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yanderenightmare · 3 months ago

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Yandere Seven Deadly Sins

♡ AN: from the Promptlist

♡ TW: a lot of different stuff today, NSFW, noncon/dubcon, yandere, stalking, gangbang, harsh language, sexual exploitation, bondage, zero holes safe, and more, read at your own risk

♡ FEM reader

Pride is an artist, and you, poor dear, are lucky enough to be his muse.

You’d caught his eye one day simply by coincidence while working your part-time job as a barista.

And though it had been a rather unorthodox request—between balancing school and work and constantly finding yourself both strapped for cash and strapped for time—you’d decided to quit and take him up on his offer—as what he was offering was about twice what you could make at the cafe anyway.

He’s not that much older than you, but he’s old money. And while you're stuck in community college, he goes to an elite art school—which he doesn’t even show up to, 'cause why would he? They can't afford to kick him out anyway, given his father’s donations make up half of their yearly budget.

And so he's free to self-study as much as he wants.

Yeah... he’s a little too used to getting what he wants—exactly how he wants it—without delay. So when you struggle to come to your sessions on time due to having to take the bus to the other side of town, he decides to solve it by buying you a car. And when he doesn’t feel like that’s sufficient enough, he buys you an apartment right above his own studio. And when you try to reject, he only has three concise words for you.

“Don’t be stupid.”

The way he says it leaves very little up for debate. In fact, it leaves you mute each and every time.

It was nice in the beginning—you didn’t protest to anything other than his overpriced gifts. You were flattered and blushy and giddy and more than happy to sit pretty for him for hours at a time while he sketched and sculpted and painted and whatnot. It was essentially nothing in comparison to the luxuries he gave you in return.

But you think, at some point along the way, he must have forgotten that he only owns the artworks he makes of you—not you yourself.

“N-naked?” you stutter, looking at him wide-eyed where he stands in his usual apron—flecked with the proof of your countless sessions. Honestly, it was getting to be a little strange posing for him in a room stuffed with a myriad of sketches, paintings, and statues of yourself. Hadn’t he had enough?

“I can’t capture you correctly when you wear all these rags,” he says—clinically, though with a pinch of impatience just shy of vexation—eyeing you from head to toe, almost with a look of disgust while beholding your clothes, despite being the one who’d bought them. “They obscure everything. So take them off.”

You knew he’d probably had about a hundred models undress for him, and stand here—old, young, men, women—you knew it probably didn’t mean much to him. He probably regarded it the same way he does everything—without even batting an eye. However…

“I’m sorry, I don’t think I can do that…” You fiddle with your fingers, standing there, still dressed despite him standing ready at his easel, foot-tapping while waiting for you, already with a stick of charcoal between his fingers.

“Why are you making a fuss? You think I haven’t seen a naked body before?” he jokes, but without humor—no, rather strictness as if you’re wasting very precious time. “This is standard practice—don’t make it anything than what it is.”

There he goes again with those very final words that make you feel all in all kind of silly.

You bite your lip and mull it over before ever-so-begrudgingly uttering a weak little, “Okay…”

You suppose he was right. This is a job, and it’s just nudity—just another shape in the eyes of an artist—it doesn’t mean anything—is what you tell yourself while you undress. Still, you can’t help but feel flush—heart pounding in your chest as you fold your clothes all neatly for some other nervous reason.

“Resume the pose,” he says—almost like a drill sergeant. And you jump into place, timidly rushing over to the chaise where you lie down like before.

This does feel like it would be a better painting, you admit. More reminiscent of Renaissance art and such. Not that you know much about it, but thinking back to field trips through the museum, you seem to remember having seen plenty of portraits of naked ladies lying on pretty but uncomfortable sofas just like this.

He seems very invested, at least. A deep furl between his brows, nearly scowling at you while he works—though you’ve come to learn that it’s just his concentration face.

After a while, he sets his charcoal down and wipes his blackened hands on his apron.

You sit up, asking, “Are you done?” All but ready to leap from your seat to your clothes and finally cover yourself again.

“No, keep still,” he all but reprimands—voice intense as he stalks across the floor over to you with determination written plainly across his face.

You draw back in place as he rests his knee on the chaise and leans forward. It wasn’t uncommon for him to come and correct your pose, but you couldn’t help but flinch this time around, feeling just a bit too exposed.

His hands are warm and overworked, both dry and a bit clammy all at the same time. You didn’t mind much when you wore clothes, but it felt a bit too intimate now as he touched your bare skin. But you bear with it despite that.

Eyes closed, you repeat that same line from before—it doesn’t mean anything, this is standard practice, it doesn’t mean anything.

It works in calming your breath for a moment, but then he grabs your tit.

You gasp, jolting back while stuttering, “Wha–what are you doing?”

And yet, he keeps his steal gaze just as fixed and unfazed as before, sighing at you as if you were overreacting, before stating rather simply, “Getting a better understanding of your body.” He then reaches toward you again, showing no concern for how you shrink away. “It’s easier to replicate when I know it by hand.”

Again, you let his voice silence you, and again, you closed your eyes and let his hands wander—around your chest, up your neck, down your belly, and then—

“Wait! That can’t be necessary—” you blurt out, this time with your arms and hands shooting forth to distance him.

“Oh, trust me—it is.” Again, he pays you no mind, simply bearing over you with his entitled hands roaming whatever place he so wishes and chooses. Only clicking his tongue at you when you squirm, “Don’t fuss.”

You don’t exactly push him away, though you don’t exactly make his pursuit easier for him—lying there beneath his touches, wiggling and whimpering, though not really protesting either as he feels your slit.

Your fingers curl into his arms, gripping his messy shirt streaked with paint and coal—as his fingers run through your lips, teasing your entrance and your clit. He twists his hand around and presses his thumb down on the pearl after it perks for attention, then enters you with his pointer finger—drawing out wetness before promptly feeding you another.

You bite your lip as they curl and spread within you, testing you out while rubbing firm circles into your clit.

Gingerly, your hips return it, starting to move in tune with his ministrations. Thighs trembling, keeping your eyes squeezed tightly shut as you start to pant—small moans leaving your lips with every breath, feeling it build within you—a small flame at first, nursed until it fills and all but fights for room within you before finally bursting.

“That’s it—that’s the expression,” he purrs—voice much softer than usual—cupping your face with his other hand, holding you steady while taking in those dopey eyes sparkling with pleasure and those parted lips that never dare speak up—eyeing you like he's the proud owner of a prized possession. “Perfect.”

He hums, sounding pleased, then gets off you shortly after, sauntering back to his easel.

“You can get dressed now. I got what I needed,” he states, picking the stick of charcoal up again, ripping the last sketch off for a fresh sheet before starting anew as if nothing had happened.

And you, still lying there, are left just as mute as usual.

♡ BNHA – Bakugou, Shoto, Touya, Hawks, Shinso, Overhaul ♡ JJK – Sukuna, Geto, Naoya, Megumi ♡ HQ – Kageyama, Oikawa, Sakusa ♡ BLLK – Reo, Rin, Sae, Baro ♡ AOT – Eren ♡ DS – Muzan, Sanemi

Wrath is your ex-boyfriend who refuses to get it through his thick skull that the two of you are over.

Any time you talk to another guy, he beats him up—to a fucking pulp, no less.

He’s always been that way, and still, it wasn’t always like this…

You started dating each other when you were young. He was rough around the edges, and you liked that about him—tattoos from his neck down to his ankles—the type your parents would have a heart attack if you ever brought home.

He was going to be a professional fighter, he’d say—mixed martial arts. He had all the rage and zero technique, but still, he’d land some of the best on their ass all through pure strength of will alone.

He was near impossible to train, though—always too wired to be able to take any pointers. And that’s why he needed you. You were his reliever. He’d fuck you like it was his last day on earth, and suddenly he’d be able to do anything. Like an enhancement drug, everything would start moving in slow motion, and he could somehow see all the moves of his opponent before they ever made them.

You admit you liked hearing him preach about it. It made you feel important—made you feel as if half the win, or at least some of it, was yours. And when he started raking in the dough as the champion, winning multiple titles across several tournaments, you were more than happy to be his lucky charm and cheer him on from the sidelines.

But then, you had this awful and sudden feeling of being just that—a tool for his success and nothing else. Sure, he’d give you presents—pretty things he thought suited you well—but you hadn’t gone on a date since his career started, nor had you had a proper sit-down dinner together either. He’d stick to his diet regime, be out training at the gym all day, and you’d be home, going about your own business.

And while you were doing that, you’d think—about the nature of your relationship. And what you found is that all it really entails in the end is him demanding a fuck whenever he needed it—before a tournament, before training, before an interview. And then, after coming to that glum conclusion, you can’t help but feel like nothing more than another one of those items he keeps loose in his gym bag.

And those thoughts only got validated when you tried denying him sex for the first time…

You were just curious, really—curious to see what he’d do. If he’d beg, if he’d plead, if he’d say boo, don’t be that way while down on his hands and knees for you.

But of course... he can’t get anything else but angry.

“If you’re not gonna give me the one thing you're useful for, then what the fuck do I keep you around for?” is what he’d said—no, barked. “You think you’re special? If you’re not gonna put out, I might as well go out and find me someone who will.”

He’d fucked off to some other room with a huff and left you standing there.

And you don’t know, amidst the shell shock and the ache of your heart coming undone... suddenly, you had no idea why you were there or with him or what you were supposed to do��and when you found no answer to any of those questions, it made no sense for you to stay. And so you went to your shared bedroom—or his bedroom, as a matter of fact, which you’d stayed in for the last months—quickly grabbed your things—your things specifically, and not all the other stuff he’d thrown at you—and stuffed it all haphazardly in your bag, then gone out to the entryway to put your shoes on.

That’s when he’d reared his head again with the gall of asking, “Where the fuck are you going?”

He hadn’t had that same raised tone as before. No, this time it was lowered—frayed—with a touch of urgency and unease as if balancing on the edge of a knife—as if he knew he'd done something wrong and was reaping the consequences and yet still hadn't the balls to simply apologize and correct it.

And so, you hadn’t answered him.

“It’s the middle of the fucking night,” he’d stated then, coming closer, ready to grab your arm with that hint of alarm in his voice increased. “Hey, I asked you fucking a question—”

That’s when you’d twisted around and slapped him. You’d put all your might into it as well, though you doubt it compared to much of what he’d felt in the ring.

And still, he’d looked at you as if he’d just lost all his titles.

He hadn’t said anything else after that—just stood there with his mouth agape as you opened the door and slammed it shut behind you. In fact, you don't think he even dared do so much as take a breath.

You’d gone and crashed at a friend's and rethought your life. There was no way you could ever go back, after all—not after what he’d said. Treating you like a stay-at-home whore. Who the fuck does he think he is?

What an asshole—you'd tried convincing yourself as you cried yourself to sleep…

The days and weeks after were nothing if not fucked up and toxic, to say the least. You’d go out to have a fun time and try to forget about him, but he’d always show up out of the blue to ruin everything—being his usual douche self.

Though… you can’t exactly claim to be any better than him—not after finding yourself in bed with his number-one up-and-coming rival.

Of course, it ends up all over the news—big headlines plastered on every gossip platform pushing your private affairs for all to see—a real media circus if there ever was one.

You end up back in his apartment. To talk, he’d said—a pretense you had a hard time believing in. He’s never been one to talk much. Honestly, you don’t know why you even bothered coming over when he asked. There might even be a chance he’ll kill you. This is how most homicides start, after all.

The two of you sit in silence for a couple of minutes. You look off to the side, waiting for him to speak because fuck knows you have nothing to say.

Meanwhile, he just stares at you—his big, hulking body leaning forward with his elbows on his knees and his hands braided before his face. It’s the type of posture he’ll have when sitting in the corner of the ring—he’s got that same look in his eyes, too, deadset on you.

It makes you a little nervous, actually—maybe he really does plan on killing you.

“Why’d you do it?” he asks suddenly.

