#as u can see my brain is a mess | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

pencil-n-pen · 4 months ago

Text

TONGUES AND TEETH

₊˚ʚ 🌲₊˚✧ . °🍂 ೃ࿔*

jackson! joel miller x fem! loner! reader

masterlist | ko-fi

summary: Joel refuses to acknowledge the part of him that aches to be a protector. That is, until you come crashing into his life.

cw: canon-typical violence, reader had a rough go of things before Joel, nightmares, medical inaccuracies (oh the horror!) uhhh reader has a broken nose and it gets set, unspecified age gap, daddy issues but we all saw that coming and it’s vague, as an ellie lover and defender until the day i die, it pains me to say no ellie-au IM SORRY I COULDN’T MAKE IT WORK bella ramsey as ellie they could never make me hate you

tags/tropes: hurt/comfort as always, age gap, nightmare comfort, honestly just two messed up people loving each other

a/n: proof that i will find a way to write an eldest daughter fic for any fandom/universe

not officially writing for him !! just had this idea

another long(ish) fic. if you're here from my masterlist, now would be a good time to go pee, get some water, and maybe a snack or two :) same things for those of you scrolling. i see u

title taken from tongues and teeth by the crane wives (GO LISTEN TO THE CRANE WIVES !!)

✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚🦴⋆｡°✩

Jackson living isn’t all Joel thought it would be cracked up to be.

Don’t get him wrong- objectively, it’s great. Running water, electricity, a clinic- three hallmarks Joel was sure he’d never see again. Not since the outbreak.

So by all means, he should be content. He goes out for hunting parties and patrols. Has his own house. Has a permanent place to keep his boots and his knives and guns and a bookshelf to make his way through. He has a bed. He has his brother.

But he’s restless.

Joel spent a long time walking. Searching. Surviving. You don’t quite slip back into easy civilian life just like that, no matter how perfect the conditions are.

At first, he solves this problem but going on more hunting parties, more patrols. He stays up late doing guard rotations and helps out his brother with projects when he can.

It doesn’t solve the itch, though. That sharp little thrumming, just beneath his skin: the need to protect. To have a job. To have something or someone to look after.

He denies this part of himself as much as he can, because he’s not that man anymore. Not after Sarah. He’s not. You don’t stay somebody dying to help and protect when you kill people. Because they’re still people, under the fungus. Under the parasite. Their brain’s still work. They still feel pain and anguish and fear.

He’s heard them cry before. Hunched over a corpse, body acting with somebody else at the reins, faces covered in blood and gore crying “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

So Joel isn’t a protective guy anymore. Had to take out those parts. Replace them with solitary and meanness and a distinct lack of sympathy.

It’s turned him into an angry thing. Like a gaurd dog; snarling, circling an empty pedestal it refuses to acknowledge is there.

He knows Tommy see’s it. Try’s to involve him in things whenever he can, invites him over to dinner. Hangs out at his house. Makes sure Joel isn’t alone-alone.

So Joel really, really should’ve seen it coming when he and the scouting party find you in the woods.

You’re just as surprised to see them as they are to see you. They thought they were tracking a deer— although some of the tracks and patterns of disturbance in the underbrush didn’t add up.

They’d entered a clearing, guns poised, just to see you, handgun leveled at them, perched in a tree. Way higher up than Joel would’ve dared.

“Stay the fuck away from me.” You’d hissed, voice carrying on the wind and rattling just like the leaves on the tree you’re in. How you managed to scale a tree that high in a busted pair of Doc Martens and lugging a backpack clearly full of supplies is beyond him.

But he doesn’t need medical credentials to know you’ve clearly had a rough go of things.

You’re young. Not young-young, but young. Dressed in clothes clearly pilfered, you’re wearing a thick brown jacket that probably would’ve belonged to a construction worker or something like that. It’s a few sizes too big, and the cuffs are frayed and there’s a hastily sewn patch on the elbow he can see. Your face and hair is littered with tree and other plant debris- though if this is a new addition from your tree climbing escapade, he’s not sure. Your nose has dried blood crusted under it, your lip is split, and there’s a cut above your eyebrow. Your knuckles and hands are equally torn and split, old and new scars and scrapes littering your skin.

In short: you look rough. And feral, in that way that cats that live outside a little too long and a little too far away from people end up looking.

“I said stay back!”

He remembers, abruptly, that you’re probably scared out of your mind and the rest of the scouting team is still pointing their weapons at you.

He makes the motion for them to lower their weapons, and he lowers his own, raising both hands in the universal “we come in peace” gesture.

You don’t lower yours, but your grip on it is looser.

“We’re from the Jackson settlement,” He shouts, hoping you don’t hear the gruff anger in his voice that Tommy always complains he needs to work on. “There’s running water and electricity.”

“I’ve heard that one before,” Your hands have begun to shake on the gun, ever so slightly. “So what’s your guys prerogative, huh? Cannablism? Religion? You planning on burning me at the stake? Or did you have something else in mind? I am a woman.”

Joel takes a step forward but stops when a bullet hits the ground right where his foot was about to be.

“If you take one more step you’re gonna find out exactly why I’ve survived alone this long.”

“Look,” He says, dropping his hands to his hips. “You can shoot us, and one of us will shoot you, and it’ll all be fine and dandy—“

There’s a chorus of whispers behind him.

“Or you can stay in that tree and not shoot us, and we won’t shoot you, and that’ll also be fine and dandy.”

He turns, jamming a finger in the direction of the settlement. “Jackson’s that way. Go or don’t go. I don’t really give a shit, but you look like you could use a bandaid.”

He jerks his head, and the rest of the party follows his lead, leaving the clearing —and you— behind.

—

A few hours after he returns, somewhere in the late evening when twilight is starting to set in and the crickets are chirping, Tommy knocks on his door.

“There’s a girl here for you.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Someone asked for me?”

“Well, not so much as for you. Her words exactly were “that gruff, mean looking asshole,” but I got the picture.”

He sighs, deep in his bones. A small part of him ��the part that’s still connected to that dog, still circling— had hoped you would show up. However, it’s hopelessly overshadowed by the sheer exasperation of it all.

He’s silent save for non-committal grunts and hmm’s the way over to the front gates where the evening rotation’s guards have you standing between them.

You’re slightly worse for wear since the last time he saw you in that tree. Your jacket as a new rip in it, and your nose is sluggishly bleeding again. Up close, he notices it’s a bit crooked.

Gonna hurt like a bitch to set, He thinks absentmindedly.

He slows as he approaches you, hands in his pockets and shoulders back.

“See?” He huffs, gesturing with one hand behind him. “Not cannibals. Or whatever else you’re worried about.”

Your face is hard set as you look around. “That remains to be seen.”

“Hello!”

Joel looks back to see a pregnant Maria waddling over, a concerned Tommy at her side.

“I told you I’d handle it—“

“And I told you I’m fine. Now,” She props her hands on her hips. “Who’s this young lady now?”

You (hesitantly) stick out a hand to shake and introduce yourself.

She shakes your hand with a smile. Leave it to Maria to be able to read people with such ease. “I’m Maria Miller. I’m one of the settlement councilors. The golden retriever fussing next to me is my husband, Tommy, and the angry looking bear next to him is his brother, Joel. I understand a scouting party found you?”

You nod, eyes flicking this way and that, cataloguing the area.

“I’ve been on my own for… awhile. I don’t have any supplies to offer, but I’m smart and strong. I’m willing to work in exchange for a place to stay.”

Maria hums, assessing. “I’m sure we can work something out. You’ll need to come with me to speak to the rest of the council, for our safety and yours.”

You tighten your grip on your backpack but follow Maria and Tommy, only sparing one backward glance at Joel.

He spends the rest of the evening trying to forget the look in your eyes.

—

He fails spectacularly.

This doesn’t mean, however, that he’s anywhere near pleased when his nightly reading-as-a-poor-attempt-at-normalcy routine is interrupted by a knock on the door. One that sounds suspiciously like Tommy’s type of knock.

Only he hears two voices as he walks up to the door, and the other one isn’t Maria.

Joel opens the door with a glare already fixed on his face.

“There have to be other places.”

Tommy rolls his eyes. “It’s only temporary. The council agreed to let her stay so long as she’s watched by a trusted Jackson member, and well. You vouched for her.”

“And when exactly did I do that?”

“In the woods, when you met. You told her where you were from and how to get there. Honestly, Joel, you’re getting off light here. Some of the council members were not happy you told a random loner —no offense— where to find us. Kind of defeats the whole point.”

You huff a quiet “None taken.”

He can’t help the way his body tenses. “So this is a punishment?”

“Yes and no.”

“I don’t—“

“Look,” you interject, clearly fed up with the conversation. “It’s not the end of the world. I’m not going to murder you in your sleep and I don’t leave dirty clothes lying around. It’s only for three weeks. Get over it.”

Another sigh threatens to release itself, but he stamps it down, figuring he’s hit his sigh quota for the day.

“Fine. But take her down to medical first. I don’t want her blood all over my house.”

Tommy shrugs. “No-can-do. Maria needs me back at the house. You know where medical is. I’m sure you’ll manage.”

And with that, Tommy leaves, abandoning Joel and you at the doorstep.

Joel scrubs a hand down his face. “Wait there. I’ll grab a jacket.”

The walk to the clinic is awkward and silent, and just when Joel thinks it can’t get any worse, one of the staff tells him that since he’s your assigned supervisor/watcher/whatever, he has to accompany you. To everything.

To your credit, you don’t look very happy about the arrangement either.

Still, you bear through all the exams, a grimace fixed firmly on your face. Apparently (and not surprisingly) you’re malnourished, dehydrated, running a small fever, deficient in several vitamins, have two cracked ribs (most likely, no x-ray machine) and some run of the mill scraps and bruises.

You’re cagey enough on the details of the cracked ribs and nose that the doctor eventually moves on to the fixing you stage of things.

It takes awhile. There are a lot of injuries to cover.

When it comes to resetting your nose, the second the woman pulls out a needle and syringe, you go rigid.

“No.”

The doctor blinks. “This is just lidocaine, it’ll numb the area so—“

“No.”

“You wanna feel all that?” Joel asks, the first time he’s spoken during your entire exam, “It ain’t gonna feel great. Crooked nose like that won’t set with one go.”

“No needles. No numbing.”

Joel rolls his eyes. “What, you got a pain thing or something?”

Your hands go white-knuckled on the exam table. “Fuck. Off.”

You’re shaking, he notes.

Ah, He says to himself. Not a pain thing.

Fear.

The doctor shrugs. “Not like I won’t take the chance to save what we have. You’ll want something to bite down on. Or squeeze.”

You wrap your fingers around your own hand, a pathetic attempt at self-soothing.

He decides annoyance is the emotion he feels at your small movement. Nothing else.

He rolls his eyes as he grabs your hand, maneuvering it in place of your own.

“Good luck breaking it.”

You don’t respond. He wasn’t really expecting you to.

He knows without looking the exact moment the doctor starts resetting things because your grip on his hand quickly turns from barely there to crushing. You make no sound.

The doctor, to her credit, works fairly quickly, though by the time she’s finished a single tear has carved a path through the blood and grime on your face.

He thinks about how someone learns to cry without sound.

The doctor moves on quickly, cleaning and bandaging the wounds that need it and telling you detailed instructions for how to take care of your nose and cracked ribs and what things you should be eating to avoid staying vitamin deficient. It’s all a lot of words Joel is glad he doesn’t have to memorize.

They stick in his head anyway.

You don’t let go of his hand. You’re no longer squeezing the life out of it, but you’re not holding its gently either. When you do finally let go (after the doctor’s left and you can leave) you practically tear your hand away, as if burned. Like you’d left your hand on a stove as it was heating up only you just now noticed it was hot.

He doesn't say anything about it. He figures you're liable to literally bite his head off, or some other violent action close to that.

Besides. This is all awkward enough.

The walk back to the house is just as silent and strained as the walk to the clinic. Only now your breath is just a little more labored. Steps a little shakier. Your hand's twitch at your sides like they're reaching for something, and you don't quite manage to hide the way you look around every now and then, a restless, nervous action.

He knows what you're doing. He was you, back when he first got to Jackson. Granted, he wasn't as twitchy as you are. He kept his distance, stayed mean and scary (as possible.)

He holds the door open for you when you arrive back to the house, because his mom raised him to be a gentleman no matter the circumstances.

You toss him a look of confusion and annoyance but step into the house, looking around the modest living room with something almost like wonder.

He toes off his shoes, sets them by the door, and takes off his jacket, hanging it on the hook. "Shower before you touch anything. You're filthy. And don't think I'm giving up my bed."

"I wouldn't have taken it even if you had," You sneer. "Where's the--"

"Down the hall on the left. You got clean clothes?"

"...I have less dirty ones."

He pinches the bridge of his nose. "Wait here."

