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joelscurls · 1 year ago

Text

best kept secret

pairing: dbf!Joel Miller x f!reader

words: 6.7k

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Because you’re insatiable when it comes to Joel.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Shh, I know babygirl; it’s okay.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Tonight,” you repeat. Solidify it.

You slink home just as the street lights dim.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hey.”

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

“Couldn’t sleep,” you lie.

“Something on your mind?”

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

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

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

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

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

The caffeine has just about seeped into your bloodstream when-

-there’s a knock at the door.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You shake your head, no.

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

“When I was ten?” you retort.

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

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

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

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

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

“Well, you gotta get back out there!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Will you just give her a chance?”

“Jesus; fine.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

He’s actually agreeing to this?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maybe he’d be happier with Deb.

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

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

The day passes infuriatingly slow.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He picks up after two rings.

“Darlin’ — are you okay?”

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

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

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

“Why didn’t you say no?”

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

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

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

“Fuck,” you huff. “I just— I don’t-“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You jot the address down anyway.

Downtown Austin is buzzing with life.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fuck.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It wasn’t like that,” he grits

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

There’s a beat. Joel sighs.

“No — fuck, no. Of course not.”

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

“I know,” you admit.

He nods. Another beat.

“Did you kiss her?” you ask.

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

Your mouth goes dry.

“No?”

“No,” he repeats. “I didn’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because I didn’t want to.”

“You don’t want her?”

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

“Why not?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Need you — please.”

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

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

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

Your breath catches.

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

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

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

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

“Okay,” he soothes, “I got you baby.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Gotta move baby — please move.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh f— ahh, oh my—“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Joel,” you say.

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

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

“Did you mean it?”

“Mean what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah, darlin’?”

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

He looks at you like you have two heads.

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

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

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

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

“I’m yours?”

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

It all feels somehow sweeter, now.

“Yeah, angel. You’re mine. My girl.”

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

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

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

#joel x reader #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x female reader #dbf!joel #joel miller x reader #joel miller #joel miller fic #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller smut #pedro pascal #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal smut #pedro pascal fanfiction #tlou fic #the last of us fanfiction

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cryptidmickle · 2 months ago

Text

so what if. and hear me out. i made my own au for shadowvanilla purposes-

au details below

HELLO SO I PRESENT AMNESIAC AU

so you see, i was minding my business, drawing and looking at cookies and how everyone has their own cool aus with awesome designs and i went "well im not very good at designing but i Love putting characters in Situations"

this au is mostly focused on shadowvanilla so dont be too hopeful I'll get into the other cookies besides their little circle, im ill for gay yaoi only okay

So! motions to comic above, amnesia smilk time! let me elaborate

Pure vanilla fucked up BIG TIME, in that he maybe ventured out to beast yeast alone to try and find out more about the beasts and a way to stop them, as people with a savior complex have a habit of doing. Maybe, perhaps, also at the same time, smilk was getting the workings of his new dough body done and sensing pv was nearby decided to take the opportunity to torment him a little, yknow he cant help himself! he needs to see him

a nasty little fight and confrontation in some old structures of smilk (or at the spire) result in pv using a strange spell he spotted in the surrounding papers and documents, and .... accidentally cracks smilk's soul jam! hehe, oops!

and also sealing his memories. double oops. damn, what are you gonna do now pv?

well he cant leave confused smilk alone here, and itd honestly be best the other beasts and dark enchantress dont drag him back there in this state, so he offers a hand.

"Come with me. We can help you, I'll make sure you're okay."

a memory-less smilk is confused by this but... he's already grabbing the other cookie's hand before he realizes it. It'll probably be fine, something about this cookie... makes something in him feel okay.

taps forehead, im still working everything out of course, and i WILL be cursing all of you with sketchy stuff about it when I'm able, i need more time to figure out smilk's behaviors without the soul jam and corruption

of course I'm always of the mind that pre-corruption smilk was kind of a rat and rude but how exactly is the real question!! how bad was it before the corruption exacerbated the negative qualities of knowledge and his personality

anyways,,, feel free to ask questions!! it could help me figure this all out, if yall are interested of course,,,,,,,my,,,, handful of crk followers SNRRKS

#pure vanilla cookie #shadow milk cookie #white lily cookie #gingerbrave #wizard cookie #strawberry cookie #crk fanart #crk au #amnesiac au #shadowvanilla #pureshadow #<- that is my end goal here guys the men are going to kiss #my drawbs #ALSO THIS WONT BE TOO ANGSTY AN AU #WE ARE A HOUSE OF HAPPY ENDINGS HERE IM SORRY I LOVE HAPPY ENDINGS OR AT LEAST HOPEFUL ONES #but rest assured there will still be angst and conflict #as is a constant with liars #looks directly at pv

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always-just-red · 4 months ago

Note

I've been lookin for a writer who takes reqs for lnds 😭 Can i req sfw hcs/one-shot (choose which one u prefer more) for sylus & fem/gn reader?

I remember there was one call for zayne x mc where mc called zayne accidentally because mc was drunk & mc called zayne (accidentally) instead of booking a cab (mc did book a cab but w/ a wrong destination).

Can i maybe req what if the scenario is like that but it's w/ sylus instead? Feel free to tell me if this req is too much or if u wanna decline it, thanks a lot!

My first Sylus fic! Yay! (Don't look at me Rafayel 🥰) Anon your mind is so powerful! This prompt was so much fun to write, so thank you, hope you enjoy!

Wrong Number

Sylus x Reader 🩸

Summary: You're having a bit of trouble getting hold of that taxi you booked, but more trouble help is on the way...

Genre: fluff, kinda ends on an angsty note (sorry 😇)

Warnings/Additional tags: drunk reader, some swearing, humour, uses of 'sweetie' and 'kitten', threat of violence/death at the start, a slight bit of suggestion (it's Sylus, ok? He's having ✨fun✨)

| Word count: 2k | Masterlist | Opt-in to my taglist here!

Disclaimer: Characters belong to Love and Deepspace. All work is my own, so please don't repost or plagiarise!

“Mr. Sylus, please! It was an honest mistake— almost indistinguishable from a genuine protocore, I swear!”

Sylus is lounging back in a plush leather armchair, feeling thoroughly short-changed as he turns about a fake protocore with his fingers. He’s been listening to this noise for almost a full minute, growing awfully impatient, though he did like the last excuse.

“Say that again,” he drawls with a sinister smile.

“It was an honest mistake,” the black-market dealer stutters, tripping over his words. “It was almost indistinguishable from a—”

“Almost indistinguishable…” Sylus confirms. “Almost. Almost.” He’s savouring each syllable— tasting them like wine.

“It would have fooled almost anyone!”

“Almost anyone?” Sylus laughs, and it’s a wicked, dangerous thing. “Well yes, I rather think that’s the point. But it didn’t fool just anyone, did it? It fooled you.”

His smile is gone in an instant, his hand closing around the fake protocore, splintering it with a crack. He drops bloodied, sapphire fragments from his palm, red and blue, red and blue, and they skitter across the hardwood floor like rain.

“Please, Mr. Sylus!” the dealer pleads, desperate. “I’ll do anything! I will! I’ll make it up to you!”

“No, thanks.” Sylus studies his palm as it heals. “I’ve had my fill of fake protocores.”

“Sylus!”

The leader of Onychinus stands, drawing his gun with a customary apathy. Dark energy manifests, twisting around the dealer’s limbs, holding him still, while a lone tendril crawls around his mouth, holding him silent. He’s struggling, but he should know better. He should have known better from the very beginning. With a wistful smile, Sylus levels the gun with his head, and—

Something rings.

His red gaze shoots up, instinctively seeking Luke and Kieran, but they shrug from their station at the other side of the room. The sound is closer than that, anyway. Glaringly more familiar. Sylus’s spare hand goes to his pocket, and he draws out his phone.

“Mmm?” he greets, thumb sliding across the screen as he puts it to his ear.

There’s only one person who calls him at this time of night.

“Where are you?” your voice echoes from the other side of the line.

“That’s a question I prefer not to answer without knowing what motivates it.”

“Wha— Sylus?”

“Yes, sweetie,” he drones.

There’s a moment of silence. “Shit.”

It’s not the reaction he aspires to, but you sound agitated, so he’s going to let it slide. There’s a loud crackle from the speaker, followed by a few, harsher sounds, and he pulls the phone away from his ear, wincing slightly. His eyes are trained on the man at his feet, but he lowers his gun, distracted.

“What are you—” he begins, but then he identifies the sound. It’s a finger— your finger— jabbing away at a screen. “If I didn’t know any better, Miss Hunter, I’d say you were trying to get rid of me.”

“No…” you deny too quickly. It’s still there: the tapping. Like Mephisto, pecking furiously at a locked window from outside. A few more jabs, and then…

The call cuts out.

