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gutsby · 8 months ago

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Stupid Prizes

Pairing: dbf!Joel x Reader

Summary: Before you head back to college, your dad wants to go on one last family outing: the county fair. The only problem? Your secret fuckbuddy, Joel, is there.

Warnings: 18+. Sneaky, unprotected p-in-v. Joel pining for you while your dad is beside him, oblivious for now. Semi-public sex (on a ferris wheel—don’t ever do that). Gross misuse of a candy apple. Age gap. Jealous Joel. Teasing. Angst(!) Mentions of infidelity/abandonment.

Word count: 10.0k

Read on AO3

The gingham dress was your best idea yet.

For Joel, nothing could’ve been worse.

He’d cum down your throat no more than ten minutes ago, and with just a glimpse of your new getup bounding down the stairs—you’d had to change after he painted your last one white—Joel almost inhaled his Heineken.

He coughed and sputtered and hacked the beer back up while you strolled past the sofa and grinned at your dad.

“Ready to go, old man?”

It was just a short red frock with a sweetheart neckline.

The fabric cinched at the waist and flowed with every step you would take. Turning slightly to toy with the hem, and teasing the only eyes on you, you corrected yourself:

“Sorry…old men, I mean.”

Something like amusement flashed in Joel’s eyes.

Didn’t seem to mind this old man’s cock down your—

“I was born ready, kid,” your dad answered, still messing with something on his key ring, “How ‘bout you, Miller?”

“Yessir.” Joel stood.

He recalled you saying something similar before opening your mouth in the guest bathroom just fifteen minutes earlier. Joel’s cock twitched in his jeans at the memory, and his cheeks might’ve tinged a little, remembering how fast he’d cum. You’d only smiled and sucked your thumb, getting a taste of the residue that had missed your chest.

“Quite a mess you made there, Joel.”

And you repeated those words, at length, with only you and him to know what it had meant to you both before.

You gestured to the smattering of crushed potato chips on his shirt, and your grin got bigger. Joel grew redder.

“Yeah…” he mumbled, brushing the crumbs off his front. He wasn’t nearly as fast with the comebacks as he was with other kinds of comings and goings, and he knew it. He set the bag of Lays aside and seemed ready to leave.

But when he’d licked the salt off his lips and caught you staring—when he saw his friend go back to the kitchen:

“I had to be quick,” he said. Then, lowering his voice, “You know better’n anyone what a messy eater I am.”

Of course you knew that. Joel winked at you, and you winked back, mostly making fun of the boomer move. He reached for you—the edge of your skirt scarcely hanging a fraction of the way down your thighs—and he opened his mouth to speak again, when there was the sound of heavy boots at the threshold of the room. Joel leaned past your body and snagged the bag of chips instead.

“Food for the road?” He turned to his friend.

“All you,” your dad replied, smiling and waving the chips off as he went for the front door, “I swear your stomach’s a bottomless pit, man. Eatin’ me outta house and home.”

Joel looked at you when your dad was past you both.

House and home ain’t the only thing I’m gonna—

“Let’s go,” you chirped, fast, “I call shotgun!”

This would be a long, long day, no doubt.

The county fair had been his friend’s idea. One last day of ‘family fun’ before his little girl went back to school out East, and Joel hadn’t seen Bellville in years, so he’d asked him if he wanted to join. After a shared, brief stint in abstinence camp, the answer should’ve been clear:

‘NO.’

But Joel hadn’t learned very much from the Fireflies in the less than 72 hours he’d spent living—and also fucking you—there, so he’d nodded and said ‘Okay.’

Now you were twenty minutes out from the fairgrounds with a near-depleted tank of gas in the truck, obliged to make a quick pit stop at a Texaco. It was the first time he’d been alone with you since you’d set off from Austin. The second his friend was gone and headed inside to buy a pack of smokes, he heard a seatbelt come undone.

Earlier, he had raced you and beat you to the car to lay claim on the passenger seat, so you’d been in the back this whole time. He barely saw you before he felt you, climbing over the center console and then into his lap.

Straddling him while the Eagles played faintly overhead.

“Feel fucking insane not being able to touch you right now,” you huffed against his lips, kissing him hungrily.

Joel groaned. Felt your lower half grind into his. Almost rutted his hips up and yearned to have you seated on something other than just his denim-clad crotch when he sucked in a breath and remembered where he was. He nudged your hips and fisted the fabric in his hand.

“You in this dress ain’t helpin’ me either,” he growled.

You grinned against him, then hiked the red-and-white material up your legs a little more. Joel felt something like a shockwave when he saw what was underneath it.

Or, rather, what wasn’t there at all: your panties.

“Bathroom quickie?” you said, already breathless, “I’ll tell my dad I got cramps. I’ve been so wet this whole ti—”

“Darlin’.”

Joel’s eyes had drifted down to the place where your body and his were touching—rubbing—now. Even from this limited vantage point, he could see a glistening patch sticking from your bare seam to his jeans, and it was pooling on the fabric. Practically oozing out of your cunt while you rocked your hips and begged him please.

“Please, just one. I’ll be good the rest of the day, daddy.”

“Fuck,” Joel hissed.

His pupils were wide, and his mind was seriously considering it. Stupidly so, he reckoned; your dad was bound to be back any second, and surely you couldn’t both be gone for more than five minutes without raising suspicions. It was a reckless endeavor, he already knew.

And when he saw his old friend strolling out the front doors of the Texaco, his decision was made for him.

He watched you scramble off his lap and back to your seat, body quick and lithe and giggling the whole way.

“Gonna get me murdered, girl,” Joel panted, gruff.

Your own smile didn’t waver; you just settled back into the middle seat and let your gaze trail out the window, trying to fix your eyes on something to calm you down.

You already had the sense that nothing would. Your teeth bit your bottom lip between them to forestall the threat of another laugh while your dad approached the vehicle.

From the radio, ‘Life in the Fast Lane’ kept playing.

As old as they were, Joel Miller and your dad had a funny way of acting more like kids than you ever had, at any age. As your trio approached the wide, gleaming gates of the Austin County Fair, you saw your dad nudge Joel, and Joel shoved him back, and somewhere in the midst of all the ribbing, you heard your dad say, clear as day:

“If I’m takin’ a whole day off work, I’m gettin’ hammered.”

You knew by that tone this would an interesting afternoon, to say the least. You held your ticket tighter.

And for a moment, you wished you’d worn underwear. It’d been a split-second decision to peel them off before skipping downstairs, and it had worked well enough—Joel walking with a limp all throughout the parking lot and trying to shield the tent in his jeans—but now you were the one in greater danger still. Seeing your secret family-friend-with-benefits in his tight, light, heather grey shirt and jeans, hips adorned with a hefty belt and moving deliciously with each new step he took, you were transfixed. Left to watch him and gawk and grow wetter between the legs with every passing second, there was nothing you could do about it now. Likely sensing this, Joel raked a hand through his grey-flecked hair and hummed to himself. His bicep bulged through the sleeve.

“Nice little view, ain’t it?” he asked, nodding to the outline of a dozen shining rides and attractions ahead.

Go fuck yourself, Joel.

“Can’t wait to ride that.” You pointed to the ferris wheel, though the finger in your mind was aimed closer to him.

“Funnel cake,” your dad beamed, eyeing a nearby stand.

The three of you weren’t walking for much longer before he insisted on buying one. Joel had had a hankering for lemonade himself, so he’d fallen in line behind you and your dad. When it was your turn to order, you paused.

Then, pointing again:

“Can you get me one of those?”

You’d had to stand on tiptoes to see it inside the display, but from Joel’s own height, he was certain to have seen what you meant. While your dad shilled out the cash, not batting an eye, the man behind him clenched his jaw.

Candy apple, hon? Real fuckin’ mature.

Your eyes met his as soon as you’d turned, treat in hand.

I thought you liked seeing big things in my mouth, Joel.

He would’ve scowled if he wasn’t next in line—and your dad wasn’t walking so close behind, sniffing his food.

Joel ordered his drink, drank it fast, and found his thirst no better quenched than when he’d started. You’d sat across from him at the table and made sure of that.

You dragged your tongue up the sugar-coated apple just like you’d done to his shaft that morning and blinked, savoring the taste. Feigning innocence as he looked on.

And what else could he do? If not watch you, then peer at your father, furtively, and make sure he wasn’t able to see so much as a second of this little show you were putting on now. Joel glanced around you, too. No one else seemed to notice what was going on, even when your lips left a soft, sweet suction near the top of the apple, and he could’ve sworn he’d heard you moan.

It was just in his head. He was remembering how you’d done it that morning, mouth sinking down his length and whimpering when you’d reached the base. The way your eyes had watered, your free hand had reached between your legs, and your lips had welcomed him in; it was all burned in his memory, and not retreating any time soon.

Neither was the blood rushing to his dick, he reckoned.

You didn’t seem to care. Even when a bright pink river of spit and sugar trickled out of your mouth, you didn’t flinch. You let it slide down to your chin. Right before it reached the end of your face, and you were certain Joel’s gaze was glued to the spot, you licked a little bit of it off. You didn’t get it all in one go, so you shifted your snack to the other hand and then swiped your thumb under your lips. You brought it up to your mouth and sucked it, just like you’d done with Joel’s cum on it earlier that day.

Joel chucked his cup in the trash. Your dad took another bite of his deep-fried pastry and, talking between chews:

“That was fast.”

“Need’a stretch my legs,” Joel announced, abrupt.

He turned to you, and your thumb came out of your mouth. The frown on his face was unmistakable, though your father probably thought it was just from having to squint against the sun. Not because he was incensed.

Out for revenge.

“Ready to get wrecked, kiddo?” he asked you.

Your eyes widened, and your tongue quit licking.

What?

Then you saw him nod to some spot over your shoulder. You didn’t have the nerve to follow his gaze as he did.

Faintly, you could make out a smirk crossing his lips.

“Arcade’s over there. Unless you’re too scared.”

Your dad raised a dumbass, not a quitter.

You’d accepted Joel’s proposal without a second thought, and your father seemed pleased to have the chance to peruse the food stands and beer carts to his heart’s content. You’d set off quickly. Your candy apple was still in your hand when you saw your friend lean over.

Joel opened his mouth, and he took a big, angry bite.

“You’re insane,” he said after, words muffled by fruit.

You took your first steps inside the dark, cool building littered with machines and fun activities of every kind, and deep down, you were happy you’d had that treat. You took a bite yourself, then discreetly patted his ass through his jeans and told him, ‘Only for you, Miller.’

You weren’t sure why you’d said it. As soon as the words came out of your mouth, you regretted it, no matter how stupid and playful the message was meant to be read. But then Joel nudged you back—actually wrapped his arm around your shoulder and pulled you into his side.

His mouth was close to you, and you could feel the smile:

“Just how I like it.”

Your cheeks heated a little. You weren’t so fond of the intimate move—in public like this, even as dark as the arcade happened to be—but you couldn’t deny the flutter in your stomach. You swallowed the rest of your apple, and with it, any shred of emotion, or so you were hoping. You nudged Joel off of you under the guise of trying to point to something new, and his eyes followed.

“C’mon. At least pick something you’ve got half a shot of winning,” he said, swiftly. Sounding smug as he spoke.

You plodded on anyway, not hesitating at all.

“I’ve got more than half a shot,” you assured him, tone arguably twice as conceited, “Now if you’re scared—”

“You can’t use my own lingo against me, little girl.”

“Then nut up or shut up, old man.”

Joel scoffed. You chewed. The two of you approached the Skee-Ball machines with near identical looks of ambition and zeal, and sensing this tension wouldn’t dissipate with any more shit-talking, you got to work.

The first game was close. You beat him by less than ten points, and you guessed that that had been due in part to Joel’s own will. You saw him make more than two pitches so outrageously bad that you’d had to have guessed he was going easy on you. As soon as you felt that, you’d scowled. Pointed angrily at the scoreboard.

“You can’t just let me win, Miller!” you said, shrill.

Joel’s hands went up, and you knew he’d deny it all.

“No need to gloat, now, honey—”

“Fuck off,” you snapped, all while fighting back a smile, “Gimme your A game or don’t bother playing, honey.”

And he did.

The next game left you destroyed, roughly 900 to 320. You stepped back from the machine, feeling a frown start to form on your lips but knowing you’d asked for this, and just as Joel was about to lean in to offer a conciliatory hug, he had to stop. Both of you turned.

Somewhere behind you, you’d heard a voice.

It was young, male, and audibly amused.

“He really whooped your ass, huh?”

Your eyebrows raised as soon as you saw the source. Your scowl morphed into a smile, and your eyes were bright—too bright, almost. You ran over to hug the boy.

He was a boy, after all. Likely no more than half Joel’s weight soaking wet and wearing the biggest, dumbest grin that could only belong to a guy your age. He hugged you back, and his arms tightened around you. Comfily.

“Wade!” you gushed, squeezing him hard. You stepped back and looked him over, as if in shock, “It’s been…”

“Forever,” Too-comfy-cozy Wade finished for you.

Joel frowned.

“And here I thought you were gone away for good!” you laughed, “Went off to get that fancy Stanford degree—”

“—and you, in Boston—” the boy chimed in.

Before the reminiscing could go on much further, you remembered yourself and turned back to Joel. Still beaming as bright as you’d been when you first saw the kid, you gestured indistinctly, tongue-tied for a second.

“This— Joel, this is Wade Pritchett, one of my friends from high school,” you introduced him. Letting the two men—or, rather, mustached boy and muscled man—shake hands. Evidently, you were too stoked to notice.

“He moved out to Sacramento our senior year, and none of us thought— well, we— we figured we’d probably never see him again. Fuckin’ west coast hot shot he is.”

You smirked as you nudged his ribs, and something in Joel turned to month-old milk: sour, rancid, and heavy. His stomach turned inside him, and he hardly knew why. All he noticed was that he didn’t like the eyes you were making at him, and he hated the face Wade had for you.

Joel was just looking out for you, really.

You could do so much better than this douche.

“This is my friend,” you said to Wade, motioning back. Then, reconsidering just a second, “My dad’s friend.”

Joel didn’t like that.

Wade gave him a brief once-over and hardly seemed to see him at all. In that millisecond of a look, Joel saw it:

‘Old family friend. No worries there.’

Foolishly, Joel wished the chump could’ve seen what you’d been doing the night before—impaled on his cock and riding him as hard as your knees would allow you:

‘Daddy, please, daddy, daddy, daddy.’

“Joel?” Your voice cut in his mind like a knife.

Joel blinked.

“Yeah?”

“Okay if Wade joins?”

“Oh, yeah. Yeah.”

Not that it mattered now. Royal pain-in-the-ass Pritchett was already getting the machine next to yours set up.

Joel eyed him once more and tried to swallow his pride.

Somewhere along the way, it got stuck in his throat.

Three rounds was all he could take.

You on Wade, Wade on you—goading each other on in the most sly, flirtatious ways. Or maybe it was just Joel imagining that. Regardless, the man didn’t feel guilty at all when, at the conclusion of the third game, he’d tried to feign a casual tone and told you your dad would be expecting you back any minute, better wrap things up.

“He texted me like twenty minutes ago saying he’d be neck-deep in craft beer for an hour. I think we’re good,” you replied, and the indifference in yours didn’t have to be faked. You grinned at Wade, and Wade grinned back.

“Well, he texted me a second ago that he was holding a spot for us in line at the ferris wheel, so let’s roll, kid.”

That was a lie.

Joel didn’t like himself for doing it. But, again, he didn’t like Wade Pritchett even more, and he reasoned that he was doing you a favor, anyway. He searched for the exit.

“It’s alright, my mom’s probably looking for me, too.”

We get it, Pritchett. You’re a mama’s boy.

“Ah, okay.” You almost sounded sad.

Don’t be, baby. You’re daddy’s girl, remember?

Wade pulled you in for a hug; Joel wanted to deck him.

“I’ll be in town all week if you wanna—”

“I wish. My flight leaves tomorrow,” you cut in. Now your tone was really despondent. Your mouth was pouting.

It was just Joel’s eyes. He was seeing things. He was thinking you cared for this guy more than you probably ever did, and he was getting himself worked up over nothing. He clenched one hand into a fist by his side and waited for the anger to subside. Sadly, it was slow to go.

“Maybe we could…go out for drinks later or something?”

That suggestion didn’t make things any easier on Joel.

“I’d love to.”

Your reply didn’t exactly set his mind at ease, either.

At last, he decided he’d had enough. Turning on his heels, he bid a terse goodbye to shithead Pritchett and walked out of the arcade. He didn’t stop until he’d hit one of the bar carts your dad had been raving about outside.

He contemplated buying a drink. Maybe two. In fact, he’d just been eyeing three cans of Coors Light and was fishing for his wallet when he heard your voice again.

“Joel?”

“Yeah?” His tone was clipped.

If you felt it, you didn’t show it.

“Are we riding the ferris wheel or not?”

He probably should’ve given a verbal answer in the affirmative. Instead, he’d just nodded his head and started off the other way, expecting you to follow.

The walk was short. You’d had to weave through a sea of fairgoers, including schoolkids, college-aged drunks, and more than a fair share of loved-up couples, but that wasn’t too bad. Joel just ignored each one and didn’t stop until you’d reached the line for the ferris wheel.

Or what was left of the line, anyway.

Unlike what Joel had told you, there was no wraparound queue for you to join. Your father wasn’t there. Once you’d passed a look over the dozen-odd people waiting patiently for it to be their turn on the ride, you felt your stomach turn. Joel had never texted your dad at all.

“He’s not coming, is he?” Dispensing with the obvious.

Joel still wouldn’t look your way. He’d just sidled up behind the last people in line—a group of older folks who all seemed eager to get on the ferris wheel. You scoffed when you saw Joel’s expression harden, and you planned to turn away. Then the people up front started to move. For a moment, you were torn between telling him off and leaving him there. At length, you settled on saying, low:

“You lied.”

Joel followed the moving line, and a few more people started to trickle in behind you. Before you could even think to speak again, you were nudged ahead by the force of that crowd, and had only to keep glaring.

“Hey—” you hissed, only five steps away from the platform now. The ride attendant was scanning the line, appearing to count the people approaching the gate, and when his eyes landed on you, you made out a little grin.

“Aww, your daughter scared’a heights or somethin’?”

He’d said it to Joel, sounding cheeky. His teeth gleamed in the light of a hundred different neon bulbs, and you had to avert your face to keep from revealing its disgust.

So everyone else still thinks he’s my dad. That’s nice.

You couldn’t see Joel’s expression, but you imagined it looked the same. You shuffled ahead, reluctantly, and heard a lady behind you laugh; the sound had a tipsy lilt.

“My kid’s the same way—you’ll be fine, hon,” she slurred.

Heights aren’t the issue here, you’d wanted to snap back, for no other reason than your own disdain for Joel and the present situation. He walked in front of you, still refusing to meet your gaze, and soon you were perched on the platform, sandwiched between two semi-rowdy throngs of fairgoers with no clear means of escape. You crossed your arms and stared up at the back of his head. The look you gave him probably could’ve burned holes in his skull if irritation had been the means of achieving it.

You were seated on the ride in minutes. The compartment was surprisingly large, and its walls high, with glass on every side. Under a waning afternoon sun, the views you expected to see were bound to be pretty. All that was left to detract from its splendor was Joel— hunkered down opposite you and manspreading. Wide.

Sitting in total silence with his denim-covered legs split in a ‘V’. Watching you and rubbing one thigh, absently.

“You’ve got some nerv—” you started in.

“Yeah, no. No. That kid was gettin’ on my nerves—”

It amazed you how fast Joel was to return your words with a hostile quip of his own, anger flashing in his eyes.

“What’d he even do?! He’s my friend— my best friend—”

Fury flitted to something like discomfort, momentarily.

“Oh yeah? Just friends?”

“What the fuck does it matter to you?”

In your own expression, rage flared unchecked. You didn’t particularly care what Joel thought now if he was immature enough to act like this, and the walls of the compartment were thick enough to prevent anyone else’s hearing a word of it. The ride continued to rumble along, letting on new passengers with each new stop.

Joel might’ve paused. Could’ve stared out the window for all you knew—everything but the wheel itself seemed to be moving at lightning speed, and time was sliding.

“Because I— I— I give a shit, kid. I care.”

“And that makes lying to me alright?”

“I was just worried for your—”

“Bullshit. What would you need to be so worried about? Me playing Skee-Ball with an old friend and maybe getting drinks? You can fuck right off with that.”

Joel opened his mouth to speak, but he shut it when the ride suddenly jolted to a stop. It sputtered. Then, after a long, tense moment, it slowly ascended again. You took this lull in speech as your own chance to re-intervene:

“That’s not ‘care.’ Or ‘worry,’” you continued, words dripping with condescension, “That’s controlling.”

“Controlling?”

“Don’t play dumb.”

Joel Miller always did.

“It’s not—”

“It is—”

“Protecting you from assholes like him—”

“—he’s not—and I never asked you to do that!”

“So I just sit by and watch him touch what’s mine—”

“I’m not yours, Joel!”

Your last words echoed through the car like a shotgun’s report. You’d said it with such force—so emphatic for him not to be mistaken in what this was, or whose you were—when you hardly even knew how you felt yourself. It was a knee-jerk reaction, and one that Joel knew only too well. The last time you two fucked, he’d begged the same: ‘Say you’re mine,’ and no matter how close you’d been to release at the time, you simply couldn’t say it. Now, clear-headed and mostly clothed, you still despised those words. Emotions. Uniquely juxtaposed with Joel’s jealousy over Wade, you’d never wanted to say it louder:

“I’m not yours, and I never will be. So just stop.”