He grumbles all the way upstairs, all the way through picking out clothes that'll fit you well enough until you either wash what you have or find something else.

He silently glowers as he comes down the stairs, thrusting the clothes out to you and turning on his heel when you take them.

"I'm going to bed. Don't wake me up."

When he lies in bed that night, he can't even pretend he's not thinking about you. In his defense, it's less about you and more about the new, strange, stand-offish person he's just supposed to live with for the foreseeable future. All because he had the bad luck of feeling bad for the battered, flighty, loner girl sitting in a tree.

He stares at his ceiling, internal clock (yes, he's old, he has an internal clock. Sue him) letting him know it is decidedly an hour he should be asleep. He refuses to go downstairs, on principle alone. He could get up and go find one of his books, but he knows that if you're anything like him, coming off of however long you spent alone, you're a light sleeper. You're probably awake now, listening to him toss and turn and being unnerved by the unusual silence of Jackson and the particular brand of night-noise it produces. That's what the first two weeks of Joel's life in Jackson consisted of, before he moved in here.

Maria had decided that Joel would stay with the two of them until he integrated in Jackson society. Perks of your brother marrying a council member, he guesses.

So he's not going downstairs. Not going to walk down there just to see a person, an entire person in his house looking like, looking like--

Fuck.

He throws his blankets off and angrily (but not loudly) marches downstairs to get himself a glass of water and the book he knows he left on the table by the couch when he was so rudely interrupted by you. This is his house, dammit, he refuses to be put out by a random girl.

Woman, his brain corrects.

The living room is completely dark when he makes his way down the stairs and he truly, honestly wishes he was surprised when there's a whoosh of air to his right and a knife embeds itself in the wall about a half inch away from the side of his face.

The living room is still and silent.

"I thought they took your weapons when you got here."

"I lied about what I had."

He scrubs a hand down his face, yanks the knife out of the wall, and tosses it back. If you can throw it, you can dodge it.

He doesn't hear any screams, yelps, or grunts of pain, so he assumes you caught it fine. Or at least dodged it.

He makes his way over to the kitchen, grabs the teapot, and takes down two mugs.

"You know they can kick you out for harboring weapons during your probationary stay."

He hears a rustle of blankets behind him. The sound of you stashing your knife, no doubt.

"Are you going to tell them?"

He snorts, filling up the teapot. "No. There's been a knife in my boot since the day I got here."

He hears more rustling, and decides against turning around. He's not quite sure what you've been doing down here all night since it's clear that you weren't sleeping.

He doesn't hear any footsteps, but when does turn around to set the mugs on the table, you're sitting at it, knees pulled up and head resting atop them, your cheek smushed. Now that his eye's have adjusted to the darkness of the living room, he can almost make out your features. They're easier to discern, now that you're not covered in blood and grime. You look... softer. Haloed in the glow of moonlight shining through the gaps in the curtains.

Your face isn't the only thing glowing. The tell-tale glint of a knife --a different, smaller knife than the one you'd thrown at him-- shines from it's spot, resting oh-so innocently on the table.

Joel just huffs.

"No weapons on the table."

He blinks, and it's gone.

He doesn't ask why you're still awake or what you've been doing instead of sleeping. You don't ask why he's down in the kitchen at all.

"What are you making?"

"Tea."

He gently places a teabag in each mug. He isn't really sure why he's doing this for you. You've done nothing but hiss and spit since he's met you.

But tonight, right now, blanketed in the not-quite calm of the night and the apparent unease you both drown in--

It's tolerable. You're tolerable.

So he takes the kettle off the stove and pours the water and places the steaming mug on the table in front of you.

To which you ignore, and snatch the mug out of his hands instead.

"Did you think I put that one," He points to the mug in front of you, "There for giggles?"

You cradle the mug in your hands, seemingly entranced with the warmth and steam. "You might've poisoned mine."

"Maybe I poisoned both."

You take a sip, then grimace when the too-hot liquid hits your tongue.

"You don't look like the kind of person to have built an immunity to poison."

"You also watched me make both beverages."

"So? It's dark. You could've slipped something in. Or maybe it was already in the teabags."

"What use would I even have for you dead?"

You shrug. "I don't know. You tell me."

“You’re a deeply mistrusting person.”

“And you’re not?”

Touché.

Joel remains in the kitchen, leaned against a cabinet sipping your tea, while you stay hunched at the table, sipping yours.

If he removes the irritability and the uncomfortable-ness of everything that involves you living with him, the moment is almost… companionable. Pleasant, even.

It… soothes that nervous part of him. Not the sad nervous. The angry nervous. That built up crack of anger.

There’s another person in his home that is neither attempting to perceive his problems nor actively attempting to kill him. Your belief that he might poison you aside, you still accepted the tea.

He firmly believes that Tommy isn’t right about the loneliness thing though. His brother being right is just a world Joel can’t live in.

Besides. It’s too early to tell anything anyway.

—

Unfortunately, the following few days do not go… terribly.

That isn’t to say they go well, though. Since he’s looking after you (read: making sure you’re not an axe-murderer or something) he’s not allowed to go out on scouting or hunting trips. Or solo guard rotations he’s come to covet.

It’s boring, and having you around is strange.

It’s interesting, when he gets bored enough, because if he focuses hard enough he can guess what events happened to you based on your reactions to certain things. He’s pretty sure you were drugged at some point based on your reaction to the doctor with the lidocaine. You’re general skittish and flighty nature can be easily attributed to the conditions in which everyone in the world is living in, but your particular brand of distrust and aggression says that humans, not the infected, have been the ones to hurt you the most. Your general unease in open areas or areas with not easily accessible exits leads him to believe that there have been several extremely close calls in several points of your survival.

He knows you’ve been shot before, but that one was an accident. He’d come downstairs, rubbing bleary sleep from his eyes and accidentally stumbled across you changing. Well, finishing changing. He’d quickly closed his eyes and turned around, and thankfully you hadn’t startled, but he had caught a glimpse of the stretch of skin not covered by the long sleeve undershirt you favored. On the left side, just above your hip and a few inches towards your bellybutton, there’s a jagged, raised, circular scar. Still pink.

He knows you have a very slight, very subtle limp. He’s not sure what causes it, but he knows you have one. It tends to act up when you do a lot of strenuous exercise for an extended period of time. Some days you wake up and it’s worse. On those days, you’re a little more mean, and a little more skittish.

He’s yet to see you actually, legitimately sleep.

He’s starting to think you haven’t, since arriving.

Which is insane, because it’s been four days.

The bags under your eyes are horrific, even to him. You’ve gotten clumsier and clumsier, your attention span and memory are terrible, and he thinks you might’ve started hallucinating, if the times he’s seen you staring off into space with concerned, fearful, or twisted expressions on your face and mumbled rambles he can’t make out are anything to go by.

On day five, when Joel comes downstairs in the morning and the knife you throw at him bounces harmlessly off the wall and clatters to the ground and you just stare at it, eyes foggy and unseeing, he decides to talk to Maria.

“I don’t really care,” He says, because he has a reputation to uphold dammit, “But I’m not sure how much longer she’s gonna last, and what she’s gonna do when she wakes up.”

“Mmm,” Maria hums, hands clasped on the table and staring at Joel with her best ‘I don’t believe you don’t care’ look. She’s really perfected it, “Well the truth is, she can’t go forever. It’s fear keeping her up now. Happens a lot with the loners that come in. Especially the women. She’s afraid that no one’s there to watch her back and terrified she won’t be strong enough to fend off any attackers.”

Maria looks at her hands. “The fear is exacerbated by the fact that the council took most of her weapons.”

“You knew—“

“She was lying? Of course I did. So did several of the other members, I’m sure. But she’s not a threat. She’s scared.”

He thumbs the thin scar on his cheek from the knife came just a little too close to hitting the mark when he sneezed in the kitchen. “She’s got a funny way of being scared.”

“Fight or flight, Joel. She knows flight isn’t an option.”

“Why are you lobbying so hard in her defense?”

“I’m not. I’m explaining her actions. Also,” She gives a knowing smile, “You’ve started to care. Otherwise you wouldn’t be coming to me about this.”

“Yeah, yeah,” He grouses. “So what am I supposed to do? Just wait for her to pass out?”

“You could. It’ll happen eventually. She very clearly doesn’t have that many hours left in her. That’s probably freaking her out more. Or, you could subtly show her that she can sleep around you. She needs to know that she’s safe from whatever it is she’s running from.”

Joel keeps his eyes locked on the kitchen table, tracing the grain in the wood with an absent-minded finger.

“I know you pushed for her to stay with me.”

“The council wanted a punishment that fit the crime.”

“Look, I appreciate the thought—“

Maria’s expression flattens. “Joel. Do not sit at my table and lie about how you don’t need anyone and you’re fine on your own. You need this.“

“I don’t need this,” He scoffs, “She’s practically half-feral. No one needs that.”

Maria stands, shrugging. “Then I guess you’ll have to file for a name change, No-One Miller. Until then, make sure she’s not alone when she wakes up.”

—

He did leave you alone for the duration of his conversation with Maria, because fuck if he was bringing you to that, and he figured you both could use some time away from each other. He knows he can.

He’s not very surprised to hear the familar whoosh of a small, sharp object sailing through the air that tends to accompany his arrival into rooms you’re occupying (he’s pretty sure it stopped being a fear response after the first two times and now you’re just messing with him) but he is suprised to see that this time, the knife doesn’t even make it head height. Or to the wall.

It clatters uselessly to the ground near his feet. He stares at the metal between his boots and then up at you—

“Why are you sitting on the kitchen counter?”

“I don’t remember.”

He leaves the knife on the ground and makes his way over to you, watching with mock disinterest at the several-seconds-delayed flinch you make when he stands in front of you.

You look up at him, eyes glassy and unfocused and you just look so, so tired.

There’s a curl of protectiveness in his chest that keeps trying to spread, keeps trying to grow. Here, in the kitchen, your legs dangling over the edge of the counter, bathed in the glow of the mid-day sun, it takes root. Right in the center.

He looks down at your feet. “What happened to your other shoe?”

You scrunch up your face. “I don’t… I was getting in bed, I think. But it wasn’t my bed. I forgot that things aren’t—“

That things aren’t the same anymore.

He crouches down, untying the laces of your boot and shucking it aside somewhere.

“Alright, come on.”

You slide off the counter, clumsy and uncoordinated. He takes your hand in his, leads you up to the bedroom.

The stairs are difficult for your tired, barely working brain. He has to stop multiple times to physically lift your legs or stop you from falling over and cracking your head open.

You finally make it up there, though, and he realizes that you probably won’t want to sleep in your everyday clothes.

“One last step.”

He can’t help but notice how intimate the moment is. Not intimate-intimate, but. He instructs you softly to lift your arms so he can tug your shirt over your head and replaces it with a soft shirt of his own.

Staring into your eyes is too charged and allowing his eyes to wander is bad for obvious reasons, so he keeps his gaze firmly fixed on the junction of where your neck meets your shoulder.

He keeps his eyes there as he helps you out of your pants and into a pair of flannel pajama pants. The same ones he’d given you the first night you came. You’ve never slept and he’s never seen you go to any of the places he knows have extra clothes, so he’s almost positive you don’t have any pajamas at all.

His fingers work quickly to tie the drawstring on the pants, and even then, they hang low on your hips.

He doesn’t let his eyes linger.

“Come on,” He says taking your arm and tugging you toward the bed. “Time for sleep.”

“It’s the middle of the day,” You mumble, standing in place. “And I can’t, what if they—“

“I’ll be here the whole time. I’ll keep watch.”

You mull his words over in your head for a few moments before stumbling the final few steps into the bed. You practically collapse into it, shuffling for a just few seconds before your breath evens out.

You’re asleep.

He reaches over, adjusting the blankets a bit, before grabbing the book he’d left on the bedside table and settling down in the chair by the bed.

The hours tick by quietly, accompanied only by the quiet rustling of pages turning and your soft snores.

For the first time in awhile, he doesn’t feel restless.

—

You sleep for a full eighteen hours straight before you stir.

He’s a good portion of the way through his book before he see’s your body tense in the corner of his eye. Your breathes are still even and deep, so if he couldn’t see you, he probably wouldn’t notice you’re awake.

“You’ve been asleep for eighteen hours,” He says, voice rough and scratchy with disuse, “You got in bed voluntarily.”

“You changed my clothes.”

“You didn’t seem all that capable of doing so yourself and I didn’t think you wanted to sleep in jeans. You mind?”

“…No.”

“Good. Go back to sleep.”

“I can’t just—“

“You didn’t sleep for five days. If we’re going by the eight hours a night average needed or whatever, that’s forty hours. You’ve still got twenty-two left to catch up on.”

You roll over to face him with a grumble. “I don’t like how good you are at mental math.”

��Get better, then.”

You shimmy out from under the blankets, tossing him an “I have to pee,” as you make your way out of the room.