Sylus scoffs, looking down at his now silent phone in disbelief. He flops back into his chair, tossing his gun onto a side table before hitting the button to call you back. You know he’s not a patient man, but you don’t pick up the first time, and so he has to try again. He can be patient for you— he tells himself— as he thinks up some creative ways for you to return the charity. Speaking of charity…

His gaze drops to the dealer. “Get out,” he sneers.

The man doesn’t have to be told twice. He scrambles to his feet as his blood-dark bindings retract, practically throwing himself towards the room’s exit. Luke pushes open the door, the intense music of the nightclub beating through the gap, but Kieran’s being less helpful. He steps into the doorway, blocking any escape. He feints right. Then left. Behind the masks, both men are laughing.

Eventually Kieran steps aside. He shoves the dealer the rest of the way through the door as Luke kicks it shut, and they exchange a high-five.

Sylus pinches the bridge of his nose. His call connects.

“Hello?” You’re back. “Finally! Where are you? I don’t see you.”

“Still me, sweetie.”

“Sylus?” you actually whine. It’s adorable. “Why is it you? Go away.”

“No,” he lilts tunefully, and then he’s coaxing: “I want to help you, kitten. Won’t you let me help you? Tell me, who are you trying to call?”

Frustration spills from you— fake, exaggerated sobs tearing themselves from your throat. “The taxi, Sy,” you whine again. “The stupid taxi, ok? It’s not here. It’s meant to be here.”

“Where’s here?”

“Ha!” you exclaim like you’ve evaded a masterplan, and not a casually asked, run-of-the-mill question. “No. Nice try, but no. You wanna help me?”

“Yeah.”

“Then leave me alone!”

With— he can imagine— some sort of theatrical flourish, you deliver your phone a final, decisive tap. It beckons a fateful silence. Sylus brings his phone in front of his face, unmoved by the moment’s gravitas. There’s a pop-up on the screen. Kitten: requesting video chat.

He smiles to himself. Then accepts. “Hi sweetie.”

Your face is lighting up his screen, your cheeks flushed, your brow furrowed, and your eyes sharp with determination. “Why can I— wait, why can I see you? Get out of my phone, Sy!”

“My, my,” he tuts, but he’s smiling still, “look at you— the illustrious Miss Hunter. It is a relief to know the fate of Linkon rests in such… reliable hands.”

“What d’you mean?” you mumble.

“You’re drunk.”

“You’re drunk!”

He chuckles. “And there’s that infamous wit.”

You bite your lip as you ignore him, still fixated on trying to end the call. It occurs to him that you will eventually succeed; even a broken clock is right twice a day. “Listen to me, sweetie. Are you alone?”

His tone is sober enough for the two of you, and your exasperated eyes meet his. “Yeah.”

“Then be a good girl and send me your location. You remember how to do that, right?” He carefully enunciates each word of his plan. “I’ll come and get you, but I need to know where you are. Don’t go with anyone else. Wait for me, ok?”

You’re nodding away, the odd ‘mmhmm’ escaping your lips, but you’re not at all listening. He catches on after a minute. Trails off— realises your gaze is too vacant, and your focus? Wandering. You’re cradling your phone with both hands. His view is interrupted as your thumb passes over the camera; you’re… stroking the screen?

“You’re so pretty, Sy,” you murmur breathlessly.

His gaze softens. He sighs, “You’re pretty too.”

Then you make a sound he’s never heard before: you squeak, the phone’s audio almost cutting out. A blush is spreading through your cheeks, so much darker than the alcohol’s afterglow, and gods he wishes your face was in his hands. The vision is short-lived, however, because suddenly you’re gone.

There’s a circling view of a dark street, split by streaks of white light, as your phone careens through the air. It strikes concrete a moment later, stuttering to a stop, and Sylus’s grimace deepens with each jarring crack. Your screen has gone black, but he doesn’t think it’s broken. He’s face down, apparently— subjected to an unexciting view of the pavement.

“Oh, shit!” He hears you gasp.

Though your voice is far away, your phone is in your grasp again in no time. You’re turning it over, peering down at him, tracing the outline of his face with worry. “Sorry, Sy. Are you ok?”

“I’ll survive.” He raises an eyebrow. “You know, if you wanted to throw me around, you only needed to ask.”

His voice has dropped, and he loves watching you notice. You stand from your crouch with a smirk, bringing him with you— a dark idea in your eyes. “Wanna go again?”

Before he can protest, he’s looking at the back of your head. Your arm is stretched behind you, gearing up to send him on another short flight.

“Ah, ah, ah,” he interrupts, panicking briefly, but you’d never detect it with all your wits about you, let alone none. He’s brought in front of your face again, and you’re frowning oh so sweetly. “I asked you to do something, remember?”

“You told me to do something.”

So pedantic. “What did I tell you to do, sweetie?”

You don’t say anything. There’s a short huff as you blow hair from your face, and then you’re concentrating. You have that look he likes: the one you get when you’re whittling away at your paperwork like a good little hunter. The same stubborn resolve, too, that makes you lean over it when he or Mephisto are conveniently behind your shoulder.

Your location comes through with a ping and his smile widens. He’s up in a heartbeat, telling you he’s on his way— that you did such a good job— and that you need to stay on the phone with him, ok? He spins his fingers as he passes between Luke and Kieran, a gesture they’ve long grown accustomed to and can easily translate.

I'm leaving. Clean this up.

…

“So then Xavier, like— well, you know Xavier— he was all, ‘I’ll tell you later,’ but he never did, Sy! Off he went, leaving Nero and I to do all the paperwork, and I asked Nero, and Nero was like, ‘ask Xavier yourself’, and I was like, ‘I literally just did!’, and he just shrugged, and it’s… driving me crazy, you know? Because where does he even go? Tara and I have this bet going, she thinks it’s because he—”

Your anecdote comes to a sudden stop.

“What does Tara think, sweetie?”

“Shh shh shh! Wait a second…”

You clutch your phone to your chest like it’ll somehow suppress Sylus’s voice. You’re sat, leaning back against a chain-link fence, but you rise as a black car pulls up in front of you. The windows are tinted. You squint, leaning forward to try to look through them anyway.

“I don’t like this, Sy,” you frown as you plant a hand on your hip. “There’s a car here.”

“Oh?”

“Shh!” you hiss again. It’s not the only car parked on the street, but it is the only one alive. The engine purrs and its lights are glowing like angry embers, refusing to be snuffed out by the dark. You take a step closer, then the engine cuts out. You take a bigger step back.

“What exactly are you afraid of?” Sylus asks, his tone so thick it’s practically bleeding through your phone. “Is a big, bad man trying to get you?”

“Well I don’t know what they look like, Sy. The windows are tinted, and I— AH!” you gasp.

A strong pair of arms wrap around you from behind, lifting you from the ground. “Got you, sweetie,” Sylus chuckles in your ear as tell-tale crow feathers settle around you. His breath is hot on your neck and it tickles, turning your panicked shrieks to laughter.

“Sylus!” you squeal as you attempt to wriggle free. You don’t think you’re trying very hard.

The man lowers you back to your feet, but his arms stay around you and he dips his head, resting his chin on the curve of your shoulder. “Hi,” he whispers.

“Hi.” For a little word, there’s so much fondness.

“Let’s get you home to bed, ok?”

You nod compliantly with a yawn, swaying a little as his arms retract and you’re having to stand on your own again. He chuckles as he steadies you— placing a hand on the top of your head— and you pivot, drawn by the sound. His crimson eyes find yours and they’re dark with something that stirs you, even with your mind swimming and nothing really making sense. You’re not sure of anything at all, except—

No-one has ever looked at you like that before.

And you won’t remember it tomorrow.

“Come on,” he prompts, nudging you towards the car, and you start to walk, though you’re dragging your feet. “I want to hear all of the association’s dirtiest secrets while I still can.”

“Tara has a crush on the new weapon specialist, you know.”

Sylus blinks, then laughs— a tender, comfortable thing. Completely enthralled. “You don’t say,” he beams.

No, you won’t remember it tomorrow.

#🖋rach is actually writing #sylus x reader #sylus #love and deepspace #lads sylus #lnds sylus #l&ds sylus #qin che #sylus x mc #sylus x you #lads x reader #lads #lnds #l&ds

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kingkat12 · 3 months ago

Text

pornography (eric draven x reader)

WARNINGS: 18+, foul language, groping/fondling, dry-humping lol, mentions of substance abuse

summary: when you finally talk to Eric Draven in rehab, it doesn't take long before you get drawn together by a force stronger than anything you have ever encountered. it doesn’t help the situation that you eventually find out Eric has been drawing pictures of you… nude

word count: 2,337 PART 1, PART 2, PART 3

a/n: this is for all the girlies like me that just came home from watching The Crow and got their mind blown by how hot Bill was in it... holy fuck. had to write this blurb because I am so shaken up, I can't feel my face. enjoy!! there will be more parts hihi...

"I fucking hate pink,"

I couldn't believe that was the first thing I said to him-- the dark and broody stranger I had been eyeing through my first few weeks in rehab. He stared back at me, confusion swimming in his big green eyes, probably pondering why I had sat down next to him in the cafeteria. "Pardon?"

