitor to us. He’s no friend of ours. Not anymore.”

But Sirius knew—better than anyone else—how difficult it can be to truly hate little brothers, especially once they’ve gone.

“No. . .” You trembled, almost retching as you sobbed into your palms.

Remus held you then, the front of his shirt soaked in your tears, eyes firmly shut as you trembled and heaved in his arms. The sound of your guttural screams bounced off the four walls, and Remus had to bury his nose in your hair. You were alive. Safe. Breathing. But you felt cold as ice; an empty husk stripped bare for grief to take over. And Remus could do nothing but hold you. (He just hoped that wherever Peter Pettigrew was, Remus would not be the first one to find him. Otherwise, they would not be able to recover even a fingernail from his remains.)

“Hush, love,” Remus whispered into your ear as you cried yourself sick. Mourning the loss of your brother, reeling from the betrayal of a bond that was supposed to be stronger than blood. Remus would make him pay, he vowed as much to you. No, Remus and the wolf in him did not know how to love. But he knew how to hurt. And, that, he’d gladly do for you. His body was for you to use as a shield, his soul for you to strip bare, and his heart for you to thieve and never return.

“Don’t cry,” said James, a shadow cast over his frames. “Not for Peter. Never. Fucking bastard will get what’s coming to him.” He laid on the vacant space of the bed, gently untangling your hands that were pressed over your heart. “I’ll make sure of it.”

They all would.

But not because they loved you.

It was not out of love, Remus had to remind himself in the coming days, when he stayed diligently by your side as you recovered. Daily sessions with the best healer St. Mungo’s could offer—as if James would allow anything else. There were days your eyes would glaze over, your words rough and sluggish, and Remus would try his damndest to make you smile.

It was the least he could do.

For failing to protect you.

But that was not love.

(It was hope. Wretched, disastrous hope as he fell to his knees, and your name in between his teeth.)

iv.

LILY EVANS was a fighter in all the ways that mattered.

And from the very first moment she held Harry in her arms, eyes raking over his wrinkly, bloodied skin; all ten fingers and toes, her soft cries over his loud screaming—Lily knew she would trade her life for his in a heartbeat. Little, lovely eyes that would soon see the world in his own time. Lily adored him. Cherished every tear, snore, and giggle. She knew then, that a mother’s love was entirely different from any emotion she’d ever felt before.

This was proven the first time Harry had gotten seriously ill. A few weeks after the attempted murder on the Potters, Harry was ceaselessly crying—screaming, even, every night—red-faced as he fussed every breakfast and dinner. Lily found herself at wit’s end. Her protectiveness had gone up a hundred measures; wouldn’t let anyone besides family or Madam Pomfrey see Harry. Yet, even with all the draughts and silly-flavoured syrups, Harry wasn’t getting better.

“Lily dear, you cannot actually be thinking about this,” worried Molly Weasley as Lily stood in front of your door, holed away in the room where you had been recovering for the last few days. It would be the first time she saw you since the incident. More than anything she was afraid. Frightened that you would look at her differently. Whether or not that fear stemmed from love, Lily was not concerned. “We can call for another Healer from Mungo’s to have a look at Harry. . . Who knows what might. . .”

Lily held Harry closer to her, lips firmly pressed, attempting to ignore the way his temperature was unnaturally high. “Might what, Mrs. Weasley?” She knew Molly was only talking out of concern, from a mother’s perspective at least. But she knew you better than anyone else. You would never hurt her, or Harry, that much she was certain of. And if you were the traitor everyone else was afraid of accusing you of, a sentence delivered by association to Peter—then let the guillotine fall, Lily would carry your crimes for you.

She remembered ever-so clearly in her sixth-year, you with dreams glistening in your eyes. (“I’m going to be a Healer, Lils! Minnie said I’d be a great one. . . I want to protect those I love. . . I know I can do it. . . Oh, I can’t wait to tell Peter that I’ve gotten recommendations already to work at Mungo’s after graduation.”)

And Lily recalled at that moment, she had felt a different kind of emotion that she had never experienced before. It was not love, of course. Tuney said she was too young and too stupid to know what real love was. But, at sixteen, what else could describe the way her heart fluttered and the way her lips threatened to break out into a smile whenever you lit up talking about your future? (It was just a crush, young Lily told herself.)

Only to be crushed and cast aside in the face of the war, where fighters took their place at the forefront of the lines, mothers and children hid; healers stretching themselves thin to be here, there, everywhere; where traitors walked in plain sight.

“There is no one else I trust more with my life,” replied Lily.

And that was that.

Lily skirted around Molly and opened the door to your room, where Sirius, James, and Remus all stood at attention at the sight of her and Harry. She ignored them, and headed straight to your side.

“Hello, love,” she greeted with all the gentleness she was made of, a smile creeping up to her eyes as Lily watched you turn your head at the sound of her voice. Truth be told, she did not know what her end-goal was in coming here. But being by your side had always made life a little more bearable, like all the illnesses in the world could not bring her down. And so, her magic had instinctively summoned her person to you. She, at least, was relieved to see colour returning to your cheeks, though the red in your eyes had dulled the hues she adored so much.

“Is that. . .?” you croaked.

Lily nodded. “Harry, meet—”

One of the loves of my life, the most loyal and pure witch anyone ever has the privilege of meeting, someone I want to stay in my life forever.

Lily’s smile wilted. “A friend.”

Later, she would place Harry in your arms—her little hope embraced by her dream—and Lily would wonder if it was by pure magic that Harry calmed in your presence.

For if love could hurt and destroy, could it mend and heal the broken as well?

But what a shame, for not one in that room carried an ounce of love for you.

(She would die for Harry, yes—but she would live for you.)

YOU did not love them, either.