It’s early morning now, weak sunlight behind to strain its way through the curtains. He figures it’s a good enough time to make some food (and coffee) if you’re going to be going to back sleep, so he meanders down to the kitchen and throws together a small breakfast.

“Did you make us breakfast?”

He never really gets used to how quietly you move through rooms.

“Jesus— yes. Here.”

He hands you a bowl with oatmeal and a small plate with a slice of toast— toasted in a pan, because electricity aside, he doesn’t own a toaster. Why waste time scavenging for an appliance when something else works just as fine?

He sets a jar of jam on the counter that he’d picked up awhile ago in exchange for fixing the hinge on somebody’s door.

“You got any allergies?”

“None that matter.”

He nods to the table. “Go eat. Then get back in bed.”

“You’re so bossy.”

“And you’re annoying. Eat.”

You eat quickly and quietly, then wordlessly follow him back upstairs, climbing back into bed.

“Joel?” You whisper.

“Hm?”

“Thank you.”

He tucks the blanket up over your shoulder. “Go to sleep.”

You obey easily.

—

Things between the two of you… soften after that. He slowly sees more pieces of your personality than the wild thing he met that day in the woods.

He learns that you love peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, but miss peanut butter and nutella sandwiches more than anything. He learns that on good days, you like drinking coffee straight black, but on bad days, you like it with milk and sugar.

He learns that your limp is the result of one careless mistake you’d made when you first surviving on your own.

“I thought the house was abandoned. It wasn’t,” You’d rolled up your pant leg to show horrific, deep, jagged scars circling your ankle, “Guy had set out a bear trap to slow down some of the clickers in the area. It was dark. Didn’t notice it until too late.”

He learns that you, despite your snide remarks and sarcastic comments, like having him around. He feels a bit like earning the trust of a stray cat.

You begin to grow more comfortable with life in Jackson, though not by much. He’s sure you weren’t a people person before the outbreak, much less so now that he knows some of the horrors you’ve been through before you got here.

He’s even started getting used to how quietly you move.

It’s easy to fall into a rhythm, from there.

He wakes up, goes downstairs. Sometime’s there’s a knife thrown at him, sometimes there isn’t. You’re usually sprawled on the couch, drool coming out of your mouth and grumbling incoherently about “old men and their stupid early mornings.”

It’s almost endearing.

Since Joel spends a lot of time helping Maria and Tommy get ready for their baby, you, in turn, get to know the both of them by being stuck with Joel. Maria set you on edge at first, Tommy slightly less so, but through continuous interactions your prickly nature smoothed.

One night, you were all seated on their couch after enjoying a dinner together —not the first and definitely not the last— having quiet conversation. You’re totally passed out on Joel’s shoulder, dead-asleep and quite content to use him as a human teddy bear.

Maria smiles over her mug of tea. “She’s grown on you.”

Joel rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah. She’s not all bad.”

“High praise coming from Joel Miller.”

You have grown on him. And in turn, your relationship has started to grow into… something else. Sometimes his eyes linger just a little too long, and the looks you share feel just a little too charged.

Tommy sends him a look full of words only true siblings can understand.

“No, Tommy.”

“Oh come on Joel! You both clearly—“

“We are not having this conversation right now.”

“Why not?”

“Because—“

You fling an arm out wildly, smacking him in the side of his face and grasping around until your pointer finger finally finds his lips.

“Shhhh. M’ sleeping.”

He wraps his hand around your wrist, prying your fingers off his face. “You know that’s what bed’s are for. Or couches. Or any number of surfaces I’ve found you sleeping on.”

“You’re a surface I’m sleeping on.”

“I shouldn’t be.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m not a bed. Come on, up and at em’.”

You whine at the loss of warmth when he stands, scowling as you haul yourself to your feet. As he’s putting on his boots by the door, he hears you thanking Maria and Tommy for their hospitality, and he can’t help the little smile that twitches on his face. Seems like his parents weren’t the only ones who made sure he had manners.

You meet him at the door, hopping in place to put your boots on and getting frustrated when they don’t slide on immediately.

“You know, it would help if you untied the laces—“

“Fuck off.”

He blinks. That seems a little more mean than you usually say nowadays.

So Joel takes a step back. Watch’s your legs and your shoes and your hands—

There.

Your hands shake as you fumble with the laces, unable to get a good grip on the thin cords to untie and re-tie your shoes.

He shoos your hands away from the singular boot you haven’t managed to get on.

“Sit.”

He’s thankful that he built the shoe bench for Maria a few weeks after he got to Jackson. It serves Maria well for not having to stand while she attempts to put her shoes on while heavily pregnant, a feat she bemoaned a few times, and now it’s serving you.

You plop down on the bench with a huff, crossing your arms as Joel crouches, undoing the laces of your boot and sliding it on.

“I can do it.”

“I know you can.”

“Why’re you doing it?”

“Because.”

“That’s not an answer.”

He secures the tie on one boot and moves on to the next. “It is tonight.”

Once both shoes are on, you both bid Tommy and Maria good night, and make your way home.

If your hand find’s Joel’s, then that’s not anyone’s business.

—

He notices things after that.

You’ve started snapping at him more often. You’re not sleeping as much. You’ve started flat out refusing to go with him on daily chores as tasks, which either leads to an argument or the both of you staying at home all day.

It all comes to a head when you wake up screaming.

He thunders down the stairs, ducking on instinct for a knife that doesn’t come. You’re not on the couch. He whips his head around, the screaming stopped he can’t find you—

A thud. A panicked gasp.

He moves on slow, apprehensive feet towards the kitchen, crouching down to see you huddled under the table, knife clenched in your hand and pointed toward him.

“Hey, hey, what’s going on?”

Your eyes are wide and shining with tears.

“You died.”

“I didn’t. I’m right here.”

You shake your head, breaths coming short and shallow.

He settles on the floor, crossing his legs. “Here, take my hand. Come on.”

He extends his hand into the space between you two. Achingly slowly, you put down the knife, and take his hand in yours.

“See? I’m still here.”

Eventually, your breathing slows, and the fear begins to leave your eyes. You drop his hand.

“I’m sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry for.”

“No, no it’s just—“ You break off with a strangled noise.

He waits. Lets a few minutes tick by.

“Does this have anything to do with the fact you’ve been avoidin’ me?”

You look down. “You noticed?”

“I do have eyes, sweetheart.”

You grab the knife again, twisting it this way and that in your hands.

“I’m scared.”

“Of what?”

“Of you.”

He tilts his head. “How come?”

You’re silent for a little while again.

“I feel… okay with you.”

“And that’s scary?”

“Yes,” You breathe, “You could leave, or die, and it scares me that I’m already attached to you. That having nightmare’s of you dying affects me so much. That they happen at all.”

He hums. “Seem’s were at an impasse.”

He taps a finger on his knee.

“It’s not all bad. To care.”

“Who are you and what have you done with Joel Miller?”

He huffs, shaking his head. “You know, against my better judgment, I’ve come to tolerate having you around.”

“Tolerate?”

“Mhm.”

“Nothing else?”

“No.”

“So you’ve never thought about kissing me?”

Heat rushes to his face. “Is that really a question you want to be asking right now?”

“Yes.”

“Mm,” He stands, “Well I don’t answer that kind of question at this hour. Come on.”

He reaches under the table and pulls you out.

You clamber to your feet, still a little shaky after your nightmare.

You turn to go back to the couch, but stops when he tugs on your arm.

“Mm-mm. No couch tonight.”

You look up at him, a question in your eyes he doesn’t know how to answer with words.

He steps forward, rough hands coming up to your face, thumb swiping the crest of your cheek.

“Tell me to stop.”

“I won’t.”

He leans down, capturing your lips in a kiss, soft and slow.

He pulls away after a few moments, searching your face for any sign of negativity or displeasure or disgust or, or—

You surge up, kissing him again, all the same fiery passion he saw the day you met.

“I suppose that answers my question.”

He chuckles. “You think?”

“I hope so.”

His hands slide down to your waist. and he can’t resist the little squeeze he gives the skin there.

“Alright. Back to bed, let’s go.”

“I forgot how tired old men get.”

“Please don’t call me an old man right after we kiss.”

He can hear your quiet snorting laughter as you climb the stairs, socked feet silent as always.

You climb into bed first, shoving yourself into the side by the wall and then making grabby motions for Joel.

“Am I just a pillow to you?”

“Yes. Come be a pillow.”

He rolls his eyes but slips into bed next to you and quietly relishes in the pleased hum you let out as you wrap your arms around his waist, practically smashing your face into his chest.

“You comfortable there?”

“Mhm.”

He curls one arm around you, his other hand coming up to cup the back of your neck. This close, he feels the shudder run through your body at the motion, and curious, he gives your nape a little squeeze.

Your reaction is instantaneous. You go limp- completely boneless.

“I got you, I got you. Go to sleep, now.”

It doesn’t take you long. And with you asleep so soundly in his arms, he follows right behind you.

☆⋆｡𖦹°‧★

3K notes · View notes

warlockslovetomeow · 1 month ago

Text

pairing: caleb x female reader description: caleb’s obsession with your underwear doesn’t seem to stop at just sniffing…. warnings: explicit sexual content, slight pwp, mdni, mention of male masturbation, needy!caleb, clothed sex, unprotected sex, cumming on underwear, caleb’s a freak, this is messyyyyy wc: 2.4k (was supposed to be a short drabble.. don’t EVER put me in a room alone with this man dude im salivating everywhere) a/n: lazily proofread [shame]. continuation of my ask here. (read vic's blog she is goated!!!)

caleb swears it's not an obsession. he really means it, it's not.

it just so happens that every time he goes over to your place your underwear ends up in his possession. but it's not his fault! you have a bad habit of leaving your drawers open when you're getting ready in the morning. so caleb, being the amazing guy that he is, shuts them for you when he comes over to your place.

at least, that's how it started.

it eventually progressed into him snooping and taking a pair. then him snooping and taking a used pair. then him pocketing the ones off of your body after you've both had a time. okay, pocketing them off you every time. but he’s got it under control! he promises himself that it won't be happening again.

it’s just that he hasn’t been able to see you in a while due to both of your schedules being packed with work, so of course he’s going to sift through his growing collection to get as close to you as possible in every nonphysical way he can. the thought of u infects his mind, a dirty little parasite crawling around and making a mess throughout each private sector of his brain. the want for you to be close to him, to touch your body, to hear you, it intensifies as the minutes without you ticked by.

so, when he hears his phone go off in the middle of rubbing one out to the thought of you while using the panties he stole most recently, he stops dead in his tracks and gives his deepest appreciations to all divine things that must be looking out for him in this world.

it's not often that you get the opportunity to stay with caleb at his apartment in skyhaven for an extended period of time. said extended time being only three days makes no difference to him, to be frank the mere thought of you being in his presence at all already has his mind working and blood rushing in ways he can’t avoid. wouldn’t dream of avoiding. after reading the text you sent him stating that you got the upcoming weekend off and are planning to visit him, his brain truly fused out.

caleb knows what self-control is.

he went through intense military training for heaven’s sake. plus he grew up with you and managed to not act on his intense and deep-rooted feelings that consistently threatened to devour him whole. so yeah, he’d say controlling himself is second nature. pshh. light work.

he picks you up from the train station, helps you with your things, gets you settled into his apartment for the weekend, and everything is going swimmingly. he positively can hold himself back until the time is right. totally not nearly bursting at the seams with the need to pounce on you. definitely not already picturing the mess he wants to make of you. this is easy.

then you stride into his living room after changing clothes. you’re beaming at him, so excited to be with your favorite person once more. you’re also, he notices, wearing the smallest sleep shorts possible. shorts that happen to hike up ever so slightly when you take a step. shorts that reveal a sliver of your underwear as you walk around the living room searching for the tv remote.

suddenly, caleb isn’t too sure he can even spell “self-control”.

his eyes track your movements like a radar system locking onto a target. your underwear of choice today isn’t even anything special, a neutral shade of pink that could be found anywhere, at any store, but it doesn’t matter. it shapes your ass perfectly and he groans inwardly at the sight.

or maybe outwardly. he’s already so far gone that he doesn’t know anymore.

caleb’s legs are moving before his mind fully gives them permission to do so and makes his way over to where you stand in the living room. his hands find purchase on your waist, spinning you to face him before leaning in and kissing you.

the kiss is desperate, hungry, and by no means slow. weeks of longing and desire so evident in the way his lips capture yours, all traces of self-control gone. his tongue pleads for access into your mouth while his hands simultaneously pull your hips against his own, and he’s impossibly hard already. the quickness of it all surprises you, so you pull away to address him, slightly out of breath and confused. which is all to his complete and utter dismay.

“caleb?”

the look on his face is so unimaginably needy, so desperate in a way you've never seen before. he looks as though you've wounded him for even having the thought of pulling away, how dare you create space between us, and it makes you want to indulge him in everything he could possibly ask for right then and there.