"It's a little ridiculous," I tried, watching as he put down his cutlery, pushing his food away as he gave me his full attention. Tugging at my pink sweater, which we were all wearing, I let out a nervous chuckle. "Whose idea was it to put a lot of addicts in pink, anyway?"

My eyes darted down to his hands as I waited for his answer-- they were huge up close, and completely covered in tattoos. I hadn't noticed them from afar; I had only noticed the ones peeking through the top of his shirt when he would pass me by in the hall, or the big eye he had on his chest that I had seen while passing by his room. I knew it wasn't nice to peek into his room while he was changing, but I was quite frankly starved of any male contact-- any girl would go crazy in here.

He eventually shrugged, giving me the answer I least expected; "I guess pink is supposed to be a calming colour. It's not that bad," I watched as the corners of his mouth tugged upwards, giving away hints of amusement. "Aren't you girls supposed to like pink?"

"Maybe," I mumbled, nudging food around on my plate with my fork. "I just don't like to wear it. It doesn't suit me."

The handsome stranger didn't seem to agree, another shrug following accompanied by a shy laugh. "I can't figure out whether you're being sincere or searching for compliments,"

This was most definitely not how I wanted to come off. I straightened up, resting my elbows against the table as I cleared my throat. "I'm just trying to make conversation,"

"... Why?"

"Because you've been staring at me almost as much as I've been staring at you," I put down my fork, hoping he didn't see how nervous I was. In truth, he had been staring-- it wasn't all purely one-sided. I had caught him staring at me in the courtyard, on my way to the shower, and I had also caught him lingering outside my room several times. He would usually leave when I came out, disappearing down the hall with speed I wouldn't even dream to catch up with.

He finally gave in to a smirk, nodding to himself as he lowered his head. "Sorry," It was clear that he hadn't thought he'd be called out like this. However, something told me he wasn't too upset about being caught either.

"Don't be," I said, feeling my anxiety ripping through my veins. Why was I indulging? "I just--"

It was at this moment that a guard appeared behind him, yanking him away from the table with a harshness that made me gasp. I clasped my hand over my mouth, watching as he barely reacted to the brutality.

"Guys and girls eat separately!" the guard yelled at me, slamming his fist down on the table.

My eyes widened, looking back at the handsome stranger. "But I-- I was the one who sat down here, he didn't do anything!" I protested, watching as the guard grabbed him and led him away. Groaning, I ran my hands through my hair, frustrated with the rules at this place. Why was it so fucking strict?

I eventually looked up just in time to see that the man had managed to turn around, smirking my way; "I'm Eric!" he said, holding back a laugh as he was shoved along the cafeteria for everyone to see.

Despite the horror washing over me for getting him in trouble, I managed to croak out my name as well. It seemed that he appreciated that I had at least tried to stick up for him-- What was it that I had just started?

My question would be answered a lot quicker than I had expected.

A few days passed, and more looks and stares were exchanged. I was dying to talk to Eric again. I knew I hadn't been sent to rehab to make friends or get feelings for someone, but something was gnawing at me to talk to him again. I wanted to be around him constantly; what was happening to me? I recognized this feeling-- it was the same feeling I got when I really, really craved something... Fuck, how I missed drugs. Maybe Eric was turning into a substitute?

It wasn't often that the door to Eric's room was open, but today it was. I wouldn't have noticed it if I hadn't taken the extra lap around the institute as usual, hoping to get a glimpse of him through the small window in his door. But today, I didn't have to get on my tippytoes to get a look-- there he was, picking up several drawings that had been scattered around the floor. His room looked like a mess, completely unlike how I was used to seeing it through the tiny window. This looked like the result of one of those raids that the prison guards sometimes did when they suspected there were hidden drugs in a patient's room.

I felt sorry for him; I knew how horrible it could feel to have someone rip through all your stuff. But as I bent down and picked up a few drawings that were at my feet, my lips parted in surprise.

It seemed I wasn't the only one caught off guard; Eric noticed me standing in his doorway, letting out a relieved sigh as he watched me inspect his drawings. He called out my name, leaning against the wall as he sized me up and scanned me, crossing his arms over his chest.

I cleared my throat; "Is this... me?" I held up the first drawing of the bunch. It was a sketch of me sitting in the courtyard, and I was sure that it was me-- I suppose it was my shock asking for confirmation.

Eric snickered, kicking off the wall. "Yeah... Sorry,"

"Stop saying sorry," I shuffled through the drawings, finding he had drawn me in multiple settings, and it was clear that I had been watched the few weeks I'd been here. "These are beautiful, Eric... I guess I'm honoured--" My words trailed off as I finally approached the last drawing. Was that...?

He didn't even try to take it away from me. Eric sighed, looking away as his cheeks flushed a light pink, similar to our uniforms.

Judging by his reaction, I had a feeling he wasn't so against me seeing this. It was a sketch of me, after all-- nude.

I had to swallow rather hard for anything to go down. I couldn't pinpoint why I wasn't absolutely horrified at this. "So... this is what you've been up to in here, huh?" There was no stopping the smirk that spread across my lips, holding back a flustered giggle. "This is next-level pervy, do you know that?"

It didn't take long before Eric's big hands ripped the drawings out of my hands, turning away as he shook his head. "Every artist needs a muse, no?"

"A muse? How can I be your muse if we don't know each other?"

"That's not how it works," he mumbled, throwing away the drawings into a heap on the bed. "Your beauty is all I need to get inspired."

This was enough to shock me into silence. I inhaled a sharp breath, stepping into Eric's room despite knowing it was forbidden. "So now you think I'm beautiful?"

Eric hummed, finally turning to meet my eyes. "It hasn't been the biggest secret, has it?" There was something playful about him, shameless, as though it didn't matter to him that I had just found his handmade porn. "It gets a little lonely in here, I guess. These drawings just... run out of me like water. Can't control it."

There was something so unimaginably tantalizing about Eric. Everything about him made me want to jump him then and there-- was it maybe the result of my withdrawals that were turning my brain into further mush? In a normal setting, this would have creeped me out to infinity and beyond, but knowing this was coming from the man I had been lusting after from afar for several weeks made me excuse it in a heartbeat.

I had no idea what possessed me to close the door to his room and lock it, knowing the repercussions could be severe if we were caught. But Eric didn't seem to mind; his green eyes widened, watching my every move like a hawk.

"It was really pretty and all... The drawing, I mean," I said, inching closer to where he had sat down on the bed. "But would you maybe want some inspiration for the next one?"

Eric's plush, pink lips parted, eyes rounding out in surprise. Despite his shock, his big hands reached out for me as I came closer, and he pulled me in between his legs. I could feel him caressing my back through my shirt, holding me with the utmost gentle touch. "I'll take all I can get," he murmured, looking up at me through his brows, a knowing smirk spreading across his face.

I let out a giggle as he pressed his lips against my stomach through my shirt, enjoying the intense feeling of someone against my skin again after all this time. Eric pulled away, glancing at the door before slowly trailing his fingers under my shirt, testing the waters.

It didn't take long before that wasn't enough for him-- my breath hitched as Eric grabbed my waist, pulling me down with him on the bed. I barely had time to think before the euphoric feeling of being kissed engulfed me. Our lips met in an open, soft kiss, almost as though we were scared to break the other if we were too needy or harsh. As I straddled him, I felt his hands tugging at my shirt, dipping back under the fabric once more. His fingers gently ghosted over my lower back, eventually ending up trailing small circles with his thumbs along the underside of my bra.

If I hadn't been so starved of any human contact in here, I would've never jumped the opportunity like this. But none of us knew how long we had until the guards would bust us, and it only fueled the adrenaline pumping through our veins. Our kisses became desperate, hungry, and I let out a whimper against his lips as he took the liberty of cupping my chest, feeling me up to his heart's delight. I knew I had been waiting for this moment since the first time I saw him, and I wasn't about to let it slip through my fingers-- I decided to let him do whatever he wanted to me, no matter what.

I could feel Eric's cock twitch beneath me, clearly aroused. It was also at this moment that he made me sit up, tugging my shirt off of me before laying back down to scan me. Was he memorizing my body for his next sketch? It wasn't every night that I had a handsome stranger beneath me like this, so I allowed him to trail his hands up and down my body, lips parting in delight. "Fuck... Yeah, this will do," he murmured, pupils dilating at the sight before him whether he wanted them to or not.

"You sure?" I asked, giggling to myself. My hands rested against his broad chest, letting out a sigh of delight; God, he was sexy. As I shifted in his lap, Eric's breath hitched as I seemingly sat down in the exact right spot. Almost as though he was possessed by instinct for a moment, he grabbed my hips, rocking me against him through the fabric of our clothes.

Who would've thought I'd be dry-humping this stranger and enjoy it so much? My hands gripped his shirt, a quiet moan spilling past my lips-- I had forgotten this feeling. This was mostly something I did when I was a teenager, before I figured out how to have proper sex with my high school boyfriend. But it felt so damn fucking good, desperate; it didn't take long before I leaned back down, capturing his plush lips in another kiss.