You almost scoff—almost roll your eyes, but you end up simply returning his dead glare. “Is that really what you asked me here for?”

He doesn’t answer that question. He just keeps staring at you.

You huff out a sigh, “I don’t know, maybe I just wondered what it would be like to be fucked like a woman for once and not someone’s toy.”

You don’t know why you decided to take it there when you both know why you’d done it. What other fucking reason would there be other than to get back at him? It’s a stupid question to begin with, and so you give it a stupid answer in return. And you won’t deny it feels fucking good—seeing him like this. Five o’clock shadow, eyebags, and uncut, disheveled hair.

He looks like a wreck, and rightfully so. Fuck knows what a mess you’d been before you finally managed to drag yourself out of bed. Funny what the single simple thought of revenge can do for someone so lost.

He scrapes his thumb down his jawline, over his stubble—a deep sigh running through him as he leans back on the couch. Offering no other reaction as he says, “I can sit here and act threatened, but you and I both know he was shit compared to me.”

He throws his arms up against the headrest, chin tipped up. Thinking he can hide it, thinking you can’t see right through him—to how hard he’s fighting to upkeep the poker face.

He’s forgetting who his opponent is.

“I know you, babe—I know your body. And there's no fucking way some shitstain you just met–”

“His dick was bigger,” you interrupt—face blank because two can play that silly game, and you do it better.

He’s shut up for a moment—you can see a vein pulse, but it’s quickly stifled, and he smirks instead, snickering despite his grit teeth, “Sorry, that must'a hurt given how much you cry with me.”

This time, you don’t refrain from scoffing and rolling your eyes, “That's all you have to say? Thought you were a fighter.”

“You want me to get jealous? Is that it?” he accuses then, starting to crack, throwing your scoff back at you, “Tch—should've fucked somebody important then.”

This time, you skip the eye-roll and flat-out laugh instead, “I'll keep that in mind. Next time, I'll call up your dad-”

That did it—got him out of his seat and everything. “Shut your mouth.” Standing big and hunched, all muscles and fury.

And you react in kind. Glad that you’re finally getting somewhere. “Make me.”

"You're fucking–" He clenched his fist in the air, scrunching his face in frustration, withholding a growl before releasing a heavy sigh instead.

Dropping his arms, shoulders slumping—hanging his head the same way whilst mumbling under his breath, “Fuck this… fuck this entire thing.”

And just as quickly as he’d sprung to his feet, he flopped down on the couch again.

“I don't wanna play games…” He looks up at you—now with the look of a starved and beaten dog. “I don’t want anyone but you.”

He reaches out slowly—big hands cradling your thighs, pulling you towards him gently, and you let him—put off by that strange new look in his eyes.

“You can fuck half the world, and I'd still only want you.”

It’s an odd confession. Unexpected coming from him. You’d anticipated more of a fight, not whatever this is. Looking at you with glossy eyes on the verge of tears. Suddenly, you feel kind of mean, struck with this sense of guilt for having reduced him to such a state.

“Don't take the high road. It doesn't suit you,” you declare, though without much bite.

And he just sighs, “Fuck that, we’re even now.” Pulling you even closer still—into his lap—he makes you straddle him. Forehead to forehead without kissing you yet. “So, are you gonna let me fuck you, or are you really gonna make me beg?”

And though you would kind of like to see what he’d look like on his knees, the sight of him like this was good enough proof that he’d learned his lesson despite it not being an apology.

Besides, he'd been all too right when he’d said the other guy couldn’t fuck you like him.

♡ BNHA – Bakugou, Dabi ♡ JJK – Sukuna, Geto, Naoya, Toji ♡ HQ – Kyotani, Sakusa ♡ BLLK – Shido ♡ DS – Akaza, Sanemi ♡ HxH – Uvogin

Sloth is a street urchin.

You volunteer at the homeless shelter and can’t help but feel extra sorry for him. He’s only around your age—so young yet with no future to speak of.

This winter, given it’s going to be an especially harsh one, all volunteers have been asked if they have any spare room they can be so kind as to give to those less fortunate. And though you’re not that well off yourself, you still have an extra room you’ve only been using as storage.

So, unable to look the other way, you decide to clean it out, get a bed, and host him.

You took precautions first, naturally—just to be safe. But, from what you could tell, he’s neither a drug addict nor has any criminal record to speak of. No, he’s just another abandoned kid who'd society had failed.

This is the least you can do to correct its wrongs.

And, of course, he falls in love with you for it. Not only do you give him a place of rest—but you make him warm food, give him fresh clothes, do his laundry, draw his bath, watch movies with him every night, and always ask him if he has everything he needs. You even cut his long, shaggy hair for him and give him luxuries such as face-lotion.

You’re a saint, too good for a filthy sinner like him, but he’ll never let you know that... No, your pity feels too nice—taking such good care of him—he’s going to leach off of you and your honeycomb heart for the rest of his life if he can help it.

He doesn't look too bad after he cleans up, and after a few more weeks of eating well and getting enough rest—he stops lurching and starts standing up straight, looking lanky and lean with muscle—at which point you can’t deny he’s even a little hot. You know… in that scrappy sort of way.

You feel weird about it, of course—guilty even. He’s a homeless guy you’re housing—you’d be nothing if not downright evil if you took advantage of him. But after a few weeks of settling in, he starts feeling like more of a normal roommate and not a stranger. And with that familiarity, you both lose the distance and become more lax and loose around each other—wearing less, talking casually, not afraid to brush up against each other, and before you even know it, you find yourself folded in half beneath him on the living room couch.

You don’t know what the fuck you’ve gotten yourself into—but his cock’s so big he’s pounding the sense right out of you with every thrust.

He’s not even going fast. No, rather slow, actually—taking his time as if savoring it. But that doesn't take away from the pleasure bubbling up inside of you where his strokes hit so heavy, resting deep within, so fulfilling that it all but replaces your better judgment with the sole need to squeeze him with all you've got.

“Mh, you’re pussy’s so nice and warm—I could stay inside you forever.”

You’re so wet it’s ridiculous—like never before—like you’re the one who’s been starved and neglected and not the other way around. Getting your breath all but knocked out of you, getting fucked so utterly full, he’s making you kick your feet and curl your toes in the air, bucking your hips back into him like you’re desperately begging for more.

He’s got your knees hooked over his arms, keeping you neatly pressed under him. “You’re so good to me—so, so sweet, you must be the sweetest girl in the whole entire world. My guardian angel.”

All you’re able to do is babble and moan in return—misty- and cross-eyed with your dewy face cradled in his hands.

You just hold onto his wrists while he speaks fondly against your lips, “You saved me when no one else even bothered looking. Let me return the favor—give this pretty pussy all the thanks it deserves.”

When he re-angles and hits you in a different spot, the switch in your lower belly is immediate—making your whole body seize up and shiver, breath shuddering in your throat, followed swiftly by a pulse migrating from your core all throughout your body, tasting oversweet on your tongue enough to make you drool.

He locks lips with yours, slurping your spit up sloppily and keeping himself fully sleaved as you peak—feeling your wet, gummy walls tighten and flutter, rippling along his length like a rush of kisses.

Then, right before it fully dies down, he picks up the pace again and rekindles it—because fuck knows he’s well-rested and over-due and the farthest thing from done with you just yet.

♡ BNHA – Deku, Denki, Shigaraki, Dabi, Hawks, Shinso ♡ JJK – Mahito, Gojo, Yuji, Megumi, Yuuta, Choso ♡ HQ – Kuro, Lev, Miya twins, Suna, Tendou ♡ CSM – Denji, Yoshida ♡ BLLK – Nagi ♡ DS – Zenitsu ♡ WB – Togame

Gluttony is a five-star chef.

You start off as a waitress at his restaurant. And yet, he’s the one who developed an appetite—for you and your pleasing smile and that busy-bee swing you have in your hip as you hop around from table to table.

He licks his lips at the sight of you more than he does the food he makes. He even had the uniforms altered in your image—made the skirts shorter and shirts tighter.

He's utterly shameless, but who can blame him? You’re such a little bite-sized treat—he just has to taste you.

And taste you, he most certainly does.

For breakfast and for brunch and lunch and dinner and supper, as well as a midnight snack.

“Your pussy juice is my favorite,” he groans from between your legs.

Fat-muscled chef’s arms, tattooed with all types of silly patches, curled tightly around your thighs, keeping you close despite those times you try and push away when it gets to be a little too much—because fuck knows he doesn’t have the same reservations. Nose and tongue and chin deep in your slit, slurping you down while filling you up with his words, “I want to flavor every meal I make with you.”

You keep a hand over your face, kissing your knuckles, sometimes with a bite—whimpering pitifully, “Gross…”

Of course, you can’t help but cringe when he says things like that. He’s your boss, after all, not a porn actor. Still, you don’t say it with much conviction. It’s just that you get so embarrassed you don’t know what else to say.

He chuckles, still with his face buried. “Don’t be childish.” Words muffled as he doubles down on his efforts of sucking on your clit like a piece of candy.

“I’m not,” you whine. “You're just weird.”

He smacks off of you at that, a refreshing sigh leaving him rugged and raspy, a devilish look in his eyes as if he’s about to eat you for real. “I’m a world-renowned chef—are you implying I don’t know my flavors?”

Everything in your gut coils with anticipation, nearly rumbling with need, while he pulls your lower half up and even closer—face glossy with the way he’d gorged himself already—licking his teeth now as he refocuses on your clit alone.

Flattening his tongue on it while he speaks, sounding like some type of beast, “I’ve tasted everything the world has to offer. And I'm telling you, this pretty little thing between your legs is the best there is.”

You can’t stand looking up at him. Beyond embarrassed, you hide your face with both hands. Mumbling out a weak, “Pervert...”

Again, he snickers, shaking his head as if he’s ripping into flesh when he’s really just got his tongue out—straight motorboating your poor pussy.

When done, he drops you onto the bed again, grinning while replying to your insult, “Can’t argue with that,” before promptly kissing and licking up your belly—with fingers replacing his tongue, pumping you on his knuckles, getting you ready.

He groans when his mouth reaches your chest, lips wrapped around a nipple, “If only these titties had milk. I could feast on you from every position.”

You don’t know if you should giggle or grumble—he’s such a baby—and a spoiled one at that. But really, his fingering is making it difficult to do anything but stammer and try and keep it together, “We talked about this—I’m not taking hormones just to breastfeed you, you weirdo.”

He whines then, “Please—it’s my only wish in the entire world—I need it.”

You struggle to argue, feeling like you’re under siege—an onslaught set out to make you breathless. “Well—” you pant, gritting your teeth and bearing it. “We can’t always get what we want.”

“Oh, I’ll see about that.” He takes it as a challenge, this time really locking his lips around your nipple and suckling—releasing just briefly to say, “I bet if I suck on these babies enough, they’ll give me what I want.”

He keeps his fingers working diligently while at it—used to multitasking—curling and spreading them out within you, pumping you so fast, you barely have the time to beg him to “Stop that—” before you’re already shaking and cumming for what must be the seventh time already.

He laughs breathily, kissing your teat goodbye as he lifts himself up again. Pulling his fingers out of you, he brings them to his lips and blithely sucks them off.

“You know I can’t stop, dear. I’m so hungry—I’m ravenous.”

You watch him from over the tips of your fingers. So hot and mortified you think you’re soon to pass out. Breathing heavily behind your hands, muttering, “You’re a glutton—that’s what you are.”

Again, he just cheerfully snickers, bowing down to your halfway-hidden face with a smile. “I hardly see how it’s my fault I can’t get enough of you.”

He spreads your legs again and finds his place between them.

“You’re the one who got me hooked—so you better take responsibility for it.”

♡ BNHA – Kirishima, Natsuo, Mirio ♡ JJK – Sukuna, Toji, Todo ♡ HQ – Bokuto, Ukai ♡ BLLK – Baro, Aiku ♡ AOT – Zeke ♡ DS – Doma ♡ HxH – Uvogin ♡ WB – Umemiya, Togame

Lust is your boss. He's the owner of the strip club where you work, your pimp when money’s tight, as well as the porndirector of all your lovely little films.