“want you”

his voice is breathy and low, completely meddled with lust, and those words are all he manages to get out before immediately leaning in to kiss you again. you kiss him back, the forwardness and obvious want turning you on. the kiss intensifies, caleb doing as he pleases with you, tongue overlapping yours, hands squeezing your body, hips grinding into you so desperately you'd think him a dog. that thought alone has hot, molten desire shooting through your body.

you spread your legs ever so slightly to have his thrusts hit home and moan into his mouth the second they do. the clothed friction arousing you more than you'd like to admit. he picks up on your movements, naturally, he's memorized everything about you, and spins you around so that your back is against his chest.

“been waitin to feel you for so long”

he nearly whines directly into your ear, the truth of his words pressing directly into your backside and causing your mind to go hazy with lust. he trails kisses down your neck and you bite your lip in anticipation, the tone of his voice and hard length touching you getting you beyond worked up.

caleb tugs at your shorts, a silent command to take them off, and you do so with no hesitation. the second your standing straight up again he pulls you against his chest once more and slides his knee in between one of your legs, effectively spreading them apart for easier access.

he then grabs your chin to open your mouth and slips two of fingers inside. not needing to be told what to do, you start sucking on them, twirling your tongue around them in a way that makes him grunt and stiffen behind you. you smile inwardly to yourself, your affect on him palpable.

pulling his fingers out of your mouth, he snakes an arm around your waist and mixes your spit with the wetness already pooling in your underwear. he smirks to himself and chuckles, your need for him clear as day, and does you no favors by trailing his fingers to spread it to your clit.

“so wet and I haven’t even properly touched you yet..”

you whine in response, a needy sound that only spurs him on further. he draws circles around your clothed clit, adding to the arousal already collecting in your underwear to near uncomfortable levels. its sloppy and messy and quickly spreading to your thighs, just how he likes it.

you grind your ass into him, wanting- no, needing- him to touch you skin to skin, and he lets out a sharp hiss at the movement.

“don’t tease, caleb”

your voice is pleading, borderline begging him to give you what you want. unfortunately for you, hearing you beg and get more and more desperate for him is his only true goal in this life. he speeds up his movements and sucks onto your neck in response, surely leaving a mark by the intensity.

“c'mon, you can handle a little bit more. i know you can”

he's thankful you aren't able to see his face currently, because to be honest, he’s barely keeping himself in check. every move you make, every sound that comes from you, god even the way you smell, has each individual nerve in his body screaming at him to rip off your clothes and show you exactly how desperately he’s been missing you in every sense of the word.

yet it’s the almost there, not quite there action of pleasure that’s driving him absolutely wild.

caleb decides to take it a step further, really make things messy the way he gets so hard for, by slipping his dick out and rubbing it against your newly dampened underwear. his pre cum mixes with your wetness and absolutely drenches the seat of your panties.

he lets out a gravelly moan at the feeling, right into your ear, and you have to hold yourself back from finishing right then and there at the sound. you spread your legs wider for him, accepting the pleasure despite the fullness you're craving.

“talk to me pips, wanna hear that pretty voice”

his pace is mind numbing, not too slow, not too fast. the pressure against your core almost enough, but caleb knows better than to give it all to you. on top of that, his dick being so close but not directly touching you is making your brain go haywire.

“please cal, no more. need you inside.”

“uh huh. what else?”

you whine at his demand for more, and you're burning with the delicious friction due the mess between the both of you right now. you rack your brain, fighting the urge to give in to him and just full on beg for more. he wants to see it so badly, wants to hear the pitch change in your voice and feel your thighs squirm once you do. he can clearly feel the want u have for him, its currently staining his pants, but he needs to hear it as well.

“can't take it. need you so bad, need more. you feel so good, always feel so good. im yours, only yours. please”

you're a rambling mess at this point, only caring about the desire that's building inside you and caleb’s prenatural ability to get you there faster. curses flow from his mouth freely at your words, and he walks you towards the arm of the living room couch, tapping twice on your back to bend over for him.

the second you're bent in front of him, he moves your panties to the side and sinks in between your drenched folds. you moan his name lewdly as his tip hits directly on your clit and tears almost spring to your eyes at the long desired sensation.

caleb’s knees nearly buckle, the teasing doing a number on you both, and he digs his hand into your waist to steady himself. he grinds between your folds once, twice, and right before you're about to get onto him again for his incessant build up, he thrusts inside you like a dog gone rabid. a cry rips from your throat and your vision almost blurs, the pace brutal and the feeling somehow impossibly too much and too little.

“couldn’t stop thinkin about you-fuck- thinkin about how tight you always are for me”

it's his turn to ramble now, his words accompanied by each pointed thrust inside you. he drinks in the sight of his dick slipping in and out of you, with no resistance whatsoever, sliding right past the ruined underwear that still clings to your body, and has to mentally stop himself from cumming just at the sight.

“hate when you're not here, hate that i have to fuck my fist to the thought of you”

you moan at his confession, his dirty words combined with the slight friction of your panties against your clit building the pressure inside you and causing your leaking arousal to spread from the mess that is your core to his thighs.

“shit! love making a mess on this pussy. you like it too, huh pip? wanna hear you say it”

you’re so close, him talking to you so conversationally while fucking you in doggy and hitting that deep spot inside you has your mind spinning.

“yes yes i love making a mess for you!! gonna cum-”

your quick confession has his dick straining, fighting to not empty his load without warning. he needs you to finish first, he’s got one more thing in the back of his mind that needs completing.

caleb shifts your hips closer to him so he can pull your sopping underwear further to the side and rub your clit. perfect circles have you clawing at the couch and clenching around him so tightly that he's not too sure he’ll last.

“such a dirty girl, you're drippin everywhere. need you to be good and cum on me yeah?”

his flithy mix of degradation and need send you hurtling off the edge as white, hot pleasure courses through you. you cum with a newfound intensity that only caleb would be capable of pulling from you.

said man bites his lip hard enough to draw blood to stop himself from finishing with you, everything about you cumming on his cock making him go mad. a couple more thrusts and he realizes he can’t take it any longer, the feeling of you spasming around him becoming too much.

caleb pulls out of you, readjusts your underwear the best he can with what little time he has while still pumping himself, and cums all over the fabric with a series of broken groans. at first he tries to aim and make the most effective mess he can, but he soon loses himself to how fucking good it feels. he's left reeling from the intensity, but he can't look away from you. he genuinely wishes he could burn this image into his mind forever. however, he finds himself saying this every time you have sex.

as you both catch your breath, he leans forward to kiss your back, shoulders, neck, jaw, all places of exposed skin. while doing so he makes sure to mix all the fluids together on the soaking wet article of clothing, his ministrations leaving you twitching in overstimulation.

once he's satisfied with his handiwork, he slips them off of you and picks up your spent body, carrying you to his bedroom and laying you down on his bed with the gentleness of a soft afternoon breeze.

"grabbin a towel, honey. don't go walking all around the apartment now"

you roll your eyes at his words, as you've already sunken into the mattress and couldn't be paid to leave this bed. he chuckles knowingly in response, but before he leaves the room he sneaks a final glance to make sure your eyes are closed.

its then that he opens the top drawer of his dresser and places your underwear inside, the newest member of his prized collection<3

a/n (2): first fic and naturally it’s my munch caleb. hope it doesn’t sound too clunky as this is also my first time writing out smut🫣 i will prevail and become a smut writing champion!!!

@tojicide this one is for you friend, hope u enjoy ^_^

2K notes · View notes

sinsofnivan · 5 months ago

Text

INTOXICATION .ᐟ — RE Men x YOU.

SUMMARY: just horny resident evil blurbs where they're all pussydrunk. <3

PAIRINGS: LEON S. KENNEDY/Reader, LUIS SERRA/Reader, CHRIS REDFIELD/Reader, ALBERT WESKER/Reader, JACK KRAUSER/Reader, CARLOS OLIVEIRA/Reader

WARNINGS: female reader, nsfw themes, PROBABLY inaccurate anatomy, unprotected sex ( wrap it before u tap it folks. ), begging, breeding && Daddy kink, cunnilingus, angry makeup sex, size kink/difference, cervix fucking,

author's note: this is my first post. :) sorry if it's not that flourished . . .

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈ NSFW UNDER THE CUT. ┈┈┈┈

LEON S KENNEDY .ᐟ

leon has seen — and will see more — monsters and cruelty beyond human recognition. both you and him think it's a pretty valid reason to not have children yet.

he knows contraceptives and birth control isn't a hundred percent effective, so he always played it safe: cumming on your face, giving you a good throatpie, covering your back and/or tummy with his warm cum . . .

so one could imagine the look of surprise on his face when you wrapped your pretty legs around him.

⟡

"baby, fuck! what're you- what're you doing?"

leon snaps from his fucked out haze, eyes suddenly wide and open as he watched you in your familiar fervour. "leon, please, please, Daddy. breed me. want your cum," you begged for it like you needed it; the shiny gloss of your tears only made you look so much prettier, he thinks . . . how could he resist such an angel like you?

"baby, we- we . . " he physically cannot muster that he can't. because can, and he will. the rough snapping of his hips never faltered, mind and body fueled with the need to breed you, to stuff you full until you leaked. "don't pull out—♡.ᐟ "

your begging alone was irresistible, and with the additional hypnotizing vice you had around his girth — the word no didn't even exist in his head. "yeah? y , y'want it that bad?" nod, nod.

you whined when he pulls out, partly from disappointment and feeling empty without him. you thought you'd be triumphant. just as you were about to call for him, however, your knees are pressed against your chest, and the familiar grip on your hips were now on the back of your knees.

it's not the stretch that makes your eyes wide, but the feeling of his tip pressed directly against your cervix. a premature orgasm rips through you and turning your brain into mush. completely, this time; leon was there to witness this, brows furrowed together and resisting the urge to let his eyes roll back so he can see your beautiful face.

his pounding resumes, skin sinfully slapping against skin, cock grazing your most sensitive spots with each needy rut. "i'll fucking breed you, angel. how do you like that?" your legs are high, higher up, now that he's leaning forward to have a closer look on your pretty face.

"Y/N," he chants like a prayer. he needs you like he hasn't needed before, forever and always. "leoooooon, love you — i love you," you sobbed, nails marking crescents on his shoulders, biceps. you feel so fucking full, you can't even think. just him and how good it'd feel to have his semen leaking out of your folds.

"fuuuuck, baby. you're drivin' me crazy. i love you too,"

his hips are aching, but that doesn't stop him from ramming himself completely deep into you. it won't stop him, because all he can think of is to fuck you stupid, fuck you full.

there's nothing coherent that follows, just pure, absolute filth. you're drooling, and leon's tongue is cleaning up your mess, like he's not drooling with you. his orgasm's nearing, thrusts getting noticeably sloppy and unrhythmic, but still forceful; compensating for the lack of speed.

"'m gonna cum, darling. ah—! beg for it. beg for it like a good girl,"

your pleading resonates in the room. if you could emphasize it with a wrap of your legs, you would have done so already. but your legs feel numb. y'can't move, not with his body weight forcing them up.

"pleeeeease, pleasepleasepleaseplease. need it! need'a be bred, please,"

leon would have come up with a witty remark, but all that comes from him is a groan whilst he buried himself balls deep into you. he's not pent up or anything, not even close, but he knows he's cumming lots. because despite being fully sheathed inside you, it's leaking everywhere. he rides out his high with slow, shallow thrusts, cum spilling with every push of his cock.

he's regaining awareness, taking in deep breaths. his eyes glaze over your figure, pretty much in the same state of post-sex euphoria as you. "Y/N," he mutters, letting your legs down slowly. the wince on your face tells him you're awake, and he cups your face.

"Y/N, baby,"

a thumb caresses your cheek. "—talk to me," leon sighs in relief when you grinned at him. "hi, baby," you croaked groggily. leon began to massage your thighs, kissing your neck. "i'm sorry i got carried away," and the night is spent with you cradled by his strong arms and comforted with his usual sweetness.

now, he's left with an addiction for giving you endless creampies.

LUIS SERRA .ᐟ

GIF by entreri

your pleasure comes first before everything.

before he's buried deep and you're stretched out from his cock, your cunt's all soaked and prepped from the amount of foreplay he gives you. it's more than just wanting to prepare you. to luis, it's a requirement. having the taste of your pussy and cum on his lips was mandatory. he can't neglect his prinsesa like this.

why would he deprive you of his tongue? his fingers? he likes taking his sweet, sweet time in watching you crumble into nothing for him, only for him.