I craved him like water. I wanted him against me, in me, for him to take me in every possible position ever-- a deep, dark part of me knew I would be insatiable from now on.

But our moment of ecstasy was interrupted when a guard started banging his fist against the door, his muffled yells barely registering through my arousal. Despite my dazed state, it didn't take me long to drape my shirt back on, climbing off Eric with wobbly knees. "Shit," I mumbled, turning to him with wide eyes. "I'm screwed. We're screwed."

Everything about him was so damn beautiful. The kiss-swollen lips definitely didn't help how gorgeous I thought he looked right now. Despite the situation, knowing we were in deep shit, Eric let out a soft chuckle; "I don't think you're screwed enough, actually. We'll get to that another time,"

My eyes widened as I gave into a light giggle. There was no way this was happening-- had my naughty rehab dreams come true? The guard banging against the door was drowned out by the incessant ringing in my ears that festered through my mind as Eric leaned down to kiss me one last time; "I hope to see you around, if they don't kill us,"

"Yeah," I breathed, only now realizing how tall he was as I looked up to meet his gaze. This man was towering over me. Holy shit. "Can't wait to see your next masterpiece."

I couldn't wait. I really couldn't.

(a/n: PART 2, PART 3 here!! enjoy<33)

#the crow 2024 #eric draven x reader #the crow x reader #the crow fanfiction #eric draven fanfiction #the crow #oneshot #fanfic #fanfiction #smut #bill skarsgård #bill skarsgård x reader #bill skarsgard #eric draven

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luludeluluramblings · 2 months ago

Text

Smalltown!Neglected! Meta!Reader x Yandere!Batfam ☁️ Part Seven

☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️

Part One ☁️ Part Two ☁️ Part Three ☁️ Part Four ☁️ Part Five ☁️ Part Six ☁️ Part Eight

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A/N: I’m not sure if I’m satisfied with this. But, I doubt I’ll ever be satisfied with this. I want Reader to come off as more Bruce like with the emotional suppression and planning. And, this was my actual first and third attempt at dialogue. I’m gonna need some practice. But, I tried.

A/N: Up next we get some yandere!Bats vs. yandere!Smalltown action. (Holy frick is that gonna be hard to write.) I’m also going to start work on the Dick Obsession now. Gotta fight the temptation to write the Vigilante!Smalltown!Reader story while this is still in the works.

Warning: Yandere Themes.

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As the coming months passed by, Reader could feel Gotham starting to wear on them. Or, they at the least Wayne manor starting to wear on them. They haven’t been given permission to leave the manor since the kidnapping. Not even to drive their truck for some unhealthy, but soul healing fast food. Of course, that doesn’t stop the other residents of the house from leaving whenever they wish.

They see the Bat Burger wrappers in the trash the morning after another soundless night in the manor. God, how they’d love to try it one day.

But, as time moves on something draws closer. An important date. Reader’s legal eighteenth birthday. They’re excited, by all means. But, there’s something significantly more important coming sooner.

Reader’s Younger Brother’s Birthday was just a week before Reader’s. There had been many fond memories made while growing up with the week between the two different dates being filled with fun and excitement. (And love.)

With such an important date coming up, and with Momma and Daddy no longer being here, Reader had plans to make it a fun week.

They just have to convince Bruce to let them go back to Smalltown. Just for the week. They’re all too busy to spend time with Reader anyway, besides this is important to them. They’ve stayed in the manor like asked. They’re grades are good. They do their chores. They don’t ask for much. It should be perfectly reasonable to request to let them visit back home.

But, just in case, Reader approaches Dick next time he's in the manor and is smothering them in affection before he goes to disappear into the library.

“Can you help me convince Bruce to let me go, please, Dick?”

It’s a simple request. And, it makes Dick’s heart melt a bit. Reader’s the only one in the family to easily give into his affection and to have them finally ask him for help in such a sweet polite voice was heart melting.

Wholeheartedly, he agrees and he is rewarded. With Reader bouncing into his arms with an impressive amount of enthusiasm that he hasn’t had a chance to see previously. Probably due to always being so busy. Maybe he should make more time for Reader if they shower him with such genuine gratitude and affection like this.

The thought lingers in his head as he makes his way towards the Batcave. A spring in his step despite the glares he receives as he makes his way down the stairs.

The manor cameras had caught the entire thing, leaving the occupants in the cave to get a front row seat to Reader being sweet on Dick.

He can’t stop the tiny smug smile from forming on his lips as Barbara gives him a disapproving ~~jealous~~ look. Or, the look of straight bitterness on Damian’s face. The mild satisfaction from Duke’s face being as blank as Cassandra’s. Stephanie’s forlorn expression. The way that Jason looks like he wants to shoot him with the gun he’s cleaning that makes him want to laugh with glee..

Tim doesn’t even look at him. Too annoyed with Dick as he sits at the Batcomputer furiously clicking and typing away on something.

Bruce had been out at the moment for League Business. But, the entire family now has a competition forming. Whoever could convince Bruce for Reader would win. The prize being the winner possibly getting showered in Reader’s affection. And, the hope of visiting Reader’s hometown with them. The very idea of it makes some of them shudder with some particular emotions.

The bombardment of pleading and puppy-dog eyes began almost as soon as Bruce stepped back into the cave. It was nearly comical how everyone petitioned Reader’s case.

Hell, Bruce was nearly convinced they should all make the trip when Tim threw his bid in.

Pulling up all the research on Smalltown and how apparently harmless it was. He even managed to remotely bug Childhood Friend’s Brother’s phone just to double check.

That’s when things spiral.

Right at that very moment, a call comes through to the phone. It seems harmless at first. The guy talking to his boss. The two had immediately talked about Reader returning to town. As if the two knew without a doubt that they were coming back.

That sparked suspicions, but it's not what ignited the fire.

The fire came when the two started talking about Reader's time in Gotham. The whole kidnapping incident. Childhood Crush admitted that Reader tried to down play the incident to Nana. After which his boss ask a horrifying question.

"Do you and Grand Daddy need some help killing this guy? It might be a bit harder than the last one y'all killed."

The last one.

Immediately the phrase makes questions arise. But, once again things get worse.

"Nah, we'll let him live. He's from Gotham. He'll probably never come out this way. And, if he does them we'll drag him out where we drowned the last sorry son of a bitch. He was just in it for the money."

"That's right. The other guy just wanted to kill Reader to keep 'em for himself. Still..."

It was difficult to give the rest of the conversation their full attention after that.

It was like the blood had crystalized in their veins. Both cold fury and hot rage filling them till it seemed to shred their minds apart.

There was no way in heaven or hell or high water that they were possibly going to let Reader go back to that vile little town filled with monsters. As if Gotham wasn't filled with abominations of it's own designs.

Without a moment to delay Bruce Batman jumps into action, barking orders for Tim, Barbara, and Cassandra to start digging up everything imaginable on Smalltown. Every resident, every social media post or mention, every single person that has ever lived there, visited, and gone missing. "Find me the name of the bastard that nearly took my child to the grave. I want the memory of them wiped of the face of the earth as their bones rot in it."

The other's are ordered to cover his patrol and redouble their efforts to capture the remaining Gotham Rouges by any and all means necessary The Court of Owls is low priority until more is uncovered about Smalltown and what the hell happened.

Reader's usual pacing around the unoccupied halls of the manor conversing on the phone is interrupted by Bruce Batman stalking towards with a violence simmering under the surface of an obsidian mask. Easy to shatter and sharp to the touch. Before a words is even spoken the phone the lifeline is ripped from their hands and shattered under a pair of designer loafers.

☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️

You could only stagger back as you watched his foot trample over the well used phone. You hadn't even chance to hang up the conversation you were having, when Bruce had come barreling down the extravagant hall way you roamed so often you 'd already practically memorized the brush strokes on each painting and the pattern of the wood grain on the walls. Not even the chance to put a hold on the plans you were making before it all came to an abrupt halt without your blessing.

For a moment your just baffled. Looking at the shattered phone screen with pieces of glass and plastic on the ground before looking up at the shattered facade your father Bruce wore.

His face was deathly still. Not even a twitch. It gave him an inhuman like visage that set off the same warning bells that Jason Red Hood had made you hear.

So that's where he got it from.

You can't help put think, trying to form the words to question his actions and confront him. It isn't long before he gives you the excuse explanation for his unwarranted action himself.

"You're not going." Is all he says. His voice was cold enough to burn.

It doesn't take a genius to know what he's talking about.

"If this is about me getting Dick to help convince you-"

"Dick agrees. Everyone agrees. You are not going." The interruption is rude, but the words sting. They thought that everyone else would be on board with it. Even the members of the family that didn't care for their presence should have been on board with it.

"I'm not asking for a vote. I was asking for your permission and yours alone." Another attempt.

"I am saying no. I am your father and you will listen to me about this." The totality found in his icy voice makes them finally feel that helpless. Like nothing they say will improve this situation. That continuing to smile will not solve a damn thing.