More cruel.

“Are we clear?”

The car came to a halt near the top. When Joel still hadn’t deigned to answer, you leaned in closer.

“I said, are we fucking clear, Miller?”

Then you didn’t have to wait.

“I hear you.”

Of course he heard. His face was hard. His eyes were like two brown stones in the sockets, and the line of his mouth was tight. Whatever use you might’ve had in trying to decipher that look was ignored for the time being; you were still too angry. And, perhaps owing to this state—with a white-hot look fixed on him and your head full of blinding, bitter thoughts—you were more than susceptible to surprise. You jumped when you felt it.

Felt him with a hand moving from his leg to yours.

It went quick but was almost too ridiculous to fathom—how swift Joel was in reaching for you, hoisting you into his lap, letting your limbs straddle his hips with all the ease of old, welcome habits. It might’ve worked just as well, were it not for the tension in your legs. The short, sharp, ‘Joel’ and a look flitting out to either side of you.

“What?” he grunted.

You heard a fly unzip.

“We’re on a—”

Before you could finish, and as if to furnish the answer for you, the ride shuddered back to life. Its descent was slow, but any movement now made your stomach churn. It didn’t matter that most of the cabin was encased in metal, the rest semi-tinted plexiglass, or that your space was almost entirely shielded from the view of other cars—it was too much of a risk, as was everything with him.

Joel remained blind to it all. Your cabin came to a stop, still high in the sky, and then you felt him grip something between you. In one swift motion, he had the head of his cock rubbing your seam. You sighed; his eyes were cold.

“C’mon then…show me what ain’t mine,” he murmured.

His voice was low. You hated those words. This was more than just that. Your cunt slid and accepted him anyway.

For a second, your gaze was level with his. Your hips hadn’t stirred, and he was crawling inch-by-inch inside you, pulling you down. The act could’ve been intimate, had the words that passed before not been so harsh—and the place not been a fucking amusement park.

When the ride resumed its slow, rumbling circuit, he didn’t make your bodies part, but instead flipped you around. Your back was flush with his front, and by all appearances, you were innocently perched on his lap.

What the tens, or dozens, or hundreds of strangers ambling around down below couldn’t see was that a cock was nestled inside you, too. That with every gentle bump of the wheel, a man several decades your senior was filling you to the hilt, sending waves of pleasure through your body and his while he stuffed you tight. What your dad didn’t know was that this was his friend. That the nose nudging the skin between your sleeve and your neck belonged to Joel, and his breaths were short.

Trying to calm the flutter of his pulse and the pull of his lungs, he flattened his hands on either one of your thighs. He rubbed his palms back and forth, and you glanced down to find the insides of your legs extra shiny.

Slick, pretty, and full of him. He tilted your chin back up.

“Nice and quiet for daddy—nice and still. No squirmin’.”

He nudged your hips forward, and his cock brushed a wet, spongy ridge inside you. You had to purse your lips to swallow a noise. You felt your cunt drool even more.

The car swung low, in the line of sight of far too many eyes, and then it stopped again. You weren’t at liberty to move at all, and still, the feel of Joel inside you was raw.

Grating, almost.

It made the prospect of conversation seem the tiniest bit easier, though—forced to face away from each other and act civil now. Right before the ride started up again, you gripped the armrest and anchored your feet to his boots.

“Feels…good,” you whimpered.

“That so?” Joel murmured back.

“So—oh.”

Your words fell apart at the next brush of his hand, sliding down to your heat and taking his index and middle fingers to the precious, pulsing bud in between.

Soon the car was up at a comfortable height. You sighed.

Your legs pressed together over Joel’s, and you felt him rub the tips of his fingers even harder, circles tighter.

“I know,” he said, sensing your words before they came, “I know it feels nice, baby. Keep that chin up for daddy.”

Don’t let them know I’m inside you. Stay quiet.

But his girth was so much. The tug of his smooth, throbbing manhood between your walls was almost more than you could take. You laced the fingers of your free hand with his over your thigh, and you held them tight as your hips wriggled back. You couldn’t help it, feeling a welt of pleasure start to blossom in your belly.

“Joel—” you started.

“Don’t talk,” Joel grumbled, stern, “It’ll draw attention.”

You sensed there was more to it than that. Your fingers threaded even deeper through his, and he squeezed them back. Between your bodies, there rose a soft, gentle tap, tap, tap with the thrusts Joel was able to deliver now that you were back up high and out of sight. If there was any time to speak, this was your window.

Joel probably wished you hadn’t, but you tried, anyway.

“You know it’s been years since—”

“Since?”

Now you didn’t want to say it. But you knew you had to.

“Wade’s been my friend since—”

Another influx of something soft and tender inside you. Joel holding your hand, pushing himself deeper, and trying not to groan when you clenched around him. Hating that he had to hear that name, most likely.

You despised the words even more before you said them:

“—since my mom left.”

It was an awful time to be bringing this up, admittedly. Both of you on the brink of release with Joel’s cock buried as far inside you as it would go, his fingers entwined with yours, and the ride drifting lower.

And lower, lower, lower still. Joel’s breaths picked up.

The car shuddered to a halt almost halfway down. You didn’t have to see his face to picture it a little more rigid than it’d been before. He’d known your dad long enough to remember the time his wife had walked out on him.

“Ever since we were kids—” You continued, as if you needed to remind him of any of the particulars. Joel hardly knew you back then, though, “—he was my friend. Wade’s been one of my— my closest— he was there—”

You couldn’t be sure if it was the subject of discussion or simply how close you were to cumming that kept your tongue from forming a coherent string of words, but here you were. Joel’s grip on your hand had loosened, and the movements of his hips had slowed considerably. You hoped he’d be too lost in his own pleasure to care.

“I remember,” he returned quietly.

That was all he said for a moment. Out of habit, your legs parted more for his touch, and you whimpered, feebly, as the fingers kept circling your clit. The ride started again.

“You don’t have to—” And again, his voice was low.

“I’m not saying that as an— as an excuse or anything.”

You didn’t know why you were saying it at all. You just wanted Joel to know he didn’t need to be jealous. That Wade had been a friend through a dark and bleak season of your life, and that was all it had ever, or would ever, be.

While the car was still suspended in air, and the sights below all relatively small, you got the sense you’d have to deal with this budding bliss inside you a bit quicker than anticipated. Joel was all wordless encouragement. You almost wished you could’ve seen his face as he urged you to come undone, keep making yourself feel good, that’s it, cum for me, but frankly, it was probably for the best you couldn’t look him in the eye right now. Beyond just needing release, you wanted him to see you in a more vulnerable light than you’d ever been—facing away seemed the least painful position to have that happen.

With your fingers and his still interlaced and your hips moving a little more quickly, Joel could feel your pleasure soaking his jeans, and he pulled you down closer to him.

He nudged the back of your neck with his nose. He panted against it gently, tenderly. Then he kissed it.

“Don’t need’a say anything else, darlin’. I’m sorry.”

I’m sorry.

Under any other circumstances, an apology from a man would have been the last thing to send you over the edge, but today, you couldn’t help it. Just as the car started up again, you hit your peak with Joel still stuffed inside you, and you gripped his hand as hard as you could. You fought to keep the moans contained behind your lips, but it was hard—and Joel’s constant, tender caresses with his lips and fingers made it that much worse. He trailed kisses down your neck and shoulder and told you gently, ‘That’s it, good girl, that’s my girl.’

My girl.

Again.

You almost didn’t mind it being said this time around.

Almost.

In truth, you didn’t have half a mind to think much of anything in that moment. You just curled your toes and pressed your back into Joel while the warm, euphoric waves coursed through you, and you let yourself be content with what he’d said. Whatever he meant by it.

In the minute that followed, you sensed he was perilously close to finishing, too. So, as soon as you’d made it down from your high—and the ride, too, was circling back and making its way through the final cycles—you crawled off of Joel. You got on your knees. For the first time in what seemed like hours, you locked eyes with him; your mouth moved lower still. You’d barely latched your lips onto the head of his cock before he was shooting off rope after rope after rope of his cum. Warmth splattered down your tongue and throat, and you swallowed it all obediently.

You didn’t need to be told when the ride was over. You heard a buzz, felt it jolt, and, unfortunately for you and Joel, your car was one of the first to be let off. You had to hurry off your knees and back into your seat, across from your panting, silver-haired friend, just seconds before the door to your left swung open. You began to stand.

Joel followed you out. His spend was still stuck to your throat in some places, the scent of his skin and his stubble and his extra heavy load all fresh to your senses. You wiped one corner of your mouth and kept walking.

And it was in this state you remained another second or two. You were just about to take your first steps off the platform, mind floating over somewhere tranquil and warm, when your thoughts were presently interrupted.

Your steps, too, were cut short. Joel had stopped you.

Then he grabbed your face, and he kissed you.

Your world froze a moment. You didn’t have time to think, or react, or even kiss him back, so you just stood there and let him hold you to him. It was over in a blink.

And one glance over Joel’s shoulder after he did it, to the ride attendant and nearly every last person in line, said they were just as stunned. Some sick, by the looks of it.

‘He’s NOT my dad!’ you wanted to yell, out of habit.

Seeing the eyes Joel had fixed on you—the smile that followed—their suspicions didn’t matter to him at all.

You walked off together, still considering those words:

My girl.

A month wouldn’t be so bad. Two was tolerable, even.

The next few hours spent with Joel made it seem like you could go a year or longer without seeing his face, and nothing between you would change too much.

He was a friend. A good friend. Not just your dad’s old companion, but your own. Whatever else was left beyond that could be explored down the road, but for now, you were content to just let him hold your hand in places you weren’t likely to be seen, and kiss you in those he hoped your dad wouldn’t be. Maybe fuck you on a ferris wheel.

At the thought of going back to college tomorrow, not seeing him again until Thanksgiving or Christmas at the earliest, you didn’t feel too sad. You did get an extra burst of yearning when Joel’s hands would find your hips and push you off to some shaded, semi-discreet area and he’d tell you, softly, ‘I don’t know what I’m gonna do without ya, kid’ before kissing you with a hunger all over again. That made you think you might miss him a little.

You’d warned him not to lie to you again. He promised he wouldn’t. You believed him, at least as far as your general mistrust of men would allow, and you had left it at that.

Now the tips of his fingers were brushing your own, and his mouth was grinning—coated in all sorts of sauces from the barbecue you two had been devouring. It was approaching six o’clock. He held the last Carolina-style pulled pork slider up to you, and you shook your head.

“I’m stuffed,” you said, pained.

Really, you were. You and Joel had decided to join in on the fair’s 25th annual BBQ and Chili Cook-off an hour ago, and now your stomachs were suffering immensely.

You made a face in disgust when he tried to push it closer, ‘Joel, I’ll projectile vomit if you don’t— don’t—’

You squealed when he leaned in, thinking he was planning to smush the patty in your face—you’d done that to him with some coleslaw not too long ago—but instead, he dropped the burger. He pressed what non-sticky parts of his hands he could get on your face and, cupping your cheeks between his palms, he kissed you.

Then he kissed you again, and again, and again.

This time, it felt more like an attack. Not an attempt at being affectionate, which he’d shown himself amply capable of all day, but really just a way to smear your lips and chin with sauce and get you extra pissed off at him.

It worked. You bit his lower lip at the last kiss.

And, instead of wincing in pain or biting you back, Joel surprised you by groaning a little bit against your mouth. His grip loosened from your face, and he leaned back.

‘Behave’ was all he said. Smirking.

If any one of Joel Miller’s quasi-fatherly lectures had ever met with success before, this would not be one of them. You only rolled your eyes and were about to reply with some variant of ‘Make me’ when your phone buzzed in your pocket. You pulled it out to see the new notification.

Nothing more than a reminder to check in for your flight. But that sight also roused some awareness in you that it was just then starting to get late, and you hadn’t heard a word from your father in hours. You and Joel had been extraordinarily fortunate that day in hearing that your dad happened to run into some friends at the livestock show, and had been occupied—plastered, most likely—ever since. You hadn’t thought to question it before, just happy to have your dad out of your hair for the afternoon, but now that it was late and all the shows were long since over, you had to wonder if it wasn’t time to shoot him that text. Bring your last happy, fun-filled night with Joel for the next two months to an end, and head home.

You started to send him a message. Joel peered over your shoulder, absently wiping his hands on a napkin.

“He said he was headed over to a concert last time we talked. Some band he likes,” he hummed, “Wanna go?”

You weren’t too keen on seeing the likes of any Creed-adjacent artist your dad so loved to listen to himself, but if it gave you an excuse to stretch your time with him and Joel, you didn’t mind. You nodded, then deposited your phone back into your pocket. You were just about to stand when Joel held you back. He’d snagged your hand.

“Hang on, ya got a little—” he said, soft. Then he lifted his napkin and started wiping at the sides of your mouth. His motions had all the crude, brute force of a man who’d never wiped a person’s face before—he seemed more concerned getting the vinegar-based glaze off your cheeks than impressing you with how tender he could be—but the gesture was received well enough. For once, you resisted the urge to roll your eyes and just smiled.

“You’re taking me to the airport tomorrow, right?”

“Long as it’s alright with your dad.”

“You could spend the night, too.”

Joel paused. He flitted a look from your lips to your eyes, then, finding a sly playfulness in both, only hummed. Stopped wiping long enough to kiss you on the cheek.

“We’ll see—”

“I’ll be real good—”

“Oh, I bet you won’t.”

But by the end of it, Joel was grinning too. He didn’t protest when your lips returned the favor from his, and they left an equally sweet and clean kiss on his cheek.

He didn’t bat an eye when your hand slid up his leg either. He just squeezed yours back and helped you up.

“Gonna get me murdered, I’m tellin’ you,” he murmured in your ear as you stood, just like he’d said to you earlier.

You figured if he’d had his pick of ways to risk his life, sneaking into your room tonight wouldn’t be the worst possible option. You threw your trash away and started off for the entertainment pavilion, following the music.

It was almost like you could feel Joel contemplating whether to sling his arm over your shoulder while you walked. Not once, but twice did his fingers twitch beside him, and he looked around you both from side to side. He decided against it, at length, and contented himself instead to just nudge your elbow and tell you that he liked that dress a lot—he hoped you would wear it again.

Come up for a football game, and you might see it then, you’d urged him back. The red of your dress wasn’t quite the perfect match for your school’s hundred-year-old crimson and black color scheme, but that was alright. You’d bend the rules for him. The two of you were just approaching the outskirts of a big, noisy crowd when Joel was about to respond. Your eyes glazed over a sea of people, surprised by its size, when you cut back in:

“We’re never gonna find him in here.”

Joel assessed the crowd. Checked his phone. Heard the wail of a guitar from somewhere up at the front and instantly surmised this was a Lynyrd Skynyrd cover band—and that your dad wouldn’t leave until he’d heard every song. Silently, he kicked himself for suggesting coming to look at all. He could’ve taken you on a few more rides, filled your overstuffed belly with a little more cotton candy, popcorn, or ice cream, if you’d been up for it, but instead, you were obliged to find your old man. It wouldn’t have been awful if it wasn’t so hot and—

“Hey,” Joel broke in, before he could think.

His eyes had landed on a person—a pair—in the crowd that you hadn’t seen, and his heart clenched in his chest.

You’d barely tilted your head to him, “Yeah?”

“We should go,” he told you. He hadn’t meant for his voice to come out so rushed, or strained, but it was.

He couldn’t help it, especially when your gaze had shifted fully to him. Your eyes searched his, curious.

“Why?”

“‘Cause I…” Joel trailed off, looking around. Scrambling to procure an excuse of some kind, “I gotta…go piss.”

“Then piss. I’ll wait here,” you replied.

You didn’t get it. Really, there was no way you could. You hadn’t yet seen the short-sleeve, turquoise-colored PFG shirt at the back of the crowd, the beaming face Joel spotted above it. You hadn’t caught so much as a glimpse of the man’s profile, much less the full, wide smile on his face, the beer in his hand, or the woman by his side. She was either laughing, or singing, or nudging his hip. They looked happy. And yet, you shouldn’t see it.

Joel would kiss you—that was it. It would be the riskiest thing he’d done, but at least it’d save you from seeing.

So he tried. Joel leaned in and ventured to press his lips to yours, gripping your face, but the second he did, you pushed him away. Your eyes were wide. Cheeks heating.

“What the hell, Joel?” you hissed, “Dad could be—”

Your gaze darted to the side, and then you stopped.

The eyes grew wider. Your lips stayed the course, as if to keep going, but no sound came out, and all that was left of your mouth was a round, stunned ‘o.’ You blinked, like you couldn’t believe it: the two people were kissing now.

Joel reached for your arm, but you were far too fast. You shot off to get away, toward them, and didn’t stop until you’d made it to the edge of the crowd where they stood. The music was loud, the audience was rowdy, but still, even at a distance, Joel could hear you as clear as day:

“Dad?!”

The man and the woman split as quickly as they could.

You were standing there, watching them watch you in utter shock for a second or two. Joel wasn’t counting, but he did find himself next to you before he could blink. He was reaching for your arm again, then stopping. Looking to his friend, whose gaze was plastered on his daughter with all the markings of awe. Embarrassment.

“Honey—” he started.

“What the fuck is this?”

Bad question. Terrible timing. Joel knew what it was—clearly his friend knew it too, but you weren’t supposed to find this out yourself for at least another month or two. That was what he’d told Joel back then, anyway.

“Sweetheart, this is my—this is Helen.”

You looked like you wanted to be sick.

“I know who she is!” you spat. You waved an angry, inarticulate hand in Helen’s direction. Helen looked away.

“Why don’t we go someplace quieter?” That was Joel, cutting in over the thumping bass and the strain in the air like he might’ve been a father to you himself. Wanting to shield you from what was coming next if he could help it.

Once more he reached for you, and still inflamed, you shoved him off. Your eyes were too hurt to turn away.

“What? This is y—your—” you started back, stammering.

“We were going to tell you, honey, I swear.”

In all the years he’d known him, Joel had never seen his friend look so contrite—or fucking moronic. The man had ditched his beer, was wringing his hands trying to pace a little more carefully your way while he spoke, but you weren’t having it. Or anything, really. When Joel brushed his touch against your elbow the slightest bit, about to murmur words low in your ear, like, ‘We’ll talk. C’mon,’ you’d jerked your arm away from him entirely.

He didn’t need to see your face to hear the pain in:

“Fucking stop, Joel!”

That caught your father off-guard. He didn’t hesitate before he cut back in, looking more pointedly at you.

“Hey. You don’t talk to your Uncle Joel that way,” he said, sharp. Joel winced. He went on, “I’m the one who told him not to say anything, okay? Now just calm down—”

And whatever effect his friend had intended to produce created just the opposite in you. Instead of focusing on your dad, your eyes shot to Joel, and in an instant, your body was turning. Your face was half-hatred as you did.

“You knew?!”

“Honey, I told him—” your dad tried saying.

But your look was too enraged. Your jaw was too tight. Your mouth could barely form the words you wanted to say, and your eyes were like two bloodied daggers. Joel was amazed you could speak a syllable at all, but when he heard it, he got a sense for why that was. He had to.

“You knew?”

You were hurt.

When you left, he followed. He wasn’t sure what he’d bothered saying to your father as he did, but it sounded like an excuse—‘It’s fine. I’ve got her.’ He didn’t, though. You were gone quicker than he could turn around, and by the time he’d made it far enough away from the crowd to yell your name, you were too removed to hear it. He saw the top of your head through a whole new cluster of strangers, and he yelled it again. You kept walking.

Joel was fast, but you were adept, all things considered. You slipped through the crowd with ease and gained more and more distance than he could attain in twice the time. Joel bit the inside of his cheek and kept going. He didn’t reach you until you were approaching the front gates, when he called out for you again, out of breath.

You probably wouldn’t have turned if you’d had a choice. But as it was, you were up against a bottleneck effect of more people trying to leave than the exit could fairly handle at once, and everyone at the back was at a standstill. Your jaw tightened when he said your name.

“Darlin’— hey— baby, just let me—” Joel had weaved his way around your neighbors, but the area was cramped.

You didn’t move. Your gaze was trained elsewhere.

“—explain. Let me explain, and I promise, I didn’t—”

The line shifted forward, and you moved with it. Your body was turned; while you kept walking, shuffling, Joel earned a few uneasy looks from the people around him.

“I didn’t mean—” he forged on.

But as soon as he reached for you, he knew he’d overstepped. Confirming every onlooker’s suspicion that you didn’t want to be disturbed, you snatched your arm away, and your eyes flared with anger. You faced him.

“Fuck you.”

Before he could reply:

“Leave me the hell alone, Joel.”

And, while the words were still fresh on your tongue and no one else tried stepping in themselves, you walked off.

You left him again—for what other place, Joel wasn’t sure. You just made off the other way, breezing past carts and stands and now-shuttered booths and more faces than either one of you could count. You kept walking until you found an open space a tolerable distance away from all the noise, then went further.

Your face was fixed in a hard, immutable stare when Joel approached you again. The look behind your eyes was worse; he could tell in a second you were about to cry.

“Darlin’—”

“You knew this whole time,” you said. Seething.

“I didn’t—”

“My dad’s been dating the woman he cheated on my mom with and you didn’t think to fucking tell me?!”