Yeah, you might as well have a tramp stamp of his name on your ass, the way he practically owns you…

He's around ten years older and has basically taught you all about sex from when you were only a fledgling in the industry. You live at his studio above the club since he keeps all your money in a bank account under his name, calling you his little sugarbaby and telling you you’ll get an allowance and that you can get more if and when you ask him nicely and tell him what it’s for.

“Don’t be a brat, baby. You know how I hate it when you're a bad girl,” he says when you raise the topic of moving out, treating it as if you’re a child threatening to run away from home.

“I don’t belong to you. Give me what you owe me.”

Honestly, you have no idea where you got the courage.

But is it courage? Or is it just plain stupidity? Because, though you’re increasingly more terrified as you quickly watch him lose his temper, it doesn’t exactly come as a surprise. And so, if you knew this is what was going to happen—why the fuck would you put yourself through it?

Must be madness.

“I give you everything, don't I? Food, clothes, a home,” he chastises, bearing over you while you’re down on scuffed knees, holding your wrist in a bruising grip and your face just as fiercely—nearly tearing the skin off your cheeks with the bite of his nails.

“And still, you have the fucking nerve to act like a goddamn bitch.”

You hiccup on sobs, spluttering out a desperate “Please—I’m sorry–”

"You and your entire slut body belong to me, you understand that?"

"Yes-yes—please—I'm sorry! You're right! I belong to you! I'm sorry!"

That seems to calm him just a bit—at least enough to take the bite away from his voice, now cooing at you in an ugly mocking attempt at sweetness, “Yeah, you do every single little thing I ask. ‘Cause if you’re not gonna behave like a good girl, I have no other choice but to treat you like a bad one.”

He lets your audience be rowdier than usual that night, allowing them to slap and grab, then forces you to have an extra rough shoot afterward—with tighter bondage, more toys, bigger guys making use of you like a piece of meat, smacking and choking you as they find out how many cocks your holes can fit, every last one finishing on your face.

Then, when you’re all done and all used up for the day, he brings you upstairs—home, sweet home—where he treats you to some much-unwanted after-care...

You shiver and shake despite the hot water. Sitting in the bathtub, laying back with your spine against his chest, feeling thin like a sheet of paper, all crumbled up and torn—sniffling and sniveling as the after-shock of the day still ricochets through you like wind through a hollow husk.

“The shoot today was rough, huh?” he drawls, washing you with his own hands. Stroking your poor sore cunt despite how it makes you whimper. “Yeah... was it a little too rough for you, hm?”

You don’t do anything in return—but your body language says enough on its own, and he allows it to be your answer.

Sighing heavily, he wraps you up with both arms and squeezes you tighter, chin resting atop your head.

“You know… if you’d just be my good girl, I’d give you a good girl to-do list. Let you stay here all day, do some house chores while I’m gone, make love when I get home, hm? Doesn’t that sound better?”

He traces a welted bruise on the inside of your thigh, one you got from the shoot—roughly the shape of a hand, and a dozen more others layered on top of it. It makes you suck in a hiss.

“But if you’re gonna be a bad girl, then this is what you get.”

He settles into the grove of your neck, purring against your ear. “Are you gonna be my good girl from now on? Hm?”

You bite your lip, breath shuddering while nodding pitifully.

And still, he insists, “Say it so I can hear it.”

The water’s gone cold around you—just like everything else, as you say, “I’ll be a good girl.”

He seems pleased, at least. Nuzzling against your cheek with chin stubble and a smirk, asking, “Yeah? Whose?”

Your voice is small and pathetic, nearly a wince, “Yours.”

He groans then, “That’s right. My good girl.” Lifting his hand from the water, he takes hold of your chin, fingers pressing into those designated sore spots as he angles your face toward him and gives you a heartless kiss before growling against your lips, “And don’t you ever fucking dare forget it again.”

After he’s finished washing you up, he carries you out to bed. It's one you fear much more than the one down in the studio.

Because in this bed, just like every night in this hellhole… he starts teaching every last one of your holes who they belong to.

♡ BNHA – Bakugou, Shigaraki, Dabi, Hawks, Overhaul ♡ JJK – Sukuna, Geto, Naoya, Toji ♡ BLLK – Reo, Shido, Aiku ♡ AOT – Zeke ♡ DS – Doma, Muzan, Sanemi

Envy is your enemy.

Or, well, no, he’s not your enemy, but you’re most certainly his enemy.

You’re just not aware of it because of what a ditzy and clueless airhead you are.

But fuck, he can’t stand you—you and your fake personality, acting all bubbly and sweet, cheering him on, always telling him to do his best—condescending little bitch acting like everyone’s friend—like he doesn’t see through you right to your rotten core. You don’t fool him—he knows you’re as bad as the rest of them, so just quit pretending like you’re better or something.

You’re under the false impression that the two of you are friends. You just think he has a strange sense of humor, but you laugh politely even when you don’t always get the joke.

Well, maybe it’s not so much politeness, but the fact that you have a big fat hopeless crush on him.

It infuriates him. He throws your niceties back in your face as insults, and you just laugh. How low do you think of him? Honestly? How tall is that high horse of yours that you have your head constantly in the clouds?

Poor you… you just think he’s so cool—always saying what he feels like, not a lame people-pleasing goodie-two-shoes such as yourself. You can’t help but follow him around like a lost puppy all day long. You’re always making sure you sit next to him during lectures—heart almost beating out of your chest, holding back from squealing when your prayers are answered, and the two of you are finally paired for a project together.

It really feels like the universe is on your side, and so you just can’t stop yourself from going the full mile—making chocolates and preparing him a hand-written love letter. You know he’ll think you’re a little silly, that he’ll make fun of you for it—but you can’t expect to get anywhere without putting your heart on the line, can you? For a chance at love, the risk must be worth it!

Yeah, you’re such a hopeless romantic—you feel it as he punches his fist through your ribs when he rips out your poor heart and stomps all over it.

“I fucking get it already! You’re little miss pretty and popular. Would you quit rubbing it in my face, or do I really have to spell it out for you? I. Don’t. Fucking. Like. You,” he seethes through grit teeth. “Go pick another one of the hundreds dying to be your partner and leave me the fuck alone!”

You shrink where you stand, shocked doe-eyes rapidly welling up like a flood, lips wobbling as you choke on your words, “Oh… okay… I’m sorry… I just… I–”

“You-you-you what?” he barks at your stuttering. “Spit it out already! What the fuck do you want?”

“I just-I-I just always thought you were amazing. So…”

His face contorts, scrunches up in a grimace different from anger, though not without it, as he spits out, “What the fuck are you on about now?”

But his voice is a little diminished now, with confusion usurping the place of his hate, suddenly feeling a little out of sorts because… what did you actually just say?

“I just, I really like you–” you repeat, hanging your head, only barely able to mumble through the tears blocking your throat. “But I guess I’ve just annoyed you all this time—I’m sorry...”

Only now does he notice you’re trying to hand him something—a flat little box with a pink note attached.

“This is for you, but I understand if you don’t want it.” Unable to look up, you just stretch your arms out until it gently bumps into him.

Baffled, he accepts without thinking.

“I’m sorry—I’ll leave you alone from now on.” And then you run off, disappearing with a sob that all but shoots him through the chest.

And slowly bleeding out, he remains standing there, eyes glued to where you'd left—mouthing the word what…

What did you just say?

Like? Him?

Did he mishear you, or did you just confess?

No way—that can’t be it, right?

But what the fuck is this heart-shaped letter, then?

"What the fuck did I just do?"

You look like you’ve been crying your eyes out all night the next day—your usual bubbly personality reduced to a ghost in a shell, walking the hallways like a zombie, slowly and without purpose, eyes on the ground—letting everyone bump into you.

You don't even so much as bat an eye when someone runs straight over you, fully knocking all your books and folders onto the floor.

You just get on your knees and start recollecting them.

A newfound hate flares up within him at the sight. “Hey, you!" He stomps over. "Watch where the fuck you’re going next time, dipshit.”

You look up at the sound of his voice—flinching before you notice it’s not directed at you.

No, rather, he’s got a boy up against the lockers, lifted by his collar onto the tip of his toes. Face only a few inches from his, glaring at him harsher than he’d glared at you yesterday.

“Now apologize to the girl before I punch your ugly face in.”

You stare at the altercation with large eyes, only able to blink as the boy who’d bumped into you starts spluttering on the verge of tears, “I–I’m sorry–I didn’t see you! Sorry!”

You don’t answer. Shocked and speechless, you remain on the floor in confusion, asking yourself why’s he doing this? Didn’t he cuss you out yesterday, or was it all a bad dream like you'd hoped?

He throws the boy on his way, then gets on his knees down alongside you—proceeding to help you gather your things.

You only watch on in wordless bewilderment until he starts muttering something under his breath.

“I’m sorry I made you cry yesterday.” He stacks all your things in a neat pile next to you while continuing his apology. “And for being an asshole. You didn’t deserve that.”

He keeps his eyes fixed to the floor where his hands busily roam around until there was nothing more to retrieve.

He then hesitantly looks up at you—eyes flittering—a little too ashamed to hold your gaze as he says, “Your chocolates were really good.”

That’s when your heart starts fluttering again—as if new life was just breathed in and revived it.

He can see it as well—how you light up like a rekindled candle.

“They were?” you gush, shuffling closer on your knees all excitedly—face brighter than the sun on cloudfree summer day.

It blinds him—nearly stunts him, only able to utter a meager, almost shy, “Yeah.”

He then slings his bag in front of him and pulls something out.

A lunchbox.

“I made you these..." he swallows thickly. "As an apology…”

He’s utterly red—from the tips of his ears to his neck and entire face, even his hands.

“For me?”

“Yeah..." He reaches it over stiffly. “They’re not as good as yours, though...”

You eagerly accept despite his nervousness, popping the lid off where the two of you sit—right there in the middle of the hallway floor, with other students walking around you like water passing two rocks in a stream.

His blush grows ever more intense as you pick one of his crudely made chocolates up, not even examining it before throwing one into your mouth.

It was his first time making anything that required a recipe. And they most certainly did not come out well, but he figured the embarrassment was part of his atonement.

He didn’t actually expect you to try them.

But there you are—lying through your teeth, saying, “I think they’re great!”

He can only scoff out a soft laugh. “Of course you would.”

Turns out, you really are just a nice person after all. You don’t have the heart to be mean at all, do you? Yeah, you don’t even have it in you to feel any of the ugly things he keeps inside. In fact, he bets you don’t even have the means of knowing such ugly things exist.

That must be what he’s envied about you all this time…

♡ BNHA – Bakugou, Dabi, Shinso ♡ JJK – virgin Sukuna, Megumi ♡ HQ – Tsukishima ♡ BLLK – Rin, Sae ♡ DS – Genya

Greed is your clingy childhood friend.

He doesn’t want to share you with anyone and gets viscerally jealous each time you hang out with others. It’s as if he feels boils rising beneath his skin, simmering with a violent need to kill anyone and everyone you ever come into contact with—even if it’s just a passerby who accidentally brushes against you.

He can’t stand other people—how they think they can just come along and be your friend when he’s been your friend since you both were in diapers. What? Do they really expect him to share you with them? Just like that? No way. You’re his best friend. They should all go find themselves their own.

Actually, the term best friend doesn’t even really cut it… It’s a little too childish. You’ve both grown out of it. And besides, it never really fully encompassed what the two of you actually are to each other. You’re so much more than just friends, after all. Yeah, what you really are is soulmates. Yeah, that sounds more right. Soulmates.

And the bond between soulmates is like the bond between an addict and their favorite drug. You wouldn’t ask an addict to share his favorite drug, now would you? No. Not unless you’re prepared to either kill or be killed.