"What did I do?" The resentment that has locked up tightly inside beings to swirl. Ire churning into gales. The long withheld temper becoming a tempest. "What the hell did I do to make you treat me like this?"

"This has nothing to do with you. This is my decision on the matter. You need-" The sound of a notification going off interrupts his words, but they don't stop the ringing in you're ears. Even after Bruce abruptly dismisses himself, muttering about getting you a new phone, before moving towards the library. Again.

For once, you don't bother cleaning up the shattered pieces on the floor. Leaving them on the ornate carpet in the lavish and deserted hall. You have planning to do. Restraint is gone. Holding back is over. It's time to take things into your own hands. They want to ignore you, fine. You'll leave and you'll fucking live without them.

☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️

Consequently, incoming weather reports start showing some unusual patterns on the news that week. Meteorologist say there's a massive possibility of a potential hurricane brewing off the coast. Everyone is on edge. (Gotham is already a disaster as is. No one wants another one on top of it.)

Reader's not to worried. They grew up with Hurricane parties. Besides the manor has it's own power grid says Alfred. Gotham's power grid is a bit more vulnerable, but luckily the Hospitals and Arkham are on different power grids. Everything should be alright. (Everything should also go according to plan.)

The next time Dick comes by, Reader is a bit short with him. Giving him a disgruntled look that breaks his heart a little and makes it melt. Try as he might he gets nothing other than their annoyance. Even when he finally admits it was Tim's fault they had been denied the chance to go home. It does make them pout even more, how cute. Even when he gifts them a newer phone. Their not stupid, the damn thing is probably bugged to high heaven. And, it's missing all their old contacts since Bruce slammed the SD card under his big bat toe.

Their clearly in a foul mood and everyone is being subjugated to the silent treatment. As their birthday, and their younger brother's birthday, draws closer and closer, a dark cloud seems to hang over them and Gotham.

In a moment born from guilt and ignorance, Bruce buys them a car as an early birthday present. A grandiose little luxury model. With all the bells and whistles. It's even in their favorite color. Not that anyone in the family asked what it was. (Tim might have had something to do with it. After all he did get them banned from traveling. Not that he feels guilty. No way in hell was he letting you go. Especially without him or the others.)

☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️

"It seems kinda wasteful." You can't help saying it. To tired of putting on that pleasant people pleaser mask for once.

"I know it's a bit extravagant, but since everyone has their own car I thought you should have your own too." Bruce had such an eager smile on his face. Like the whole incident with the crushing your hopes and your phone never happened.

To bad you haven't forgotten nor forgiven.

"Still a waste. I'm not going to get to drive it anywhere." Vinegar coating your tongue as you look at the sleek design.

You can here everyone around you stop cooing and praising the gift. There's no need to further elaborate your point. He gets it. The family gets it. The very earth you stand on gets it. You're not leaving this house. There's no need for the tank of gas to be filled. Or the damn thing to be charged since its some fucking electric hybrid, and probably filled to the brim with all sorts of nasty little tracking bugs.

You could have left it at that. But why not sink that needle deeper into his chest. Not a knife. Never a knife. You want your words to sting and stick. No taking the cut and letting it heal overtime. Let it be tattooed on the skin.

"Besides I already have Daddy's old truck. I don't need this." Don't those words hit like a strike to the soul. Bruce grows visibly still at them. That practiced mask going up and hiding the tells from all of them. Except Cassandra. There's no hiding things from her. They're all laid bare in front of her and she can tell everyone has somethings to say. While you have something to scream.

"You could at the very least be grateful for Father's gift" Damian spoke. He had been so well behaved to far. Keeping quite and watching with attentive green eyes. He could tell this wasn't going to go in the family's favor. He didn't necessarily blamed you for being disgruntled. But, would it kill you to give them a smile. They missed those. Hell, he missed those.

Something in you crackled, but you managed to hold you're tongue. The side-eye you gave him, however spoke enough volumes for you instead.

Astonishingly, it was Duke that set off the electric charge.

"I mean, it is a really nice car. You sure you don't want to take it for a spin?" You can here his attempt at trying to defuse the static in the are, but as fond of him as you are compared to the others, it just sets you off.

"Oh, and where to exactly?" You can't help but snort. "Down the driveway and back?"

"You're acting like a brat." Jason throwing in his two cents. Of course he would say that. And, he's rewarded with a voltaic look from you eyes and a snarl from your lips.

"I. Don't. Care." The words echo in the massive car garage. Bouncing of the walls and the other sleek fancy model cars in it. Your apathy and anger is reward with quiet.

It doesn't last long.

"Let's all just calm down." Dick steps between them, trying to play reconciler. All it serves to do is make you feel more isolated. The way he steps between you cuts you off from the rest of the group and makes it seem like he's singling you out.

"I am calm!" The words coming from your clenched jaw.

"They're the one acting like a spoiled little-"

"Jason, enough." Bruce finally steps in. That stoic look still on his face. Internally, he knows he miscalculated. He made a mistake, and it's humbling to know he can still make them at his age and with all his experience. Still, he wears the mask. He's too busy recalculating and coming up with another plan. Perhaps he was putting to much focus on the wrong thing. That didn't stop him from glaring at that classless truck in his garage.

"Of fucking course Daddy's princess gets away with acting like a brat." Jason doesn't stop though, looking directly at you. Always looking at you. Everyone is always looking at you. But never speaking these days.

"Fuck you." You whisper. Caution and hesitance thrown into the stirring winds.

"Uh-oh, looks like the princess finally snapped." That sickly green look appearing in his eyes. God, does he love this. He knew they had some fucking bite in them. Some spice. Something that made them even more delicious. That just enhanced their sweetness tenfold.

"Jason. Knock it off." Barbara murmurs after Cassandra places a hand on her shoulder. Signaling the direction this could easily head in.

"No, I don't think I will." He sneers, making an attempt to step around Dick and get in your face. It's Tim and Stephanie that try to stop him this time. Both muttering to him and trying to get him to calm down.

You can clearly see it. Their family dynamic. Clear as day. It's right in front of you for you to watch unfold while you stand on the outside looking in. Only getting stray remnants of it when they deem you worth it. You're always worth it though, silly little sugarplum. They’re just terrible at showing it, you poor poor thing. That'll change soon, don't worry. Actually, you should worry.

There's no need to stick around any longer. No fucking need at all. Your feet echoing as you leave the room filled with strangers family and cars. You're leaving. You're going home. And you're going home tonight.

☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️

That night, the news is blaring over Gotham. A sudden hurricane off the coast is set to hit by nightfall. People are being asked to evacuate, already there is panic in the streets.

As much as they don't want to leave things unresolved, the family has no choice, but to respond. Making sure evacuations go smoothly. Keeping the mobs at bay in the stores. Checking that the Arkham inmates are both secure and safe.

It gets worse when the reports further come in. There was lightning spotted off the coast. A lightning storm predicted to hit before the hurricane. That would double the difficulties everyone in Gotham was dealing with.

Most everyone, but Reader.

With the family busy they had plenty of time to pack a few belongings and necessities for a long drive. Glowing eyes taking inventory as the electricity crackled under their skin and the distant skies. Brewing excitement in their chest as the skies filled with dark clouds. Some might think it ominous. But, for Reader it was freedom.

In Gotham that ominous feeling continued. It was as if Gotham itself knew what chaos was about to unfold. Chaos that it would have reveled in if not for the impending feeling of loss found not only in the empty streets, but in Wayne Manor.

As the wind started to wail, nightfall seemed to come earlier with how dark the clouds made the sky. Rain poured in sheets. Most of the Bats took cover, but when the lightning began to strike is when things really when to hell.

By luck or something else, the Gotham power grid was hit. Shutting down over half the city in the first moments of the storm. The downpour hadn't even soaked the concrete when it struck.

The darkness washed over the city and the family knew it was going to be a long long night.

Barbara, in Oracle mode in the Batcave, was focused on keeping everyone updated on new alerts and any looting. She didn't have a chance to glance at the manor cameras and see Reader walking through the halls with a bag on their shoulders before. Multiple strikes of lightning reverberated through the manor. They could be heard echoing all the way down in the cave.

And, they caused the power to go out.

It was only out for twenty minuets. Twenty long minuets of Barbara and Alfred trying to fix the power and get everyone back in contact with each other.

A lot can happen in twenty minutes. Like a garage door opening and closing manually. Like someone driving down the long driveway out of the security gate without being noticed. Like someone could escape without notice in those twenty minutes.