⟡

"luis!"

how many times have you creamed and gushed all over your lover's face? you can't recall. you don't even know how long he's been lapping at your cunt, but luis continues to coax out orgasm after orgasm from you.

he basks in your reactions each and every time, peering up at you just to watch you writhe from his tongue, how your body arches when you've reached your sinful crescendo, how your eyes roll back to the pits of your skull while you scream his name . . .

every man has his needs, and it's hard to create balance when the need to taste your pussy and your cum is equally as strong as the need to give his cock some sweet relief; after it's been painfully hard for an hour now. it twitches every now and then, aching for you. your touch. your lips, hands . . . "dios mio, chica," he pulls away to spit on your pretty, glistening cunt. "por favor, bebé. te necesito." he's desperate to relieve this ache, to feel that sweet release, but he just can't stop. too addicted. too drunk.

he compromises, your bliss coming first before his. his tongue laps up at your clit — the sensitive bud all puffy and twitchy from how much he's made you gush for the past hour. you feel so breathless. so lightheaded. still, it didn't stop you from begging your handsome lover. "luiiiis, pleeeease, want your cock."

his response? delving his tongue into your folds; tongue tracing your creamy slit and cleaning up the mess you've made. "shhhhh, prinsesa." luis says with a mouthful of cunt, nose brushing against your clit everytime he tried to clean up every drop of your slick. your wails only grow louder, weakness taking over as your legs close in on him. luis feels his breath hitch in his throat.

not just from the prolonged use of his skilled mouth. but because your thighs crushed him. effectively.

can't breathe, can't breathe, can't breathe, can't breathe . . .

his hands have a mind of its own at this point, because a mere minute had passed, and he had already undone his pants to pull his cock out. his moan reverberates against your cunt, and it only makes you cry out, pulling on greying tresses. you can't think straight anymore. all you can think of is luis . . . .

he's determined to make you cum again, lips latching on to your clit. he's determined to make you fall apart for him again. his stubble rubs against your soft skin, a harsh contrast from his gentleness, but the burn only makes it all the more enjoyable. "cum, bebé," he says, hollowing his cheeks. your legs only tighten involuntarily, too responsive to his stimulation. luis kept his eyes on you, grunting against your pussy as he fucked his fist. he can't help it anymore, mami.

"oh, bebé,"

if only you could see how he desperately fucked his fist. he was such a good lover for you. it can't compare to your cunt, never — but beggars can't be choosers. you were so lost in your own euphoria, you swore you're seeing stars.He just growls against your folds, eager to make you cream on his face again.

"pleease, mami. cum for me. squirt on my face,"

"oh, luis! fuck! 'm cumming! cummingcummingcummingggg! hnhggh—♡!"

neither of you made sense to each other, engulfed with overwhelming bliss that washes over you — and, well, luis's face. it didn't matter, however, as you two knew your bodies and loved each other beyond words. you didn't need to tell him how good he made you feel, when your shaking legs already spoke on your behalf.

as soon as luis feels your juices soak his chin, cheeks, hell, everywhere—he can't help but spill his cum into his hand, high-pitched cries buzzing against your pulsating cunt. he rides out your climax with gentle kisses on your spasming clit, each kiss helping you ride out your high. he found it cute how your body spasmed with every brush of his lips and stubble.

he rises to meet you, lips leaving trails of wet kisses along your body. "bonita," he whispered against your stomach, gently nibbling on the soft flesh. everything is blurry for you, with luis being the only clear picture in your eyes. you bite your lip. he goes higher, 'till ivory meets your hardened bud; fingertips toying with the other. "luiiiis, gimme - gimme kiss," you whined, holding his face. "'m here, prinsesa. i'm here," finally, fucking finally, you and luis are face to face.

"i love youu. love you, baby. i love you so so much,"

"i love you too, mi amor."

you can't help but grin when you feel his cock—still hard and leaking pre—rest against your cunt.

CHRIS REDFIELD .ᐟ

despite how he hulked over pretty much you and . . well, everyone, chris was a gentle giant. or tried his best to be one. it didn't help that he was naturally strong and bigger than you. his whole figure pretty much eclipsed over your frame, with his hand engulfing the entirety of your own, shoulders enough to keep you out of sight from wandering eyes . . . if he didn't keep in mind to handle you gently, he could practically crush you.

mind?

what mind?

"c , chris!"

you pathetically drooled all over his bicep as he pounded you from behind. his whole body weight was on top of you in a caging pronebone, with a headlock to completely lock you in place. "Y , Y/N, my baby girl," he whispered, nipping the shell of your ear. "your cunt feels good. i love you. i love you . . love fucking you," he mutters dumbly as he kept shoving his cock deep into you. you knew he was still—at the very least—still keeping in mind to not crush you, because the bicep arm around your neck barely took your breath away.

his thrusts did.

every push in knocked out the breath out of your lungs, cunt nicely wrapping around his girth. no matter how much prep he gives, you always ended up squirming because the stretch was like no other. it reached places no toy or finger ever could—the tip threatening to bully its way past your cervix.

his head is placed between the nook of your shoulder, breathing heavily against your neck as his stubble grazed over your skin. your skin is littered with bites, especially the shoulder that was within his teeth and tongue''s reach; the outline of his teeth covered in a thin layer of his spit.

you weakly held on to his forearms, feeling yourself creaming around it. but you just can't help it—the drag of his cock against your walls was so fucking heavenly, you could have sworn you saw white for a brief moment.

"p , pretty cunt's all messy, baby,"

chris stammers, shamelessly moaning into your ear and immediately latching on to your earlobe, can't keep his mouth unoccupied for more than a minute. especially if it's you. he can't stop kissing you. can't stop tasting you.

can't stop fucking you.

you were helplessly pinned beneath his body—and you didn't possess half the strength to push him off. it made your cunt twitch thinking about being trapped under him, forced to take the pleasure, forced to take the stretch of your cunt . . .

"f , fuck! don't—don't do that. 'm gonna cum, b , baby,"

"h , huh?"

before you could question him any further, his hips began to pick up the pace, the obscene sound of skin slapping against skin intensified. "pleeaaaasepleaseplease, Y/N," he's acting like you were stopping him from whatever he wanted to do. "please. just let me cum in you. let me breed you. fuck, fuuuck. 'm gonna make you a mama,"

there's no thought behind every word he's spewing, and his body's moving purely on feral instict. "you'd. hnnngh. oh my god—make s , such a good housewife." chris is whimpering, fucking yearning to breed you as he envisions you as his wife. mrs. redfield. you can't speak a word in his filthy rambling, but it wasn't like you had the coherence to butt in. your eyes are rolled to the back of your head and your mouth would be wide open if his arm and bicep didn't mush your cheeks together.

"oh . . oh fuck. fuck. i l , loveee you. love you . . "

he's lost count from how many times he's confessed how much he wants to marry you, how much he loves you, and who actually keeps count, anyway. all it mattered was your pleasure and his as he pounded you into the mattress. "love you too, chris! hnnnng—♡.ᐟ"

there's something with the way you said it, or maybe he's just that in love with you. he can't help it, his arm tightening around your neck as he buried himself deep with a loud whimper of your name. you gasped for air, feeling even more full.

but you didn't get to cum. he doesn't feel the familiar flutter of your walls, or the feeling of you soaking his cock for the nth time. who was he, if he couldn't fuffill your needs?

even in the midst of his overstimulation, he's trying his best to keep thrusting into you. "b , baby. please, need you to cum for me," he breathed out between gasps. "gotta be a good husband. gotta make you cum," like you hadn't been squirting for him since before he had you pinned under him.

"y, you don't have t—!"

your words are knocked out from you as he began to ram into you harder. 'till your ass was red. 'till he's finally breaking the protective barrier of your cervix. 'till you're

"cumming—♡.ᐟ "

your eyes are wide open, mouth agape and dripping with spit. your cunt's helplessly gushing for him, clenching down on him ridiculously tight. "that's it. that's it, baby. such a good baby. you're so fucking m , messy, jesus chriiist,"

your mind's gone, and so is your remaining strength, body completely enervated as your head rests on his arm. nuzzling his head into the crook of your neck, Chris began to place kisses on his jaw. The sensation of his rough stubble confirms you're awake, albeit feeling very lightheaded and almost dizzy.

you don't know how long you two laid there. It was probably just minutes, but felt like hours, up until chris had pulled away from you. you feel his cum ooze out of your cunt, and you whine.

"shh. shh. 'm here, baby. i'm here,"

chris helps flip you over to your back, and you groggily wrapped your arms around him. "are you alright?" chris caresses your cheek, before bestowing a kiss on your forehead. "i'm here. i'm here. do you want water?"

you shook your head, only pulling him to you. he settles you under his arm, securing you with another muscular arm wrapped atop your body. "did you mean it?" you murmured weakly against his chest. chris only rubbed your back. "i wanted to be a husband?" you can feel the rumble of chris's chuckle. you nod. "of course, baby." chris tilts your chin up, tucking your locks behind your ear.

"i love you so much. i'd love to spend the rest of eternity with you,"

you hid your face, embarrassed. "chriiiis," your boyfriend laughs at your cute reaction. "you're so cheesy," "whaaat, it's true!" you puff your cheeks out. "i'd love to spend the rest of my life with you too . . . "

good. because the ring was just resting nicely in the back of your nightstand's drawer.

ALBERT WESKER .ᐟ

wesker is strict. firm. what he says goes, beyond shadow of doubt. so when he tells you to not run your shoe up his leg, don't do it. There's a disappointed click of his tongue when your disobedience persists, your stilettos rubbing against his shin. "this is a professional dinner, Y/N." you can't see it, but you can feel his eyes piercing daggers into you. "hm?" you blink up at him so deceivingly sweet and innocent. "i know. the food tastes great, no?" you can't help but grin when you see him clench his jaw.

wesker is strict. firm.

but that's because there's nothing he enjoys more than breaking his brat into a drooling, mindless mess.

smack!

"f , four!"

you're settled on wesker's lap, legs parted as per his request ( demand, actually. ).

you held on to your lover's arm for dear life, glancing over at your reddening cunt that Wesker's been leaving harsh spanks on. "are you gonna be good, pet?" you nodded vigorously, trying to hide the fact that your eyes were tearing up from his mean treatment.

"really? I don't believe you."

SMACK!

"i , i promise I won't do it again, sir!" you cried out. shutting your eyes, you braced yourself for the next slap that was to come. But you feel him slide two fingers into you instead. "you're fucking wet." Wesker spat, curling his fingers up. it squelches lewdly, your cream smearing all over his palm. "see?" It's obvious where Wesker was looking, because his other hand ensnares your jaw once he realizes your eyes had rolled back to your skull.

"see?"

you swallowed nervously, nodding. "look at your messy fucking cunt." without any further warnings, he began to ram his fingers knuckle-deep into you. not slow or merciful, no, none of that. hard and forceful, as if to burn a lesson into that mischievous head of yours.

"are you gonna keep acting like a brat?" Wesker growled, squishing your cheeks together with his hand. "no, sir! 'm s , sorry!" Wesker laughed at your pathetic apology, purposefully grazing his palm against your puffy clit. "I could almost feel bad for you." he cooed mockingly. "but this is your fault. the consequences of your actions."

he continued to thrust his fingers—quite inhumanely, one might add—the room filled with the filthy harmony of your whimpers and the squelching of your pretty pussy. you're trying your very best to keep your eyes open, but the best you could do was look down at your soaking folds with a lidded gaze. it didn't help that you could feel your climax quickly building up. "what do you say, slut?" he forces you to stay conscious, tapping your cheek with his four fingers. his thumb instinctively traced your spit-soaked lips. you're no better, parting them as soon as you feel the phalange.

"i'm shooorry! w , won't do it again! i'll — ohmygod — be good!"

your body shakes, a garbled squeal escaping your pretty lips as his fingertips curl up to your most sensitive spots. his gaze is to you, his pretty girl, how gorgeous you looked falling apart on him. Of course, he doesn't miss how you roll your eyes back uncontrollably. Wesker lets this slide, because he adores how fucked out you look.

"look at me. Are you gonna cum, pet?" Wesker tantalizingly grazed the pad of his thumb against your clit. you look so pretty looking up at him with wide eyes as he urges you closer to your climax. "y , yes sir!" you whimpered. "yeah? gonna make a mess on my fingers, pretty?" you nodded, and oh my days, the way you held on to his forearm and nuzzled your face into him was so fucking adorable, wesker can't help but feel the warmth spread on his cheeks.

too bad he's still gotta discipline you.

just as you were about to reach that delicious release, you squealed as he harshly pulled his fingers out. It leaves your cunt empty and aching. "bad girls don't get to cum on sir's fingers."

instead, he smacks your cunt again. you clench around nothing, eyes watering as desperation ran through your veins. "pleasepleaseplease," the spanks you once dread, you were now looking for; the infliction on your clit enough to prolong your incoming orgasm.