But he can’t say he blames them for wanting you, either. Of course, they’d want you—anyone would.

He pities them, actually. And you make it no better for the poor suckers, stringing them all along—acting as if there’s enough of you to go around. Well, there just isn’t. And even if there was, he shouldn't have to share you with anyone.

Yeah, the problem here is you. You don’t get it, do you? You don’t understand that you’re his.

Well… seems like he’ll just have to teach you once and for all, now, doesn’t it?

“What’s… this?” you mumble groggily once you wake, sluggishly tugging your bound wrists—not yet aware of what they are. Your eyes blow wide once you do—voice turning sharply frantic, “What’s happening?”

“We’re having a play date like we used to.” He comes into view just as the panic sets in—and though his face has all the familiarity to be a sign of comfort, his words evoke no such feeling within you.

“Remember? How we used to play house?" he says. "Granted, we're a little older now… so I thought I’d change it up a bit.”

He stands before the bed you’re currently lying tied down on. But he doesn’t look like himself. No, there’s something very wrong about all of him. Seeming way too at ease for the situation.

“Instead of making mud pies…” he continues. “I'm gonna fuck you and give you a creampie.”

Your heart lurches up into your throat at his words, and you choke. Your clothes from the day have been removed, leaving you naked. You spot them lying on the floor in a heap while you spastically look around for clues as to “What the fuck’s going on? This isn’t funny–”

“Shut up,” he says—his demeanor still as nonchalant as he climbs on top of you and pushes something past your lips, nudging it deep down in your throat.

Feeling it as it scrapes your tongue, you can tell it’s your lace panties, and you gag—shaking your head, trying to dislodge both it and his fingers, but he holds you steady.

“I have things to say. So, be a good friend and listen.”

You start crying then—brows cinched as you look up at him in terror, full-tremoring now while struggling under his weight and the all-too-intimate way he starts touching you.

“I'm glad you’re still a virgin…” he suddenly says, running his hands down your breasts, catching your nipples between his fingers.

You twist in disgust, halfway convinced you’re having some godawful fucked up dream—that this just can’t be happening—but somehow, at the same time, something deep in your gut that’s been lying there for a while ignored by your kind heart doesn't find it completely without warning, having felt how strange he'd been acting as of late—always looking at you a certain way and saying certain concerning things—certain concerning things he’s saying right now, “I’d kill all those little toy friends of yours if you were ever so stupid to let them have it.”

He glares at you—looking every bit angry, and yet you can’t describe it exactly. Something about that look in his eyes makes him seem like a complete stranger to you. Then he cracks a smile, and it makes it all the worse. Bowing down until his forehead presses clean against yours, noses rubbing against each other.

“But I think you knew. Didn’t you? Knew how it wouldn’t be right. Knew it was mine to take.”

He shuffles backward until he’s separating your thighs instead of straddling your waist. And you croak with an especially full-chested sob as his touches travel further down along with him—with savage goosebumps running rampant across your body once he rubs his thumb crassly over your slit.

“You see?” his breath shudders in his throat—thick with something mortifying that’s bound to ruin you forever. “It’s so happy to see me.”

You whine and scramble, trying to force your thighs shut—but he has the upper hand—keeping you spread with his body while two of his fingers slip through your lips and bully themselves inside.

He pumps them in and out with zero regard to how you recoil—only sneering at the way you worm in disgust, “At least your pussy understands where its loyalties lie.”

It’s not long before his ministrations draw wetness, and he pulls them out—inspecting them in the dim light he’s left on. Rubbing the digits together before putting them in his mouth.

You close your eyes with a whimper while listening to the sickening sounds of him sucking them clean.

He puts both hands around your neck next. He doesn't squeeze hard, but your breath stops nonetheless. Eyes stinging with both spent and still-welling tears.

“I’m upset with you,” he states, brushing his lips over your parted ones, still stuffed and silenced with your own underwear. “But I’ll forgive you if you apologize and swear to me that you meant it when you said we’d be friends forever.”

That look in his eyes—you still can’t explain it. Desperate, desolate, deranged, and enraged—something downright sick.

“But since you can’t talk right now, you’ll have to prove it some other way...”

One of the hands disappears, and you hear the following sounds of a zipper being undone, then the rustling of his pants being shoved down.

“Cum on my cock, and I’ll know.”

The room tastes of blood and something rotten as he frees his cock and graces your clit.

“Actions speak louder than words anyway, after all, don’t they? So cum on my cock, and I’ll cum in your pussy, so we can seal our friendship again—just like the time we married each other on the playground.”

He enters you, and you think you might just die in the mix of horror and grief.

And yet you remain perfectly alive—even as he rips through you and splits both you and your heart apart.

“You can think of this as the honeymoon,” he whispers. “Always and forever, happily ever after, never apart.”

♡ BNHA – Deku ♡ JJK – Gojo, Yuuta ♡ HQ – Tendou ♡ BLLK – Bachira ♡ DS – Zenitsu ♡ WB – Nirei

♡ HEAVENLY VIRTUES ♡ FEM x M INSERT masterlist ♡ GN x M INSERT masterlist

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townpostin · 1 year ago

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Jugsalai Pushes for On-Site Waste Management by Bulk Generators

Municipal Council Meeting Emphasizes Composting and Sustainable Practices Local establishments urged to handle wet waste on premises in line with Swachh Bharat Mission goals. JAMSHEDPUR – The Jugsalai Municipal Council held a crucial meeting at its office auditorium, focusing on improving waste management practices among bulk waste generators. "Our aim is to make Jugsalai a model for sustainable…

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#जनजीवन #bulk waste generators Jamshedpur #Jamshedpur environmental initiatives #Jugsalai Municipal Council directives #Jugsalai waste management #Life #on-site composting initiatives #sustainable waste practices #Swachh Bharat Mission Urban 2.0 #Swachh Survey 2024 preparations #urban waste reduction #zero-waste events

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openintegrative · 1 year ago

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Are your skincare products sustainable? 🌍

Key Highlights

Sustainable beauty focuses on products that are good for the planet and consumer health

Ingredients, manufacturing practices, packaging, and cruelty-free practices all contribute to the sustainability of beauty products

Sustainable beauty brands prioritize non-toxic ingredients, eco-friendly packaging, and ethical sourcing

Consumers can identify sustainable beauty brands through certifications and by researching their values and practices

Greenwashing is a concern in the beauty industry, and consumers should be cautious of vague or misleading claims

While the beauty industry still has progress to make, the shift towards sustainability is gaining momentum

Understanding Sustainable Beauty

Environmental sustainability is now a priority in the beauty industry, with brands adopting greener practices due to demand. Sustainable beauty benefits both skin and planet, focusing on eco-conscious choices and ethics.

Sustainable Beauty Practices

Sustainable beauty goes beyond natural ingredients, involving sustainable sourcing, eco-friendly manufacturing, ethical packaging, and social responsibility.

Brands aim for a positive impact, ensuring fair wages, using eco-friendly packaging, and minimizing waste.

Importance of Sustainable Beauty

Conventional beauty products contribute to pollution and resource depletion. Sustainable beauty minimizes environmental harm and promotes ethical practices, addressing plastic waste and the negative impacts of ingredient extraction.

Conventional Products and the Environment

The beauty industry has a significant environmental impact, with conventional beauty products contributing to pollution and resource depletion.

Plastic packaging: Most beauty products come packaged in plastic, which contributes to the global plastic waste problem. Plastic packaging often ends up in landfills or pollutes our oceans.

Carbon footprint: The production and transportation of beauty products contribute to greenhouse gas emissions, contributing to climate change. The extraction and processing of raw materials, as well as the energy used in manufacturing and distribution, all contribute to the carbon footprint of conventional beauty products.

Resource depletion: The beauty industry relies on the extraction of natural resources, including water, minerals, and plants. Unsustainable sourcing practices can lead to the depletion of these resources and harm ecosystems.

Identifying Sustainable Beauty Products

Credit – amazon.com

Consider the ingredients used, the brand’s commitment to sustainable practices, and the packaging materials, including refillable or reusable options.

Key Characteristics of Sustainable Beauty Products

Natural ingredients: Sustainable beauty products prioritize natural and non-toxic ingredients. This means they are free from harmful chemicals like parabens, phthalates, and synthetic fragrances.

Sustainable practices: Sustainable beauty brands adhere to ethical and sustainable practices throughout their supply chain. This includes fair trade sourcing, environmentally friendly manufacturing processes, and responsible waste management.

Eco-friendly packaging: Sustainable beauty products often come in eco-friendly packaging materials. This can include recyclable, biodegradable, or reusable packaging options that minimize waste and reduce the environmental impact.

Labels and Certifications to Look For

Label/CertificationDescriptionFair TradeIndicates that the brand supports fair wages and working conditions for ingredient suppliersOrganic cottonIndicates that the brand uses organic cotton, which is grown without the use of synthetic pesticides or fertilizersSoil AssociationIndicates that the brand meets the organic standards set by the Soil Association

These labels and certifications provide assurance that the brand is committed to sustainability and ethical practices. They can help you make informed choices and support brands that align with your values.

The Beginner’s Guide To Sustainable Beauty

Credit – amazon.com

What You Will Need to Get Started

To get started on your sustainable beauty journey, there are a few essentials you’ll need:

Sustainable skincare: Look for skincare products that prioritize natural and non-toxic ingredients. Avoid products with harmful chemicals like parabens, phthalates, and synthetic fragrances.

Beauty routine: Assess your current beauty routine and identify areas where you can make sustainable swaps. This may include replacing single-use products with reusable alternatives or opting for products with eco-friendly packaging.

Reusable packaging: Consider investing in reusable containers for your beauty products. This can help reduce waste and limit your use of single-use plastic packaging.

Step-by-Step Guide to Transforming Your Beauty Routine

Transforming your beauty routine to be more sustainable doesn’t have to be overwhelming. Here is a step-by-step guide to help you get started:

Assess your current beauty products: Take inventory of your current beauty products and identify which ones align with your sustainable values. Consider replacing products that contain harmful ingredients or excessive packaging.

Prioritize products with minimal and eco-friendly packaging: Look for products with sustainable packaging options such as glass, metal, or biodegradable materials. Avoid products that come in single-use plastic packaging.

Opt for multi-use and refillable beauty products: Choose products that serve multiple purposes, such as a lip and cheek tint or a moisturizer that can be used on both face and body. Look for brands that offer refillable options to minimize waste.

Support ethical and cruelty-free brands: Choose brands that prioritize animal welfare and do not test on animals. Look for certifications such as Leaping Bunny or Choose Cruelty-Free to ensure the brand is cruelty-free.

Incorporate DIY beauty solutions: Explore DIY beauty solutions using natural ingredients like essential oils and staples. This can help reduce your reliance on store-bought products and minimize waste.

Step 1: Assess Your Current Beauty Products

Credit – amazon.com

The first step in transitioning to a sustainable beauty routine is to assess your current beauty products. Take inventory of the products you use regularly and consider the following:

Ingredients: Look at the ingredient lists and identify any harmful chemicals or synthetic additives. Consider replacing products that contain these ingredients with natural and non-toxic alternatives.

Packaging: Evaluate the packaging of your beauty products. Look for excessive plastic packaging or single-use containers. Consider replacing products with eco-friendly packaging options or brands that offer refillable options.

Environmental impact: Research the environmental impact of the beauty industry and how certain products contribute to pollution and resource depletion. This knowledge can help you make more informed choices and seek out sustainable alternatives.

Step 2: Prioritize Products with Minimal and Eco-friendly Packaging

Credit – amazon.com

Look for brands that use sustainable packaging materials such as glass, metal, or biodegradable materials.

Avoid products that come in excessive plastic packaging or single-use containers.

Consider purchasing products in bulk or larger sizes to reduce packaging waste.

Choose products with refillable options to minimize waste and encourage reuse.