“I thought—”

“Not ONCE?! Huh?” you screamed it this time, “Known you my whole goddamn life and you hide that from me?”

Joel winced. He knew the tears were coming before they even filled your eyes, but the sight still made him hurt. You wouldn’t let him near you, either. You just shook your head and swallowed a lump and blinked hard, and he felt stupid. Whatever favor he’d thought he was doing your father—and you—seemed infinitely small to him now.

That knot you’d tried pushing down in your throat kept you silent for a minute. Joel opened his mouth to insert a word or two himself, but then you looked keen to keep hold of the conversation, no matter how much it hurt, and you were starting again. Blinking harder. Hating it.

“She’s the reason mama left,” you said, hoarse, “Helen was her best friend, and then she went and— and— and— fucked my dad, and because of that, I didn’t have a family for half my fucking adolescence. You knew that.”

Another beat. Joel’s own throat constricted considerably as he considered his next words, but there was no need.

“You saw how much I hated my father, and her, and myself for years, thinking there was something just…wrong with me not being enough to make her stay. And you knew all that, and you still kept it a secret from m—”

“I know, baby. I shouldn’t have kept it from you, I know.”

He’d also known your dad was in the wrong. That hadn’t stopped Joel from trying to rationalize his friend’s actions while they happened: it was a one-time hookup with Helen, then a casual, no-strings deal that the man only indulged when he was feeling extra lonely, then a thing, a relationship of two, three, six months now. Joel had known all along what kind of profound ramifications these decisions would have if you were to ever find out. But his friend wasn’t so easily swayed from old habits, and Joel couldn’t stomach having to break it to you.

Then the roadtrip from Boston happened.

You seemed to be remembering the same.

“Was fucking me a way to make yourself feel better?”

Your words had never struck Joel with more deliberateness or force. He croaked ‘No’ in a moment. You took a step back, and there came the look again—more spiteful than before and repulsed to its core.

“Is that why you offered me a ride back in the first place? Just felt guilty for all the stuff you knew my dad was—”

“No. No, no, honey, I would never, ever—”

“Then why hide it?! Why all this? Why bother?”

You gestured between his body and yours; you didn’t seem to know what you meant. Your cheeks were wet with tears. You had to scrape your palms down your face, sniffling and struggling to clear your own vision, but the efforts appeared to be in vain. You couldn’t stop crying.

“For you,” Joel said, and he hated the way his own voice was splintered. He didn’t know how to make it better, “You were off at school when it started, then— then Boston. Just thought it’d be safer…for you…for us—”

Somewhere in his brain, he’d meant to say that he didn’t want the news of your father to hurt you, or else jeopardize a shred of something Joel had had with you.

It was stupid. Your instantaneous reaction said as much.

“Us?!”

Joel blinked. The eyes across from his were alight.

“Us, Joel?! Are you fucking kidding me? There is no us.”

Their brilliance wasn’t appreciative by any means. If anything, the words made the flow of your tears even worse. You pressed your hands to your face, rubbing your cheeks and trying to shield your eyes, and saying again, ‘There is no ‘us,’ Joel, that’s not an excuse—you knew!’

With his insides in knots, Joel wanted to hold you again. You were still in pain, and your scowl wouldn’t move, and when he tried to touch you, you stepped back in disgust.

He knew better than to think he could reach you now.

“Whole thing was a mistake,” you spat, unfeeling.

“Baby—”

“You and me. Dad and Helen.”

“You don’t mean—”

“Anything you need to keep a secret probably isn’t worth keeping at all, right?” And when you said it, he could tell you’d meant it to hurt him. As if the tears and the time and the sheer resignation in your eyes didn’t say enough.

Now Joel felt an ache in his bones, worse than it’d ever been, and he still couldn’t touch you. Where the heart demanded comfort of a kind you couldn’t give, the head knew better than to ask, and his hands fell limply at his sides. He saw you cry and had only himself to blame.

You turned back to the fairgrounds’ exit. The crowd was as big as it had ever been, but anywhere away from him seemed to be as welcome as anything else, Joel guessed

He’d try something stupid. Again. Even more desperate.

Never in his life had he said the words to someone else, and he sensed it wouldn’t do a thing to change your mind right now, but he’d say it anyway. If not to extricate himself, to let you know what he felt beyond every thing that had taken place tonight. He reached for you again.

“Darlin’, I lov—”

But before the words could register with you, the simple act of pressing his fingers to yours made you blanch. You hadn’t heard him at all, and seemed only concerned with jerking yours away as fast as you could, then shrieking:

“I HATE YOU, JOEL!”

Then you choked back a sob, trained your glossy gaze on him in one last pitiless look, and left him. He didn’t move. He didn’t try to. Sights and sounds and the ground underneath him seemed apt to swallow him whole, and still, he couldn’t move an inch. Somewhere ahead of him—too serendipitous, really—he heard you call a name.

Of course, it wasn’t his. You weren’t running to him.

It wasn’t Joel in the crowd making its way out the gates. It wasn’t him standing a little ways off to the side, eyes wide and confused as he watched you rush over. Almost stumble over yourself falling into his arms and hugging him, burying your face in his chest. Joel watched it all with a raw and hollow heart and wished it were him.

But it was Wade.

Wade hugged you back and held you close, and the look on his face was too bewildered and distraught for Joel to blame him. He hadn’t been the one to hurt you. Joel had.

He watched you leave.

There was nothing more to say.

#HAHAHAHAHAHAHAi’mgonnashitmyselfHAHAHA #dbf!joel you will always have a special place in my heart #and my *****#joel miller smut #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller imagine #joel miller one shot #joel miller tlou #the last of us fic #dbf!joel #dbf!joel miller #joel miller fic #joel tlou

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heich0e · 7 months ago

Text

ever since you were young, you've fallen victim to at least one terrible cold per year.

it's not your fault—your almost laughably fallible immune system is seemingly genetic, as your family was always the same growing up—but even that biological truth does little to make you feel better when you're in the thick of cough and cold season, waiting for illness to inevitably strike. one faint, meagre consolation from your predictably lacklustre immune response means that you at the very least have a fairly well-practiced routine for when you fall ill. you know the brands of medication that work best, the fever patches with the most reliable adhesion, which teas seem to help decongest you better than others. you've got soup recipes, and hot water bottles, and fuzzy socks tucked away at the ready for when you need them, because you know that you eventually will.

but this season, there's a wild card in the mix. a variable you haven't had the opportunity to plan for in years past.

shouto.

you met shouto last summer at a going away party to which you were a plus one of someone who didn't even know the person who was going away particularly well. you'd been beyond shocked when you turned up to the gathering only to see half the top pro-hero ranking list gathered before your very eyes. even more shocked when the most handsome one in the room—in the world?—bothered to speak to you.

your relationship with shouto built slowly. you were casually dating last cold season, so he hadn't had to witness you at your lowest, but this year you're living together—having moved in rather suddenly just shy of your one year anniversary since your lease was ending and shouto's apartment was more than suitable for two.

so now here you are, languishing in the bed you share with your still unfairly handsome pro-hero boyfriend, drifting in and out of consciousness in a decongestant fuelled haze, with a (now tepid) fever patch stuck to your forehead.

and there is a god awful racket coming from outside your bedroom door.

peeling yourself up from the loving embrace of your mattress is a nearly herculean task, but once you're upright it's not so hard to stuff your feet into your slippers and stumble your way to the the door. your head feels heavy and your cough is still in the nasty hacking stage, but you suspect your fever's dropping, which means the worst of your illness is likely over. any relief you may feel is decidedly shortlived as you turn the corner to the kitchen and freeze in place.

"shouto—" your voice is so raspy it sounds foreign to you "—what are you doing?"

in the kitchen, standing in the eye of what can only be described as a culinary hurricane, is your apron-clad boyfriend. he has one of your barrettes clipping his two-toned bangs up off his forehead, and a smudge of something (presumably edible) across his cheek. his eyes are wide as he turns to face you in the centre of this disaster, a carrot in one hand and a potato masher in the other.

"i," shouto pauses, and though you know it's not for dramatic effect it sure sounds like it is, "am cooking."

you start coughing, and rush to cover your mouth—turning away and bending a little at the waist from the force of it. you see shouto step towards you in your peripheral vision, but with the hand not covering your mouth you wave him away—you should have gotten a mask before you left your bedroom, but in your haste you'd forgotten to grab one.

"you sound terrible," shouto remarks and then follows up his own commentary with another, somewhat reproachful, "that's not very nice."

you look at him curiously, confused as to what he's just said and he points to his ear where he has one wireless earbud in.

"that was bakugou," he explains, and you realize he was only relaying the comment of his friend on the phone. "i'll call you back," he says again, and this time you don't need to wonder who he's speaking to before he plucks his headphone out of his ear and sets it (and the carrot and potato masher) down in the very limited counter space left.

shouto fidgets with his hands now that they're empty, inching a bit closer to you—slowly, like he know's you're going to wave him off again and is trying to avoid it.

"how are you feeling?" he asks.

"a bit better," you say, even though you don't sound it.

"why are you out of bed?" he follows up his first question with another, concern in his gaze.

"i heard... something," your eyes scan the room as you take in the very something you speak of. "why are you cooking?"

"i'm making you soup," shouto says, and then looks around the room at the scene you'd just surveyed. then he looks back at you again with a somewhat grim expression. "i'm trying to make you soup," he corrects himself.

and maybe it's the fever, or the decongestants, or the fact that he's possibly the sweetest man you've ever met in your life (on top of being the most handsome), but suddenly you feel like you might cry. or laugh, maybe. you aren't entirely sure either of them is off the table.

"what kind of soup?" you ask him, and this time your voice is croaky for an entirely unrelated reason.

"chicken soup," he answers, and he's suddenly closer than he'd been at first—having continued creeping closer to you when your guard was lowered. "with ginger. you said you like that."

"i do," you answer, and when shouto reaches out to wrap his arms around you, you have no will left in you to push him away. you tuck your face against his chest and relax against the firm, familiar shape of his body pressing into yours.

shouto peels the old fever patch from your forehead and tosses it aside, replacing it with the delightfully cool palm of his hand. he's been doing this since you fell ill, and was more than a little affronted the first time he came home from work and saw that you'd put a cooling patch on in his absence—as though jealous that it wasn't his touch that you were turning to for relief.

"was bakugou helping you make soup?" you ask, leaning into his hand.

shouto hums, and you feel the sound reverberate through his broad chest. "i don't know if helping is the right word."

"why did you have a potato masher out for chicken soup?" you then ask, remembering the utensil he'd been holding when you first walked into the kitchen.

"potato masher..." shouto says, realization heavy in his tone. he'd clearly had no idea what it was to begin with. "i was looking for a slotted spoon."

you laugh, and then cough a little.

"you should get back to bed," shouto insists.

"just another minute," you sigh, reaching up to hold his wrist and keep his hand in place. shouto freezes, and you feel his eyes on your face, peeking up at him through your lashes.

"what?" you ask him curiously.

in place of an answer, shouto wraps his arm (the one you don't have in your clutches) around your waist and hoists you up, balancing you against his hip like an overgrown toddler.

"sho-shouto! wait!"

he doesn't wait. in fact, he barely acknowledges you've said anything at all as he trots back in the direction of your shared bedroom. before you even manage to get your bearings, shouto's placed you gently back into bed, shucked his apron, and crawled in alongside you under the covers. you hardly have time to miss the cool weight of his hand before it's returned to its rightful place against your brow.

"what about your soup?" you ask him, but even in spite of your own words—and the fact that you've been keeping him at arm's length for days out of concern for his own health—you find yourself curling up against his side in bed, snuggling closer.

"i don't think it was going to taste very good anyway," shouto remarks somberly. he pouts a little. "bakugou said he'd drop some off for you later, because he was worried my soup was going to kill you."

you laugh, and then cough, and then rest your cheek against his chest.

shouto's heartbeat thumps steadily beneath your ear. his hand stays cool against your skin.

you may not have planned for him, but you think you might keep him around.

#shouto x reader #todoroki shouto x reader #bnha drabbles #bnha writing #writing

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noirscript · 2 months ago

Text

call intercept

pairing: yandere!hacker x agent!reader

note: i miss writing something for yandere hotline.

MASTERLIST | SERIES MASTERLIST | COMMISSION | TIP JAR

The office is nearly empty at this hour. Only a handful of agents work the late-night shift, and most of them are stationed in separate rooms. Fewer employees mean fewer distractions, and fewer distractions mean higher pay. It’s the trade-off for working at 2 AM, for willingly isolating yourself in a job where disappearances are just another workplace hazard. But the money is good—too good to pass up. And so, you endure.

“And that’s why you’re the only one for me, darling! You get it, right?”

You force a bright laugh, leaning back in your chair as you twirl a pen between your fingers. “Of course, of course. You’re very… devoted.”

The caller on the other end giggles, their voice laced with exaggerated glee. “Right? Ugh, I wish I could just scoop you up and keep you forever!”

Fake.

Like so many others, their words lack the weight of true obsession. You’ve handled enough calls to tell the difference. The ones who call the Yandere Hotline for fun—playing pretend, enjoying the fantasy—are harmless. It’s the real ones you should fear. But, strangely, you never seem to get those.

“Unfortunately, our time is up,” you say, glancing at the timer on your screen. “Thank you for calling.”

“Aww, already? Well, I’ll call again soon, my love! Mwah!”

The line goes dead. You exhale, rolling your shoulders as the weight of another empty interaction slips off of you. The pay is good, but the work is draining. Playing the role of someone’s darling for hours on end wears at you in ways you don’t want to acknowledge. It’s why you’ve been looking for a way out.

You minimize the call interface and pull up the job listings you were browsing earlier. Nothing great. Mostly low-paying positions that won’t cover your expenses. Still, anything is better than this place. The way management ignores the disappearances. The way you feel eyes on you even when you’re alone. The way—

Your headset beeps. A new call. No caller ID.

Your stomach tightens.

You hesitate for just a second before answering. “Hello, and thank you for calling the Yandere Hotline. Who am I speaking with today?”

Silence.

Then, a soft sigh crackles through the line. “You’re still here.”

The voice sends an odd shiver through you. Familiar. Low, smooth, and intimate in a way that makes your skin prickle. You shift in your chair, eyes flickering toward the CCTV camera in the corner. The red light glows steadily, watching.

“I thought you’d be gone by now,” the caller continues, voice lined with something almost… relieved. “I saw what you were searching for.”

Your breath stills. The job listings. The open tabs on your screen.

He knows.

“I—I don’t know what you mean.”

A soft chuckle, almost sad. “Don’t do that. Don’t lie to me.”

Your fingers tremble over the keyboard. There’s no flagging system, no way to report calls. The company doesn’t care what happens to you, as long as you keep answering. The only way out is to leave, but even that feels impossible now.

“I get it, you know,” the caller—no, Elias—continues. His voice is so gentle, so coaxing, like he’s trying to soothe a frightened animal. “You need money. You need stability. I understand. That’s why I’ve been helping.”

You swallow hard. “Helping?”

“I’ve been keeping you safe,” Elias murmurs. “Blocking the real ones. Letting the fakes through. They can pretend all they want, but they’re harmless. I made sure of that. I made sure you only had to deal with the easy ones.”

Your heart pounds. The rerouted calls. The strange drop-offs. The fact that you never—never—get the ones who are truly dangerous. It all makes sense now.

“How?” you whisper.

“I have access to the system,” Elias admits. “I wasn’t going to interfere at first. I was going to take down this whole disgusting place. But then… I heard you.”

His breathing stutters, as if just remembering that moment is too much. “I found you.”

Your mouth goes dry. He’s been there all along. Watching from the other side of the line. Pulling strings. Keeping you in a controlled bubble, away from those who would actually take you.

And now, you’re trying to leave it.

“I tried to be good,” he says, voice shaking. “I thought I could just listen. Protect you from afar. But you’re slipping away from me.”

A pause. A raw, desperate inhale.

“Please don’t leave.”

His voice is barely above a whisper now, reverent, pleading. “You don’t understand what it’s like for me. Knowing you’re there, but not being able to reach you. Not being able to hold you. I can’t—” He cuts off, his breath coming ragged. “I don’t want to do anything extreme. But if you go… if you disappear from me, I won’t have a choice.”

Your fingers curl into a fist. “You wouldn’t.”

Silence.

Then, so soft you almost miss it—

“Try me.”

A sharp shiver races down your spine. You glance toward the CCTV camera again, half-expecting something—someone—to be standing beneath it. But there’s nothing. Just the blinking red light.

Elias exhales shakily. “Say my name again.”

You hadn’t even realized you said it. But now, the air between you feels heavier, thick with something suffocating.

The line crackles.

“I could make it so no one else gets to hear you.”

The line hisses, the static thickening like something alive, slithering into your ears. The light on the CCTV flickers once. Twice.

Then, for the first time, it turns off.

And the screen of your computer—your only tether to the outside world—goes black.

A new message appears.

LOOK BEHIND YOU.

The office lights flicker—then cut out entirely.

The room plunges into darkness, the only glow coming from your now-useless monitor. Your breath catches, ears straining for any sound beyond the hum of the dead air.

A faint creak.

The hairs on the back of your neck rise.

Shadows shift against the dim glow of your screen. There shouldn't be anyone here. You're the only one working this late—

Then, the dim reflection on your blacked-out monitor shifts.

A shape. A figure standing just behind your chair.

A breath, so close it skims your ear.

And then, a whisper.

"I told you not to leave me."

Taglist: @hopingtoclearmedschool @violetvase @zanzie @neuvilletteswife4ever @fandangoballs @mel-vaz

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prettybugsinbandages · 2 months ago

Text

Blot!reader pt.4

Part 4 to this

This is a darker story. I suggest you refrain from reading it if you're in a fragile mental state or unable to handle darker themes

(No but seriously, pt. 4 is extra graphic.)

The walk to Ignihyde was suffocating in its silence. The air sat stagnant, thick with something unspoken, clinging to your skin like a second layer. Somewhere in your bag, your phone buzzed—a new message from the group chat. Under different circumstances, it might have brought you comfort, a reminder that you weren't alone. But tonight, isolation wrapped around you like a mourning lover, familiar and unwanted.

Your mind wandered, flitting between fragmented thoughts like a radio caught between too many channels. It was exhausting, a constant background noise atop the weight already pressing on your shoulders. The steady rhythm of your footsteps on concrete softened as you entered the Ignihyde dorm, giving way to the cool echo of marble halls. Tonight, even the usual mechanical hum of the dorm's technology felt muted, as if the entire building was holding the breath for some crescendo.

The invitation still gnawed at the back of your mind. You hated to admit that the Blot had a point—something about this felt... off.

Idia's door loomed ahead, a simple barrier yet somehow imposing. Before, it had been a gateway into a world of dim neon lights and digital sanctuary, an introvert's haven. Now, it felt like the threshold of something, heavier, something waiting. Judging. You exhaled, squaring your shoulders before knocking softly.

The response came in the form of a quiet click as the lock disengaged.

Inside, the usual blue glow of Idia's room bathed everything in its cold light, but the atmosphere was different. The usual hum of monitors filled the air, but it felt heavier, dampened by something unseen yet tangible—despair, maybe. A slow, sinking sensation settled into your bones before you even took a step forward.

Did he lose in the game? You wondered, letting your gaze sweep over the multiple screens in his setup. but there was no new game on display. Instead, strings of data filled the monitors, lines of statistics and files that hinted at something far more serious. Had he already begun hacking the game? Or was this related to his unofficial internship at STYX?

Idia sat hunched at his desk, wearing the familiar pajamas you'd come to associate with the version of him that had grown comfortable around you. His knees were drawn up to his chest, arms wrapped around himself in a posture that spoke of exhaustion. He looked like he hadn't slept in days, his normally wild hair casting deep shadows over his hollowed-out expression. The way he curled in on himself was almost childlike, a feeble, pitiful attempt at self-soothing.

You nearly laughed—an instinctive, misplaced reaction to lighten your own mood. but you tactfully swallowed it down.

Instead, you focused on what he had invited you here for. "Which game was released?" You ask instead, kicking off your shoes and coming up behind him.

The moment you moved behind him, his reaction was immediate. He shut the files in a heartbeat, screens flickering back to something more benign. But the damage was done. You'd already seen it. And the unease pooling in your gut only grew.

You didn't like the way Idia seemed to mirror the way you felt.

Slowly, his eyes drifted toward you and something about his gaze unsettled you. It was blank, hollow. No nervous darting, no anxious fiddling with his sleeves. For once, Idia didn't look away. His stare was unwavering—determined, but utterly hopeless all at once.

It made you want to stand a little taller—to brace yourself, because whatever this was, whatever had brought him to this point—you had a feeling you weren't going to like it.

"Idia?"

He doesn't answer right away. When he finally speaks, his voice is eerily flat. Clinical in a way that makes your stomach twist.

"...Take off your jacket."

You blink. What?

"It's—no. It's cold. Your room is always freezing." You argue, your throat tightening. You don't like the way the air suddenly feels heavy, pressing in on you.

Idia's fingers twitch. "You won't."

A shiver crawls up your spine, and it has nothing to do with the temperature. Something is wrong. You can feel it in your bones, in the way your limbs feel impossibly heavy—like gravity itself has turned against you, dragging you down under the weight of something unspoken, something ugly.