"wanna cum. please sir, wanna cum. pleasepleaseplease," you tugged on his arm, and wesker lets out a shaky exhale, not realizing he had been holding his breath this whole time. raising his hand, he strikes your cunt again, and you yelped. "you . . you like this, pet?" he won't lie, you're making his facade break."yes! please, please, i just wanna cum," you sobbed, salty tears completing your fucked out look. wesker spanks your cunt again, and again, and agai—

you screamed, with a sinful bliss trickling down your back as you arch. you're gushing everywhere, all from his mere spanking. his head dips to claim your lips, tongue first; and it doesn't surprise you when you feel him slowly stuff your mouth as his tongue elongates.

you suck on it, no matter how messy it made you: chin dribbling with sloppy drool, lipstick smearing everywhere . . . your cheeks hollow, and you groaned when his fingers began to rub figure eights on your clit again. "mffh—!" still overstimulated and aching from your ruined orgasm, your hand encircles his wrist. but you didn't possess half the strength to pry his hand away.

he slides his creamy fingers again back into you again, back to mercilessly fingerfucking you. his tongue only muffles your cries of pleasure, and wesker can't stop literally fucking shoving his tongue down your throat. 'specially when he feels your pussy tighten up as he fills your mouth. it's so filthy, wesker knows he's fucking fantasizing about this for days on end. his cock aches, leaking pre just for you.

only for you.

much to your displeasure, he's emptying your mouth; monstrous tongue retracting and at the very least, allowing you to breathe. "you're gonna cum for me again, pet." he purred, licking the sweat dripping on your cheek.

"i forgive you, pretty. only if you do one thing for me." he nipped at the apple of your cheek, a grin gracing his face. you whined when he pauses, but it was to probably give you time for your mind to function.

"who owns you?"

you feel that flutter in your tummy, and you mutter a soft: "you do . . . "

"sorry, can't hear you. speak up, pet."

and as if to further tease you, his fingers begin its harsh thrusting again. "y , you do!" you said in one breath, in between wails and gasping. "i do, what?" he smirked smugly, chuckling against your cheek. "you— nghggh! you—!" "i . . i what, pet?" "you own me! you own my body!"

and of course, your body knows; cunt quivering for the second time and squirting all over his digits again. "there we go, pretty. oh, your pussy's so messy." his thumb caressed your clit, trying to draw out your orgasm. you've been so good for him, he thinks you deserve it.

"there we go. i know, i know. s'too much, isn't it?" his comforting voice is so misleading, like there wasn't a lot of sadistic, unholy thoughts running through his head right now. "shh, shh. you did so well." he kindly helps you ride out your high with gentle strokes of his fingers.

you're exhausted, mass completely resting on his frame as you tried to catch your breath. you huffed when you slowly feel him sliding his fingers out of you, the simplest movements still too much for your poor, overstimulated cunt.

"you did so well,"

you're lucid, for the most part; feeling him turn you around so you would be facing him. He rubbed your curves, tracing the dimple on your lower back.

"sleep, my love. i'll be here."

JACK KRAUSER .ᐟ

you can fight with krauser with just about anything. krauser, with his hot-headedness, and you, with a similar temper and a venomous tongue. your arguments, especially the big ones, always ended up ugly. no matter how many times he held you, kissed your tears away, and apologized and vice versa, it never failed to send you crying or him walking out.

and you don't even know why you both keep coming back to each other. giving each other chances like tomorrow will be any different.

"i fucking hate you. i fucking hate this!"

this was new. krauser's brows narrow together in a scowl. despite the hurl of insults you've thrown at each other, you never . . . you never said that to him.

did you really mean that? did he really lose you this time?

you jabbed a finger on his muscular chest. "i'm fucking tired of you. i'm sick of you being so fucking angry all the time and so fucking possessive and so—!" you only just realized what you said when you saw the hurt look on krauser's face. why did he look so . . . sad? it made your heart sink in your stomach. "say that again," you begin to take a few steps back as krauser's hulking frame loomed over you like an impending doom.

" j , jack, i—,"

your back hits the cold wall, and a pair of muscular arms cage you in place. you couldn't mutter another word when he suddenly threw your body over his shoulder. "hey!" you groaned.

a hand slapped your clothed rear, before the both of your figures disappeared into the darkness of your bedroom.

⟡

"say it again, i fucking dare you!"

you pretty much drooled all over the bed as krauser's big, strong hand held your head down. it made breathing more difficult, movement more restricted, but he was successful in shutting you up—which was probably krauser's goal. each slam of his cock was harder than the last, and your poor body can't keep up with krauser's rough treatment.

"you're jus' a big fuckin' brat." he growled, emphasizing each word with a harsh thrust, pinning your wrists behind you. his grip was bruising. crushing, even. and very, very angry. "need'a—oh . . . —fuck some manners into you, clearly." your moans are muffled, and you hear an amused chuckle from behind you; and without warning, he yanks your hair and forced your body to a difficult arch. . you were so beautiful in krauser's eyes.

"y'got somethin' to say, bitch?" the timbre of his hoarse voice is enough to send shivers down your spine; and of course, his pace was more merciless, more . . . . inhumane. how you were still able to form sentences—if you could call it that—you didn't know. "h, haateyouuu!" you grunt out in one breath. "no you don't, baby." both your scalp and body finds relief as he released you. if he hadn't held your hips in place, you would have collapsed on the bed.

there's a lot of shifting behind you that you don't see, up until he forces you to flip and lay on your back. once again, you're met with that stupid shit-eating grin on his handsome, scarred face. before you can even utter an insult, you feel him deep in your fucking guts.

he's amused at your stupefied expression—wide, gorgeous eyes with tears beading at the ends of each strand of lash. your face alone could have sent him into an orgasm, but the fun can’t end so quickly, especially when he wasn't done proving his point. “fuck, baby. you’re so—hnngg—wet,” with that, his rough pounding resumes; the bed creaking with every reckless thrusts he gives you.

"oh, fuck!" you cried out, instinctively reaching out to wrap your arms around him—except, it ends up having both of your wrists pinned above your head. it's quick, and you don't even register it until you realize you had nothing to scratch on. "l , let me g- oh—♡! y, you fucking prick!" "stop fucking talking, you fucking brat!" spiteful is he, his pounding picking up pace and force. it made you dizzy. made your brain mush. made you moan for him louder; and as soon as he sees that pretty tongue lull out, krauser naturally has to spit into it. and you, well, naturally swallow it.

the way you whimpered for him, how your body was so vulnerable for him, and only for him, and so submissive under his mercy . . . it triggers something animalistic in krauser. something primal.

he feels the cold trail of drool drip from the side of his lip, and just as you thought he couldn't fuck into you harder, he was. his tip's literally pressing into your cervix. "you're g , gonna break me—♡!" krauser keeps rutting into you like a starved beast, the pleasure so fucking addicting.

"gonna—," his words are interrupted by low growls and heavy breathing. "gonna fucking ruin you. you're mine," your pussy shouldn't reflexively clamp down on him, but it fucking does, and he loves it. "take it back."

you blink.

. . . huh?

"i didn't —god, fucking stutter. take it back!" "i don't — ahnnn— hate you!" krauser shakes his head. "no, no. t , that's not enough," you squealed when his thumb rolls over your clit. "say you love me," the added sensation makes you scream. "say you fucking love me, please," krauser whined, and you didn't know you liked that until . . now.

"quit fucking around, Y/N!" he impatiently snarled, grabbing your thighs and pushing it to its limit; 'till your ankles were beside your ears. "w , wait—oh fuuuuck—♡!" stars fill your vision as soon as his cock slams back into you. "say you love me, c'moooon, don't be fucking stubborn,"

how could you say it, when each slam of his hips drew out nothing but fucked out whimpers from you? "i love you," yet, he fucked you like he hated you. and you despised the way it made your cunt flutter as it promises both you and him an orgasm.

"yeah? you like that? i love you," as if your folded position wasn't difficult enough, him leaning down to capture your lips just makes you even more breathless. but you kiss him back. your lips yearn for him like air, and the best you could reciprocate it was a mere glide of your wet muscle; to which krauser didn't really mind.

"i love you—! fucking love you, love f , fucking you." he says, thrusts frantic and relentless. "love , , l , love—," you pant, nails sinking into his forearms. "i love . . fuck, fuuuuuck— i love you too—," you've never heard krauser whine that loud, but he does, sloppily thrusting into you as his orgasm takes over; cumming the hardest he's ever been.

"come on, baby. cum for me," he whimpered, face contorting in overstimulated bliss as he continued his thrusts. seeing him this needy and desperate to make you feel good made your stomach flutter. "i love you," he whispered, placing kisses on your temple, on your forehead, anywhere his lips could reach.

"s , soooo fucking much,"

the way the tip grazes again and again and fucking again on your most sensitive. deepest parts makes you squeal, makes you wail. only he could reduce you to this whimpering mess. "'m close, baby. right there. don't stop—♡!"

ragged breaths and feral grunts turn into high-pitched whining, krauser's cock aching from pleasure. too much pleasure. but his hips won't stop moving, can't stop driving himself deeper into you. "love you—love youuu," you babbled mindlessly, completely forgetting whatever grievance you held for him, and vice versa. his cock aches. throbs. the sensitivity should be too much, but his hips keep slamming into you.

and judging how he doesn't look any less tired . . . you were in for a long, long night.

CARLOS OLIVEIRA .ᐟ

carlos pretty much worships the ground you walk on. he thinks you're the best thing that has happened to him, and my god, this man will spoil you rotten. the moment his eyes laid upon your gorgeous face, he knew he didn't want to live in cold, cruel, Y/N-less world. after your second date, he's made up his mind. he will marry you, in due time.

for now, he can settle with the domestic life of living together, doing your groceries together, cleaning the house to your favourite songs and slow dancing mid-vacuum.

"hey babe?"

"yeah?"

he switches the vacuum off, the shiny foil atop your night table catching carlos's eye. if he's not mistaken, this was your birth control. upon a closer look, it seemed . . . untouched. was this an old batch? did you forget? he looks over at you, putting away your clothes in the closet.

"babe, it's your birth control pills!" he exclaimed, brows narrowing with concern. "have you been taking them?" it was only when you've finished up your chore did you turn to your boyfriend, looking at your pills, and then at his face. "those are my contraceptives, yes . . and no, why?" the lack of worry in your voice calms carlos a bit, blinking at your nonchalance. "but, babe—," "wait, i haven't told you yet?" your laughter mixes with your words. "told me what?"

you took it upon yourself to close the remaining distance between the both of you, cradling his face with your warm hands. "carlos,"—you reached over for your medication and put them aside. "i've stopped taking birth control, baby. since like, two weeks ago. i thought i told you, but i must've forgotten . . . "

there's so many thoughts running in his head. thinkin' how gorgeous you'd be during your wedding day. when you're finally pregnant and bearing his child. how he'd be calling you his wife and not his girlfriend anymore. how he'd be a husband to you, and a father . .

"—earth to carlos. hellooo?"

"what?"

he blinked, realizing you were waving a hand in front of his face. "you said something about wanting to start a family some day . . it doesn't have to be now, but if it happens, then . . " you shrugged.

what do you mean it doesn't have to be now?

it has to be now.

⟡

he has to plunge his cock balls deep in you now. even if his previous creampies were already leaking out from your pretty hole. he needed to breed you over and over again now. he reveled in the sight of you; with your hair sticking to your skin from how much you were sweating, how your tits bounced with every thrust forward with his hips, how your lips were hanging agape from pure bliss . . you are so, so pretty in his eyes. prettier when you're thoroughly fucked and bred.

carlos could only groan, feeling your cunt twitch around his cock. he kept watching you writhe, kept watching you squirm beneath him because he just fucked you so good—but the squelch reverberating from beneath you catches his attention. hazel eyes begin to trail down your body, down to your pretty cunt where you were the messiest. slick smeared to wherever it could, and your poor clit was puffy from how many times he's ran a thumb over it . . . but that didn't seem to stop him from doing so for the nth time. just to see your legs quiver, to see your eyes roll back to the pits of your skull.

"carlooos—♡," you whined, hips bucking against the sensation. "'m here, mama. jus' let it out," he mumbled in his pussydrunk stupor. seeing how you couldn't even mutter his name properly did things to carlos—fueling his lust was one of them; his grip on the back of your knees become tighter—and the slamming of his hips was more brutal, trying to fuck his cum back in you like he wasn't already doing that for the past hour.

"ah! ahn—you're so rough!" you whimpered, and carlos only lets out a dry chuckle. "h-haah . . i-i have to be. or else you—," his words are abruptly interrupted by a loud groan as he forces his cock as deep as he could, just for emphasis. "you . . won't be knocked up," he whined, balls twitching as it ached to cum into your womb again. "c'mon, mama. get pregnant. fuuuuck, jesus christ—,"

he could feel himself drooling as he ruts into you desperately. "c'mere, cariño," you went from having your knees pressed to your chest to being completely folded in half. his face is buried in your neck, and his hands—no—his arms have moved to cradle your head, his chest taking over for him as your legs rest nicely on his shoulders. his tongue is all over your flesh, lazily lapping up your neck and sweat. the new position has him fucking deeper—literally. feels like his tip was gonna force itself up in your poor cervix. it was suffocating, but. but you craved it. you yearned for it.

you needed it.

his hips were clearly hurting and fatigued, because every brutal slam down into you would result to him grunting and whining. his tongue's cold against your neck, spanish words whispered against it while he busied himself pounding away at your pretty, creamy pussy. nothing was stopping him from breeding you, from stuffing you full, not even the pain that pooled both in his hips and your thighs.