Step 3: Choose Multi-use and Refillable Beauty Products

Incorporating multi-use and refillable beauty products into your routine is another way to make your beauty routine more sustainable. Here’s how you can do it:

Look for products that serve multiple purposes, such as a lip and cheek tint or a moisturizer that can be used on both face and body.

Choose brands that offer refillable options for their products. This allows you to reuse the packaging and minimize waste.

Consider investing in reusable containers for your beauty products, such as refillable compacts or magnetic palettes.

Step 4: Support Ethical and Cruelty-Free Brands

Credit – amazon.com

Look for certifications such as Leaping Bunny or Choose Cruelty-Free to ensure the brand is cruelty-free and does not test on animals.

Research the brand’s sourcing practices to ensure they prioritize ethical sourcing and do not contribute to environmental or social harm.

Consider brands that give back to causes or organizations that align with your values, such as those that support environmental conservation or community development.

Step 5: Use DIY Beauty Solutions

Explore recipes for homemade beauty products using natural ingredients like essential oils, coconut oil, and baking soda.

Consider making your own face masks, hair treatments, or body scrubs using pantry staples.

Experiment with DIY beauty recipes to find what works best for your skin and hair.

Implementing Sustainable Beauty Practices

Reducing Waste in Your Beauty Routine

Choose products with minimal packaging or packaging that can be recycled or composted.

Opt for reusable alternatives to single-use items, such as makeup remover pads or cotton rounds.

Use products sparingly and only purchase what you need to avoid excess waste.

Consider DIY options for beauty products to reduce packaging waste.

The Role of Upcycling and Recycling in Sustainable Beauty

Upcycling: Upcycling involves repurposing beauty product packaging or containers for new uses. This can include using empty jars as storage containers or turning old lipstick packaging into a DIY lip balm container. By upcycling, you can extend the life of beauty product packaging and reduce waste.

Recycling: Recycling helps divert beauty product packaging from landfills and reduces the need for raw materials. Look for recycling programs or facilities that accept beauty product packaging, such as TerraCycle. By recycling, you can contribute to a circular economy and minimize the environmental impact of your beauty routine.

Overcoming Challenges On Your Sustainable Beauty Journey

Finding Affordable Sustainable Beauty Options

One challenge many people face when transitioning to a sustainable beauty routine is the perception that sustainable options are expensive.

However, there are affordable sustainable beauty options available.

Look for budget-friendly sustainable brands that prioritize affordability without compromising on quality or sustainability.

Consider DIY options for beauty products using natural ingredients that are cost-effective and accessible.

Choose multi-use products that serve multiple purposes, reducing the need to purchase multiple products.

Shop for sustainable beauty products during sales or special promotions to take advantage of discounted prices.

Staying Informed About Greenwashing

Greenwashing is a common challenge in the beauty industry, where brands make false or misleading claims about their sustainability practices.

Staying informed about greenwashing can help you make more informed choices and support brands that are truly sustainable.

Research brands and look for certifications or third-party verifications that validate their sustainability claims.

Read reviews and testimonials from other consumers to gauge the authenticity of a brand’s sustainability practices.

Follow reliable sources of information and stay up to date with the latest news and developments in the sustainable beauty industry.

The Future Of Sustainable Beauty

Credit – amazon.com

The future of sustainable beauty looks promising as more brands and consumers embrace eco-friendly practices.

Innovations Shaping the Future of Sustainable Beauty

Biodegradable and compostable packaging materials: Brands are exploring alternatives to traditional plastic packaging, such as biodegradable and compostable materials.

Sustainable sourcing and manufacturing practices: Brands are increasingly prioritizing sustainable sourcing and manufacturing practices to reduce their environmental impact.

Refillable and reusable packaging: Refillable and reusable packaging options are becoming more popular, helping to reduce packaging waste.

How Consumer Demand Influences the Beauty Industry

Increased availability of sustainable beauty products: As more consumers seek out sustainable beauty options, brands are expanding their product offerings to meet this demand.

Transparency and accountability: Consumers are demanding transparency from brands, encouraging them to be more accountable for their environmental and social impact.

Shift towards clean beauty: Clean beauty, which focuses on non-toxic and natural ingredients, has gained popularity as consumers become more conscious of the products they use and their potential health effects.

Conclusion

Small changes in your beauty routine can have a significant impact. Start by assessing your current products, opting for refillable items, and staying informed about greenwashing. The future of sustainable beauty lies in innovation and consumer demand, shaping an industry that prioritizes both beauty and responsibility. Let’s nurture beauty that goes beyond skin deep, for a healthier planet and a brighter tomorrow.

Frequently Asked Questions

What Makes a Beauty Product Sustainable?

A truly sustainable beauty product considers all aspects of its production and lifecycle. This includes using sustainable ingredients, eco-friendly packaging, ethical supply chains, and demonstrating social responsibility.

Can Switching to Sustainable Beauty Products Make a Difference?

Switching to sustainable beauty products can make a significant difference in reducing your environmental impact. By choosing products with sustainable ingredients, packaging, and manufacturing practices, you can contribute to a more sustainable future.

How Can I Identify Greenwashing in Beauty Products?

Identifying greenwashing in beauty products can be challenging. Look for certifications, research brands’ sustainability claims, and be cautious of vague or misleading information. Responsible sourcing and transparent practices are also indicators of genuine sustainability.

#Green Beauty Products #Environmental Impact #Natural Skincare #Zero Waste Beauty #Organic Beauty #Cruelty-Free Skincare #Ethical Beauty Practices #Biodegradable Packaging

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honeyandruin · 19 days ago

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Idle Hands - Auto Shop Teacher!Joel Miller x Reader

🔧 ✦ 🔩 ✦ 🔧 ✦ 🔩 ✦ 🔧 ✦ 🔩 ✦ 🔧 ✦ 🔩 ✦ 🔧 ✦ 🔩

Pairing: Auto shop teacher!Joel Miller x Reader (college AU)

Summary: You’re just trying to pass your final elective. He’s the instructor who doesn’t say much—but sees everything.

Warnings: 18+ only. MINORS DNI. Slow burn. Tension. Rough hands. Fully clothed grinding. Praise kink. Light degradation (mocking). Desperation. Size kink. Dirty talk. Overstimulation. Creampie. CAR SMUUUUT

Word count: 7.8k

🔧 ✦ 🔩 ✦ 🔧 ✦ 🔩 ✦ 🔧 ✦ 🔩 ✦ 🔧 ✦ 🔩 ✦ 🔧 ✦ 🔩

You don’t mean to be late.

You were up before sunrise. Had your coffee. Even got to campus early enough to scroll on your phone in the parking lot for a minute, thinking you had it handled. But then you wandered straight into industrial hell—half a dozen identical doors, metal walls, concrete floors, zero signs. You passed the same auto bay twice before it hit you: you were completely turned around.

By the time you find the right garage, your heart’s pounding, breath hot and tight inside your hoodie, and your palms are sweating like you’re about to take an exam instead of change a tire.

Not exactly how you pictured starting your final semester.

After years of grinding through labs and clinicals and late-night study sessions, all that’s left is one elective. Just one. You waited too long to register and ended up with whatever had space—Intro to Automotive Systems. Your advisor called it “hands-on” and “practical,” which you’re now realizing was code for grimy, loud, and probably full of dudes who think power steering is a personality.

Still. You didn’t think it’d feel like a trap.

The second you shoulder open the garage door, everything stops.

Voices. Movement. Even the air seems to still, thick with heat and oil and whatever tension you just dragged in with you. The room’s huge and bright, all fluorescent lights and slick concrete, a silver car lifted on the central platform like it’s waiting for judgment.

A half-circle of students is already gathered near it. Every single one turns to look at you.

But your eyes don’t land on them.

They land on him.

He’s standing at the center. Arms crossed. Broad shoulders under a dark work shirt with the sleeves rolled up just enough to show off his forearms—tan skin, thick wrists, a smear of grease at the edge of one hand. No clipboard. No smile. Just a hard jaw, a scowl deep enough to cut through steel, and a pair of eyes that say you’re late, you’re a problem, and he’s already tired of your shit.

Welcome to class.

He doesn’t say anything at first.

Just watches you—long enough to make your stomach twist. Like he’s daring you to speak. Like he’s already counting the seconds you’ve wasted.

Then finally, he says—voice low, rough, like it’s been dragged through sandpaper:

“You show up at my door late again… don’t bother walkin’ in.”

The silence that follows is thick enough to swallow.

Your throat tightens. You weren’t trying to make a scene. You weren’t trying to be that student. But your voice still comes out quieter than you mean it to—reflexive, not confident.

“I’m sorry. I got turned around. There weren’t any signs—“

“This was your one and only chance,” he cuts in, fast. Flat. “Don’t waste it.”

No shouting. No venom. Just final. The kind of warning that doesn’t need to be repeated.

And just like that, he turns away. Dismisses you like the conversation never even happened.

“We’re starting with fool orientation,” he says, loud enough for the rest of the class to hear. “Don’t touch anything unless I tell you to. Gloves stay on. Phones stay away. If you’re lookin’ to coast through this course, I suggest you drop now. Saves me the trouble later.”

Someone in the back snorts. A quiet laugh. Probably meant to take the edge off.

It doesn’t help.

Your face is hot. Neck flushed. Embarrassment crawling just under your skin—but it’s not just that. Not entirely.

You slide your bag off your shoulder and take your place at the edge of the group, jaw tight, lungs pulling in air like it might settle something inside you.

He didn’t just reprimand you.

He sized you up. Labeled you.

And even with his back turned, you swear you can still feel the weight of his stare pressed between your shoulder blades—like he’s still watching.

Like he doesn’t trust you not to crack.

***

Joel moves through the instructions like he’s done it a thousand times.

Voice low. Direct. Nothing extra.

He points out the lift controls. Walks the group through the eyewash station. Taps the emergency stop switch like it’s muscle memory. No jokes. No icebreakers. Just business.

You follow along the best you can—pen moving before you even think about what you’re writing. But there’s still that knot in your chest, that lingering flush from earlier. It tightens every time he glances your way. Even briefly.

You shouldn’t care. You know that.

But something about the way he moves—calm, solid, purposeful—paired with that voice, all grit and weight like it’s been lived in for years… it’s hard not to notice.

Especially when he steps back from the lift and says, “Alright. Time to get your hands dirty.”

The energy in the room shifts. A few students straighten up.

“You’re each gonna need a basic set of tools to start,” he says, reaching toward a dented red box on a rusted metal cart. He taps the lid once, like he’s knocking on it for effect. “Socket wrench. Flathead and Phillips screwdrivers. Pliers. Oil filter wrench. Torque wrench, if there’s any left. Don’t just grab whatever’s shiny—check for damage.”

He pauses, scanning the group. His gaze drags across you for half a second—barely long enough to hold—but you feel it anyway.

“They’re all labeled. Organized. Color-coded by station. Figure it out.”

Then he leans back against the wall, arms crossing over his chest again. “You’ve got five minutes.”

The group scatters, peeling off toward the bins at the back of the shop. Rows of toolboxes sit cracked open on a long shelf beneath a hanging board covered in outlines—wrench sets, ratchets, socket keys. Some of the students move fast, already talking brands, comparing grips like they’ve done this before. Confident. Loud.

You hang back.

Not because you’re avoiding it. You just… don’t know where to start.

The names on the board blur a little, and while you could probably ID a wrench in a lineup, nothing here is labeled clearly. You scan the outlines, searching for something familiar, but it all blends together—metal stacked on metal. Socket sizes. Jaw shapes. Handle styles.

You crouch beside one of the bins and pick up a tool at random. It’s heavy, rubber grip, open-jawed. You try to match it to one of the silhouettes on the board, hoping you don’t look as lost as you feel.

Behind you, someone laughs.

It’s sharp. Mean.

You hear it before you even register where it came from. A guy three bins down—gelled hair, backwards hat tucked under his goggles, already elbowing his buddy like you’re the joke of the day.

“Jesus. She doesn’t even know what a socket wrench looks like.”