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@starsdotalk @sleepyghoster @maicenitas @box-of-kinderjoy @yandereheros @skwunkler @cl0esblogg @delias-stuff @rosecentury @lilyalone @addie-r-u-ok @space1crow @imaginarydreams @dhanyasri @rosalietodd013 @rissareader @rando2509 @h0rr0r-10ver-69 @interobanginyourmom @heyitsaloy @myanyan-me @animegoddess15 @resident-cryptid @schaarfyx

#yandere batfam #yandere batfamily #batfam x reader #batfamily x reader #yandere dc #platonic batfam #yandere batfam x reader #yandere batfamily x reader #smalltown!reader #yandere jason todd #yandere bruce wayne #yandere cassandra cain #yandere tim drake #yandere stephanie brown #yandere damian wayne #yandere dick grayson

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sourcherryandsprinkles · 5 months ago

Note

Hi! My request is Aemond x reader based on the first episode of season 2. When Blood and Cheese enter Aemond’s room, they find his wife there instead. She resists them, fighting for her life and is able to harm one of them. Aemond arrives and strikes one with his sword, while the other is after executed by Vhagar. Once he sees her on the ground, he runs to check on her and she crumbles into his arms. Aemond is shocked at first, not used to physical touch. This ignites a feeling of great protectness towards reader he didn’t know he had and decides to gift her a knife in case she ever need to defend herself. Hope you enjoyed it ❤️

I could have gone very gore and violent with this one (I'm a horror movie girl), but decided against it as it can be triggering for some

Warnings: violence, blood & cheese, protective!Aemond

my taglists are here + you can send requests here at any time

—

The castle had turned quiet as night fell outside. You undid the braids from your hair, placing each pins on your vanity, before disrobing and replacing your dress with a light nightgown. Aemond had promised he would be joining you shortly, having business to finish with Ser Criston in the drawing chamber.

You reached behind your neck to unclasp your necklace, but it seemed to have gotten caught in your hair. A sigh left your lips. You tried again, but were unsuccessful.

Just then, the door of your chambers opened — Aemond was there.

You stepped out of the bathing chamber, seeking your husband’s help. ‘’Could you help me with my necklace? It seems to be caught in my hair—’’

Air caught in your throat when you saw a man you had never seen before stuffing his pockets with gold pieces he found on a table. Before you could ask who he was — or scream —, another grabbed you from the back and pressed a blade against your neck. You froze in his hold.

‘’Cheese,’’ the man behind you said, pressing the blade harder and cutting your skin.

Cheese, who was stealing, glanced at his friend, confused. ‘’Who the fuck is she?’’

‘’She is the one-eyed prince’s lady, Cheese.’’ He laughed maliciously, pressing the blade against your neck whilst pulling at your hair to expose your neck. ‘’If you scream, I’ll slice your neck.’’

Terror shot through you.

‘’A son for a son, he said,’’ reminded the other one. ‘’Does she look like a fucking son to you?’’

‘’I-I have a necklace. It’s of great value,’’ you offered, your voice trembling.

Your aggressor’s grip tightened, his breath hot and foul against your ear. ‘’You think we’re here for trinkets, woman?’’ he sneered. ‘’We’re here for blood.’’

‘’Where is the one-eyed prince?’’ Cheese asked, ripping your necklace from your neck anyway.

Who were these men, and why did they want your husband?

‘’He…he is not here,’’ you stammered, trying to think of a way to get yourself out of Blood’s grip.

You knew there was a dagger hidden in the bedside table. Aemond kept it there in case he needed to defend himself in the middle of the night and couldn’t get to his sword. But there was no way of grabbing it without the two men seeing through your plan.

‘’Would you like more jewelry? Or gold pieces?’’

The chances of your plan working were very slim, but if you didn’t do anything, your survival was almost impossible. You were not valuable to them. You were just the wife.

Blood didn’t seem interested in money, but Cheese's eyes gleamed with greed. Maybe he would take your offerings, and you could fetch the dagger.

Cheese stepped closer, considering your offer. ‘’Jewelry? Gold?’’ He grinned, glancing at Blood.

‘’Yes. I can get them for you…if your friend releases me.’’

Blood grunted and reluctantly released you.

You moved towards the bedside table, feeling wetness drip down your neck. Luckily, the cut was not deep. You opened the drawer, feeling the two men’s eyes on you, ready to pounce if you tried to escape. First, you pulled out a few pieces of gold, and made sure Cheese could see them. Then, you reached for the dagger, your fingers closing tightly around the hilt.

You thought your plan had worked, but Blood saw the blade and lunged at you, pinning you against the wall.

‘’Uh uh,’’ he said, madness in his eyes as he raised his other hand to press his blade against your neck again. ‘’What were you trying to do?’’

You said nothing. Blood’s hand on your sternum was making it difficult to breathe.

Now that you made him mad, your life was hanging by a thread. So you kept eye contact and blindly drove Aemond’s dagger into his side. Blood gasped, eyes wide with shock, before letting go of you and collapsing to the floor.

‘’Ahh! Fucking cunt!’’

You got away from him, but Cheese charged in turn.

Before he could get to you, the door opened and Aemond entered the room. He instantly noticed the presence of two strangers and his terrified wife, rage flaring within him. Who were these men? How did they get in? What were their intentions? Those questions and more ran through his mind, but he couldn’t even begin to find the answers right now.

Aemond’s jaw clenched in anger as he reached for his sword. It was a silent, swift and deadly movement that echoed through the room.

Having heard the door, Cheese turned, his eyes widening in surprise when seeing the prince, but it was too late. Aemond’s sword struck with precision, piercing through Cheese’s chest in one swift motion. The thief gasped, blood bubbling at his lips as he collapsed to the floor, lifeless.

Aemond didn’t bother to look at Cheese for even a second. He knew he was dead. He stepped over the body of the thief and came closer to you. The thought that these men — these thieves — had broken into your chambers and touched you. Rage was pumping through his veins, but he needed to make sure you were alright.

He marched over to you, his eye fixated on your neck where the cut was. When his arm touched you, the dagger you were holding clattered on the floor as you crumbled into Aemond’s arms. He caught you, his body becoming stiff from the physical contact.

Your hands clutched at Aemond, refusing to let go of him, shaken and traumatized from the attack. ‘’They were here for you,’’ you mumbled against this chest as tears of relief fell from your eyes.

Aemond furrowed his eyebrows in confusion. For him?

From the corner of his eye, he saw Blood’s body move on the floor and his grip on you tightened slightly. ‘’Let’s get out of here. I must alert the guards and my brother.’’

For weeks, you refused to be left alone in your chambers, scared more rat catchers would break in. To ensure your protection, Aemond had a guard standing outside the door at all times. He never wanted you to be hurt because of him again.

For extra protection, Aemond sat you down gently and presented you with a velvet-lined box. ‘’I had this made for you by our best blacksmith,’’ he said, opening the box to reveal a dagger with dragon scales intricately wrapped around the handle and a sapphire stone set in the hilt.

It looked expensive and exquisitely crafted.

Your fingers traced the scales gently. “It’s beautiful, Aemond. You…you had this made for me?”

‘’Yes,’’ he confirmed, watching you as you examined the dagger. ‘’I wanted you to have something to defend yourself with, should anything like that ever happen again.’’

Flashes of that horrific night coursed your mind. Cheese had died on the scene, his lung pierced by Aemond’s sword. Blood was imprisoned and burned by Vhagar two days after he was found in the tunnels of the Keep.

Aemond moved your hair behind your shoulder, revealing the scarring cuts from Blood’s knife. Guilt filled his stomach. He was your husband, he was supposed to protect you. It was his duty. ‘’I should have been there to protect you.’’

‘’You can’t always be there to protect me. I should have locked the door—’’

‘’None of this was your fault,’’ Aemond said firmly. ‘’I refuse to let you think that. Whoever paid these fucking rats is at fault. Not you.’’

—

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incognit0slut · 5 months ago

Text

Prove me wrong

When you tease Spencer about his inability to be dominant in bed, he decides to prove you wrong by taking matters into his own hands.

Warnings: (18+, MDNI) afab reader, established relationship, dom spence but he’s still gentle, spanking, fingering, edging/orgasm control ~3.6k words A/n: Every time I write him as a dom I always make sure to write a backstory, like I can’t imagine him being hard on you out of nowhere. Do you get what I’m saying? Anyway this is the spanking fic I was talking about the other day. lmk what you think!!

The giggle left your lips before you could stop yourself. You really shouldn’t be laughing, especially when you were straddling his lap in the midst of a hot, passionate make-out session. But you couldn’t help it, it was as if you had no control over your amusement. Spencer, however, did not find the humor in the words that had slipped out of your mouth.

“What? You don’t think I can do it?”

It wasn’t fair. You knew that. What had started as a casual conversation—with stolen kisses here and there—quickly escalated into a playful banter about who was more in charge in the relationship. You had been teasing him, confidently asserting that you were the one wearing the pants in the relationship because you couldn’t imagine him being in control.

The conversation naturally shifted to a more personal challenge, touching on the topic of dominance, a subject neither of you had seriously discussed before. You had laughed then, not out of mockery, but because the idea seemed so out of character for him.

“I just think you’re more comfortable with control in other areas,” you said, trying to stifle your giggle. “But in bed? I can’t picture it.”

He raised an eyebrow, “And what areas do you think I’m more comfortable with?”