The very idea, thought—insinuation—was absurd. (Why, they deserved much better than you, after all.) With hands that failed to protect them, were you even allowed to hold them anymore? Did your heart have the right to breathe for them? You had failed as a sister and a friend—how much more would you have failed as their lover? Well, you’d never know.

Because you did not love them.

Merely wished them happiness and for the world to extend them kindness. For the sun to look brightly down on them, and for time to heal their scars and wounds. For if they were in pain, the earth would stop spinning. But such a request was not borne from love.

Surely not.

Because, then, that would have meant that it was love that teared you apart when Sirius cursed your name, when James turned you away, when Remus could not look you in the eyes, or when Lily—for all your history together—called you a friend.

The whole of you was made by the parts of them. Each memory welded into the crevices of your soul. From the moment you had all found each other in the same train compartment, same common room—there was a shift in the fates that bound all five of you together. (The ties were red, but the thread was not of love.) You did not believe in Professor Trelawney’s talks of providence and destiny.

Because if you did, then why was the universe so cruel?

Falling—not in love—for four people who could very much do without you in their lives. Lacking severely as a sister to the point you had not noticed your brother fading and fading away into the shadows.

Was love that unkind? That merciless?

Then, you did not want to love at all.

Oh, but magic or not, every creature on this earth selfish.

You were no different.

You wanted.

Oh, how you yearned.

“I LOVE YOU.”

You barely had enough time to react before Sirius pressed his lips to the side of your head, arm covertly sneaking around your waist. The sound of the train whistling as parents yelled their goodbyes filled the station. You stood in the midst of the crowd, eyes never leaving one window in particular as you waved at Harry, now eleven-years-old and now off to Hogwarts.

“Quite a random thing to say, husband,” you murmured, leaning into his warmth. “What for?”

“Just because,” he replied in turn with a fiendish grin. “Well, perhaps for choosing us, for choosing me despite all my fuck-ups. For existing. For being the beautiful, wonderful, kind, precious you. I could keep on going, my darling. Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?”

You wrinkled your nose, eyes rolling from fondness. “I love you too, quite unfortunately.”

He only laughed and pulled you closer to him. “Let’s go home.”

–

“I love you.”

In the house built by new memories, warded by stronger protection charms, and filled with warmth and love—James said this to you each morning before he left for the Ministry, promoted after the war as Head of Magical Law Enforcement. Not one foot out of the door until he had showered you in kisses and the symphonies of his heart. James had always been loud, even in his time at Hogwarts. The war had not taken this part of him, and you figured James was too loud to let it be taken from him. He was unapologetically and unabashedly him.

And you had loved him fiercely for that.

“I’ll be home early tonight,” he said, a quiet intimacy washing over the both of you. The early birds of the cottage. “Wait for me?”

“Of course,” you answered without an ounce of hesitation, delicately chasing after his lips. “I love you. Be safe.”

“I love you.”

“Are you saying that to me or are you reading from the book?” you teased from where you laid on Remus’s chest, hours after James left for work, the afternoon bringing you two together in the living room. Lily was in the gardens, and Sirius was in the shed working on his motorbike. It was perfect. You felt the rise and fall of Remus’s chest beneath you, his heartbeat close to your ear. He was perfect. It was a miracle you had not fallen asleep to the tender lull of his voice.

“Both,” he responded, hand coming up to trace the bare of your skin—a miracle you did not crumble or burn instantly from his touch.

You hummed. “Then, I love you, too.” Then, you grinned, lifting your head to stare up at him. “You have bewitched me, body and soul, and I love, I love, I love you.”

And, oh, how photographs could not capture the beauty in Remus’s smile as his eyes regarded you with such fire.

“My heart, my light, my desire,” Remus began, one finger ever-so softly tracing the curve of your cheek. “In vain I have struggled, it will not do. My feelings will not be repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you.”

–

“I love you.”

Said Lily as she lied in your shared bed, red-nosed and her cheeks pale, sluggish. The Christmas holiday was generous enough to gift her with an unfortunate cold that had been going around the wizarding world. “But, please, go,” she commanded weakly, gesturing for you to join Harry who was stood by the door. “It’s a lovely day outside for making snowmen with carrots as noses and snow angels. Not for taking care of poor old me.”

You rolled your eyes as you sat by her side, swiftly pressing a kiss to her forehead. “And I love you, which is why I would rather much be here, taking care of the prettiest snow angel to ever exist,” you countered, bringing a spoonful of broth to her lips. “Besides, Harry here has something to tell you. He’s made friends at school. One of them is Molly’s little one.”

“Oh, you did?” Lily cooed, before sniffling weakly. “That’s lovely, darling. Tell me all about them.”

“That’s not all, Lily mine,” you began mischievously as Harry’s eyes narrowed at you through his glasses. “This friendship apparently formed after fighting a troll.”

“You what?” Lily croaked, emerald eyes shimmering with concern and near-dread.

“Did you really, Harry?” James popped his head in the doorway, clapping his son on the shoulder before ushering him inside the room. A spitting image side-by-side as they took the empty space by the foot of the bed. “Good boy. Father approves.”

“Of course you would,” Lily shot at him weakly, melting when Sirius then entered the room and greeted her with a kiss to her cheek. “And where are you all coming from?”

“Outside,” announced Remus, tugging his tie from his neck. “Sirius and I took a quick trip to Diagon Alley to get some things that’ll make you feel better, Lily love.”

And as the snow fell outside, lazy winds against the window, your little family gathered in one room, there was one thing you knew for certain.

You loved them.

And they loved you.

a/n: i wrote all 4k words while sick. crazy. but anyway, i wanted to believe in love again so here i am. thank you all so much for being patient with me. i promise to do even better in the next fics!

3K notes · View notes