Your stomach drops. Hard.

You clench the tool tighter and start to put it back, already reaching for something else—anything else—when another voice cuts across the room.

“Hey.”

Joel’s voice doesn’t rise.

It doesn’t have to.

Everything stops. Every head turns.

He pushes off the wall, slow and steady, boots echoing over the concrete as he walks toward the kid who laughed. His expression hasn’t changed, but there’s something colder now. Tighter.

“Didn’t hear you volunteer to teach the class,” he says.

The guy straightens fast. “No, I—I was just—”

“Then shut your mouth. Pack your shit. Get out.”

“What?”

“You don’t laugh at anyone in my shop,” Joel says. “Don’t care if it’s their first day or their fiftieth. This is an intro class for a reason.”

Silence. Heavy and dead still.

The guy doesn’t move at first. Then he mutters something under his breath and storms out. His friend stays rooted to the floor.

Joel doesn’t watch him leave. He just turns slightly, eyes landing on you again.

You’re still crouched beside the bin. One hand braced against the edge, the other curled too tight around the tool in your grip. Your cheeks burn. Jaw locked. Shame mixes with heat and something else you don’t have a name for—something sharp and twisted that settles low in your gut.

Joel steps closer.

He doesn’t kneel. Doesn’t crouch beside you. Just looks down and nods toward your hand.

“That’s a spark plug socket. You’ll need it later, but not right now.”

You glance up. “I didn’t ask for help.”

His mouth twitches—almost a smile. But not kind. Just… knowing.

“No. But if I don’t show you what’s what, I’ll end up watchin’ you use the wrong damn tool and blow your wrist out tryin’ to muscle it.”

You open your hand and let the socket rest in your palm.

Joel leans in—not close, but close enough that you catch the scent of him. Oil. Leather. Sweat layered under something sharp and clean. Like he doesn’t wear cologne, but still smells like something solid. Something lived-in.

He plucks the socket from your hand and trades it for another tool. It’s heavier. Shorter.

“This is your standard socket wrench. You’ll use it more than anything else in here. Start with quarter-inch heads—they’ll be in the red tray. Grab a set. Then flathead, Phillips, pliers. The rest you’ll learn as we go.”

You nod. Your fingers wrap around the wrench.

His voice softens. Barely.

“Don’t let anyone in here make you feel like you don’t belong. You showed up. That’s more than I can say for half of ‘em.”

Your throat tightens.

“Okay,” you murmur. “Thanks.”

Joel straightens and turns without another word. The moment breaks as fast as it formed. He’s already moving across the floor again, barking something about PPE violations at the next station over.

But your hands still feel warm.

And the weight of the wrench?

Still nothing compared to the way he lingered.

***

The energy shifts again once Joel finishes the walkthrough.

He nods toward the back corner of the shop where a row of stripped-down sedans sits idle on concrete risers. Rusted tires. Mismatched panels. None of them road-ready—just teaching frames salvaged from junkyards and outfitted for beginners. Oversized bolts. Pre-loosened lug nuts. The kind of setup that won’t break your wrist if you screw it up.

“All right,” Joel says, grabbing a clipboard from the wall behind him. “Pick a bay. You’re gonna remove and reinstall a front tire. Nothing fancy. Just enough to prove you can ID your tools and not bleed all over my floor.”

A few students laugh. You don’t.

“Torque wrench. Breaker bar. Jack. Safety stand,” he continues, voice steady. “I catch anyone jackin’ without a stand or forgettin’ to re-torque—grade drops to zero. Don’t care how long you think you’ve been doing this.”

You catch the echo of his words from earlier.

This is an intro class for a reason.

You take an open bay near the tool shelf. Still not entirely sure what half the items on your checklist do, but you recognize most by sight now. Wrench. Jack. Gloves. The basics. You collect them quietly, stacking them into your arms one at a time. Even remember the safety stand, tucked under a cart near the wall.

The others pair up fast. Groups of two or three, some already laughing like this is just another lab credit. One girl from the front of the group drags her friend to a far bay and avoids looking at Joel completely.

You think about teaming up too—just to play it safe—but then decide against it.

It feels better to figure it out on your own.

The tire’s already mounted when you approach. You kneel beside it, gloves pulled snug, tools laid out beside you in a clean, methodical line. The torque wrench is heavy in your hand but balanced. You check it. Adjust.

Then you start.

Cap off. Lug nuts next.

You brace your knee against the sidewall and lean into the breaker bar. The resistance is sharp—metal groaning as it holds—but then it breaks loose with a loud click. The first nut comes free. You let out a breath. Keep going. Remember his instructions. Cross-pattern. Counter-clockwise. Don’t unscrew them all at once or the wheel shifts.

You’re so focused you don’t hear him walk up.

But you feel him.

That same prickle at the back of your neck. Like gravity’s shifted just slightly. Like the air changed.

You pause just long enough to glance over your shoulder.

He’s five feet behind you. Arms crossed.

Watching.

He doesn’t speak. You turn back to your work.

Second nut. Third. You move the bar to the upper right lug and brace again—but the angle’s wrong. Socket slips. Your elbow jerks, balance tipping.

He’s already there.

“You’re losing your angle,” he says. Voice low. Close.

You don’t look up. “I noticed.”

“Breaker bar’s too high. You’re not getting enough leverage like that.” A pause. “You left-handed?”

“No.”

“Then flip sides. You’re working against yourself.”

You shift without answering. Try not to let it show—that his presence is getting under your skin. That it feels like something.

You reset. The bar clicks again, clean this time. The next bolt pops free.

Joel’s voice softens. Not much. Just enough to feel it.

“Not bad.”

You don’t thank him. Just nod once. Move on.

He doesn’t leave.

He stays there. Silent. Watching.

Long enough that the heat creeps up your spine again. The tension presses into your ribs. Not embarrassment. Not nerves. Something else.

Something heavier.

Then—quietly—he says, “Careful with the jack.”

And walks away.

You sit back on your heels, hands braced on your thighs. Your pulse is faster than it should be. You tell yourself it’s just the task. The tools. The pressure.

But the truth sits somewhere else.

Low. Hot.

In the way he said it.

***

Most of the class clears out by the hour mark.

A few students finish early and leave without waiting for Joel’s dismissal. Others hang back just long enough to log their tool returns before slipping out, voices echoing down the hallway outside the shop.

You pack slower than the rest. Not on purpose. You’re not trying to stand out. You just… aren’t done.

The tire’s off. That part you managed. But getting it back on—lining it up, tightening it right, hitting the torque—none of it feels solid yet. There was an uneven pull the first time. A shift. The way the wheel tilted before it caught. If this were a real car, a real road, you wouldn’t trust it to hold.

So you run through the steps again. Slower. More focused. You check the pattern, check the pressure. Try to feel the torque instead of guessing at it.

It’s only after a long stretch of silence that you realize you’re not alone.

You glance over your shoulder.

Joel’s still at the tool bench. Arms braced on the edge, gaze fixed on you beneath furrowed brows. The rest of the shop is empty. Quiet. Just you, him, and the soft clink of metal on metal as you tighten the last bolt.

“You planning on stayin’ all night?” he asks. Voice low. Not sharp.

You straighten, wiping your gloved hands on your thighs.

“I didn’t think I got it right,” you say. “So I wanted to try again.”

He watches you for a beat, then pushes off the bench and starts toward you. His steps are steady, deliberate. Boots scuff softly across the floor. His eyes flick to the tire, then down to the tools beside you.

“This won’t count for extra credit,” he says when he stops. “If that’s what you’re lookin’ for.”

“It’s not,” you reply. “I just want to understand it. That’s all.”

Your voice stays even. You don’t look away.

Joel’s gaze narrows—not annoyed, not skeptical. Just thoughtful. Like he’s measuring something quieter than your form. Something in you.

He doesn’t offer help. Doesn’t correct your grip. Doesn’t hover.

He just steps back. Folds his arms. Watches.

You move through the steps again. Lifting. Aligning. Bracing your knee where it should be. This time, the breaker bar holds. The bolts glide on smoother. The torque clicks clean beneath your hands.

When you’re done, you ease back on your heels, wiping sweat from your brow with the back of your glove.

Joel doesn’t speak right away.

Then—he nods. Once. Solid.

“Good job,” he says. “You got it.”

You breathe in slow. Try not to let it show how deep the words hit.

He starts to turn. Pauses halfway.

“Be ready for next class,” he says. “It’s not gettin’ easier from here.”

“I’ll be ready,” you answer.

He nods again. Then heads for the front, where the office light flickers on as he disappears through the doorway.

You stay behind, alone in the quiet clatter of cooling metal. The scent of oil still clings to your sleeves.

You don’t know why it matters so much that he saw you try.

But it does.

🔧 ✦ 🔩 ✦ 🔧 ✦ 🔩 ✦ 🔧 ✦ 🔩 ✦ 🔧 ✦ 🔩 ✦ 🔧 ✦ 🔩

It’s been three weeks since your first day in Joel Miller’s automotive class.

The nerves you walked in with—late, flustered, still figuring out where the hell you were going—have settled. You know your tools now. You understand the systems. You’ve taken apart and reassembled a brake caliper more times than you can count, and you’re no longer shy about getting elbow-deep in grease if it means understanding what you’re doing.

Joel hasn’t praised you much. Not directly.

But he doesn’t hover anymore. Not like he did in those first few days—correcting your grip, adjusting your stance, warning you like one wrong move would blow the place sky-high.

Now, he just… watches.

Quiet. Steady. From the far end of the shop, or from the corner of your station, arms folded, eyes always tracking. Sometimes you stay late after class—finishing up a task, reviewing something that didn’t sit right—and he never tells you to go. Never says stay, either.

He just keeps the door unlocked.

Stays nearby.

Steps in when it matters.

Today is one of those days.

The classroom is buzzing as he breaks the students into small work groups, assigning everyone a different section of a half-disassembled Toyota Corolla. You end up on the driver’s side, cross-legged on the concrete, halfway through replacing a stripped bolt near the caliper bracket. Your sleeves are rolled. Your gloves are streaked with grime. The socket wrench is wedged in place, angled just right.

You’re focused. Dialed in. Until a voice cuts in behind you.

“Hey,” someone says. “You’re tightening that backwards.”

You glance up, blinking sweat from your brow.

It’s him again—Kyle, maybe Kaden—one of the loud ones who always talks more than he works. He crouches beside you, close enough for his knee to knock against your arm, and gestures toward your wrench with a smirk like he’s doing you a favor.

“That’s a reverse-thread bolt,” he says. “You’ll strip the shit out of it going clockwise like that.”

You pause.

“No, I won’t,” you say flatly.

He snorts. Leans in further. “Swear to God, I saw this same build last semester. It’s reverse-threaded. Look, let me just—”

His hand starts to move toward your wrench.

You don’t get the chance to stop him.

Because someone else already does.

“Maybe have her show you instead.”

Joel’s voice cuts clean across the room—low, sharp, just loud enough to slice through everything else.

You both freeze.

Joel’s walking toward you now, eyes locked on the guy still crouched beside you. His expression isn’t angry.

It’s worse.

Blank. Tight. Cold in a way that makes your skin prickle and the air around you feel thinner.

“You’re completely fuckin’ wrong,” Joel says when he stops in front of the car. “That bolt’s standard-thread. Factory part. If you spent half as much time listening as you do runnin’ your mouth, you’d know that.”

Kaden blinks up at him. “I was just trying to—”

“Get back to your station.”

Joel doesn’t raise his voice.

He doesn’t have to.

The kid stammers, mutters something under his breath, and backs off fast—disappearing around the rear of the car without another word.

You’re still sat. Still holding the wrench.

Joel doesn’t look at you right away. Just glances down at the bolt, then nods once. “You had it right. Keep going.”

So you do.

He doesn’t stay after that. Just walks off, muttering something to another group near the back of the shop like nothing happened.

But every time you glance up from your work, you feel it—that quiet weight of his attention hanging at the edge of your periphery. Not constant.