"your pussy’s so goooood, fuck . . love you, i love you. dios . . dios mio, no puedo dejar de follarte. quiero d , dejarte embarazada, mi amor." you couldn't understand his mindless spanish babbling—not with the sounds of his balls slapping against your ass echoing in the room. "wh , what . . ?" "shh, baby." —it's followed by more spanish muttering that you can't follow. not that there was anythin' going on in that pretty head of yours.

[ god . . oh my god . . i can't stop fucking you. i want to get you pregnant, my love. ]

there was nothing going on in his head, either. just the thoughts of you knocked up—everyone would know you belonged to him, that he fucked you, that you made him a father—it only fueled the never ending lust that he had no strength to resist. "oh my fucking god, baby, fuuuck!" his face scrunches up as he speeds up, and you didn't even know that was fucking possible. your eyes widened, the knot in your stomach tightening and tightening 'til it snapped; your orgasm spraying all over yourself and him as you screamed. "so messy, h-haah, f, fuck!" "carlos, m, my cunt—!" you could no longer find the words to say to him, stars filling your vision. you swore you were going to pass out.

your cunt was sensitive, obviously, but carlos was beyond overstimulated—it hurts—his cock hurts after cumming and cumming and cumming in you, but the way your creamy walls hugged his cock was enough compensation. he won't stop. can't bring himself to stop. because everytime his cock slid back into you, your pathetic cunt only squirts in small fountains, dragging out your orgasm and only allowing him to slide in and out of you easily. "gonna cum. 'm cumming," his whines grew sharper, getting higher and higher as his orgasm neared. his hold around your head tightened, and you could only bite and lick at the skin of his chest as his frame practically eclipsed over your frame.

"Y/N—god. 'm cumming. gonna breed you. gonna—g, gonna get you pregnant! dios mio, Tu coño se siente genial—," stuffing your fucking cunt to the fullest, he cried out your name as he came; this was the hardest he's cummed, experiencing heaven as he sloppily rode out his orgasm with shallow, sloppy thrusts. he greedily wanted more, but god, he's sure he can't cum anymore after this. he's not even sure if he can lift his hips to pull out his veiny, girthy cock out of your dripping pussy.

you're barely conscious—so close to passing out when you feel a hand on your cheek, fingers worriedly tapping you awake. "baby?" his voice echoed in your ears, and you opened your heavy lids, vision adjusting to the sight of him. "come back to me," he whispered, peppering your face with sweet kisses. "carlos." you chuckled weakly. you only just realized that you did pass out, because you don't remember carlos putting down your legs or covering you both with your comforter. "i got worried." carlos lays beside you, pulling you beside him. "slept good?" he teases, and you only grumbled. you feel his stubble graze your brow as he placed a kiss on your forehead. "did i get too carried away?" "you don't say," you both chuckled. "'m sleepy," you mutter, wrapping an arm around him. and the only response you got from him? a light snore. you can't help but laugh to yourself.

end.

A/N: such a wild prompt TT but i hope you enjoyed! thank you to my beta reader, @lafox-chan for proofreading and helping me!

and here's a blooper while we were working on it!

2K notes · View notes

hoshigray · 9 months ago

Note

shower sex with sukuna?

꯳⃘꤫⃛✿ contents: true form! Sukuna - explicit content; minors DNI - size difference - standing + against a wall positions - biting/marking - kissing/making out - itty bitty degradation - unprotected sex - clitoral stimulation - cervix-fucking - pet names (babe, dove, pet) - overstimulation - mention of drool/spit and pain.

“Mmmahh, ‘Kuna, wa—Eeek!"

“Keheh, so damn noisy.”

Being fucked in the shower with Sukuna would be out of this world — an experience that one would have difficulty to even formulate into words. Something that they would have to experience for themselves…

Nude bodies enclosed within a confined space, shower water sprinkling down from up above glide down across wet skin, and a mist fills the atmosphere and clouds your vision…Either that or the proximity of your face with Sukuna’s.

The cursed being holds you to the wall, your hands balled to fists as hot breaths exit your frame. The man behind you carries you effortlessly with his multiple arms, the water hitting his tattooed chest showers to your buttocks. One girthy cock is stuffed inside your cunt, stretching your entrance and rubbing your inner texture in a gratifying rhythm. Every smack of the giant’s hips on your butt is louder and bounces the walls of the shower, making it easier to drown your eardrums.

“Fuck, you’re so fucking wet,” Salmon-pink hair, usually pushed back, is now damp and low, sticking to his forehead and nape. He scoffs, “And it’s been like that way before I put the water on, huh.”

“Haaahh, ohhmyGod,” you stammer with eyebrows knitted. Sukuna’s hands arms hold you up by your arms, his lower ones keeping your waist still and stuck to the skin of his pelvis. “Ohh G-God…! So hooot…”

The man snickers to himself, observing from behind how your body’s movement is affected by his. A powerful man such as himself can put you at your whims efficiently. Even now, as his second cock doesn’t have to be inside you to have you turn into a whimpering mess, the erect, free limb rubbing up against your clitoris is enough to cause shivers to rattle your spine. All it does is feed the man’s egotistical self; seeing you try to writhe from his grasp – knowing damn well you’d fall and bust your head on the floor – keeps the sadistic excitement going.

And to keep it up, Sukuna spawns lips of his palms to chew and bite on your arms, resulting in a cry from the simultaneous pain. “—Ahaack! F-Fuucking shiiit.”

“Hmmph, so tight on me,” he purrs to your ear; the twitch of your vagina was anything but discreet. “Enjoyin’ this, aren’t you? Hmph, such a slut for my dicks, babe?”

“Ohhh, myGo—Ahhh! ’Kunaaa…!” Your mind is swimming; sticking to one thought is strenuous when all you can hear is the sounds of skin smacking up against each other or the sensation of your southern region meeting the hilt of Sukuna’s cock for his other one to press your clit again. “Suk’naa, I beg of y—“

“What?” He steps back, causing your hands to come off the wall. You nearly lose your soul, forgetting that the behemoth is holding you. Yet your fright is humorous to him. “Can’t hear you; if you wish to beg, speak aloud?”

Now is where he decided to increase the pace; the work of his hips changed to an irregular cadence you can’t keep up with. Frequent grazes to your sweet spots now happen every second or so, and the poke of your cervix nearly knocks the wind clean off you. Warm, tranquilizing water felt like cold, sharp knives for a split second, like the tongue of his stomach on your back. “Ohh! Hoooh!! Wa-wait, please, no…!”

“Answer me, pet.” He barks with a grin, sporadic plunges to your chasm becoming the norm.

“Taahh, I’m so close…!” The heat within this enclosed space strengthens the smog, disorienting your brain and causing fuzziness to blanket you outside of this intimacy. Your senses are wholly stuck to the moment, sticky and wet by the man who has you levitated and fills your slit with his girthy groin. “Please, Suku, let me cummm…!!”

Sukuna laughs bitterly, using his upper left hand to swipe his wet bangs. “Ask again.”

“I beg you, Sukuna,” Holy fuck, you can’t take this anymore! “Please, let me cum, I wanna c—Ohooo!!”

A harsh flex of his abs causes another hit to your cervix, turning your words into instant babbles. “Again.”

Before your mind becomes numb, you spit out the words in desperation. Drool mixes with the trickled water hitting your chin, and your ass is practically embedded in Sukuna’s length and meaty thighs. “—Cum!! I wish to cum!! Please, please, pleaseplease—”

“Quiet.” His upper left-hand silences your wails, the mouth of his palm chewing on your bottom lip until you open up. “Hurry up and cum, you cock-hungry whore.”

His hand kisses you — no elegance nor grace in it, an utter mess of saliva and water that you can nearly choke on. Instead, you moan along to the tongue shoving and fucking you orally. A sinful kiss that pairs with the raunchy scene and noises around you. Your ears could melt any second now, brushes to your clit has you on the brink of tears, and the heat gets worse within the span of ten seconds. Constant pokes to your cervix quicken your heart rate, and your body submits to the shocks that pull you down to your euphoric apex.

You howl to his palm; your frame jolts with every single passing crash of your orgasm with quivering toes. Sukuna doesn’t stop moving; however, he allows the gesture of going slow to treasure your vaginal walls spasming on his member and biting his lip at the feeling, having to control his urge to release by enjoying the merits of your essence coating him.

“Hnngh, fuck…That’ll do, little dove.” He whirs to your ear again, licking your helix before a chew from his canines. “Keep wringing me out.”

His words were barely decipherable because of your after-haze, succumbing to the kiss of his hand and the cold water that plasters on your hot figure. And yet, despite the contrasts, the warmth within you has you hum in delight.

2K notes · View notes

woogilicious · 1 month ago

Text

offline messages ꒰ yunho ꒱

⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ pairing: streamer!yunho x gn!reader. ⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ word count: 1039 words. ⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ genre: angst + fluff. ⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ warnings: mild angst, emotional neglect (unintentional), feelings of being left behind, fluff at the end.

You were there before the follower goals, and fancy mic setup. Back when Yunho streamed from a wobbly IKEA desk and his only viewers were you and that one random bot that kept posting shady links.

Back then, his face would light up when he saw your name in chat.

"Yo!" he'd grin, headset slightly tilted. "You're here!"

Of course you were. You always were.

You modded his streams before he even asked. Built his discord server from scratch. Stayed up past midnight helping him troubleshoot lag while playing Valorant. You even tolerated the scream fest during Lethal Company session with San, Mingi, and Wooyoung―all chaos, max volume, all the time.

And when things took off―when Twitch clipped him into the algorithm and the chat exploded with new fans, you celebrated with him. You were proud. You really were.

But you also started feeling... invisible.

It started small. A joke you made in chat went ignored. Then another. Then another.

You chalked it up, at first. That's what growing meant―more people, more chaos. But then he stopped replying to your DMs. Took hours to answer simple messages. And one day, you noticed your mod label was gone. No explanation. No "thanks for everything." Nothing at all.

You watched one of his streams that night, lurking, your name is grey in a sea of neon usernames. Someone made a crude joke. You called it out. Yunho didn't even notice, until a stranger timed you out.

That was the last stream you watched live.

You muted the server. Turned off notifications. Closed the tab. He never reaches out. Not once.

Months passed.

One night, you're scrolling through your phone, brain on autopilot, when you see his name. Yunho is live: Unpacking + chatting. You shouldn't care. You don't.

But you click.

He's streaming Unpacking, of all things. Soft music, quiet atmosphere, just him and the sound of cardboard boxes being emptied on screen. There's no Wooyoung yelling in the background, no San whining about being scared―just Yunho. Focused. A little tired. His laugh softer tonight.

You shouldn't message him.

But your fingers move anyway, finding his name in your message app.

Are you okay?

You send it. Regret it instantly. Consider deleting it, but then―

yunho: wait yunho: wait wait wait yunho: is this real?? yunho: y/n... i thought u blocked me or smth

You stare at the screen, looking at his stream while his attention turns to his phone.

you: figured you wouldn't notice either way yunho: ... yunho: okay. i deserve that. yunho: i miss you. a lot.

You don't reply right away, and you close the Twitch app.

The next day, he sends you a message privately in discord.

yunho: can we talk?

You call. It's weird, at first. The silence between you used to be comfortable, easy. Now it's cautious. Hesitant.

But he tries.

"I don't know when I started messing it up," he says, voice quiet. "I think... I just got caught up in everything. I didn't mean to shut you out."

You shrug, even though he can't see you. "You kind of did, though."

"I know. I just... didn't want you to feel like you had to carry my stuff forever. You helped me so much and I kept thinking, maybe you deserved to just... live your life. Not babysit my stream."

You snort. "You took away my mod role without saying a word. The least you can do is tell me."

He winces. "Yeah. That was stupid."

"You think?"

He laughs. It's small, and it is obvious that he is nervous.

"Let me fix it," he says. "Please."

It's not instant. It's not perfect.

But you start showing up again. Not as a mod, but just as his friend.

He messages you in the middle of the night about weird games you'd both like. Sends you dumb voices notes of Mingi farting on call. You hop into discord during late-night gaming, and he still screams in panic when he gets chased in scary games, but now, he screams your name too.

And one night, he messages:

yunho: do you want to do a stream together soon? you: what would we even play? yunho: idc. minecraft? stardew? anything. i just want to hang out with you on stream.

You agree, and the next night, it's Minecraft night.