“Well, teaching for one,” you replied, leaning closer. “I’ve sat in one of your seminars. You’re always so confident standing in front of a classroom.”

“So you think I’m good at teaching?” he replied, his voice dripping with mock seriousness. “But not at… other things?”

“Exactly,” you said, nodding. “I mean, you dominate the classroom with your knowledge. But that’s different from... you know, being dominant in bed.”

“Mhm.” His hands trailed up your legs before they settled on your waist. “Maybe those skills are more transferable than you think.”

You rolled your eyes playfully. “You can’t possibly compare giving a lecture in front of your students to... this.”

“Why not? Both require confidence, understanding your audience, and knowing how to lead.”

“Nice try, but I’m still not convinced,” you teased. ��I’ll believe it when I see it.”

You leaned in to kiss him again, your lips barely brushing his, but he backed away, leaving you hanging. His eyes were serious, not amused by your skepticism. You laughed. It was clear he wasn’t satisfied with your perception of him.

“Baby, it’s okay. I don’t mind if this isn’t your strong suit.”

“Well I do.”

You tilted your head, giving him a curious look. “Since when do you care about my opinion?”

“Since you’re my girlfriend,” he replied. “And I can’t let you think less of me.”

“I never think any less of you.”

“But you’re doubting me, aren’t you?”

“Maybe a little,” you admitted, a teasing smile playing on your lips. “Oh, come on, stop making that face.”

Spencer's response was swift. His hands moved to gently cup your face, drawing your attention fully to him. “Tell me why you think I can’t be dominant in bed.”

You paused, thinking for a moment. “Well, you have this… air about you. It's hard to imagine you letting go.”

"Maybe I don't need to let go. Maybe I just need to take control in a different way," he said, his thumb gently brushing your cheek. “Maybe I can teach you a thing or two."

"You? Teach me?" You raised an eyebrow, mock disbelief coloring your tone. "This I have to see."

“I think you should be careful what you wish for,” He said under his breath, his lips now just a whisper away from yours.

“Oh, I’m not worried,” you shot back, smiling against his lips. “I just don’t think you have it in you.”

Without another word, he closed the distance between you.

His lips moved against yours softly yet deeply, carrying the usual sweetness you'd grown accustomed to, but there was a subtle edge this time. It wasn’t too harsh, but just enough to catch you off guard and make you part your lips. He took the invitation, his tongue tracing a deliberate path inside your mouth as his hand trailed up to hold the back of your neck.

Hot. You felt hot everywhere. Certain spots on your body felt as if they were on fire, the burn traveling through your veins before pooling between your thighs. You couldn’t believe a simple kiss could make you feel this way. The heat was intense, making you ache with a need that you instinctively started to move your hips, seeking more. But then he pulled away, breaking the kiss.

“No,” he said firmly. “You’re not allowed to move.”

You frowned at him. “Why not?”

"Because..." His fingers traced a path to the hem of his shirt that you wore, the one you claimed as your own. He slowly began to lift it, his fingers brushing lightly against your skin. “You need to earn it.”

You understood immediately what he was attempting. He wanted to make you wait. He wanted you desperate. You realized it was some kind of power play, and this was his way to dominate you, to keep you on the edge. Each careful, controlled movement was a clear message to you. He was in charge, and you were left craving whatever he chose to give.

"Yeah?" You whispered, noticing the way your voice trembled with anticipation. "And how do I do that?"

He lifted the shirt higher, his hands sliding up your sides, the cool air hitting your exposed skin. “By letting me lead,” he said. “Maybe I'll give you what you want then.”

The fabric slipped over your head, and you sat there, perched on his lap, momentarily vulnerable under his intense gaze. The room seemed to hold its breath, the tension palpable as you felt his hands rest lightly on your bare shoulders, his fingers tracing small circles before they trailed lower, stopping just above your breasts.

“Will you do that? Will you do what I say?”

You swallowed hard. This was new. You never thought you’d see him asking your permission to be in control, yet here he was, doing the exact thing you were skeptical about. And to your surprise, you liked this side of him.

“Will you?” He urged.

You felt your breathing grow heavy as his hands moved lower. “…yes.”

His thumbs brushed over your nipples. “I can’t hear you.”

You felt the sensation hit right through you, and it took a lot of self-control for you not to arch into his touch, to keep your voice steady as you repeated louder, “Yes.”

A satisfied smile played at the corners of his lips. “Good,” he whispered, leaning in to press an open kiss on your neck. “I think I can get used to this.”

You tilted your head, exposing your neck to him. He wasted no time, licking and sucking on your pulse point, making sure to leave his mark. His hands continued their exploration, squeezing your breasts gently, feeling their full weight in his palms. When he tugged on your nipples, pulling them harder than he ever had before, a moan escaped your lips, surprising even yourself.

His lips curved into a smirk against your skin. "Sounds like someone's enjoying this more than they expected.”

Breathlessly, you replied, "You're... doing okay, I guess."

"Just okay?" His breath was hot on your already heated skin. "I'll have to try harder then."

His fingers traced a teasing path down to the hem of your panties, playing with the soft fabric, his fingertips brushing the sensitive skin just beneath. “Lift your hips.”

You complied, lifting your hips slightly, your breath catching as his fingers hooked around the fabric and slowly began to pull it down. You shifted on his lap, letting him slip off your panties completely. He discarded it onto the floor, his hands returning to your thighs, gently massaging the plumpness of it as he fixed his gaze on you.

There was something about you that captivated him at that moment. The way you trembled, the way your breathing quickened, the way your pupils dilated. Spencer had always loved the pure desire reflected in your eyes whenever he touched you, but this was different. It was raw, unfiltered desperation, and he wanted to savor it, to draw it out and see just how far it could go.

“See? Already doing better than just okay.”

Your breath hitched as his palm ran up your inner thigh. “You’re not done proving yourself yet.”

“You know,” he started, his voice low and teasing. “You shouldn’t really challenge me like this.”

“I’m not challenging you… you’re the one who started this.”

His fingers stopped just at the edge of the heat between your legs, teasingly close yet maddeningly far, but close enough to feel the dampness on your skin.

“No, you started this.” He moved his hand further, brushing against your outer lips. “You told me I wasn’t capable of being dominant.”

Your mouth fell open, a gasp escaping your lips. “I—I didn’t think…”

“Didn’t think I could take control?” His fingers grazed your slick pussy, slowly brushing your arousal between your folds. “Or didn’t think you’d enjoy it this much?”

You could only moan in response, your body reacting despite your attempts to keep your composure.

“Tell me,” he whispered, his voice as soft as his touch. “Are you still not convinced?”

Your breath hitched as his fingers found your clit. You gasped, trying to form coherent thoughts. “I… I’m starting to see your point.”

“I need more than that,” he uttered, and to your disappointment, he pulled away. “Lay down on my lap.”

Your eyes widened. “What?”

He smiled. “You heard me. Lay down on my lap.”

Hesitantly, you shifted, positioning yourself across his lap, your heart pounding in your chest. “Spencer, I don’t—” you started, uncertainty lacing your voice.

“Shh,” he cut you off, his hand softly patting your back. “Relax.”

He watched as you started to relax, the supple curve of your back arching slightly, highlighting the roundness of your ass as you settled into position. His hand rested lightly on your lower back while his other found your face, turning it towards him. His eyes met yours as he brushed a stray lock of hair away from your forehead.

"Look at me," he whispered. “You trust me, don’t you?”

You nodded, keeping your eyes steady on his soft brown orbs even though your heart was racing while his other hand trailed down the curve of your hips. Then, without warning, his hand lifted from your skin only to come down gently in a firm, open-handed spank on your ass that resounded through the quiet room.

"Spencer!" you exclaimed, a flush spreading across your cheeks.

His hand rubbed the area soothingly. “Have I convinced you enough?”

You bit your lip, feeling the warmth of his touch both soothing and stimulating. “Maybe,” you replied breathlessly, your cheeks still flushed.

“Maybe?” He laughed. “Why do I feel like you’re doing this on purpose?”

You looked away, flustered, not wanting to admit the truth. “I’m not… I mean…” you stammered, your face heating up even more.

Seeing your reaction, he moved his hand between your thighs again, his fingers brushing against your slickness. “Interesting,” he hummed. “It seems you’re enjoying this more than you’re letting on.”

You couldn’t help but moan softly at his touch. “Spencer…”

“But you don’t deserve this yet,” he said, pulling his hand back teasingly. “Not until you’ve fully earned it.”

His hand suddenly came down on your ass again, the sharp sound echoing through the room. The burning sting made you gasp.

“Count,” he instructed.

You could feel your eyes well up with unshed tears, the intensity of the slap overwhelming. You should feel ashamed and embarrassed by the situation, everything about this should send you into sheer mortification. Yet, there was also an undeniable pleasure threading through the pain, so intense that you could feel yourself getting aroused.

Another spank followed, slightly harder this time. “I told you to count.” “Two,” you gasped.

His hand came down again, firmer than before. “Start from the beginning.”