The creak of Idia's chair cuts through the suffocating silence as he turns to face you fully. His expression is... off. The usual awkward hesitance is gone, replaced by something raw and strained. His lips are parted, as if he wants to say something, but the words refused to come—lodged in his throat like razors, threatening to spill blood if he forces them out.

"What are you?"

The question lands like a dagger between your ribs. You inhale sharply—a mistake. "Idia, what—"

"No." His voice trembles, and his hands curled into fists, the fabric of his pants bunching under his white-knuckled fingers "No, don't—don't do that." His breathing is shallow, uneven. "Tell me; What are you?"

He sounds afraid. but not of you. No—he's afraid of knowing, of confirming whatever terrible thing is clawing at the edges of his mind.

"You're not normal. You know that, right?" His words stammer out, breath hitching. "You—you're not even cold when you should be. Do you—do you even realize that?"

A laugh escapes him, the sound ragged and worn—nearly broken. His voice rises, faster, breaking, unraveling. "You haven't noticed it, have you? You haven't said a damn thing about it—my room is negative six degrees." His voice climbs higher, fraying apart. "It's freezing—!"

Your blood runs cold—colder than it already was. You hadn't noticed the way his breath fogged in the air with every exhale. Your jaw locks shut, a dull sting in your palms forcing you to realize you've clenched your fists too tight, nails biting deep into your skin.

"Ortho scanned you." The words come out rushed, panicked. "I didn't think much of it at first, but— but I kept thinking, and looking and—" He swallows hard, struggling to force the words out. "I've seen those numbers before! T-that's what happens before an overblot takes over, except—it's not stopping. You're—"

His voice breaks, filled with despair. "You're frozen there."

You step back, arms instinctively coming up as if to shield yourself from the weight of his words. "Idia—"

He cries out your name, standing abruptly. The motion is almost aggressive, but then—he hesitates, body almost jolting forward before he stumbles back as if afraid to get any closer.

"No. No, don't act like I'm crazy! You know something's wrong, don't you?!" His voice is raw, frayed at the edges like he's spent nights crying until his throat was raw. "I'm not an idiot—look at you!"

His gaze locked onto your finger—the Blot ring. Moving to hide it like a fool, you only further incriminated yourself. You were too flustered, too out of your element. A person that thrives in carefully articulated plans will never blossom in unexpected situations and confrontations.

Silence stretched between you, tense, suffocating and then, finally—his voice drops to a whisper. "That's a Blot stone, isn't it?"

Your jaw clenched as you forced a smile, trying to get the upper hand again. "It was a gift from a friend."

Not a lie.

But not the truth, either.

Because the Blot—whatever it is, whatever you are to it—is not something you can explain. Not something you can put into words.

He watched you in silence, his gaze heavy, searching—like he could drag the truth out of you by sheer force of will. The room felt smaller, the air thinner, the walls pressing in and closing the space between you. Your skin prickled, instincts screaming at you to move, to run—but your feet refused to obey.

He was closer than he'd ever dared to be before, breath shallow and uneven, pupils contracted into pinpricks. it was the look of someone who had seen something they were never meant to see.

He was afraid.

"It's Blot, isn't it?" His voice is softer now—not less intense, just careful. As if he were unraveling a puzzle, and each word was another thread pulling the truth closer. "How? You don't have magic—so how? You didn't get sick, you weren't cursed—"

The silence stretched thick between you, swallowing the hum of his electronics, turning the once-familiar background noise into an irritating drone. You said nothing, but it was enough.

He exhaled a short, bitter laugh, devoid of humor. A wry smile flickered across his lips, brief and brittle. "I can't believe I didn't notice sooner. I mean, of course—! Of course, it had to be something like this. The first real friend I make and they're some... monster."

Your breath hitched, anger rising fast, sharp and sudden. Your fingers curled into fists, nails biting into your palms. Monster? He had no idea—no idea what you had sacrificed, what you had done to survive.

Idia noticed the shift immediately, his expression faltering. He took a step back and bumped into his desk, drawing out a low curse. "How much of you is still here?" he asked, and this time, his voice was small and fragile. "Did I ever get to meet you? Were you ever real?"

The words should have gutted you. Maybe later they would, but right now, there was no time for doubt—no time for guilt. You had come too far, had too much left undone to let this shake you.

So you smiled. Soft, careful, deceptive. A picture of warmth despite the cold seeping from your skin. You took a slow step forward the same way people approached startled animals.

Idia almost broke right there. How could you smile like that—so beautifully, so effortlessly—when he was holding your rotten truth right in front of you? He wanted to scream, to cry, to beg you to undo it. He wanted to pull you into a rare embrace and promise that it would be okay.

"It doesn't matter what I am." You you began, voice steady despite the way your lungs are closing at the fact you're admitting it to yourself. "I'm here, Idia. See? I'm real." Your words were flowery and sweet rivaling powdered sugar. Cold hands met his as you laced your fingers together gently—as if they belonged together, tilting your head up to meet his terrified gaze once again.

Your hands, impossibly cold, found his and laced together. Gentle, deliberate as if they belonged that way. His breath stuttered and yellow eyes widened, darting between you and the affectionate embrace. The chill of your skin confirmed his worst fears, but still, his heart pounded at your saccharine touch. A traitorous part of him bloomed with hope—hope that maybe, just maybe, things could still be okay.

You both exhaled.

A cloud of mist curled from Idia's lips.

None came from yours.

The walls pressed in again, suffocating and constricting like a serpent.

His expression shattered. "'Real?'" he echoed, the word brittle, dangerous in its quietness. "You think—?" He lets out another sharp, shaky breath, his breathing picking up, hands trembling in yours. He wanted to pull away, but they constricted instead, holding you tighter. "Real people don't have to convince others they're real."

The words cut deep. A blade straight through your skull.

And then he laughed. not out of amusement—but the hollow, broken sound people make when they don't know whether to scream or cry. His shoulders shake, and his fingers press hard against your knuckles like he's grasping at anything—even you—to keep himself together.

"You're dying." Idia whispered.

"You're already dead." His voice was eerily calm now. Empty as he sunk to the ground, dragging you down with him.

"And I don't know what I'm supposed to do with you."

The walk home was slow, the silence stretching thick and suffocating. Creeping whispers slithered into your mind, sharp-toothed and insidious, gnawing at the edges of your consciousness. You had left without a word, untangling yourself from him with a violent jerk—shoving him away as if his touch burned.

Only now did the look on his face register. The hurt. The despair.

Guilt settled into your gut like a stone. He was terrified—not just of you, but of what you had done, of what you had become. Idia's questions sent your thoughts spiraling, prying open doors you had never dared to unlock. Before now, your focus had been singular, your purpose unwavering. And yet—had you ever truly thought beyond that goal?

Had you ever been anything else?

Your pace quickened. Unknowingly, you gnawed at your thumbnail, gaze unfocused, lost in the labyrinth of your own mind. You had no destination, only the restless movement of your feet leading you anywhere, nowhere.

Were you ever real?

As you passed the window, the dark pane caught your reflection—a sight you had no desire to face. Yet, before you could stop yourself, your pace faltered and you drew closer. The sound of your footsteps echoed, hollow and distant, swallowed by the wind that howled like a living thing, shrieking in the shell of your ear.

The stranger in the glass stared back, their expression twisting in revulsion, lips curled in a sneer as if the very thought of mirroring you was unbearable.

Were your eyes always that color, that shape...?

You couldn't bear to look.

The thought burrowed under your skin like maggots in rotting flesh, itching, writhing, unbearable. They skittered through your veins like they belonged there with you and bile rose in your throat, bitter and acrid. You wanted to claw yourself open—to dig out whatever filth lay inside and present it to a watchful divinity, to dissect yourself beneath the eye of heaven, to strip away this diseased existence and return to nothingness once again. To be the faceless, nameless void again.

"Am I a corpse?" you whispered into an empty night.

The world only answered with silence. Cold. Oppressive. Cruel.

Your teeth clenched so tightly that the pressure throbbed in your skull, tension coiling like barbed wire and you felt something wet slide down your arm. Blinking, you pulled your hand back.

The nail-biting had evolved into something worse—your thumb torn open, the flesh peeled away to ragged strips down to the bone. It glistened in the moonlight, pale and wet, like a shard of quarts freshly unearthed.

Your breath hitched and hands trembled, but the pain hadn't set in yet—adrenaline drowning it out like restless tides.

A laugh bubbled up, fragile and unhinged, teetering on the razor's edge between hysteria and horror. It spilled past your lips in a wavering exhale, like a drunken ballerina twirling toward oblivion.

Your vision swam, locking onto the raw, ruined digit when a mortifying thought occurred to you—one that felt nearly alien.

It's already severed enough.

Might as well finish the job.

Before you could sink your teeth into the rest of your thumb, shadows lashed around your wrist, yanking your hand away with sharp, bruising force.

The Blot materialized before you, its form flicking like a nightmare barely held together, face unreadable—featureless, shifting—but you could feel its glare, an icy pressure boring into your skull like an icepick.

The slender digits wrapped around your arm only tightened, sending a dull ache up your elbow as your fingers numbed beneath the crushing force. Cold blood still dripped sluggishly down your skin and for a moment you thought the Blot might reprimand you, scold you for damaging yourself. After all, it needed you intact, didn't it? Alive and whole?

Then again... you couldn't quite recall the exact terms of your contract, the entire encounter seemed far away and blurry.

Instead, the Blot's voice dipped into something almost gentle, low and intimate in a way that made your spine stiffen.

"My... What have you done to yourself, little star?" It murmured, its words gliding over you like silk, knowing and low. "I warned you not to go to that boy's room... What happened?"

Despite the soft tone, its grip remained ironclad. A brittle, breathless laugh escaped your lips, the force of it making you dizzy. "He knows—Idia knows." You searched the Blot's face for any sign of deception, anything to suggest this was another game it was playing with you. It always seemed to know more than it let on, and foolishly you hoped it knew how to fix this predicament. "Actually... he seems to know more than I do. Why is that?"

You sounded far more vulnerable and accusatory than you'd have liked, making you cringe internally.

Your head swam. It was getting harder to focus, harder to breathe. Lungs grew stiff, like rigor mortis had set in and the muscle was now too firm to move. Even the fresh forest air seemed repulsed to enter your bloodstream.

The Blot's free hand materialized a handkerchief, dabbing away the streaks of blood down your arm with an eerie, deliberate tenderness. It pressed the cloth against your wound, the pressure grounding you just enough to feel the sting. "He's smart," it mused, voice edged with something unreadable. "Threateningly so. I advise you avoid him, darling. He's no good for you."

A pause. A breath. Then, softer—almost an afterthought, spoken like arsenic honey: "Or remove him. Anything for your goal, right?"

The casual suggestion sent an involuntary shudder down your spine, your body tensing on instinct. The moment of vulnerable hesitation was all it needed. Before you could react, the Blot lifted your injured hand—bringing it to its face. It was warm—soft—something you'd never have expected from something like it. You could feel its breath against your wrist as it nuzzled into your palm, quietly begging you to adore it the way it adores you.

Before you could realize it, the Blot's breath gently fanning against your finger as it took your thumb into its mouth, the sensation stinging for a moment.

A sharp inhale caught in your throat. Its tongue was warm, contrasting against its otherwise frigid presence, the sensation having an odd numbing effect that dulled the throb of your injury now that the adrenaline was wearing off.

You scrutinized the Blot in the short moment as it seemed to savor the taste of you—gazing at you with something dark and devoted, like an adoring lover, something dangerously akin to reverence as if you'd given it every star in the sky.

Even worse—you felt sickeningly safe in the weight of that adoration, the realization digging the knife deeper into your gut. For the first time in what felt like forever, warmth seeped into you—real, tangible and you almost leaned into it, instinctively reaching for something genuine, something real.

Connection. Affection.

The realization crashed over you like cold water, and you yanked your hand back, barely avoiding the scrape of its teeth. Your mouth opened, poised to scold it—to revel in the kicked-puppy demeanor it always assumed when chastised—only for your breath to catch on something else entirely.

Your thumb was healed perfectly as if never damaged but left behind was a mark—a scar shaped like teeth, a deep, pitch-black imprint that looked less like healed flesh and more like a crack into the void itself. The mark had seemed more like a brand upon your flesh, reminiscent of the lace-like markings overblotters had.

Instinctively, you tried to wipe it off—only to realize it stubbornly refused to fade.

"All better." the Blot chirped, the previous air of seduction vanishing in an instant. It slipped effortlessly back into that playful persona, as if it hadn't just done something deeply intimate.

There was no time to respond as the Blot suddenly jolted, its form flickering before vanishing into nothing and a sound echoed behind you—footsteps.

Someone was coming.

Folding your thumb into your fist, you shoved your hands in your pockets and turned, your gaze landing on a familiar figure—sandy hair catching the dim light, tired blue eyes flicking toward you with something unreadable in them. Ruggie.

Relief almost escaped in a sigh. You and Ruggie had worked together before—odd jobs, small schemes, and a shared understanding of the little sacrifices needed to survive. In time, a comfortable camaraderie had formed. You'd earned his favor, trust, and respect taking on extra work when exhaustion clung to him like chains in deep water. That familiarity should have steadied you. It should have made this easier.

But the weight pressing against your ribs, heavy and suffocating, refused to let up.

Lately, guilt had followed you like a stray dog, skulking in your shadow, nosing at your heels, whining for scraps of attention you refused to give. You tried to convince yourself it was misplaced, that you were entitled to the power you'd clawed for and deserving of the luxuries you'd earned. And yet, in the quiet of the night, when there was no one left to lie to, the thoughts gnawed at the edges of your resolve.

What if they didn't deserve this? What if they were undeserving of your plan for revenge?

By now, the dog had devoured you, leaning nothing but bones in its wake and it heavily impacted your interactions these days.

You forced a smile, ignoring the weakness in your knees, the warble in your voice. "Ruggie? It's late. What're you doing out here?" You chuckled and motioned him over.

His hesitation was slight but enough to send a ripple of unease through you. "Sam has a sale before closing," he muttered, glancing toward the direction of the shop before his gaze flickered back. "Gets rid of stuff that doesn't sell." Ruggie's voice trailed off, distracted.

"Hey... what was that?" He inched closer and set down his bag of groceries, gaze lingering on the spot in the forest clearing earlier where the Blot once stood.

Your stomach dropped, throat constricting as if barbed wire circled it like a serpent going in for a kill.

Ruggie sat straighter than usual, ears perked, tail stiff with bristling fur. Dull blue eyes locked onto you, scrutinizing and sharp. No room to play dumb, no easy escape. You opened your mouth, a defense already forming but he cut you off before you could speak.

"That shadow thing." His nose wrinkled, displeased. "It was creepy... Are you okay? Was that a campus ghost?" Ruggie had an idea of what it was, one he really didn't want to confirm or think was possible.

The concern burned like acid on your skin and for a split second your carefully constructed expression wavered.

He saw. He knew.

The thoughts whirled around in your head, a flurry of panic, anger, and grief. Too many people knew. Involuntarily, you found your mind circling back to the Blot's suggestion: Or remove him. the words were small in the back of your head, but they burned like hot iron.

You... wouldn't do that.

You're not that bad.

Lying once again felt like swallowing something foul, but your teeth were already rotten from all the saccharine lies fallen from your lips like angels.

What was one more? You're doomed anyway.

You let out a sigh, feigning exhaustion, and tilted your head back, the weight of the thoughts locked inside were too much to hold up. Your eyes lidded, shifted to meet Ruggie's and you chuckled. "Worried for little old me?" You teased, voice low and calm, betraying the tyrannical storm within.

You shifted your tone to allow a hint of vulnerability to slip through, creasing your brows and making him feel special—after all, you're opening up to him out of everyone else. "After the overblots, something changed. Maybe it was the repeated exposure to all that strong magic, maybe I've been here too long."

What a bad lie. You continued it anyway. "I've been practicing getting used to it. Applying the stuff I've learned in class really is fun. Don't tell, okay?"

It sounded fake even to you, but you prayed to whatever gods would listen that Ruggie would believe it.

The gods refused to answer.

Ruggie chuckled and crossed his arms, disbelief clear. "Hah? Are you pullin' my tail? You just- developed magic? What about the Yuus then?" His arms crossed, tail flicking once, sharply. "You expect me to believe that?"

Irritation flickered behind your eyes. Damn Blot. It's harder to lie when someone sees clear proof. Before you could respond, Ruggie's expression shifted, voice dipping into something softer, nearly hesitant. "Just... don't do anything too stupid, yeah? What will I do if my favorite coworker vanishes?"

It was clear he understood the lengths desperation led someone to. You must've had a reason, and clearly you didn't want to talk about it. Ruggie wasn't sure what you'd done, but as long as you're okay... it should be fine, right?

Internally you pumped your fist and attempted to direct the conversation to something else. "What about Yuuka?" You ask, a playful lilt in your tone.

"She's in sometimes. Leona gets Yuuka to do some errands like me, but we're never assigned to anything together—just two chores at once. Boring, lonely." He drawled, one ear flicking sharply at something that irritated it.

You nodded quickly, eager to let the previous topic fade before the cracks in your façade grew too wide. But Ruggie wasn't looking at your face now, no longer quietly admiring the angles and shape—his gaze had dipped lower, posture stiffening.

The handprint on your forearm was still there—your poor circulation kept it clear and visible, blood still hadn't rushed to fill in the space beneath your skin, leaving a clear, pale mark on your flesh.

Your stomach twisted violently, dread, your forlorn lover, gripping you tightly. It felt like you were drowning in sand; Gritty, dark, uncomfortable, and excruciating.

You wanted to give up.

Ruggie reached for your wrist, his fingers barely moving before you wrenched back, springing to your feet so fast you felt lightheaded. The boy's gaze darkened, expression creasing with annoyance and concern.

"You know, you've been acting really damn weird." he muttered. His tail bristled further, ears twitching. "It was always strange how you just showed up one day—not just stepping on stage with the others. Nobody even remembers seeing you there anyway. You just appeared one day. One day you were nobody, and then suddenly..." His lips pressed together, eyes shining with unspoken feelings. "You were somebody. To everyone. To me—please just tell me what's wrong."

There was an edge to his voice now, sharp and unforgiving yet hurt and confused. "And now you're jumpy, your excuses suck, and I saw whatever the hell that shadow was."

It was too much. Your senses overloaded, screaming at you to do something. Every nerve ending was firing conflicting signals and your body felt hot for once.

Or remove him.

Ruggie never got the chance to say more.

You lunged, mind going blank. Not now. Gods not now. You didn't want to think of your circumstances, or your life, or what you'd once been and now are. It hurt. It all hurt.

Ruggie reacted fast—he always did and it was admirable, but this wasn't a fight he knew how to win. It was brutal, desperate, nearly on the same level as fights the ones he'd get into for scraps of food as a child—and yet this was worse, like your entire life depended on it.

He fought back hard, scrappy as ever, teeth bared in something between a snarl and a plea. But you weren't just fighting to win.

You were fighting to end this.

He didn't want to hurt you. Ruggie needed you to stop— to listen..!

His mind spun, air cruelly knocked from his lungs as he hit the ground. The world seemed to churn as he tried to focus his gaze. Your weight pressed against his chest, arms pinned beneath your knees. Ruggie attempted to focus, but his vision swam from the impact.

A monster towered over him, primal by every meaning of the word, heaving and desperate. Its eyes were a cocktail of rage, yet tears spilled from them—the eyes he admired that once held so much conviction now full of sorrow.

A rock was held above your head, one too large for you to have been able to pick up in such a short amount of time, yet poised to come down on him.

This isn't happening.

In the space between heartbeats, he felt it come down.

The crunch echoed in his ears as they filled with blood.

Skull collapsing like a shattered pastry. The bones splintering, cartilage crumbling beneath the force of it. Over and over again—

No.

His body jerked. The scene in his mind unraveled in an instant, yet the bloodlust in your eyes lingered, making it feel real.

His breath hitched, shallow and frantic, ears flattening so hard they almost ached. Every instinct in him screamed at him to run, but his body remained frozen, muscles locked in tight animalistic panic.

When you hesitated, a weak sob escaping you, the stone slipped from your hands and landed with a dull thud beside his head and your body crumbled like paper on top of Ruggie. Whatever spell of despair you were under shattered under the pressure.

Ruggie scrambled away, breath ragged, body trembling. His usual smirk was absent, snark stolen by something colder, something raw. No jokes, no clever remarks. Just wide, fearful eyes staring up at you like he was seeing you for the first time—was this the real you?

You were going to kill him.

And yet against all logic, against the terror still clawing up his throat and clutching his heart-

Ruggie was still worried for you—the way a loyal dog is despite the way its master treats it.

This monster hunched over on the forest floor, wracked with sorrow unimaginable—even by the divine—was still somebody's baby. This monster wanted to go home and fall into the embrace of somebody safe.

part five

Pls read:

Hello!! Thanks for reading part 4. As mentioned in a previous post, I'd like to make this story a little more interactive. Since I'm writing a fanfic, and technically writing "YOU", I thought It'd be fun to have you guys as the readers, genuinely get your thoughts and questions in.

So, I'm inviting anybody willing to ask one question that may be selected for an interaction in part 5's confrontation scene I have planned.

Think hard on this one question, the Blot is a crafty thing so be careful with your questions.