Just enough.

Like there’s something he’s not saying.

Like whatever’s passing between you is starting to get too heavy to ignore.

***

The store’s colder than you expected.

Fluorescents hum overhead, casting a pale glare across rows of boxed tools, coiled cables, and plastic bins stuffed with brake fluid and air filters. It smells like rubber and engine oil and the kind of dust that never quite leaves.

The whole place feels half-forgotten but always moving—like the only people who come in already know exactly what they need.

You don’t.

You’ve been standing in front of the same pegboard display for six full minutes, squinting at torque head sets and trying to remember the difference between deep sockets and standard ones. You thought this would be quick. Something simple to practice with over the weekend.

Now your brain’s foggy. The labels don’t make sense. And your hoodie’s starting to feel too warm.

You shift your weight. Reach for a three-piece extension bar set and mutter under your breath, “I think this is right…”

“It’s not.”

The voice comes from your left—low, dry, and unmistakable.

Your heart skips.

You turn your head slowly, already knowing exactly who you’ll find.

Joel.

Two feet away. Wearing a faded Carhartt over a black thermal, jeans worn soft at the seams, grease still smudged on the top of his hands. His hair’s damp at the temples—like he just stepped out of the shower or wiped sweat off under a hood. Either way, he looks different here. Same scowl. Same narrowed eyes. But without the classroom lights or the safety goggles, he feels heavier. Realer.

He glances at the tool in your hand. Lifts a brow.

“You’re not runnin’ a breaker bar through an extension like that. Too much play. It’ll slip.”

You blink. “I wasn’t—”

“You were.” His voice stays flat. “Don’t lie. It’s embarrassing.”

Your mouth falls open, half-offended—until you catch the twitch at the corner of his mouth.

He’s not annoyed.

He’s watching you. The same way he does in class. Like you’re a puzzle he hasn’t finished yet.

You exhale through your nose. Try to stay calm. “I just wanted something to practice with.”

“Yeah?” Joel plucks the extension bar from your hand and places it back on the hook, then tilts his head toward a different aisle. “C’mere.”

You follow.

Of course you do.

Down a narrow row of socket sets and ratchet kits, your heart hammering like you’ve done something wrong.

He stops halfway, pulls a small boxed set off the shelf—shallow sockets, quarter-inch, neatly arranged—and hands it to you.

“This is what you want. Lighter. Easier to handle for what we’re doing. Good for practice. Won’t trash the heads.”

You take it, careful. Your fingers brush his knuckles.

“Thanks,” you murmur. “I was guessing.”

He doesn’t move. Just looks at you.

And for a second, it feels like he’s not deciding what to say—he’s deciding if he’s going to say it.

“You remembered the torque pattern last week,” he says. “Handled that caliper clean.”

You blink.

That’s the closest thing to a compliment you’ve heard from him since day one.

Your throat tightens. “Thanks,” you say again, softer this time.

He nods once, then glances toward the front of the store. “Your car still out there?”

You frown. “Yeah. Why?”

Joel’s already moving—headed toward the glass storefront. He stops by the floor jack display, squints through the grimy window, then tilts his head slightly.

“You need new brake pads,” he says. “Left rear’s draggin’.”

You stare. “You got that from looking at my car?”

He shrugs. “Rear wheel’s darker. Dust build-up. You can hear it stick if you roll slow.”

You glance back toward the window, unsure whether to be impressed or… unnerved. “Okay, that’s either witchcraft or you’ve been staring way too hard.”

His mouth twitches. Barely.

“I know what I’m lookin’ at.”

You shift the box in your hands. The air between you thickens—weight gathering behind the silence. You didn’t expect anything from running into him here. But now your palms are warm. Your pulse is high. And apparently, your car’s seconds from self-destructing.

Joel watches you another moment.

“You want me to take care of it?” he asks. Voice quieter now. “Brakes aren’t hard. I’ve got parts at the shop. Be faster than waiting ‘til next week.”

Your heart stutters.

“You’d… do that?”

He nods. “Won’t take long.”

There’s no pressure in his voice. No suggestion of anything else. But still—it feels heavier than it should. Like he’s not just offering help. Like he’s offering something else.

You don’t say yes.

You just follow him out the door in a hurry after paying for the tool set.

***

The shop is nearly dark when you pull in.

Joel backs into the bay like it’s second nature. The motion triggers the overheads—rows of fluorescents humming to life in staggered sequence, casting pale light across the wide concrete floor and the wall of tools you’ve only seen during class hours.

It feels different like this.

Quieter.

Cooler.

The usual sounds—keys, footsteps, the clink of steel—feel sharper in the silence. More intimate.

You park beside him and cut the engine.

Joel doesn’t say much. He walks around to your side and nods once—silent instruction to pop the trunk. His voice, when he speaks, is gruff but not cold. Focused. The same tone he uses in class, but stripped of distance.

He works fast. No fanfare. The jack rolls under the rear of your car like it knows the way. The tire’s off within minutes. You stand nearby, the socket set cradled in your arms, trying not to stare at the way his forearms flex beneath the cuff of his jacket. The way his breath fogs faintly in the chilled air. The way he moves—efficient, practiced, solid.

He doesn’t ask for help. Doesn’t offer an explanation. Just moves with the same quiet, brute certainty he always does.

The silence should feel awkward but it doesn’t.

You lean against the wall near the open bay, watching him until he lowers the car back to the ground and wipes his hands on a rag from his pocket.

“That’ll hold,” he mutters, more to himself than to you.

You nod, swallowing the thank-you caught in your throat. It doesn’t feel like the moment for it.

Joel nods toward the car. “Show me the rattle you mentioned. In the dash.”

“Oh—uh, yeah. It happens when I turn the fan on.”

He circles around to the drivers side and opens the door, nodding for you to follow. You slide into the passenger’s seat. The heater kicks on, followed by a low, mechanical groan beneath the dash.

Joel listens for a beat, brow furrowed. “Loose mount. Bracket’s vibrating. Not dangerous—just noisy.”

He leans in further, fingers brushing over the vent. Then he opens the glove box and gives it a gentle tug.

He’s close now.

Too close.

The heat blowing from the vents fogs the windows slightly. The space between you shrinks with it. You can smell him—oil, leather, clean sweat—and feel his presence in a way that makes your pulse spike, even without him touching you.

He reaches across you, fingers brushing the radio dial.

And that’s when the song starts.

Something low. Old. The kind of classic rock he wouldn’t have expected from you, slow and drawled and aching. A gravel-thick voice murmuring about losing sleep over someone he never should’ve wanted.

Joel doesn’t move.

Doesn’t pull his hand back.

He stares at the dash like he’s still listening, but you don’t think he hears a word of the song.

Then, quietly—almost like he regrets saying it the second it’s out—he speaks.

“If that guy touches you again,” he says, voice low, “I’ll pull him from the class.”

You inhale. Sharp. Not loud—but enough for him to hear it.

Your voice comes out soft. Not challenging. Not playful. Just one word:

“Why?”

Joel’s jaw flexes. His eyes drop.

He doesn’t answer.

He shifts like he might sit back. Like he might leave. Like the conversation’s already too close to something neither of you has dared to say.

So you move first.

You lean in slowly—no hesitation, no plan—and kiss him.

At first, he doesn’t react. His lips are warm. Slightly chapped. He doesn’t push forward, doesn’t pull back.

He just breathes.

Then he exhales.

And it breaks.

His hand lifts—finds the back of your neck—his mouth opening against yours like he’s been waiting weeks for this. His kiss is rough. Unguarded. Not practiced or precise, just real. Tongue sliding against yours, thumb stroking your jaw like he needs something to hold onto.

It tastes like coffee and breathless restraint.

When he pulls back—barely—his voice is hoarse.

“Get in the backseat.”

You don’t speak. You don’t ask.

You just move.

One second, you’re kissing him—mouths crushed together like the air between you doesn’t matter—and the next, you’re both reaching blindly for the back door. Hands fumbling. Hearts pounding. Breath lost somewhere in the heat of the moment.

You slide into the backseat first. Joel follows not a second later.

It’s dark. Warm. The kind of close, sealed-in air that smells like sweat and leather. He’s already reaching for you, grabbing your hips, pulling you across the seat until you’re straddling him. His palms are firm, fingertips pressing into your skin through your jeans like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you—prove to himself you’re actually here.

He doesn’t kiss you right away.

He just stares, his chest rising and falling like he’s trying to breathe through the weight of it. “You sure?” He asks, voice low and rough.

You nod.

“Say it.”

“I’m sure.”

Without another thought, he’s kissing you again, harder this time—hot and messy, lips open, tongue sliding against yours like he needs to taste every breath you take. His hands move fast, dragging your hoodie up, then your shirt, then slipping underneath your bra to squeeze, to feel.

You can’t help but gasp at the cool air hitting your heated skin.

He grins at that, and watches as you moan when his fingers find your nipple, when he rolls it between callused fingertips just enough to make you arch. His mouth drags across your jaw to your throat, humming deep from within his throat.

“Jesus,” he mutters. “You’re already drivin’ me crazy.”

Your hands find his hair, curling deep in the roots and pulling slightly. His mouth falls open as he looks up at you, letting his head rest against the headrest.

You grind against him—slow and deliberate—feeling the thick length of him pressed against your cunt through both layers of denim. Now it’s your turn to grin, “you’ve been thinking about this, haven’t you?” You whisper, teasing, breathless. “All those nights after class, watching me?”

His hands flex on your hips, “don’t start.”

“Tell me.” You demand, letting your hips roll against his again, and Joel nearly falls apart right there.

“Every damn day.” He grunts, his palm running up the expanse of your bare back.

He entangles his fingers in the hair at the nape of your neck, pulling your head back with enough force to bite—just a bit, and doesn’t stop until you’re staring at the ceiling of the car. He leans forward, pressing a kiss to the underside of your breast. Then another. Then higher—until his mouth is warm over your nipple, lips soft, tongue flicking just barely.

You grip the back of the drivers side headrest, gasping at the sudden heat, then the cool air from his lips as he purses a breath across your chest. You’re aching, throbbing, but he doesn’t seem to care. He’s too focused on your chest—licking slow, open-mouthed circles around your nipple before sucking it between his lips. The free hand on your hip tightens, holding you in place as you writhe above him.

“Please,” you whisper, breath catching. “You’re teasing.”

He hums against your skin, a low, satisfied sound that rumbles through your ribs.

“You’ve been drivin’ me crazy for weeks,” he mutters, his lips moving to the shell of your ear, a soft whisper, “you’ll survive.”

He drops his head then and switches sides, mouth closing over your other nipple, sucking harder now. His tongue drags across the tip while his other hand slides up to roll the one he just left—pinching lightly, just enough to make you whimper.

“Sensitive,” he says, like he’s cataloging it. “Fuckin’ perfect.”

“Joel—please.” You whimper, letting your free hand fall to his shoulder, nails biting into his skin.

“You beg real pretty, you know that?”

He kisses your chest again—softer this time—then finally slides his hands down to your waist.

“You ready?”

“Yes,” you breathe. “Please.”

Your breath is still shallow, your body trembling just from the feel of his mouth. His tongue. The soft scrape of his stubble against your chest. It’s too much and not enough and your jeans feel like they’re trapping you now—tight against your hips, soaked through, clinging to your skin.

Joel’s still staring up at you, flushed and focused, pupils blown wide with restraint that’s clearly cracking.

“Take these off,” you whisper, rocking forward slightly, grinding your soaked cunt right along the thick line of him through his jeans. “I want to feel you.”

His jaw flexes once, and then he moves.

His hands are suddenly at your waist, working the button of your jeans with quick, rough fingers. You lift your hips for him, thighs shaking slightly from the way he’s breathing—slow and tight, like he’s trying not to lose control.

The zipper lowers, teeth dragging open with a soft rasp, and he peels the denim down your hips, dragging your panties with it in one go.