You blinked away the moisture in your eyes, trying to steady your voice. “One...”

“That’s better,” he murmured, his hand connecting with your skin, the sensation sharper than before.

“Two...”

His eyes stayed locked on you, gauging every reaction as he slapped you again.

“Three,” you cried out.

You continued to count, the numbers blending with your gasps and moans. By the time you reached seven, you were panting, the tears finally spilling over your face. His touch softened, his fingers gently caressing your reddened skin as he pressed his lips on your cheek, trying to kiss your tears away.

“Oh, baby, you know I hate to see you cry,” his voice was sweet, almost cooing, but the underlying taunt was unmistakable as his hand came down again sharply on your ass. You cried out, but he continued to trail soft kisses along your jawline, his breath warm against your skin.

“You’re doing so well,” he breathed. “But I need you to count again.”

“Eight,” you whined as you tried to catch your breath. Before you could fully process the last slap, you felt another sharp smack on your ass, making you cry out again.

“Spencer, please,” you whimpered, the mix of sensations overwhelming you. His kisses were gentle, almost tender, but his hand was anything but soft.

“Just a little more, I promise,” he murmured against your ear, his breath hot and comforting. “What number was that?”

“Nine,” you choked out, your voice trembling.

“One more,” he whispered. “Just one last time. Can you be a good girl and count it out for me?”

You nodded, bracing yourself. He slowly lifted his hand again and paused in the air for a moment before letting it down in a firm, final spank.

“Ten!”

“Very good,” he praised softly, his voice warm and approving. He rubbed the stinging area gently as his lips found yours in a tender, reassuring kiss, his hand cradling your face gently.

“There, all done,” he said, pulling away. “Do you think you deserve your reward now?”

You nodded slightly, your body still humming from the intense sensations. “Please.”

His smile was soft when you met his gaze. “Alright,” he hummed. “You’ve earned it.”

You closed your eyes, feeling a shiver of anticipation run through you as his fingers slipped between your legs again. The warmth of his fingers against your folds sent waves of pleasure through your body, and when he pressed gently against your clit, a gasp escaped your lips. You arched into his touch, every nerve ending tingling with the sensations he was creating. The pleasure built steadily, each stroke sending you higher, your breath coming in short, ragged gasps.

“Spencer,” you moaned, unable to hold back yourself as you arched your back, your hips grinding against his fingers, seeking more of the delicious friction.

“You’re so wet,” he sighed with a hint of surprise and satisfaction. “You like it when I go hard on you?”

You could only nod in response, your mind barely able to form coherent thoughts with the way he was working on you.

“Do you think you can take it if I go harder?” he asked, his fingers stilling for a moment, waiting for your response.

“Yes,” you whispered, your voice barely audible but filled with desire. “I-I can take it.”

He answered you by slipping, not one, but two fingers into you without warning. The sound you let out was filthy, almost primal, a mix of a moan and a gasp that reverberated through the room. The unexpected intrusion drove you crazy, making it impossible to hold back your reactions as his fingers started to move inside you, stretching and filling you in a way that had your toes curling.

“God, you’re so tight,” Spencer sighed, his lips brushing against your ear. He could feel your walls clenching around him, contracting in response every time he thrust his fingers into you. It drove him wild. It consumed his mind. He couldn't believe he was the one making you feel this way.

If you were wet before, you were absolutely drenched now. Your arousal stained his skin, and it amazed him how it didn't seem to stop. The liquid seemed to intensify, becoming the only noise in the room—a slick, wet sound that echoed softly as he started a faster pace, curling his fingers inside you.

You felt the pressure building, a tight coil of pleasure winding tighter and tighter in your lower stomach. Every curl of his fingers, every stroke against that perfect spot inside you, sent waves of pleasure crashing through your body.

“Spencer,” you whimpered, your voice a desperate plea. “I’m so close…”

He pulled your face closer to his, brushing his lips on your cheek. "Already?"

You nodded, unable to form words. Suddenly, he pulled his fingers out, leaving a void that made you whimper in protest. But before you could voice your frustration, his hand came down sharply on your ass. The sudden slap made you wail, your jaw slacking open.

"You didn't think it would be that easy, did you?"

You didn't know which surprised you more, his sudden withdrawal or the sharp sting of his slap. But both affected you like a storm suddenly breaking the calm, jolting your senses awake, heightening your senses.

With his hands still on you, he leaned in, his breath warm against your ear. "Have I proved you wrong yet?"

You could barely speak. Instead, you opted for a nod, hoping he’d understand your silent affirmation. But Spencer wanted more, he wanted to hear it. When your voice failed to form the words, his hand came down sharply again, a firm smack that made you gasp and arch your back.

"Not good enough," he said firmly. He then gripped your chin, turning your face to meet his gaze, forcing you to look directly into his eyes in this position. His hold was firm, his eyes intense. "Say it."

You opened your mouth, trying to form the words, but they came out as a soft whimper when you felt his fingers suddenly slipping into your cunt again. The stretch was even more delicious this time, intensifying the pleasure already floating in your veins, scattering your thoughts.

"Focus," he commanded, but how could you when he thrust his fingers into you at a mind-blowing speed? Each thrust seemed to demand an answer, it was as if he was using your own body against you, pushing you to the edge until the only thing you could think of was the control he had over you.

And it was working, because all you could focus on was him—his fingers pumping in and out of your slick cunt, the intense gaze in his eyes, the warmth of his breath against your lips. Everything around you seemed to blur and only he remained clear.

"Say it," he urged again. "Say that you were wrong."

You struggled to form coherent thoughts, let alone speak, but his hard gaze and the relentless motion of his fingers forced the words from you. "I-I was... wrong."

"Louder," he demanded, his fingers never faltering. "I can't hear you, baby, need you to talk to me."

You moaned, your body trembling with the need for release. "I-I wanna cum."

"Hold it," he said firmly. His fingers didn't relent, maintaining that perfect rhythm, pushing you further, harder. "Say it louder."

You clenched around him, trying desperately to hold back the orgasm threatening to overwhelm you. "I-I was wrong."

"I think you can do better than that."

You groaned. The pressure was too much and you fought to find your voice through the haze of pleasure. You could feel every ridge and curve of his fingers as they moved inside you, the friction building an unbearable heat that pooled low in your abdomen.

"I still can't hear you."

"I was wrong!" you cried out pathetically, your voice breaking with desperation. Your walls clamped around him, trying to draw him deeper as the slick, wet sounds of his movements filled your ears. You were drowning in the sensations, the tension inside you winding tighter and tighter. The world narrowed down to the feeling of his fingers inside you, the relentless pressure, the intense heat pooling in your core.

“Spencer, please,” your voice cracked, tears prickling down your cheeks again. You could taste the saltiness as you took a sharp intake of breath. "Please, please, please, please—"

"Now."

With that single word, the tension inside you snapped. A powerful surge of pleasure tore through you, starting at your core and radiating outward like a shockwave. Your vision blurred, and your entire body convulsed as the orgasm overwhelmed your senses. You cried out his name, and your muscles contracted around his fingers, squeezing tightly as the sensations spiraled out of control. The pleasure was so intense it was almost painful.

Your skin felt electric. Your heart pounded in your chest. Your breath came in ragged gasps as you rode out the peak of your climax, hips bucked against his hand while his fingers continued their relentless pace, drawing out your orgasm, making it last longer than you thought possible. The intensity left you trembling, your body spent and your mind unable to process anything other than the overwhelming pleasure.

You finally collapsed against him moments later, your body limp and your breath coming in shallow, uneven gasps. The intensity of your orgasm left you feeling both weightless and heavy as if all the strength had been drawn out of you. He gently pulled you onto his lap, your smaller frame draping effortlessly over his.

And this time, Spencer shouldn't be laughing, but he couldn't help himself. His chuckle was soft and warm, a sound that seemed to vibrate through his chest and into your body as you lay against him. It wasn't a mocking laugh, but you could sense his amusement.

"If I had any strength," you muttered, sinking into him. "I'd hit you so hard right now."

He laughed again, this time a bit louder. "Well, it's a good thing you're too worn out to try.”

"Don't get used to it," you warned, though there was no real threat in your tone.

"I wouldn't dream of it," he replied, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. "But I do enjoy seeing you like this."

You nuzzled closer to him, feeling the exhaustion beginning to set in. Your eyelids grew heavy as you muttered, "Just don't forget who’s really in charge in this relationship."

"I wouldn’t dare.”

“I’m—“ you stopped as a yawn suddenly hit you. “I’m… the dominant one here.”

"Sure, you are," he teased gently, stroking your hair as you settled comfortably against him, a smile playing on his lips.

“I… mean it.”

“Of course. You’re always in charge.”

You nodded sleepily. “And I’m… still going... to… hit you… later…”

He rested his head on top of yours, letting your body fully relax into his. “I look forward to it.”

With a final, contented sigh, you let yourself drift off on his lap, the sound of his steady heartbeat lulling you into the most peaceful sleep.

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