Of course I won't be able to choose every question for the interaction. Any extras may be added to something separate. (You can tell the blot you wanna make out w it 😔)

If you want slightly more info or hints about the Blot, I suggest you read this post, if you haven't already.

taglist: @tachibubu @shirp-collector-of-fixations @goatsmilksblog @iris-arcadia @pumpkindevil @gabile18 @sugarxrt @fancyhawk45 @mewchiili @olxh @muffinenergy @citrus-cinnamon @boredselkie @tipsyon-tea @blerp-22 @is-it-night-or-day @xinfinityx @ashieeeesh @b0nesandskin @texas-fox @owl778 @ghostlysyntaxed @youwannatrade @jar-03 @brights-place @pebble-bb @boredwithlifeatthispoint @casperandcats @rinart89 @raineondrugs @o-ffic @chloemari-e

#twisted wonderland #twst #idia shroud #twst x reader #twst angst #twst fanfic #blot!reader #twst blot #blot x reader #bug writing #ruggie bucchi

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hitomisuzuya · 11 days ago

Note

I can finally request!

Spy!/hacker! Hoyofair Scara! I’m sure we all know which ones I mean but the idea of hacker/spy scara teasing us and I mean touching almost kissing and him moaning in our ears on a mission just to leave us starved (perhaps we’re on the other side) has me giggling and I need it, I need scara to whisper such dirty things to us knowing he can hack into the cameras later and capture whatever happens between us for himself <3

hacker!spy scaramouche x fem!reader. smut. masturbation. dirty talk. degradation.

oh yes, i know of which you speak😳😌 i can't express how hot he was. hoyofair adored scara that year❤️

"come on, he is just some guy trying to steal from you," you said it loud enough to hear yourself over the music playing through your ear buds. you knew deep down you are hopelessly trying to convince yourself. and it isn't working.

you have something of a unique job. high ranking underground organizations always trusted you to back up very important information, very secret, and very incriminating information for them. you are their just in case. you got paid very, very well for the amount of danger you put yourself in, storing all of it on your very well protected computer systems.

scaramouche has been trying to steal information he needs for months now. he's been relentless trying to hack into your systems. and quite frankly, you were running out of things to throw at him. you have a substantial amount of firewalls alone to get around and with time, he dismantles them all.

you let out a frustrated sigh thinking about how much of a turn on it was. and to make it even more infuriating, he somehow always came through your window just to announce with that smug smirk on his face that he was almost finished taking apart one of your firewalls.

his lips had come so close to yours last night, and just when you were tilting your head up, he said, "maybe next time, sucker," and left just like that, chuckling in amusement. leaving you very wet, and very wanting.

you hardly noticed when your hand dipped into your panties until you heard yourself let out a soft moan, your music paused and your phone forgotten next to you. once you started thinking about scaramouche, you just couldn't seem to stop. your clit throbs as you circle and rub your fingers, thinking about him teasing the ball of the tongue piercing (he so smugly let you know he had) on your clit, stretching your pussy apart with his fingers.

all things considered, there was no harm in making yourself feel good for a bit, right?

keeping one hand between your legs, your other hand drifts up to pinch your nipples. a volley of moans sounds from you as you grind your clit on your fingers.

"so cute that you think you are alone," your eyes snap open hearing the sound of scaramouche's voice through your ear buds.

"are you watching me?" your eyes widen as you hurriedly start to sit up, your eyes darting around the room.

"relax, i have only hacked into your phone," you hear that same amused chuckle. to you, it felt like he was pausing like he was waiting for something. something that just now occurs to you.

"how long were you listening?" your heart pounds in your chest asking the question. you'd been getting awfully indulgent playing with your clit, being able to hear your moans slightly muffled by your ear buds.

"i listened to you moan for about five minutes," from his tone of his voice it sounded like he had no shame in admitting that. "thinking about me, perhaps?"

"don't flatter yourself," the wobble of being flustered is evident in your voice as you lay back down. you glance at the window sill he usually occupied to brag to you, expecting him to be there.

"the look on your face earlier while you were in town was awfully absentminded. if anything, you are the one flattering me, playing with that pretty pussy thinking about me, treating me to the sounds of moans," you felt a blush darken your cheeks.

"are you hacking into the cities camera to spy on me?" you sigh, figuring you should've known.

"what? it's my warmup in the morning before i tackle your systems," you hear the quiet clicking of computer keys on the other end, "you know, your phone was surprisingly easy to get into. you really should be more careful," he is teasing you, and you swear he knows it flusters you more.

"what do you want?" you say before he could open his mouth again to fluster you more. you restlessly stir about on your bed for a moment. the sound of his voice is making you wetter, the fabric of your panties clinging to your pussy.

"since you are thinking about me, let me help you out," there is amused purr to his voice. even though he can't see you, it's like he knows you are laying there, weak and wet for him. "take your bra and panties off. it'd be a shame if you left them on while i talk you through how to touch yourself."

a shiver runs up your spine as you lift your hips, peeling your panties from your pussy. your bra soon follows, and you rest back on your pillows. you need relief and he is the only one who can give it to you.

"good girl," he purrs, pleased. a fresh coat of wet pools onto your pussy. "now slid those little fingers down to that undoubtedly messy pussy of yours, part those pretty, drooling folds and stroke a single finger."

your index finger dips between your folds, stroking stripes up and and down as you rock your hips up. he waits until you moan softly to continue. "wag your finger around and around your little clit," the pads of your fingers rub over your clit, seeking more friction as you grind on them.

"you want my tongue there, don't you, slut? you want me to tease my tongue piercing until you can barely stand it," a loud moan keens from you, tight warmth tingling in your core as your clit throbs more, "pinch, like i am scooping into my mouth to suck on."

your thighs tremble as you slowly roll your clit between your fingers, pinching the sensitive nub. he chuckles hearing your soft whimper. "fuck, you are making me want to fist my cock listening to you edge yourself," he chuckles a little shakily.

you whimper again as your walls clench around nothing. he is making you lose it faster than your own fingers could when you thought about him.

"enjoy the sound of my voice, and play with your nipples. fuck your fingers into that slutty cunt of yours, and tell me how much you want my fingers instead," he sounds so superior, getting off on lording your obvious attraction to him over you.

"you are right!" you cry out, plunging your fingers inside your tight heat. scissoring your walls apart. you desperately try and curl your fingers into your sweet spot, clutching at your hardening nipples. "my fingers aren't enough. i need yours," your fingers squelch in and out of your pussy, chasing the feeling of your orgasm building.

"such pretty cries," scaramouche hums in approval, "don't you worry, i'll be stuffing my fingers inside that cunt soon enough. and better yet, with my cock."

your moan borders on pornographic at his words your hand drifts away from your nipples to your clit. your fingers shake slippery over it as your back arches off the bed. "i must warn you, you'll struggle to fit it. you'll beg for every inch as i stretch you apart," your walls clench tighter as tears well into your eyes.

you choke out a loud sob of pleasure as you suddenly cum on your fingers, twitching as you rub your clit through your orgasm.

truth is, scaramouche had a motive in directing you to take off your bra and panties as specifically he did. more of a show for him later when he hacks into your computer and accesses the webcam on your laptop. you hardly noticed it was recording you the whole time on the bedside table.

#genshin impact #genshin smut #fem!reader #genshin imagines #scaramouche #scaramouche smut #scaramouche x reader #scaramouche x y/n #scaramouche x you #hacker scaramouche #modern au

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katsu28 · 28 days ago

Note

34 osc with sick reader 🤭

this is actually so fitting bc i'm sick rn and would give anything to have an osc to take care of me

oscar piastri x reader, 1.3k. mentions of flu + flu symptoms but nothing too detailed. request something from here :)

“You should’ve told me you were ill.”

Oscar fixes you to the spot with a slightly disapproving frown as soon as you pull open your front door, though it’s offset by the bulging paper bags dangling from both hands.

You step aside to let him in, fighting the throbbing in your skull at the sudden movement. You’ve been holed up in your flat for almost a week with a pesky cough that had quickly morphed into a full blown case of the flu, rendering you pretty much useless for more than ten minutes. It’s been a struggle, but you didn’t want to bother anyone, especially not Oscar.

“You shouldn’t be here,” You croak. Your words seem lost on him as he strides towards the kitchen to unload his bags. Gingerly, you follow him, focusing deeply on not keeling over in your slow hobble to lean against the counter.

“I had to hear it from Lando instead. You told Lando you were sick and not your own boyfriend?”

“I didn’t want to get you sick, Osc. Your job is hard enough as it is, you shouldn’t have to risk making it more strenuous because I gave you whatever I’ve got.” Your reasonings die off into a hacking cough at the end, inhales that rattle through your chest painfully. Oscar winces at the sound, and his face softens.

He pauses in his unpacking of what seems like an entire pharmacy, rounding the island to come stand in front of you, concern evident now. “I don’t care if I get sick. I wanna be here to help you.”

“Why are you so perfect? It’s annoying.”

“It’s a gift.” He brushes off your backhanded compliment with a small smile and a shrug, pressing the back of his hand against your forehead. “You’re still burning up. I brought some medicine just in case you needed anything else. Also honey lemon tea, chicken soup, and a bunch of electrolyte drinks my trainer swears by.”

You blink, a little caught off guard by just how prepared he is. “Tea sounds nice.”

“I’ll make you a cup. When was the last time you showered?”

“Are you saying I stink?” You huff, mustering the most offended glare you can manage. It must not pack much of a punch, because it doesn’t phase Oscar, given his non-reaction. “Fine, I dunno. Three, four days ago?”

“Yeesh. You should shower.”

“Yes, I know that, mister obvious,” You gripe. The corners of his mouth lift in an amused smile. “I just can’t stand on my own for very long at the moment. Not without feeling like I’m about to pass out.”

“I could help.”

“Are you seriously trying to get into my pants right now?”

Oscar’s cheeks flush bright red, ears doing the same. “No! No, I’m not—I’m trying to be helpful, honest to god.”

“Uh huh.”

“I am! A shower would help you feel better, and I can help make sure you don’t, like, fall and hit your head, or something.”

“Oh. Really?” Oscar nods, looking sincere, and suddenly you feel the slightest bit bad for assuming anything else. “Um, sure. That’s really kind of you, Osc.”

“Well, I have been told I’m annoyingly perfect.”

“Wonder who said that.”

“My very sick, very stinky, very cute girlfriend.”

“Tread carefully, Piastri.”

“Always do.”

You feel at your most vulnerable in front of Oscar as soon as he turns the water on, even though you’ve showered together many times before.

This time feels different. More intimate. You’re putting yourself in his hands and letting him help you because you know he’ll do it with nothing but the utmost care.

He’s stripped down to his underwear so as to not get the majority of his clothes wet. Even in your fever muddied state, you can admire the strong plane of his shoulders, the freckles and moles dotting his skin. The way the water pools in the hollow of his collarbones before cascading down his strong chest.

If you were feeling more like yourself, you’d jump his bones. For now, you’ll settle on leaning back against him in the spray of the perfectly hot water, taking the support he gives.

“Can I use your nice body wash? The lavender one?”

“Mhm,” You mumble, already halfway to slumber.

Oscar’s hands are beyond gentle as he washes your body, murmuring soft directions punctuated with quiet stories about what’s been going on in his life since the last time you’d seen each other. It all feels very domestic, something you could even see yourself having with Oscar in the future. You’re far from that right now, but you’d be lying to yourself if you said it didn’t sound nice.

“Hey, hey, don’t go to sleep on me,” He murmurs, nudging you gently.

“M’not falling asleep,” You huff, pouting. Oscar lets out a chuckle that vibrates through his chest.

“Good. ‘Cause we’re all done here,” He says, rubbing a hand down your arm. He flicks the tap off, guides you out of the shower, wrapping a fluffy towel around you before grabbing one for himself. He even goes so far as to dry you off before you can even think of doing it yourself. As he towels his hair dry, he studies you with watchful eyes. “You alright? Wanna go to bed?”

“I’m okay,” You say, feeling well rejuvenated thanks to Oscar. Now that the ache in your bones has dulled to bearable enough, you take note of your hunger. On cue, your stomach growls loud enough for him to hear.

“Hungry, I see,” He chuckles. You smile sheepishly. “Why don’t we put some clean clothes on and I’ll heat up the soup?”

You manage to dress yourself without Oscar’s help. When you pad out to the kitchen snuggled deep in a jumper of his that you’d nicked ages ago, he's just putting out a steaming hot mug of tea on the counter for you. A pot of soup simmers on the stovetop behind him, as promised.

“Feel any better?”

“Loads,” You sigh, dragging yourself to sit on a kitchen stool. The mug warms your palms nicely when you wrap your hands around it. “Thank you, Osc. I meant it when I said you were perfect, y’know.”

Oscar smiles warmly. “If taking care of you means I’m perfect, then you're a saint for putting up with me.”

“Being with you is easy, Osc.”

“And taking care of you is too.”

“I wanna kiss you so bad right now.”

Oscar’s cheeks go pink, eyes squinting into a bashful close lipped smile. “What’s stopping you?”

You pout. “Don’t wanna give you whatever I’ve got. I’d feel so guilty if I did.”

“Reckon you should give my immune system more credit. I’ll be fine,” He assures you. “And if I do get sick, you can take care of me without worrying about catching it again. Because, like, antibodies, or whatever.”

“Oh, so you’re a scientist now, are you?” You tease. Oscar shrugs. “I guess one kiss couldn’t hurt.”

He beams wider, looking like a cat that’d just gotten the cream as he leans over the counter to offer his cheek towards you as you roll your eyes. You’ll give him that much for the help he's given you today.

Before you can press a kiss to his waiting cheek, he rears back, ducking off to the side and into the crook of his elbow a split second before a sneeze escapes him. Then another, and a third one.

You gasp, shoving your stool back and away from him. “I knew it! You’re gonna get sick, Osc!”

“No, that was…allergies.”

“Oscar!” You whine, burrowing deeper into your jumper.

“It was!” He protests, but even that is weak. You can see right through him. “You know I have that thing with dust. Totally not you.”

“I will kick you out.” You try your best to look threatening, but an ill timed bout of coughing rips through you yet again, making you groan a little at the scratch in your throat. Your forehead presses against the smooth countertop, the coolness bringing a little solace to your heated skin.

Oscar’s palm smooths along your back, voice soft and fond as can be. “No, you won’t. You like me too much.”

follow @katsu-library to be notified when i post new writing :)

#requested!#oscar piastri #oscar piastri x reader #op81 x reader #oscar piastri fluff #oscar piastri fic #oscar piastri x fem!reader #oscar piastri x sick!reader #oscar piastri x you #oscar piastri imagine

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angelic--kitty · 7 months ago

Text

𝖘𝖎𝖗𝖊𝖓 𝖘𝖔𝖓𝖌

𝖋𝖊𝖆𝖙𝖚𝖗𝖎𝖓𝖌 𝖘𝖎𝖗𝖊𝖓!𝖑𝖆 𝖘𝖎𝖌𝖓𝖔𝖗𝖆

warnings: smut (mdni), wlw content, siren!transfem signora x sub!fem reader, dark content, kidnapping, oviposition, cunnilingus, handjob, penetration, breeding kink, biting, blood, size kink, dacryphilia, exhibitonism/voyeurism, reader is a uni student

a/n: apologies for the late post!! i have been super busy and sleepy lately with my rotations and opening another blog. thank you all for your patience, mwah ♡♡♡ also please note, this has a dark content warning !

𝖕𝖆𝖗𝖙 𝖙𝖍𝖗𝖊𝖊 𝖔𝖋 𝖐𝖎𝖙𝖙𝖞'𝖘 𝖐𝖎𝖓𝖐𝖙𝖔𝖇𝖊𝖗

a fall-break research trip studying ocean acidification and its impacts. that was all it was supposed to be.

you all laughed when your professor, in jest, told you not to fall into the water, lest you meet your icy demise. after all, it was cheapest for your school to get a boat big enough for 20 when nobody wanted to actually be on said boat.

you thought your stupid little life vest would save you. surely the scariest thing was the water itself?

if only drowning really was the most dangerous thing you'd encounter...

it was all a blur, really. one minute, you were in bed, sea and homesick, and the next, you found yourself stumbling up onto the deck, lured by some strange and soft melody.

it called to you, and only you, it seemed, by the lack of other people being disturbed.

you hadn't known; you couldn't have known. but she was watching you. she spotted you on the deck earlier in your little trip, hungry eyes tracing over you from a distance as she spotted that sweet spark of innocence and curiosity.

if you were a man, perhaps she would have already pulled you into the depths, feasted on your flesh, and tossed you back into the sea for other creatures to feed on the scraps.

but you were soft, gentle, she wanted to keep you, protect you, only to ruin you herself.

you lean over the railing, confused, eyes glazed over as you continue to tilt forward, on your tip-toes now. so close, she could almost taste you when she opened her mouth wider to sing.

you look down at her in the water. she was beautiful. your brain was too fuzzy to register the warning signs that your body desperately wanted you to see.

her claws. her teeth. the blood still lingering on her skin. how her singing made you completely oblivious to it all.

you tipped over the edge, only gasping and coming to when you hit the freezing water. you immediately panic, but something comes over you, a darkness that flood your vision at the same time hands wrap around you, carrying you far, far away from your little ship before anyone could notice you were missing.

hopefully, you had said your adequate goodbyes. after all, you wouldn't be speaking to anybody other than her ever again.

but would that be so bad? she had every intention of keeping her new pet comfortable and taken care of. she'd keep you company, keep you well-fed, light a fire when your feeble human form couldn't stand the cold. which was awfully generous for her.

you only came to when you'd been deposited into a cave, hacking up sea water from your lungs while you lay weakly on your side. your arms tremble as you lift yourself up slowly, trying to get a grip on reality.

your... everything hurt right now. your head was swimming, eyes stinging, body aching. you wondered what happened, where you were.

specifically; where were your clothes?

letting out a soft yelp, you cover yourself, despite believing to be alone as you curl up against the cave wall, looking down at something shiny on your ankle.

a string of pearls and glittery jewels chained around your ankle. a matching set had been strung around your neck, almost like a collar?

she watches you, just barely peeking out of the water as you grow acquainted with your new home. she had picked a relatively warm cave, with comfortable waters that come in handy later on when she would finally mate with you.

she gave you just enough time to stand up before announcing her presence, approaching you carefully. like a little lamb, you cowered, crying and scampering away, kicking out feebly despite the sheer power and size difference between you.

"stop making such a fuss. do not make yourself more trouble than you're worth." she spits, her voice still sweet-sounding to you despite her brash tone.

you blink up at her, chest rising and falling, frightened as you cower. "what are you?" is all you can muster. "where am i?"

she hums thoughtfully, swimming to your side. "you shouldn't worry your pretty little head about such trivial things." she grins, sharp teeth glinting in the low cave light. she reaches out to touch you, clawed fingers gently lifting your palm up.

she traces the lines in your skin with a delicate finger, smiling happily to herself. oh, you were perfect. so docile and sweet. she could only imagine how wet and warm you'd feel when she finally had you wrapped around her.

your breaths were shaky as she lifted your palm to her lips, gently nipping at your wrist as you yelp, trying to pull away in a futile manner.

the blood dripped slowly, only stopped by her tongue as she licked up the crimson trails, moaning to herself. "you're so sweet... it seems it might just be an excellent choice in itself to maintain you rather than to gobble you up all at once." she muses, lapping the wound to stop the bleeding.

as time goes on, you grow closer to her, and you've learned never to question her. anything about going home, your friends, your school, what she planned to do with you; they were all off limits. unless you wanted her to remind you of your place.

you were to be her sweet little pet, and eventually her mate. though, she began to grow fond of you, much to her own surprise. she enjoyed having you around much more than any human she's ensnared previously. she likes speaking with you. she likes bringing you shiny little gifts. she... preens when you tell her you like them, her chest puffing out when you put the jewelry on display.

she kept you stark naked at all times, of course, enjoying the view. when you'd lean over, she'd get the perfect view of your cute little pussy. when you'd sit on her lap, your jewelry would brush your nipples just so, teasing you while perking the little buds up so she could trail her claws across them.

you liked it too... teasing such a powerful creature, unknowingly having her wrapped around your finger. you'd open your thighs more for her, showing off before climbing into the soft nest she made for you. your back would arch more than usual when stretching to make her look at your tits. you'd look up with such pretty eyes when you knelt beside her, giving her the perfect vision of what you'd look like sucking her off like the perfect pet you were.

it isn't long until her mating season comes, and she has you in the water, nervously hovering over her lap. she coos at you, kissing your cheek and down your neck and chest. she stops to tease your nipples with the tip of her tongue, instead pushing you up and out of the water, thighs spread for her.

you curiously try to sit up, only to have a large hand press you right back down. "sit still, pet." she orders, holding your thighs open for her while she places teasing kisses closer and closer to your center.

her tongue feels like heaven and hell all at once on your clit, your moans turning into squeals as she slides the muscle into your hole, indulging in your whimpers and whines that she "feels so big!" and how it's just "too much!"

you're so cute in how you squirm, tearing up when her nails pierce your flesh, drawing bubbles of blood with how animalistic she is in devouring your cunt.

and, oh, your tears look so pretty, pooling in your eyes, dripping down your cheeks as she pushes you over the edge several times until your slick is smeared across her face and your thighs.

as she leans up, you feel a hardness brush your thighs, looking down with exhaustion and curiosity at her once flat slit. she grins, cheeky bastard, at how your eyes widen.