“Lift,” he mutters, tapping your ass with a smirk.

You do. And then they’re off—shoved down your thighs, tugged around your ankles, and kicked somewhere into the shadows of the floor. The rush of cool air against your soaked pussy makes you gasp.

Joel groans when he sees you—head tipped back, throat bobbing with it.

“Fuck,” he mutters. “You’re already dripping.”

He drags his hand up the inside of your thigh, slow and firm, thumb grazing your cunt just once before settling his hands back on your hips. He doesn’t push. Doesn’t rush.

Just looks.

“Now yours,” you say, fingers already reaching between your bodies.

Joel lets out a breath—half-laugh, half-grunt—as you tug at the button of his jeans, then slide the zipper down over the aching bulge beneath. He lifts his hips as you work them off, the denim catching on his thighs before he shoves them the rest of the way down himself with a growl of frustration.

“Been wantin’ this,” he mutters. “Thinkin’ about you climbin’ on top of me like this. Every fuckin’ night.”

His cock springs free—hard, thick, already flushed and twitching at the sight of you bare above him.

Your thighs tighten instinctively, and then—without a word—you reach down.

Your fingers wrap around him at the base, slow and steady, and he groans—a low, gravel-slick sound that punches straight through your core. He’s heavy in your hand. Hot. Already leaking, the tip slick and flushed, thick veins pulsing beneath your palm like he’s barely holding on.

You stroke once—slow and deliberate, from base to tip—and his head drops back against the seat.

“Fuck,” he grits out.

You do it again—twisting slightly at the top this time, just enough to smear the precum down his shaft.

Joel’s jaw clenches. His hands flex on your thighs like he doesn’t know whether to pull you down or beg you to stop.

“You’ve been thinking about this?” You whisper, eyes locked on him. “Thinking about me touching you like this?”

He growls—actually growls, hips jerking up into your grip.

“You have no fuckin’ idea.”

You stroke him again, then again, a little faster now, wrist twisting just right—and he’s breathing like a man on the edge, jaw tight, thighs tense, chest rising in sharp, shallow pulls.

“Feels good?” You ask in a murmur.

“Feels—” He cuts off with another moan when your thumb rolls over the head. “Feels too good. Gonna—fuck, baby, you keep doin’ that and I’m not gonna last.”

You smile, slow and wicked, and lean in—lips brushing his ear.

“Then tell me to stop.”

Joel growls again. One hand snaps to your wrist, gripping just hard enough to still you—but not to hurt.

“I’m hangin’ by a thread here, darlin’,” he mutters, voice rough. “Don’t make me beg.”

You lick your bottom lip and tilt your head slightly, “but you beg real pretty, you know that?” You mock, gasping as he pulls your bodies impossibly closer and grinds up against your slick cunt with zero shame.

“I warned you,” he mutters, the words sharp against your neck. “You think I won’t beg? You think I won’t lose it for you?”

His hand slips between your bodies. One strong finger traces the seam of your folds—slick and swollen—and you shudder when he groans.

“Fuck. You’re soaked.”

He nudges his cock against your entrance, not pushing in yet—just letting the head glide through the wetness, dragging it along your clit in slow, devastating passes.

“Go on, then,” he rasps, voice low and dangerous. “You wanted control? Take it. Sit on it. Make me watch you fuckin’ ruin me.”

You rise just enough to line him up, your hand guiding him to your entrance—slick and aching and so fucking ready.

And then—slowly, trembling—you start to sink.

The stretch is unreal.

Thick. Blunt. Hot.

You feel the pressure first, the way your walls fight to take him, your body instinctively pulsing around the intrusion. The head of his cock pushes past your entrance, and you gasp—sharp and broken—your nails digging into his shoulders for leverage.

Joel grunts beneath you, his grip on your hips tightening like a warning to himself not to thrust up, not to ruin the moment.

“Shit,” he groans. “Baby…”

You slide lower. Another inch. Then another.

It burns, but it’s perfect—just enough to make your thighs shake, just enough to make your vision blur. You pause halfway down, forehead dropping to his, your breath catching in your throat.

“I can’t—I’m not—Joel, you’re so—”

“I know,” he pants, voice ragged. “I know. You’re takin’ me so fuckin’ good, baby. Look at you.”

He strokes your back with one hand, the other pressed flat against your stomach like he’s trying to feel himself through your skin. “You feel that? How deep I am already?”

You whimper, hips rolling in a tiny, desperate circle.

“Too much?”

You shake your head instantly. “No—it’s just… you’re stretching me so full. I feel you everywhere.”

Joel growls, low in his throat, and kisses the corner of your mouth, his voice breaking apart as he whispers, “Fuck, you don’t know what that does to me.”

You start to lower yourself again, inch by inch, until finally—finally—you bottom out.

The fullness knocks the air out of your lungs. You sit still, trembling in his lap, thighs twitching where they cage his hips. Your pussy pulses around him, fluttering tight, trying to adjust to the size, the stretch, the weight of him buried that deep.

He curses again, forehead pressed to your temple.

“Jesus Christ, you’re squeezin’ the fuck outta me.”

He kisses your neck. Then your shoulder. Then back up to your jaw, whispering between kisses.

“Breathe,” he murmurs. “You got me. I’ve got you. Let me take care of you.”

You rock again, your thighs already trembling from the stretch. The drag of him inside you is slow, devastating—too much and not enough at once. Every grind brings your clit down against the ridge of his pelvis, and you can feel your slick spreading between your bodies, soaking the coarse hair at the base of his cock.

Joel’s eyes never leave yours.

His hands slide from your hips to your waist, then back down again—every movement heavy with reverence, with restraint. He’s guiding you, not controlling. Letting you take your time, letting you use him, even though his jaw is clenched so tight it looks like it hurts.

“You ride so fuckin’ good, sweetheart,” he rasps, voice low and fraying at the edges. “Just like that. Nice and slow. Let me feel every bit of it.”

You moan—soft and caught in your throat—and move again, lifting yourself an inch before sinking back down, the head of his cock hitting that perfect spot just inside you.

Joel grunts.

His head drops back against the headrest, eyes fluttering shut, a pulse ticking hard at the base of his throat. He looks wrecked. Sweaty. Flushed. His shirt sticks to his chest, soaked where your bodies meet, and you realize with a sharp, hot rush that you did this to him.

You lean forward, pressing your chest to his, lips brushing his jaw.

“You like that?” You whisper.

His hands tighten on your ass. “Too much,” he says, voice hoarse. “You keep movin’ like that, I’m gonna fuckin’ lose it.”

“Good.”

You roll your hips again, deliberately now—grinding your clit down against him, letting your body melt into his. The pressure builds low in your belly, slow and tight, a heat that curls and coils and refuses to let go.

Joel groans—deep—and buries his face in your neck.

“You’re killin’ me, baby,” he pants. “You’re so wet. So tight. Keep squeezin’ me like that, I’m not gonna last.”

You lift yourself higher this time, until just the tip of him is inside, and then drop back down with a moan.

Joel chokes on a sound—half growl, half prayer.

“Fucking hell,” he gasps. “You feel that? The way you stretch around me?”

You nod, teeth sinking into your bottom lip as you do it again, and again—building a rhythm now, riding him slow but deeper, hips tilting with each pass to chase your own pleasure.

His hands roam everywhere—up your back, over your ribs, slipping between your shoulder blades to hold you close as he thrusts up into you, gentle but deliberate.

You sob quietly against his mouth.

“Can’t—fuck—I’m gonna—”

“I’ve got you,” he breathes. “I’ve got you, sweetheart. Let it come. You’re doin’ so fuckin’ good.”

His thumb finds your clit—presses, circles, rubs you exactly how you need—and your whole body locks up.

Your orgasm hits with a sharp, crushing intensity—wringing your cunt tight around him, every muscle in your body drawn tight, shaking, clinging, your moan breaking apart against his neck.

Joel loses it.

The second he feels you fall apart around him, he thrusts up hard, his grip bruising, mouth open as he groans straight into your ear.

“That’s it—fuck, baby—give it to me—make a fuckin’ mess—fuck—I’m gonna—”

He comes with a growl, hips jerking beneath you, cock twitching deep inside as he spills, hot and thick, his breath stuttering in your hair.

Neither of you move for a long time.

You collapse against his chest, your body still trembling, his arms wrapped tight around you like he doesn’t want to let go.

Your pulse throbs between your legs, your slick mixed with his, dripping slowly down your thighs where you’re still seated, still full, still connected.

Joel presses his lips to your shoulder.

Then your collarbone.

Then your cheek.

“You okay?” he murmurs, voice low and soft now, the edge gone. “Need anything?”

You nod into his neck, still breathless.

“Water. A cigarette. A new spine.”

He chuckles—actually chuckles—and brushes a thumb along your jaw.

“You were fuckin’ perfect,” he says. “Took me like you were made for it.”

***

The windows are still fogged. The air inside the car is thick—humid with sweat, heat, and the sharp-sweet scent of sex that clings to your skin and seeps into the seats.

You haven’t moved.

Neither has he.

You’re still in his lap, thighs spread across thighs, skin flushed and trembling, his softening cock still buried deep inside you. The whole car feels hushed, like it’s holding its breath with you.

Joel moves first.

One hand drifts up your spine—slow, steady. The other rests at your hip, fingers curling like he needs the anchor more than you do. His head is tilted forward, lips brushing your shoulder, breath cooling where sweat still clings.

“Gonna pull out now,” he murmurs, voice low and wrecked against your ear. “Alright?”

You nod.

Your legs ache. Muscles cramping from how long you’ve been straddling him.

He’s careful—one hand steadying your waist, the other slipping to your thigh. You wince when he eases out of you, slow and wet, the stretch still echoing deep inside. The emptiness leaves your stomach fluttering, body still too full, too sensitive to register anything clearly.

Joel watches it happen.

His breath stutters. One hand drops between your thighs—thumb brushing where you’re dripping, slick and spent, your release already sliding down your leg.

“Fuck,” he mutters, barely audible. “Look at that…”

He leans over, finds the flannel he’d discarded on the seat next to you, and brings it up folded in his hand. The fabric is soft from wear, warm from his skin. He presses it between your thighs, gentle, slow, wiping the mess before it can fall.

You gasp—too overstimmed to hide it—and your hand flies to his wrist on instinct.

“Shh,” he soothes, thumb stroking the inside of your knee. “I got you. Just wanna clean you up.”

You breathe out, let him.

Melt into his chest, boneless, every part of you raw and exposed. He wipes you down without rushing. Without speaking. Like it’s something he’s done before. Like he wants to.

And when he’s done, his hand lingers. Thumb tracing circles against your leg, lazy and warm.

He’s not ready to let go.

You sit up slowly, muscles tight. Your thighs ache when you move off his lap, cunt still pulsing with aftershocks. Joel helps—wordless and steady—one hand at your waist, the other bracing your back as you climb over the console.

You slide into the front seat, legs unsteady, one hand braced against the steering wheel like it’ll hold you together. The hoodie you left in the passenger seat is still there—twisted in a soft, wrinkled heap. You pull it on, swallowing a quiet breath, the cotton dragging across sweat-slick skin. You can’t even imagine trying to pull the jeans up right now with how slick your skin feels.

Joel stays in the back.

Half dressed. Chest rising slow. His shirt is clinging to his body, darkened with sweat, his jeans still undone. One arm slung over the back of the seat. The other resting on his thigh.

And his eyes—

They haven’t stopped watching you.

You don’t speak. Neither does he.

You reach for the keys. The engine’s off. The dashboard blinks softly and the hum of cool air hits you harshly. You adjust the mirror—just slightly—and catch his reflection in the glass.

Wrecked. Quiet. Still tracking the curve of your jaw like he doesn’t know what happens next.

Truth is, you don’t either.

But your lips are swollen. Your thighs are sore. Your body’s buzzing, full of him even now.

And the air around you still smells like sweat and leather and Joel.

You’d let him do it all over again.

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