"what is that?" you ask, almost breathlessly. she guides your hand to wrap around her, hissing as your palm touches her flesh.

her hand carries yours in a steady rhythm, your eyes never leaving her cock as you look at the slick beading at her tip. it seems a lot wetter than a human's would be...slimier too.

your nose wrinkles, and she scoffs, moving your hand faster, coating your skin in the substance. she brings herself right over the edge with practiced movements, spurting across your hand and chest, some splattering onto your face as you blink, shocked.

she cleans you up with a dangerously sharp thumb, making you lick it up off her hand. "that's it, good girl." her voice is low, pleased as she pulls you back into the water, tip prodding at your entrance.

it seems her refractory time puzzles you as you whine while she teases your already over-sensitive clit. "hush." she silences you by sliding her tongue into your mouth, making you taste yourself while she pulls you down onto her.

you mewl, eyes scrunching shut as she stretches you out for the first time together. you feel so full despite only having a few inches of her inside. she completely covers your body, her full chest brushing yours as she keeps you close to her.

once she finally has you seated against her, you're already shaking and whimpering, trying to escape from being so full.

"too- too much! can't-!"

"you can." she asserts. "how else am i to breed you?" she grunts and you whine for her so prettily, arching up against her.

your moans are like music to her ears as she fucks you impossibly deep, nestling into your g-spot while you squeeze around her. she grunts praises into your ear, grabbing at your body while the jewels she's decorated you with clink together with each thrust.

such a prized and pretty pet you are all for her. and what an even lovlier mate you're going to make once she fills you up with her eggs... she can picture it now, the two of you raising your little hatchlings together.

just the thought has her hips stuttering as she begins to put her focus into getting you off one last time. the perfect orgasm to send you into euphoria to distract you from the impending discomfort of depositing her eggs.

you cum so beautifully for her, crying out as you coat her cock once more, giving her the opportunity to push deeper, hearing your startled moan as something round pushes into you.

"what- what's-" you stutter, feebly grabbing onto her shoulders as you look down at your stomach, seeing a strange roundness.

she coos at you, almost condescendingly, as she grunts, pulling you close and depositing the last of her eggs. "you're going to be a wonderful mother, pet. don't worry, i'll take good care of you." she purrs, cuddling you closer as the realization dawns upon you.

but you're much too sleepy, eyes closing as you curl up against her body, letting her bob in the water and lull you to sleep with promises of being a wonderful mate.

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magicalbats · 5 months ago

Text

Soft Edges (Harumasa x Reader)

Rating: R-18+

Word Count: 3756

Warnings: afab!reader, chronic illness, piv, condoms, angst with porn

⭐

Spring rains bring summer flowers, and the clawing death rattle at the end of the world.

The moisture in the air bothers his lungs.

You spend some time puttering around in his small kitchenette, preparing a herbal infused tea to help soothe the ache in his throat while he coughs and hacks incessantly in the other room. It makes the one bedroom apartment smell vaguely like an apothecary rather than a hospital bed.

That seems to come as a relief almost as much as the warm drink does when he sips on it, humming a low sound of appreciation before thanking you for the thoughtful gesture.

Sitting on the edge of the mattress with him, you study Harumasa for any signs of further deterioration in his condition. There were good days and there were bad days, and today was just unfortunate enough to be one of the latter. The hot tea and its medicinal properties seem to do him some good though. He doesn’t look like he’s in the process of actively dying on you, at least.

Noticing your lingering stare on him, he lifts his attention to peer over at you. “What? Is there something on my face?” His voice is still a bit raspy. Weak.

“It’s nothing.”

“Oh, come on. Tell me where it is so I can get it.” His unoccupied hand, the one not currently wrapped around the cup he’s got braced against his knee, comes up to swipe at the corner of his mouth, his cheek. But the knowing twinkle in his eye belies his sincerity and gives him away.

Laughing despite your best attempt not to, you reach out to gently tug his arm back down. “Stop that. You know I’m just worried about you. It’s not nice to tease me.”

“But I told you I’m fine, sweetheart. There’s nothing to worry about.” He assures you, his fingers snatching at yours before you can pull them out of his reach.

Successfully snagging them, he makes quick work of sliding his palm over yours and fitting the digits together like they were a perfectly aligned puzzle snapping into place.

And beyond the sterile sanctity of his apartment, the pelting rain buffets at the windows, an incessant staccato played to the tune of the howling wind.

His skin feels clammy, you notice, and you wonder if you should go get the space heater out of the closet in the hallway. It was almost summer in New Eridu but the rain had brought with it an unseasonable chill that had even made you opt for a hoodie before venturing outside. He was probably feeling it worse than you were.

“Haru - -“

“You don’t need to fret over me so much every time you come over,” He tells you gently, his thumb idly brushing over the back of your knuckles. “No matter how much you may want to be, you’re not actually a nurse you know. And for the better, really.”

“Why is that?” You ask, earning yourself a softly husking laugh from him.

“You’re way too cute, for starters. I’d never be able to control myself and I’d get into all sorts of trouble. Can you imagine your patient popping a hard on in the middle of you trying to help them get dressed? You’d hate it too, don’t lie.”

Rolling your eyes at that, you start to pull away but he holds fast to your hand. The way he snickers, low and quiet, like his lungs couldn’t take anything more than that, almost pulls at your heartstrings enough to distract you from his real angle. But at the same time it’s also an intimately familiar sound that you don’t associate with his illness at all, in so much as you could separate one from the other. He often laughed like that when he was in the process of turning your own body utterly against you.

Warming at the thought, you shoot him a halfhearted look of warning. “I guess it’s a good thing you’re not incapable of dressing yourself then.”

“Mm, perhaps. But I’m afraid that’s not gonna’ stop me from getting a hard on though.”

He throws you a playful wink to go with it and you draw a quick breath to chide him for not taking his health more seriously, for always downplaying his own mysterious maladies. But the words catch in your throat when he suddenly tugs your captured hand across his lap.

Right into the center is where he presses it, making sure you feel the stirring outline of him through his cozy pajama bottoms. That he’d managed to change into them at all before knocking out under the medicated lull of myriad sleep aids and nervous system suppressing narcotics the night before was likely a small miracle. Sometimes the looming possibility of Harumasa needing help with basic everyday functions like dressing himself did not seem like such a far off what-if.

It was not yet that day though and he was still in control of his body, at least for the time being.

Lifting your gaze, you find his eyes underneath the attractively tousled fringe of his bangs where it was slipping forward without the usual headband in place to keep his hair back. He’s smiling at you, a barely there upward curl of his mouth that almost reads of fatigue rather than sly intent. The ghostly suggestion of tension lines on his otherwise blemish free face further solidifies that impression.

But the way he looks at you speaks volumes, loudly conveying the message of the young man he might have been if he were not so plagued by ill health. He was sickly, yes. There was no getting around that uncomfortable truth no matter how much he tried to write off the severity of it.

Yet he was by all accounts in the prime of his life, or he should have been anyway. Just a headstrong twenty something with the libido to match. He wanted to live, to experience. You could certainly give him that.

“Are you sure?” At his nod, you carefully adjust your hand to close your fingers around the slowly stiffening length of him. He breathes a quiet sigh when you squeeze it through the thin layer of his bottoms. Keen and perfectly eager, but as always you were wary about going into it too hard and too fast. Especially after that coughing fit he had earlier …

“Don’t make that face,” He murmurs. Stretching his arm out to the side, he sets the nearly empty cup on the bedside table right next to the menagerie of prescription pill bottles left out in disarray. “You’re not going to break me or kill me. Promise. I said I’m fine, didn’t I?”

You think the two of you must have drastically different ideas of what it means to be fine but you don’t say that to him or push the topic any further than that. For his sake as much as for your own.

And when Harumasa reaches for you, pulling you in against him, you willingly relent and sink happily into the familiar warmth of his lean, athletic frame. He feels sturdy enough that you don’t let your mind linger on it any longer than necessary and instead give yourself over to the searing kiss he presses into your mouth. You trust him to know his own limits, to recognize when something was actually wrong versus when he was just going through a bad flare up or having a shitty day. If he was feeling well enough to initiate this then you were happy to oblige.

Which was the real crux of it, wasn’t it? The problem with a casual hookup turned long term relationship through some inexplicable means that you still weren’t entirely clear on even to this very day. What should have been a one time exchange somehow became months spent together, and now these sorts of physical exchanges were one of the rare comforts you still had that everything was going to be okay. Somehow, someway, it would all work out in the end.

Because he certainly doesn’t seem frail and prone to illness when he bodily hauls you up further onto the bed so he can toss you down next to him with an expert flip. Your weight bounces against the mattress once from the momentum and then he’s on top of you, pinning you in place underneath him. The Harumasa you’d met that very first night and the one you make herbal tea for to soothe his throat were sometimes difficult to reconcile in your mind. But there was no mistaking that they were indeed one and the same in moments like this.

Leaning over you, his mouth meets yours in a slow motion crash, hungry and eager to taste, eliciting a low moan of wanting from you. Kissing him back, you lift your arms to twine them around his neck while his hands slip under your hoodie to feel along your front. The shirt underneath is quickly rucked up to give him access to your chest where he hooks his fingers into the band of your bra, inching it down while his tongue tangles with yours.

You gladly arch into his touch and your tits slip free to brush against the interior of your sweatshirt unimpeded. The sensation makes you full on shudder. Tearing your mouth away from his, you loose a quaking exhale into the still apartment which he responds to with a soft groan. The sound makes your socked toes curl as he shoves a hard kiss into the soft swell of your cheek, your jaw, then your neck.

Unable to go any further past the bulk of the hood gathered around your throat, Harumasa pushes back just enough to give himself room to work. Grabbing the hem and shoving it up to bunch under your chin, he quickly brings his hands back down to slip them into your stretchy leggings next. Your achingly stiff nipples strain in the open air now, making the growing knot in your lower stomach tighten even more.

A new buzzing thrum of anticipation runs through you as you lift your hips up off the bed, allowing him the space needed to yank them down your legs. They’re immediately discarded as soon as he’s got them off, carelessly tossed to the floor before he crawls back up to cover your body with his again.

“You’re so beautiful,” He murmurs, lowering himself to his elbows so he can fully cage you in. His mouth finds its way to yours as if pulled by some invisible string and you drag your hands down his lithe frame while you exchange another heated kiss.

Sliding underneath the rumpled back of his long sleeved shirt, your fingers quickly locate the top band of his pants and tug. The two of you are pressed too tight together in a tangle of limbs, slowly grinding against one another, for you to pull them more than half of the way down. That’s decidedly fine though, and you take to gently kneading over the exposed strip of his ass with encouraging squeezes that just make him press into you even harder.

The outline of his cock is rigid and unrelenting where it digs against you, moulding your panties to the shape of your labia. You’re eager for the friction of his cock moving inside you, flesh sliding against warm, sticky flesh, and you can tell he is too. Yet he doesn’t rush it and instead takes his time savoringly rolling his hips as if to drag it out and make it last just that little bit longer.

Or, an unhelpful voice in the back of your mind suggests, maybe this slow tempoed pace is all he can handle right now.

That chilling thought curbs any impulse you might have to speed things up and take your pleasure from him, allowing Harumasa to set the pace while you simply follow his lead. The first night you’d met after a brief exchange of text messages you’d wrestled with him for dominance in this very bed to see who would come out on top. Now, however, you’re pliant and perfectly in tune with the signals of his body, lessening the demanding pressure of your hands when his breath starts to become a bit too labored.

Groaning a shuddering noise of appreciation, he nudges himself down to your chest where he covers one pert nipple with his mouth. A roughly calloused palm comes up to grab and pinch at the other while he suckles your teat to aching attention, using his lips and his tongue to lave at the bud. His pulse soon seems to even out again and the shallow contractions of his chest become not quite so dramatic. Still, you worry about him.

“You should switch me spots, Haru.” You tell him gently as you thread your fingers through his soft, silken hair, cradling him to your breast. “Let me be on top this time.”

Harumasa comes up off your tit to shoot you an overly confident smirk, one you’re not quite sure he can back up right now. But you don’t protest or tell him to stop when he reaches between you to fist at his pants, shoving them down in the front to let his cock spring loose. “That won’t be necessary. Really, I had no idea I was dating such a mother hen. I’m not made of glass, babe.”

A mournful chord curls through you, dousing the knotted heat in your stomach by some small margin.

At the same time the rain picks up outside as if mirroring the tumultuous rising current of emotion in your chest. It smacks at the windows so hard they begin to rattle in their frames, thunder booming loudly somewhere in the not far off distance. The storm was getting worse. You hope the electricity doesn’t go out.

“I know you’re not.”

“Well, that’s good to hear.” Keeping his tone light and playful, Harumasa stretches over you to pull open the bedside table drawer. A condom is quickly located and pulled out, the foil wrapper crinkling lightly when he starts to rip it open. “Even if I was on my deathbed I think I could still make you scream. I wouldn’t underestimate me if I were you.”

“Please don’t joke like that.” You snip back at him, not finding it even remotely funny. But he just laughs another low snickering sound as rolls the flesh colored rubber over his stiff cock almost down to the base. Feeling a mild pang of remorse, you draw a careful breath and say much more gently, “You don’t have to wear those if you don’t want to, Haru. I told you I’m taking birth control.”

Humming a quiet sound, he gives himself a brief pump of his hand over the latex before settling between your legs once again, his hips nudging close to line up with yours. “Don’t worry about it. This is just fine.”

You’re not so sure you believe that. But for as long as you've known him he’s always been adamant about using protection and you don’t understand his reasons enough to really argue against it. He’d said once he just didn’t want to take any risks or run the chance of leaving you worse off than when you’d met him. You hadn’t been sure what to make of that then and you still don’t know what to make of it now.

There were a great many things about Harumasa that remained a mystery to you though, like what exactly was wrong with him, what his diagnosis was. No matter how you posed the question he was never outright or forthcoming about that either. And while it bothered you sometimes, undeniably so, you’d found that your feelings for him were much too tender for you to push him on such topics. He’d tell you when and if he was ever ready.

So you reach up and take him into your arms, pulling him against your chest while he tugs your panties to the side with his thumb. His mouth angles towards yours on a steady, unfaltering trajectory and he kisses you deeply, sinking into you with a stilted sigh of relief.

The weight of his body coming to rest on top of you prods the head of his cock at your entrance, pushing in on clinging, sticky viscous arousal. You’re keenly aware of the heat of him even through the barrier of the condom and you issue a faint moan against his lips as your legs come up to lock around his waist. The careful squeeze you give him has Harumasa sinking inside you, slowly stretching your inner sleeve to the now familiar shape and size of him.

Another teeth rattling peel of thunder sounds right overhead, as if the very center of the storm was hovering directly above the building. Perhaps it was watching the scene play out, its destructive energy growing and cresting in time with your pleasure while the two of you move in tandem with each other. Or maybe it had taken offense to the measly little ants getting it on first thing in the morning instead of bowing down and cowering in the face of its mighty wrath.

Or maybe — just maybe, it was trying to warn you. One of you, both of you. You or him. It was impossible to say when the notion itself was so ludicrous but you can’t quite shake the feeling of existential uncertainty that sits like a lead weight in your gut now.

It feels good having him thrust inside of you, just like you’d known it would. If you were only a bit more naive, in fact, you might have almost thought Harumasa had been made for you, and you him, given the way he seems to rub against every single pleasure inducing nerve ending along the way. You can’t help but grow wetter for him, tightening for him when your muscles eagerly clench down on the steel of his galvanized length. And you freely moan into his mouth where he’s still kissing you between soft rattling groans but …

Why was he so dead set on using condoms even at this casually crucial junction of the relationship, after all these months spent together in sickness and in health? Did he not trust you? Did he think you were lying about the birth control and he simply wanted to avoid being stuck with you indefinitely?

Or — could it actually be that the problem lies with him, resting squarely on his shoulders rather than yours? Did he fear what taking that final step would mean, what the end result of it might manifest when he was always prone to bad bouts of illness?

Was the looming possibility of the existential end really so close that he needed to worry about such things?

This was no way for a twenty something to live, and you cling to him all the more fervently for it, desperately clutching him to you like a lifeline. You wanted to save him but you don’t know how, so you open your body to him instead. Shelter, comfort and peace; the safe haven of flesh and blood, and heated breaths swapped back and forth between two locked mouths.

And Harumasa gladly loses himself in you as if in chasing his release he could also escape the cold, bony fingers that hover just out of reach behind him. His flexing hips quicken, smacking into you with abandon now, and he sobs a frantic moan that you greedily swallow, taking it into yourself before feeding it back to him.

His skin is so clammy under your hands. Like even the flush of arousal couldn’t completely disperse the chill that’s taken up root in him, and your heart skips a harrowing beat when his labored breaths suddenly turn thick with choking little gasps. His chest positively heaves against yours as your hands fly up to take his cheeks between your palms, carefully pushing him back just enough to look into his face.

Expression wretched, Harumasa whimpers a low sound as if in apology while his pace slows to a weak crawl, almost a total standstill. He doesn’t completely stop fucking into you though, his cock stiffly nudging through your slick inner sleeve at such a stilted, uneven rhythm you know finishing like this will be impossible for you. But that doesn’t really matter now. It’s the very least of your concerns as you softly shush him, cooing gentle reassurances that make him screw his eyes shut as if he were in pain.

He barely manages to reach his peak before the coughing takes hold of him again. It doubles him over and makes him collapse on top of you where he proceeds to shove his face into the pillow next to your head. You’re only distantly aware of his cock flexing within you and filling the tip of the condom with impotent seed, the vast majority of your attention fixed on the way he hacks and wheezes through the fit that assails him. It bows his spine into a dramatic, worrying hunch which you gently try to smooth out with your hand. It’s no use though. He can’t seem to get it under control.

“Harumasa, let me help you.”

“I’m fine, I’m fine.” He croaks, very clearly not fine.

Sucking in a sharp, clawing breath that seems to rip his throat on the way down, he slowly manages to rouse himself enough to pull out and roll off of you. You’re quick to follow him though, pushing up to your elbow so you can look down at him while your hand continues to ineffectively rub over his shuddering back. He sounds like he’s going to cough out a lung. The thought of calling for an ambulance momentarily crosses your mind but you know how he feels about the hospital. Only if it’s an actual emergency, he’d once told you.

But how the hell were you supposed to know when that line had been crossed?

Unsure what else to do, you lean further over him so you can reach down and carefully help him take the used condom off. It’s a difficult task in this position, when he’s half curled over on his side like this, still struggling to get his breathing under control, but you manage, somehow. Just like with everything else, you try to make it work.

And outside the unsympathetic storm rages on.

⭐

Crossposted: here

#zenless zone zero #harumasa asaba #harumasa x reader #self insert bullshit

336 notes · View notes

xan-izme · 8 months ago

Text

Double life 13 (ATSV x reader x batfam)

summary: You can't get a break. Not even for a second

TW: Angst, mental health issues, cursing, hallucinations, mentions of death

Part 12, Part 14

Bruce was the world's greatest detective. And a father. So, he was bound to pick up on a few things. He had suspicions of you hiding something. But he assumed it was due to it being an effect of losing your mother.

But ever since Jason began to stay at the manor longer than a day or two(which was surprising) he began to notice small things. He began to notice how you two would often be together. Not as often as you were with Damian of course. But wherever you were Jason was there as well.

He assumed you two were just getting along. And he was happy about that. But he would catch you two giving each other small knowing looks. The two of you whispering to each other or giving each other signals.

Yes, everyone else in the house does this with each other as well. But the way you and Jason would do it was more like a secret. A secret only you two would have with each other. Maybe it was some inside joke or some odd bonding thing you two had.

Bruce tried not to pry into your life too much. Especially after the argument you two had.

But the more he sat and thought about the argument instead of sulking. Something he said to you ticked you off. Of course, his words got you pissed, but he has this, itching feeling that his words meant far more than you led on.

So, he put you in therapy. And might have bribed the therapist to install a nanny-cam so he can see and listen in on your sessions. . . yes not his most honorable moment. But that itching feeling just kept growing and growing.

So, every session you had. He was watching. And he was slowly seeing you in a more, brighter light. You would laugh as you crack up jokes. Your smile made him smile. The way you would play with some of the toy's Mrs. Dean had warmed his heart. (He might have bought a few dozen plushies to give to you soon)

You spoke about him. And you had no resentment. You even spoke about how you wanted to apologize to him. How you felt like you were in the wrong.

Bruce honestly felt like he didn't deserve you at this point. You were so kindhearted. You spoke about him and everyone else with so much love.

But don't think Bruce didn't pick up those small moments of hesitations. When Mrs. Dean would try and dig deeper into you in any emotional way involving just you. There would be this, small pause that felt like more than a minute. The look in your eyes. The same look he saw you with at that party with your mother's side of the family.

He knows that look far too well.

You hate yourself.

This realization. Kind of broke him a little. His little girl hates herself. Why didn't he see this sooner? he feels like a fool. He's trying to piece everything together. Why would you hate yourself. Your perfect. A little broken. But that just makes Bruce love you more.

As he's trying to piece things together. To understand fully of what was going on with you. There were always blank spots that he couldn't fill in. This was a puzzle. I not a hard one but not easy either. He was able to dig deeper in on you.

He went as far as to hacking into your phone. Yes. His overstepping it but he wasn't going into your messages or socials. Only your call history and photos. It was very sad to see most of your recent calls were to your mother's number, of course those calls were not answered.

Your photos were filled with family pictures and- odd. Pictures that seemed to be in an almost hidden file was filled with unfamiliar faces. He scans the faces through his system. But he found nothing. That, that was odd.

Tim walked into the Batcave, he wanted to report to Bruce and tell him he was going to be playing games with you tonight instead of going out on patrol. As he walked down the stairs. He hears what sounds like a recording of a woman talking.

He's brow arched up curiously as he reached the bottom of the stairs. Bruce doesn't seem to notice him yet.

"You don't seem to be the type to hold a grudge."

The voice of the woman who spoke just now was unfamiliar to Tim.

"Oh no. I hold grudges."

Another voice spoke. Younger. It sounded a lot like. . .

"If I fully give you my trust and loyalty. I expect it not to be broken or abused."

It was you. A recording of you speaking to someone. Why would Bruce be listening to this.

"Uh . . .Bruce?" Tim finally spoke up. Bruce turns around, looking a little like he was caught off guard. Too focused on listening to the recording. Tim walked closer looking confused.

"What are you-" Tim was cut off as your voice was heard once again.

"If I give my trust and loyalty to someone. I give them my heart."

Tim frowns. He's realizing what Bruce was listening to. "Is that- Are you spying on Y/n's therapy sessions?"

Bruce was quick to shut off the recording. Letting out a deep sigh.

"Weren't you the one who didn't want us to invade her privacy?" Tim was reasonable. You going to therapy is actually a good thing, because at least someone in their family was going to therapy.

But just to find out Bruce was spying on your sessions was just. . . disappointing.

"For a good reason." Bruces statement just angered Tim even more.

"Good reason? Bruce, she's a 16-year-old girl who's pouring her heart out to someone you paid to listen to her problems. If you were going to just going to do this. Talking to her would have been a better option." Tim crossed his arms with a deep frown.

"She won't talk to me Tim. . . she's hiding something." Bruce sighed as he looked back down at the recording.

"That doesn't mean you should be doing whatever this is!"

As Tim and Bruce argued, Dick came down with a box of pizza and a smile.

"Hey, I brought Pizza-" Dick cut himself off as he stumbled upon Tim and Bruce arguing.

"Whoa, whoa. What's going on here?" Dick walks up to the two with a slight nervous smile. Tim doesn't look all too happy.

"He's been spying on Y/n's therapy sessions!" Tim's words caused Dick's smile to slowly drop.

"Oh. . . oh Bruce that's not. . ."

Dick was trying so hard not to give Bruce a look of hard judgment. But in his attempt to do that his face forms cringe.

A school trip to a museum was giving you Daja'vu from your last field trip. Didn't go well due to the result of getting bitten by a spider and having long-lasting trauma from there on out.

You stared at a painting, a spider devouring a butterfly who was unfortunate enough to be caught in its web.

"Kind of a sad painting don't you think?" Someone spoke up.

You turn your head and see Jason. You don't seem surprised; you slowly turn back to the painting.

"Didn't think paint museums were your thing." You say as your eyes stayed trained on the spider eating the poor butterfly. Jason couldn't help but chuckle. "What do you think my thing is exactly?" He asks as he tilts his head while staring at the painting with you.

"Bird cage maybe. Isn't that where a bird like you should be?" You spoke almost mockingly. "Actually, I feel like that painting over there would be more of your taste." Your head jesters to a painting behind the two of you. Jason glanced back to see a painting of a bird being attacked by a black snake with green eyes.

What was painfully ironic about the painting, was that the bird was a robin.

". . ." That was a personal jab. Jason would usually get angry and curse someone out. But this was you, and he honestly understands your hate. Even when you say something cruel, he knows it's not aimed to him directly. But to yourself.

Jason stared back at the painting of the spider and butterfly. Then stared at you. You stared at the painting with, sympathy . . .?

No. Thats not it. Empathy maybe?

"The butterfly, do you feel bad for it?" His body facing you while his eyes stayed focus on your expression.

"It's the spider I pity."

Jason's brow raises from your words. "The spider?"

You stay silent for a moment.

"People hate the spider, for something it can't control. Kind of unfair if you ask me." Your stare didn't seem to be focused on the painting, seeming to be beyond that.

"Your weird" Jason mumbled. Not fully understanding what you were meaning.

Suddenly your spider senses spiked up. You were quick to grab Jason and pull him away causing you two to fall to the ground, right before a bomb was set off.

Jason was quick to get onto his feet

"Stay." Was all he said before running off. You got off the ground and scanned the area before running off to try and help others to get up and evacuate. Your spider senses were going crazy. People were screaming and the building was shaking.

you were so distracted you didn't notice something rolling to your feet. A smoke bomb. But the moment you noticed it, it was too late. Red smoke exploded into your face.

The sound of a ticking clock, the lights dimmed. You were in a chair, blinking a few times. Trying to process how you got here, you look up to see Mrs. Dean. Sitting on the chair across from you.

". . . Mrs. Dean?" Confusion was quick to take over you.

The air felt eerie, and oddly damp. You glanced around and see your in her office. You see Mrs. Dean talking. Her mouth moving but you heard nothing.

"I- I can't hear you-"

"Do you blame yourself?"

You stayed silent for a moment, Confused. You were getting this, unsettling feeling, causing you to grip the onto the chair you seem to not be able to get off from.

"What?" You spoke, almost in a whisper

"Well, it's quite common in this situation for a patient to feel a sort of guilt"

Your brows furrowed by Mrs. Deans statement.

"What situation. . .?"

Mrs. Dean doesn't answer. She freezes almost. No movement. Like she's been paused.

Your surroundings glitch.

And you're standing outside. In the rain, ruins around you. You couldn't process anything. Because you were staring down.

Starring down at a motionless body. The face. She doesn't have a face.

Where is her face. She's supposed to have a face, right? why doesn't she have a face? What is it supposed to look like?-

. . . who is this?

Your supposed to know who this is. But you don't. Why can't you remember? This isn't right. . . .

different faces glitch onto the woman. But none of them were right.

Why can't you remember?

what's wrong with you?

Why can't you remember?

Suddenly your body began to move. Your hands slowly move up to reveal blood. Your breathing increased, panic, dread. Utter dread.

"AAAAHHHHH!!!"

"Shit!" Jason struggled to hold you down. Bruce shouted for Dick to open the pod to get you out of this hallucinating state you were in due to the fear toxin. Your blood curdling screams echoed throughout the Batcave.

Your body thrashed as you screamed and cried. Your screaming was throwing Jason off. And it hurt. It hurt seeing you like this more than he would think. Bruce took hold of you and told Jason to grab a syringe to knock you out.

Bruce held onto you tight. You screamed out.

"Please! No- NO NO PLEASE NO!"

Jason ran back with the syringe and stuck it into your neck. You flinched, your head falling back as your eyelids slowly close.

"Mama . . ." You whispered, only audible for Jason and Bruce to hear. Giving the two men a few seconds of silence before Bruce quickly carried you to the pod.

--__--__--__--__--__--__--__--__--__--__--__--__--__--__--__--__--__-

A/n: Yup, I'm back. Hope y'all are having a good school year for those in school. Hope y'all liked this one and feel free to give me any tips on making more unsettling seance (I just noticed I reached 1,007 followers. You guys going crazy with this)

@huening-ly,@mariadvorak, @superherosdystopiafreak, @chelluv, @houseissofine, @esposadomd, @greyeyedmockingbird, @1-800-daisy, @c0c0-puffsxxx @arthurswife, @h0rr0r-10ver-69, @josiepapen, @natashanice165, @amber-content, @mahbeanz @azurewisteria, @seraph101, @skepvids, @lara20aral, @iwasveronica, @jackrabbitem, @nickey-diano, @idonthaveanameforthisacc, @sekidekiboombeki, @masters-blog, @lulpeepkins, @sgarrush-blush, @redsakura101, @danart501, @definitely-not-sammie, @khaleesihavilliard, @reallynotsoconfident, @uknowimdumb, @bat1212

#atsv x reader #miles morales #miguel o'hara #x daughter!reader #bruce wayne x daughter!reader #damian wayne #batfam x reader #bruce wayne #dick grayson #angst #delusional #death mention tw #mental health #hallucinations tw #tim drake #jason todd #alfred pennyworth

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after-witch · 1 year ago

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Fever Pitch [Yandere Geto Suguru x Reader]

Title: Fever Pitch [Yandere Geto x Reader]

Synopsis: Geto’s been hit by a lust curse, and you take what little control you have to avoid him snapping. Follow-up to Bus Stop.

Word Count: 3200ish

Notes: yandere, kidnapped reader, dubcon, sex, some mentions of past degradation

It’s funny, the way you can get used to anything. When you were first taken, you would have sworn--on your heart, your soul, on blood from a cut on your palm--that you would fight, hiss, and spit at Geto until the day you died.

And now here you are, nestled on a seat cushion in his sitting room, quietly reading a book while he’s off collecting curses and doing favors that aren’t really true favors at all. The person assigned to you today is a familiar face, someone you don’t entirely detest, if only because they are content to keep an eye on you without emanating visible hatred towards your existence at every second.

They were even kind--or what classifies as “kind” here--enough to lend you their scissors a few weeks ago, when someone stuck a wad of sticky bubble gum in your hair as they passed you in a hallway. Sure, they kept an eye on you the entire time in order to make sure you weren’t trying to stab yourself (or anyone else); but they said nothing as you hacked at your own hair, eventually giving yourself a passable pixie cut.

Geto had raised his eyebrows when he came back that day, and had a quiet word with your keeper. But you didn’t get punished, so that was that. Cutting off your hair felt good, even. Like you were cutting out whatever part of yourself was still simmering in pointless anger at your situation. Why be angry, why be in despair, when nothing you did mattered? You ran once. He found you. If you bothered to run again--not that you’d get the chance--he would find you again. And again.

It was better to find something like enjoyment instead of wallowing.

Wasn’t it?

Besides, even Geto had been different since the day he found you. He seemed content for you to be a quiet pet again. He no longer visited you in the night, touching you, forcing pleasures and sounds you didn’t want to experience from his fingers, even as he commanded you to always keep your arms away from him. He was allowed to touch--but you weren’t allowed to touch him. You hated it.

But he hadn’t touched you in the slightest intimate way since that day. Unless you counted the condescending head pats as intimate, which you certainly did not.

You hear Geto’s footsteps, and your muscles tense in preparation. You carefully set a bookmark in your book and set it aside; he didn’t like it when you paid attention to a book instead of him. Especially when he’d been gone for most of the day.

But something’s wrong. Something’s different.

These are not the orderly footsteps of Geto returning to his rooms at the end of a (horribly) productive day. These steps are staggered--hesitant.

Strange.

Your current keeper stands when Geto enters, but he simply dismisses them with a wave of his hand and an unusually curt: “Leave.”

They hazard a glance at you--it almost feels kind--before swiftly grabbing their bag and walking away, hurried steps echoing in the hallway that leads to his suite of rooms.

As soon as they’re out of earshot, Geto begins to shed his clothing. Now this wasn’t unusual. He preferred to wear only a casual outfit around you, some trousers and a light top most of the time. What was unusual was the undignified manner in which he did it, simply peeling away his layers and tossing them on the ground, all the while his breath seemed to come in quiet, stuttering pants.

It’s enough to make you break your gaze from the floor and look at him.

Geto looks… ill. His cheeks are flushed and yes, his chest is heaving a little as he takes in short, frenzied breaths. Even the skin of his neck and collar had a slight glow to it, like he’d been exercising vigorously or done something terribly embarrassing.

“Geto?” You ask, hesitantly. You flick your eyes back down to the floor, where you’re told they belong until he says otherwise.

He doesn’t answer. The final layers of his robes drop to the floor.

Normally, he would approach you now, calmly. He might tilt your chin up with his hand and ask what you did today--if you were good, if you behaved.

Instead he staggers away, catching himself on the corner of a table.

“Geto?” You try again, voice higher, more concerned.

You look up to see him with both palms splayed on the table, breaths coming in deeper huffs. His skin is still flushed--it’s so strange--and you swear the room feels warmer than it did a few moments ago.

His fingers curl against the table into a tight fist, then release, then curl again. His breath comes in more ragged by the moment. There’s an unmistakable soft groan--in pain? Discomfort?

“Are you… all right?” You ask, and do the boldest thing possible in your present situation, which happens to be standing up on shaky legs and taking a step towards him.

“Don’t.” The word is practically growled out, and your muscles freeze for the moment, keeping you in place.

He turns to look at you, but instead of looking angry, he looks… desperate. His eyes roam over you and his lips part, and you see the edge of his tongue reach out to lick a dry patch as he struggles to regain control over his breath.

The expression hits you and it’s oh-so familiar and you don’t like it at all.

Geto isn’t sick.

He’s aroused.

You reach up to clutch at your shirt, fidgeting with the fabric like it might actually provide comfort in this unsure situation.

“What… happened?”

He doesn’t answer at first. His mouth twists into something like a grin, but it’s twitchy, uncontrolled. He chuckles slowly.

“A curse. I should have taken a closer look, but--” He lets out a pained sigh and squeezes his eyes shut. “I was distracted. Foolish. Stupid.”

You--perhaps foolish, stupid--take a step forward. Little pieces find themselves fitting together in your brain, trying to create a plan for what will come ahead. It’s how you’ve managed to survive so far, isn’t it? Taking in everything about your situation and acting accordingly to preserve your health and sanity?

“What… kind of curse?” You ask, and take more steps, until you’re close enough that you can feel some of the unnatural warmth from his body.

He looks at you slowly, his eyes almost rolling in a way that makes your stomach turn. You perhaps don’t need to actually hear the answer. It’s become clear, with the way he’s panting, the way his skin is flushed, the awful warmth from being so close to him. But it’s best for him to admit it, anyway, and confirm it to your whirring brain.

“Lust.”

Something seems to roil through him and he leans down, groaning in an uninhibited way that makes cold fear crawl up your arms, despite the warmth from Geto’s body. This close, you can see the sweat beading on his forehead, and when you glance down, his hardness is evident through his trousers.

Oh, you’re going to be fucked by the end of the night. You know it. It’s an inevitability.

What if it’s like before? When he would be rough and fast, and it would feel good and terrible all at the same time? When you felt like you had no control over what was done to you, and what you were made to do? The shame that would spread through your body afterward was nearly unbearable.

No… it was better to take charge yourself, wasn’t it? The only other option was to wait for him to snap. And if he was influenced by some lust-filled curse, there’s no telling what he might do.

So you’ll take care of him before he can reach that breaking point.

“Geto,” you say, and your hand reaches out slowly, like he’s a wild dog (perhaps he is) until it rests just above his back. Close enough for him to sense you. Although attempting to touch him without permission would normally have earned you a slap on the wrist and a reprimand, Geto leans into your palm, letting out a soft, pleased noise, as if your palm resting on his back was something far more wonderful.

“Let me… take care of you,” you manage, tongue sticking to the roof of your mouth before you force it loose to say the words. He doesn’t answer, breath still coming out in a pant.

“Let’s go to the bedroom.” You speak louder, more firmly. More sure of yourself, even if a large part of you is wondering if this is a terrible idea after all. But it’s better to get it over with; to do this on your terms, or as much of your terms as you can manage. You can at least admit that.

Geto doesn’t answer, and you’re about to say something else when he grabs your wrist--it’s too tight, his palm is sweaty--and begins to pull you towards the bedroom. Your house slippers scuff on the floor from the unsteady force of his grip, but you manage not to fall.

Later, you will wonder--if you did trip in that moment, would he have simply taken you on the floor? It was a distinct possibility.

But you don’t fall. You make it to the bedroom and he lets go of you, stripping off his clothes with a frenzy that is completely unlike him. You don’t wait for an order to remove your own clothing. He might not have even been in the right frame of mind to remember that you’re normally supposed to wait for his order on everything. Or perhaps it has been so long since he’d touched you this way, he didn’t even think of giving it in the first place.

When he turns around, both of you are naked. His hardness is evident, erect and pressing against his flushed body. You can see wetness around his tip and something between your leg twinges in both pleasant anticipation and worry at what this curse-induced arousal might mean for the both of you.

“Well?” He says, voice thick and low.

You swallow against your throat, against the worries that normally come with seeing Geto naked. You remind yourself that this is different. That you’re taking control, as much as you can get, with him so afflicted. It won’t be like before, surely, when he would use you and leave you alone like the toy that you were afterward.

“Lay on the bed,” you command. Your body flinches instinctively at the audacity of it. “Please,” you add, but he doesn’t seem to mind your forwardness in this moment. He crawls on the bed and leans back against the pillows, keeping himself half-upright as he watches you.

You glance down at his cock. It twitches, ever so slightly, and you feel yourself twitch between your legs to match it. Was it because it had been so long? Or because you were the one telling him what to do? Or some awful mixture of both, and more besides?

It was hard to tell what was normal and what wasn’t in the fucked up state of your existence.

“Get on the bed.” It’s his turn to give a command, and you’re quick to obey it. For as much as you’re taking the initiative, you can’t let yourself forget who owns you, perhaps literally. Even if he’s currently flushed and woozy and subject to the demands of the arousal forced upon him by some wayward curse.

You climb on the bed and crawl until you’re positioned with your knees on either side of his hips. It’s the first time you’ve been above him. It would be out of the question, you think, before. He liked to remind you where you belonged in the literal sense, and that had extended to sexual positions.

Instinctively, your hands go behind your back, folding primly. You’re not supposed to touch him during sex. You know that. It’s been the rule; it was one of the first things he drilled into your head when he began fucking you. He was allowed to touch you in any way he wanted; stroking and pinching and whatever else fell within his whims. But you? You keep your filthy hands to yourself.

And so, it’s with your hands behind your back that you carefully begin to lower yourself onto his erect cock.

He gasps and groans, and you do, too. Your twinges were not enough to get you properly wet, and it hurts as you lower yourself down. But the flush on his face and the feeling of being full after so long begins to grant you the warmth necessary to produce your own slickness, easing the passage just a little as you take all of him in. Not enough for it to be painless. But it’s not like that ever mattered before.

“Fuck,” he spits out, throwing his head back from there mere sensation of your pussy taking in his erection. You feel yourself clench him and he hisses in delight. It makes you feel a bit giddy, to affect him like this, with so little.

Your fists clench behind your back as he bottoms out inside you, and your own groan joins his as you steady yourself, keeping your balance as you sit on top of him. His cock twitches inside you and you let out a sigh, leaning forward. Your hair tickles your ears.

He’s looking up at you, hips writhing in a way that makes you gasp.

“Touch me.”

You think you must have misheard him.

“I said touch me,” he says, more forceful, the arousal pulsing through him giving his voice a thick tinge. He thrusts his hips and you bump upwards, in discomfort yes, but also a growing sense of your own arousal at the fullness and friction inside you.

“All--” You gasp when he thrusts again, and perhaps the idea of taking too much control was an illusion. “All right!” Your hands slowly come out from behind your back and with a hesitation that comes from months of being trained otherwise, you slowly lower your hands to rest on his hips.

Slowly, you trail your hands up to his chest, eyeing his nipples. How long had they been erect? Was it before or after you lowered yourself on him? It doesn’t matter. You begin to pull yourself up, timing your own movements with his now-shallow thrusting. As you do, your hands rest on his nipples, rubbing them slowly with your palm--the way he sometimes does to you, if he’s not pinching them harshly to make you squeal.

“Yes,” he murmurs. “Just… just like that. Good pet.”

And there again, the sight of his pleasure from your touch, his raise, makes you clench… which makes him hiss in pleasure, which makes you giddy.

It’s a wonderful cycle, and so different from all of the other times he’s fucked you. This is almost nice, in its own way. To be above him, mostly in control of how fast you move, how much of him you take in and out as you lift yourself up and down on his cock.

“Faster,” he says, and you don’t mind obeying. One of your hands still toys with his nipple while the other reaches between your own legs and thumbs at your clit. It’s audacious, really--you’re not supposed to pleasure yourself without his permission.

But he doesn’t tell you to stop. Instead he simply watches the way your thumb rubs against your clit; does he enjoy the sight of his cock inside you, the way your pussy takes him as you use your leg muscles to thrust up and down?

He must, because you can feel your own arousal mixing with his, see the way his chest rises faster. Tell-tale signs that he’s getting close.

“Stop,” he orders suddenly. “Get off me.” His voice is still low, still filled with lust, but there’s something else in it. Something more familiar.

“Geto?” You ask, confused, your own voice coated with arousal that’s just about to reach its peak. It’s disappointing to stop now, but you know better than to disobey. Even right now, or perhaps, especially right now.

He seems to regain a stronger semblance of himself. “Get off,,” he commands, and you do.

It doesn’t take long to realize why he gave the order. He swiftly grips your arms and flips you on the bed, your back pressing against the sheets that are warm with his own unmistakable body heat.

Now this is familiar. Geto above you, naked, flushed, aroused. And you, beneath him. But this time your arousal was of your own making, and there’s a sort of power in that, you think.

He’s back inside you and by this time you’re wet enough that it simply feels good to be filled again. His wrists keep your own pinned and you murmur a plea, you were so close, Geto--and to your surprise, one of his hands leaves your wrist to begin playing with your clit.

Arousal builds quickly this time, and you come without ceremony, your muscles clenching around him and legs kicking helplessly on the bed as he continues to touch you through your orgasm.

Familiar patterns set in, and as your own orgasm begins to fade out, you know what will happen now. He’ll fuck you faster and pull out as he comes–he refuses to finish inside you–and then leave you to yourself.. Maybe he’ll have to go another round to deal with the effects of this curse, but whatever change had been over him before, allowing you greater freedom, was surely gone.

Only… maybe not.

Because as you feel the familiar sensation of Geto pushing inside you harder and faster as he nears his release, something new happens. Something different. Something that makes butterflies and battery acid flutter in your stomach all at the same time.

He leans down and presses his lips against yours, tentatively at first, then harder, until you open up your mouth and let his tongue inside.

Geto kisses you. It’s a surprisingly passionate kiss, and you let out a yelp of surprise when he grips your chin and kisses you through his own orgasm.

He doesn’t even pull out. You feel his seed inside you for the first time, a liquid warmth. It’s uncomfortable and strange and you wonder how angry he’ll be, later on, that he did this.

He doesn’t stop kissing you until you’re breathing heavily through your nose, and when he pulls away you take in a gulp of air.

He stares down at you with something that looks like wonder. At himself… or you?

“Good pet,” he murmurs. But there’s no condescension in it today.

There’s an awful, naked vulnerability that washes over you.

Geto let you touch him. Geto kissed you.

Geto, Geto, Geto…

Was he going to be mad when this curse effect wore off? Would he get rid of you for making him violate so many of his own rules?

You don’t have time to think about it, because you realize he’s still hard, and he begins to thrust shallowly inside your overstimulated pussy.

He’ll have to go another round.

Afterward, sleep came without warning. You had simply closed your eyes when Geto finally pulled out and that was that.

You don’t know how much time has passed when you open your eyes, blinking away the grogginess of an unexpected nap.

There’s a soreness between your legs, which you expected. There’s the feeling of your body being used, a low openness that combines vulnerability and humiliation in a bittersweet mixture; which you expected.

You don’t expect to blink and see Geto sleeping beside you, his arm slung around your waist, keeping you in place.

Geto never slept with you like this. He would fuck you and use you and sometimes tell you that you were a good pet if he was in a jovial mood--and he would leave.

You’re afraid to move. If you wake him, will he be angry? Will he be annoyed that he let himself fall asleep beside you? Annoyed with himself for allowing it, or annoyed with you for being there?

You don’t move, but it doesn’t matter. His eyes flutter open and you feel the warmth of his breath on your face as he takes in the sight before him, as you just did.

He doesn’t furrow his eyebrows in irritation or fling himself out of bed or reprimand you for existing like this in his space. Instead he pulls you closer, until your face is pressed closer to his chest. It makes you feel something--warmth? Affection? Relief that you weren’t being yelled at for being bad?--and your hand slowly leaves your side to curl up against his chest.

He allows it.

“Go back to sleep,” he murmurs.

And you obey.

#yandere geto #yandere geto suguru #yandere jujutsu kaisen #yandere jjk #yandere #afterwitch writes

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marvelwitchergilmore · 11 days ago

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One Night

Summary: Joaquin Torres x fe!Reader -> One Night is never just one night.

Disclaimer: 16+ with sexual themes, FwB/enemies to lovers, swearing, platonic!Kate Bishop. Not Proof Read.

One Night.

They say it just takes One Night for everything to change. You just didn’t expect it to be that night.

When Kate walked into the compound kitchen and living area that morning, she had been expecting no-one. Not a single person.

Clint was at home with Laura and the kids, Natasha had wrangled Steve and Sam to help her plan Yelena’s birthday party, Bucky had been sent to talk to the cake shop since the owner seemed to always take a shine to him and practically melted any time he walked through the door. She was in her late eighties, but was quite possibly the most terrifying woman Natasha had ever met. So, Bucky it was.

Kate figured Joaquin would still be in bed since he’d finished up his work pretty late last night. He was still in his office when Kate walked by, having worked two hours of overtime herself.

As for Tony and everyone else, they were taking their long awaited vacations.

And as for you. Well, Kate had never woken up before you. In fact, nobody had. Not even Steve who’d wake up at four-thirty every morning to go for a run. Everyone was pretty sure you didn’t even own pajamas. They’d never seen you in them, for starters. And Kate was 97.6% sure you were a vampire, or some kind of supernatural creature that never seemed to sleep.

But that morning…

That morning she walked into the kitchen and living space to see you, stood by the kitchen island, stirring some creamer into your coffee, dressed in pajamas.

Kate had to take a mental image. Maybe more than one. You were human?!

Your hair was down from the usual braid-into-bun. You were wearing a short length, earthy green robe. With, from what Kate could gather, was a matching set underneath.

You hadn’t spotted her yet, which was also unusual. You’d usually say the person’s name before they even walked into the room, already knowing who they were. It made trying to get the jump on you all that more frustrating.

But Kate couldn’t even take any satisfaction out of scaring you when you jumped after spotting her, because you were in pajamas.

“Jesus, Kate. You nearly gave me a heart attack.”

Why were you in pajamas?

Was it your birthday?

No. Natasha had found out your birthday after hacking Shield’s computer system. It wasn’t your birthday.

Had you finally taken time off?

Were they a present? Maybe a Secret Santa gift for last year?

“Kate?”

“You’re in pajamas.”

Those were the only words she could form as she tried to figure out why.

You chuckled and looked down. “Yeah. Because it’s the morning and I just woke up.”

Kate’s eyes almost bugged out of her head. “You slept in?”

You looked at her, a little dumbfounded. “Yeah. I had a late night last night.”

“Doing what? You usually clock off at six like the rest of us.”

You shrugged. “I had some paperwork to catch up on. Are you okay?”

Kate had to physically shake her head in order to restart her entire body. Once she had done that, she moved closer into the kitchen like a normal person.

“Yeah. Yeah. Just surprised to find out you own pajamas. I thought you just kinda woke up ready for the day.”

“I wish, but no.” You smiled before lifting your coffee mug to your lips. And you were glad you had something to cover your face with because what happened next was not a situation you had fully prepared for.

“So, now that I know you own more than just tactical gear. I was thinking we could-”

“Morning.”

Kate looked behind her after hearing Joaquin’s voice as he walked inside, also in his pajamas.

“Morning,” you replied.

Kate’s head whipped around to look at you as Joaquin passed her. “Coffee?”

“In the pot,” you told him.

Kate was starting to give herself whiplash as she looked between yourself and Joaquin. The cogs started turning and the longer she watched both of you, the faster they started turning until they all finally clicked into place.

“What were you saying, Kate?”

Kate’s mind was screaming.

“Kate?”

The chair she had been sitting on practically fell over. “I need to speak to you. Now. Right now.” Kate rounded the kitchen island before taking you by your elbow.

“Hey, watch my coffee.”

Keeping a hold of your mug, you tried your hardest not to spill any as Kate dragged you from the room, down the hallway and around the corner and through the double doors that led out to a different section of the balcony.

“Kate, that the hell is wrong-”

“You slept with Joaquin?!”

Your shoulders somehow both relaxed and tensed. “Oh. That.”

“That?!” Kate spat in shock. “That?! Y/n!”

“It’s not as bad as it seems.”

“It’s not as bad as it seems? It’s not as bad as it seems?”

You looked at her, “Are you just gonna keep repeating what I say?”

“Y/n! It’s not like you two are known for frollacing on a beach together. Quite the opposite.”

Kate had you there. It wasn’t exactly a secret to people that you and Joaquin weren’t the best of friends. Or even co-workers. You didn’t know what it was, you just never got along. You spent more time fighting with each other that it would be more believable to be known for doing as much on a beach together, rather than frollocking.

“Kate-”

“How-How did this even happen? How long has this been going on? Oh, my god. Was it an act? Just to throw us off the scent?”

“No, no, no. Kate.” You put your coffee down on a table before taking her by the shoulders. “It’s nothing like that. It was just one night.”

Kate just sighed, “It’s never just one night.”

“Yes, it is.”

Kate became a little calmer, or rather, was starting to internalise her freak out. But it didn’t last long because the minute you let go of her, she threw her arms in the air. “God, I can’t believe this. God, what are the others gonna think?”

“They’re not gonna think anything because they’re not gonna find out. It was a one night thing. It didn’t mean anything.”

“You’re in pajamas. How long ago did-” Then Kate shook her head. “Nevermind, I don’t wanna know. Actually, yes I do. Hm, no. No, I don’t. Hm. Yes. No. Yes. Okay. No wait. Don’t tell me. Tell me.”

“Kate?”

She just nodded. “Tell me.”

“Are you sure?” You asked, suppressing the smile on your face.

“Yes.”

You waited for her to stop you again, but when she didn’t, you finally told her.

“It was late last night, and yes, he’s good. Whoever he ends up with will be a lucky woman.”

Kate looked up at you, a little shocked. She was pretty sure that was the very first compliment you’d ever given Joaquin. Like, ever.

“Wow.”

Kate finally sat down. After a morning training session and finding out about you and Joaquin…she was exhausted.

You sat opposite to her at the coffee table.

“Do you wanna talk about it?”

You raised an eyebrow with a chuckle escaping you. “Do you wanna talk about it?”

Kate looked at you. She did. She was more curious than scared. “How about I go and get dressed and we can head into the city? Go and check out that new boutique?”

“How do you do that?” That was what Kate had been planning to ask you before Joaquin walked inside.

“Give me twenty minutes.”

Over the next five hours, Kate asked you every question she could think of twice.

What the hell happened?

Did he kiss you first? Or was it you?

Did you enjoy it?

Did he enjoy it?

What the hell happened?

And you’d explained everything. At the makeup counter, at the deli, inside the curtain set up for two dressing rooms in the new boutique, at the coffee shop and on the drive both in and out of the city.

“I just…I can’t even imagine you two having a conversation. I mean, that’s what gave it away this morning. You never tell him where the coffee is, even when he asks. And you never say good morning to him.”

You chuckled. “Kate, it’s not a big deal. It was just one night.”

“That’s what they all say. And before you know it…it’s not just one night anymore.”

You had just rolled your eyes and brushed it off. You and Joaquin had both agreed before and after that it would be a one time thing.

You’d kissed him by accident. And after pulling away, he’d pulled you back. It had only gotten more heated from there until eventually you collapsed beside him in his bed. You’d both fallen asleep shortly afterwards and as much as part of you wanted to stay laying beside him when you woke up, you knew you couldn’t.

Though, maybe you should have. It would have saved you watching Kate have an aneurysm at realising exactly why you were in your pyjamas, why you had slept in, and why you were talking to Joaquin like you actually considered him a friend of some kind.

And you were both adamant it was to be a One Night thing. But apparently neither of you had factored into the conversation how good it truly was. Not just the sex, but not fighting each other all the time.

“I need you.”

You’d been walking down the hallway, minding your own business, when Bucky suddenly nearly pulled your arms out of its socket as he dragged you inside the training room. “Sam’s stuck me with the elementary kids.”

“What do you want me to do about it?” You asked, sounding a little mad.

“Just demonstrate something to the kids.”

“Like what?”

“I dunno. You and Joaquin figure something out.”

“Joaquin?” You practically threw up his name before Bucky answered, “Yes,” and threw you towards the training mat where you were met with Joaquin.

“Okay, kids, these two very helpful volunteers are gonna show you what sparring is.”

“We are?” You and Joaquin asked.

Apparently you were.

Which was how you found yourself and Joaquin explaining small moves that the kids could copy, safely. However, Joaquin had been enjoying himself far too much, so taking the opportunity to explain a small self-defence method, you sent him flying to the floor.

All the kids took in a breath, some laughed, some gasped.

But once Joaquin laughed, letting the kids know he was okay, they all relaxed.

“Okay, rugrats. You’ve got fifteen minutes to use the climbing frame!” Bucky announced before letting the kids run free. Meanwhile, you remained on top of Joaquin.

“That was fun.”

“Really got the drop on me, didn’t you?”

“Those kids were boosting your ego far too much.”

“My god,” Joaquin breathed. “Are you jealous?”

“Hell no,” you laughed. “Just don’t think your ego needs inflating anymore than it already has.”

“Well,” Joaquin suddenly flipped you and had you pinned under him. “I could say the same about you. You forget I know what I’m doing, Angel.”

For that last part, he leaned down and whispered it low so only you could hear. A slight whimper threatened to escape you but when you were met with Joaquin’s eyes once again, one of the kids had dropped an end of a bench, reminding both of you where you were and who you were around.

Carefully, Joaquin climbed off you before lowering his hand down to you to help you up. Without thinking, you accepted. You were greeted with the same kind of electricity you’d experienced that night when he’d intertwined his fingers with yours, pinning them above your head before tantalisingly moving down your body…

“If you don’t need me?” You called out to Bucky. He brought his forgotten attention back to you both.

“Yeah. Thanks!”

You just nodded, before nodding at Joaquin. His hand waited as long as it could to let you go as you walked away, his gaze trailing after you and you left the training room and hurried back the way you came before Bucky had pulled you inside.

Later that night, long after the training room and a short while after dinner where you and Joaquin had tried to avoid contact; seemingly making more than either of you had done in three years. He knocked on your door.

All he wanted to do was check in on you. Maybe apologise for what happened in the training room. Maybe ask why you hadn’t scoffed at his choice of food combos at dinner like you usually did. But instead, once he opened the door, the wind was knocked from him completely.

“I just wanted to-” Joaquin was trying to find his words again after seeing you, but he was struggling.

But that didn’t matter. Because your lips were on his almost instantly. Pulling him inside, his hands pulled you closer to him. You shut the door and he pushed you against it.

Hours later, sweating and gasping for breath yet again, you both told each other it was just a One Time thing. Well, a two-time thing.

Yet, just as Kate had predicted, it wasn’t.

“It happened again.”

Those were the first words out of your mouth as she opened her apartment door. “I told you.”

“What happened?” Yelena yelled from the living room, a pint of ice cream in her lap.

“It’s Y/n!”

That was all Kate had to say as she invited you inside for Yelena to reply, “Did she and the Bird Boy sleep together again?”

“Did you tell her?”

Kate shook her head as she locked the door. “She already knew. Don’t ask me how.”

“Did she bring drinks? This conversation is gonna need drinks!” Yelena called out.

Over the next three hours, you sat on Kate and Yelena’s couch, mortified at what had happened.

“I told you it wouldn’t be a one time thing.”

“It doesn’t have to be a one time thing. If you both enjoy it, and I can tell you do-”

“Yelena!”

“What?” Yelena asked. “You’ve been less pissy since the first time. I’m just saying…if you both enjoy it, enjoy it.”

“But it’s more than that.”

“What is?”

When you didn’t answer, both Yelena and Kate looked at each other, already knowing.

“Y/n…”

Kate pushed your hands from your face. “Do you like Joaquin?”

“No! No, of course not!”

Yelena dug her spoon into her pint of ice cream. “Methinks the lady doth protest too much.”

You just groaned. “I can’t. What? Why are you smiling?”

“No reason.” Kate said, shaking her head.

“She thinks you and Joaquin are gonna get married.”

“Yelena!” It was Kate’s turn to yell at her roommate.

“What?”

You looked at Kate. “You really think that? Really?”

Kate had been the one person to see everything. Every reason you gave as to why you didn’t like Joaquin. And clearly this marriage concept to her wasn’t new.

“Look, I just think, sometimes, the lines between love and hate can be a little…fuzzy. Yelena?”

She just shrugged. “If you want to fuck him, fuck him. But if you love him…”

You barked out a laugh. “Whoa, hey, hey, okay. No. No. We’re not- no. I don’t love Joaquin.”

Yelena hummed to herself, holding up her spoon, “The lady-”

“Hey,” Kate raised her voice and Yelena kept hers silent, but still acted out what she was going to say.

“Kate?”

“Look,” Kate took your hands in hers. “Maybe this was it. But, Yelena’s right. If you like Joaquin, maybe you should tell him. Before someone gets hurt.”

It was sound advice. And you gave yourself some time to figure it out. Maybe it was just the sex. Maybe he’d just muddled your brain. Time away would be good.

But time didn’t fix feelings as you came to find out.

After the third One Night, you’d accepted a three month placement from Hill. Maybe time away would do you good. And it worked, for the first six weeks. Joaquin didn’t cross your mind once.

Until the day he walked inside your tent with some of his tech gear, “Where can I set up?”

“What are you doing here?”

“Don’t sound too happy to see me.”

You would come to learn Joaquin had been sent in place of Yelena. A woman you sent a very, very long text to: who only replied with a kissy face and a good luck symbol.

“I’m gonna kill her.”

“What?”

You looked up at Joaquin, “Nothing.”

It took three weeks and thirty different fights, including mini spats, for something to break between both yourself and Joaquin.

“Do you do this by accident, or do you just enjoy being a pain in my ass?”

“Says the guy who can’t leave me alone to do the work I’ve been trained for!”

“Well excuse me for giving a crap about my team-mate?”

You barked a laugh. “That’s rich, coming from you. I’m pretty sure you’d rather fly me to the top of the Empire State and drop me.”

“Believe me, that hasn’t not crossed my mind once or twice.”

You were just standing opposite each other, your chests heaving for breath when all of a sudden his hands were in your hair, your hands were pulling his overshirt from him and his lips were crashing against yours.

With his tongue dipping inside your mouth, tasting you, he moaned. “I’ve missed this.”

Shaking your shirt from your arms, your hand slipped into his curls and pulled his kiss closer to you. As you ass bumped against the table set up, Joaquin moved his kisses from your lips to across your jaw and down your neck.

It was the first time neither of you talked about it being a One Night thing. Because, between the kissing and the breathy moans, a silent agreement had been made. This could never have been a One Night thing.

You couldn’t keep lying to yourself. You’d missed it, too. You’d missed him.

And part of that conversation came to a head the next night when Joaquin found you in your tent since you’d been avoiding him all day.

“Why have you been avoiding me?”

“Joaquin-”

“No, I don’t wanna fight. Not tonight. I just want an answer.”

“I haven’t been avoiding you.”

“Yes, you have. Despite our history, I know you, Y/n. You’ve been avoiding me. Why?”

You stopped folding your clothes and looked at him. For the first time in forever, you too didn’t want to fight him. Not with him standing there looking all…Joaquin-like. A kind, yet worried face. A comfortable presence.

You moved closer, pulling him in to kiss you. This kiss was different. Rather than raw and needy for sex, it was a little more delicate. But there was still a force behind it.

“Because I’ve missed this, too. I’ve missed you, Joaquin.”

Joaquin looked you in your eyes as you stood, inches from his face. You weren’t lying. Even when you’d been fighting him, and he’d been fighting you, one thing he’d known since the beginning was when you were lying.

He was apparently the only person you knew with that skill, which just added another thing to the list of why you hated him so much.

You weren’t lying.

Joaquin didn’t say anything. He just kissed you. And kissed you. And kissed you.

And for the first time, you both took it slow. Well, slower.

“I think this is gonna be more than a one time thing.”

You laughed as Joaquin broke the silence with his sentence, and his laughter joined yours until you kissed him, crawling to straddle him under your bed covers.

By the time you both got back, it was like nothing had ever happened. You and Joaquin seemed to fall right back into your old ways with each other.

But none of it was real.

The truth was in how he kissed you late at night, and in how he would brush his hand across your hip as he passed you in the kitchen. It was in the way you’d pull him around the corner in an empty hallway and kiss him. It was in the way he’d lean against your body and it was in the way a quiet moan, only he could hear, would leave you as his leg pushed between both of yours.

The truth was in the way he’d watch you as you sat up in bed, reading over different mission material. It was in the way you’d look at him when he was training in the training room, early in the morning, the sun kissing the sheen of his skin as he ran his third mile on the treadmill.

The truth was in the way he followed behind you, no matter who was around either of you. It was in the way you both fought less with your superiors about being placed together for different training exercises and missions.

The truth was in the way you had both been slowly falling for each other, despite wishing for the opposite.

“I’m gonna ask Y/n on a date.”

That had been the statement Joaquin had blurted out to Kate one afternoon when everyone else was at training.

“W-w-what? Oh, yeah. No, that’s cool.”

Joaquin just looked at her, “You’re a terrible actor.”

“I am not!”

“I already know you know.”

Kate relaxed. “Oh, okay then. So, you’re gonna ask her out? Finally!” Kate smiled.

“I just can’t decide where. I want this to be perfect. But I don’t want to set us up for failure.”

Kate watched as Joaquin sat beside her on the sofa and pulled out his phone, scrolling through the different options he had written down in his notes app. Any of the options he had would be good.

But that wasn’t what made her smile.

It was the fact that Joaquin was putting so much thought into it. He always put a lot of thought into things, but knowing it was for you. For both of you. It made her want to say “HA!” to Yelena.

But if Joaquin was being completely honest with himself, from knocking on your door and hearing you walking to open it, he’d never been so nervous in his entire life.

“Joaquin,” you seemed surprised. Probably because he had knocked in a way that might throw you off in thinking it wasn’t him, giving him a few more seconds to psych himself up.

“I want to take you on a date.” Well, there went the speech he’d prepared. “And I’m hoping you’ll say yes because this isn’t just-”

“Yes.”

“What?”

“Yes,” you repeated. “I’ll go on a date with you.”

“You will?”

You smiled and nodded. “Yeah, of course.”

Joaquin smiled before stepping inside and kissing you before you closed the door.

You didn’t quite know when or why, but you and Joaquin had gone from being at each other’s throats aggressively to it being affectionate. And for some reason - one that Kate would probably explain to you one day - you wouldn’t trade it for the world.

And neither would Joaquin.

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