The stream starts slow, chill lo-fi music playing in the background. Yunho decides to do a member only stream, which means the chat is smaller, cozier. The mods keep it clean. No chaos whatsoever.

"Special guest tonight, their name is Y/N" Yunho says, grinning. "My oldest friend. Like actual old. We've known each other since middle school."

You laugh. "You're few months older than me."

Chat, on the other hand, explodes with excitement:

xXxgamerraccoon12: brooo you can see yunho smiling like an idiot fluffyhorsie: their voice sounds so soothing!! i love them already!! bananapie481: we need more cozy game with y/n!!

You two fish, farm, fight monsters, collect materials. It's easy.

Halfway through the stream, you forget the camera's even on.

"You're different when it's just us," you say quietly.

Yunho hums. "Different how?"

"Less loud, less performative. More... you."

He doesn't say anything right away, just smiling while mining some woods for their house. Then, softly. "That's because you bring out the parts of me I actually like."

Your chest tightens.

"You know I was really scared," he adds. "That you'd never message me again. That I lost you for good."

You exhale. "You almost did."

"I know."

Silence.

Then, your character walks over and gifts his character a flower.

It's just pixels, but Yunho makes a sound that's a little too real.

"What?"

"What do you mean what? Maybe I just like giving you flowers."

His voice is barely a whisper. "God, I missed you so much."

The stream ends with your character standing next to his inside your finish small cozy wooden house.

Chat's spamming hearts. Fan edit already being posted. People are begging for another duo stream.

Once he turns off his stream, he says, "Don't log off yet."

You stay.

His voice is warm through your headset.

"Let's play another day?"

You smile. "Sure, Yunho. I'll be here."

This time, you know he believes it.

And this time, you do too.

#yunho #jeong yunho #ateez yunho #ateez jeong yunho #ateez #yunho imagine #ateez fluff #ateez imagine #yunho x reader #kpop x reader #ateez x reader #kpop fluff #kpop angst #ateez angst #angst #fluff #ateez fic #ateez fanfic

736 notes · View notes

nereidprinc3ss · 1 year ago

Text

baby fever

in which reader and spencer discuss having a baby while at work

fluff warnings/tags: fem/AFAB!reader, bau!reader, BOYFRIEND!SPENCER or husband if u so desire, discussions of pregnancy/having a baby (obviously), reader wants a baby, so does spencer a/n: god i need him so badly. should i write follow up smut?? mwahaha evil emoji......

The coffee finished brewing minutes ago, but you’re still standing by the pot, watching Anderson’s daughter toddling around the bullpen on chubby legs. She’s not very adept at walking, but her spirit is indomitable—every time she tips a little too far forward, she catches herself and gets right back up. It’s not like she’s doing anything particularly impressive or even interesting, but you can’t take your eyes off her. Every movement makes your heart twinge, every giggle or curious quirk of her head is so adorable it physically hurts in your chest.

From your peripheral vision you see Spencer approaching, bearing his own empty mug, but not even he can draw your attention away from the adorable little pixie and her tutu and her pigtails.

“That is the cutest kid I have ever seen in my life,” you whisper to Spencer, hoping the quiet tone of your voice will help hide how much you feel like cooing and squealing.

He smiles to himself as he pours his coffee.

“That’s Rosie. Have you said hi yet?”

“I’m afraid if I talk to her I’ll try to keep her.”

“She is pretty adorable.”

You turn to him as he leans next to you on the counter, sipping his coffee casually.

“Adorable? Spencer. Puppies are adorable. You’re not understanding the magnitude of what I mean right now. I can’t explain to you how much adorable doesn’t cut it. I’m not kidding about the child abduction thing.”

HIs eyes slide around the room as he chuckles into his mug.

“Let’s maybe not joke about kidnapping a child in FBI headquarters.”

“I’m not joking,” you hiss. “I feel like I’m going insane. I just—”

At the last second you stop yourself, pulling your bottom lip between your teeth.

“You just what?” Spencer asks, adjusting the hem of your shirt with his free hand. You glance down, watching the care he takes in the tiniest detail that you wouldn’t have given a second thought to.

“Is something wrong with my shirt?”

His eyes flick up to yours, hazel tinted with mild surprise.

“No. It just was sliding up your waist a little bit.” As he says it, his knuckles brush the bare skin of your torso. You suppress a shiver, studying his profile once he pulls his hand away and goes for another sip.

“Can we have one?”

Your inopportune timing results in coffee dribbling down Spencer’s chin as he quickly attempts to wipe it away, wide eyes torn between you and trying to assess the mess he’s made.

“You--you mean like a baby?”

“Yeah, like a baby,” you say, grabbing his shoulders and squaring them to you before dabbing the coffee from his face and jacket. He watches on as you clean him up, completely still except for his wandering eyes.

“I thought we were waiting on that.”

“Waiting for what? A better time? There’s never going to be a good time with this job. And it’s not like we’d have to quit. Look at JJ. She has two and still does it.”

“First of all,” Spencer begins, quickly recovering from your surprise proposition, “I don’t love the idea of either of us being in the field with you pregnant. And secondly, JJ also has Will and her mother to take care of the boys. We don’t have that. We’re both here all the time.”

“I don’t care,” you groan, trashing the paper towels once you’ve done the best you can with his clothing. “We’d figure it out somehow!”

“Mhm. It sounds like you’ve really devoted some careful consideration to this.”

You drop your head to your shoulder, giving him your best puppy dog eyes and pulling lightly on his shirtsleeve.

“Oh, come on. You haven’t thought about it at all? My perfect brain and your pretty face fusing to create a future Nobel-prize winner? Imagine how cute she would be, Spencer, we could put her hair in little braids and pigtails and we could dress her up and she could be in soccer and ballet and—”

“She?” he smiles, studying your face intently. You roll your eyes.

“Yes, she. Obviously we would have a girl. You—”

The idea of Spencer as the father of your daughter hits you like a tidal wave, stopping you dead in your tracks. The images materialize in your mind’s eye so clearly, it’s like they’re already memories, so real and tangible you have no doubt it must come to fruition someday. But if before, your ranting was mostly a silly fantasy—now it’s become a bit more intense.

He seems to sense your shift in mood. The big smile thaws slightly as he subtly grabs your hand on the counter.

“What? What’s wrong?”

There he goes again. Being kind. Being perfect.

Tears sting your eyes, but you don’t let them fall.

“Nothing. Nothing is wrong. I just... didn’t realize how badly I actually wanted that until I said it out loud.”

The concern in his eyes softens to pure affection as he runs his thumb over the back of your hand.

“I want it too. And whenever you decide you’re ready I’ll drop everything for you.”

His words are like compounding pressure to the deep heat within you—forming something so solid and perfect you don’t have to wonder if it’s real. A ten on the Mohs scale, a concept that gets closer to actualizing by the minute.

Your voice is quiet, revelatory as you admire the amber facets in his eyes.

“You’re ready?”

“I’ve been ready for quite some time,” he admits. And at once you feel the certainty of him paint your past and your future with one broad brushstroke. One day you will look back on your life and remember the time before Spencer, and that will be it. There is before Spencer, and with Spencer, but never an after Spencer. He wants to create something utterly permanent with you. “Come here.”

He sets his mug down, carefully pulling you forward so you’re toe to toe with your back to the rest of the BAU; so that only he can see you. Despite how good the two of you are at avoiding PDA, occasionally an exception is made. He tenderly wipes away the few tears that have sprung from your waterline and accepts your arms around his waist, mirroring your embrace and completely enveloping you.

“I love you,” he murmurs against the top of your hair, quiet enough that nobody in the office has a chance of hearing it. You sniffle.

“I love you too. Also you smell really good.”

He chuckles, hand roaming up and down your back for a moment.

“And that is why we are holding off on this at least for a while.”

“What do you mean?” you whisper indignantly as he gently peels you off him. His hands remain a steadying force on your waist as he smiles down at you beatifically.

“I mean let’s give it two weeks and see if you still want a baby when you’re not ovulating.”

#spencer reid #criminal minds #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid fic #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x self insert #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x you

3K notes · View notes

savannahsdeath · 2 years ago

Note

Ellie and reader having sex, but Ellie starts to talk dirty and reader gets embarrassed so she hides her face in ellies neck. But Ellie teases and tells her not to hide bc she's so pretty. (Imagining this w/ strap in missionary position if u could do that'd be wonderful😍)

shes so awhzjxbag ok i cant . also i got really carried away but uhh hushh warnings: just strap on smut, everything said in the ask;)))

: ̗̀➛ "you hear that?" ellie asked, smiling proudly as she looked down at you. you closed your eyes and tried to focus on whatever she meant, but the only sound entering your used, tired brain was your own moans. you strained your hearing and slowly drifted off to more distant things, like the strap pumping in and out of your desperate cunt, messily and noisily. "such a mess..." ellie chuckled, listening to the sloppy act. "but it's not my fault you're so wet for me."

: ̗̀➛ you gulped, losing a hold of your concentration. your foggy mind couldn't think of an answer - did you do something wrong? should you apologise? or was it some kind of a praise? "els—" you started, but the long s turned into a melodious moan.

: ̗̀➛ "speak up, sweetie." ellie whispered, leaning down to press a kiss on your forehead. you used the moment of closeness to hold the back of her neck, not letting her pull away. she cocked her head to the side, your gaping lips brushing her earlobe as another whine escaped your throat. you quickly pursed your lips, letting yourself make only muffled sounds. but you didn't last long, as every thrust and every inaudible whimper seemed to forcefully open your mouth from the inside. "don't hold back, i want to hear you." ellie reassured, but much to your surprise she didn't wait with her ear next to your face to hear your response. she tilted her head to face you, making you feel her piercing, but not judgemental, gaze.

: ̗̀➛ you honored her with another moan, your eyes rolling to the back of your head, to the point your eyelids uncontrollably closed. "mh— fuck." you groaned, your fists clenching around the bed sheets as your chest raised in a deep breath.

: ̗̀➛ "i can make you feel way better." ellie bit her bottom lip, holding back a proud smile. "i can make you be way louder. do you want that?" you huffed, way too dumb to speak up. she could as well start talking about the weather now, and you wouldn't have any idea how hilarious it is. "tell me, doll."

: ̗̀➛ you swallowed up another pornographic sound which wanted to sneak out of your throat. ellie's questions were usually easy to answer, so you thought a simple, weak "yes" will satisfy her.

: ̗̀➛ yet, her only response was an amused "yes... what?" as she brushed your messy hair out of your face.

: ̗̀➛ your face flushed, almost burnt with heat. your hands tightened their grip, bringing her closer, making your face find a spot to hide in - the crook of her neck. "i—" your lips parted again, brushing against her skin. she let out a sound similiar to your whine, as if to mock you, yet there was a loving undertone to it. "want you to make me feel good, els." you quickly murmured, finding a one second break.

: ̗̀➛ "well, i want to see your pretty face as i do." she whispered in a gentle tone, but didn't move away. "you have no idea how beautiful you look under me, with half lidded and watery eyes." she continued and your body slowly got rid of the previous tension, your grip on her also relaxing. she finally withdrew, glaring down at you. "just don't move and look pretty for me, yeah?"

✧˖°

#reqs open #ellie williams #ellie williams x reader #ellie tlou #ellie williams x y/n #ellie williams x you #ellie x reader #ellie x y/n #ellie the last of us #wlw smut #ellie williams smut #ellie smut #ellie x fem reader

8K notes · View notes

almostempty · 1 month ago

Text

clint gets cockworshipped (clint x f!reader)

wc: 5.4k | other fics | rating: 18+ | ao3

summary: clint deserves some cock worship

tags: cock worship/blowjob pwp, clint comes twice (2!), a little overstim, established relationship, f!reader is able bodied with curly hair mentioned (if you don’t have curly hair and you can’t imagine it for this then it’s not for u, sorry not sorry my poc babes catch pink pussy strays all the time with no warning; you can pretend or not idc), my adhd brain cell can't edit anymore so if there are words missing in sentences soz

a/n: i love this character and the vibe he had with his girl; this fic IS written as reader x clint but, yeah i was picturing grace the whole time (sue me) and i added a reference to the movie she wanted clint to rent bc fuck it why not- this can be read pre-canon or as post-canon-she-lived!au but no baby, pregnancy, or marriage references are made (you can imagine them if you want just don’t tell me about it thx)

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

Clint planted the idea in your head, so it’s his fault really. Maybe he didn’t say it out loud—but he said it with his actions. He never lets you make it all about him. Not in the way you want.

He’s too proud. Too stubborn. Too efficient. Too fucking good looking when he’s breathing like he just ran ten blocks and his eyes are clouded with that intoxicating blend of lust and possession.

So you always fold.

Or, you always let him pull you off his cock and fold you into whatever position he’s been holding himself back for. Maybe he wants to eat it from the back until you’re collapsing in front of him or lay you on your back and fold your knees to your chest so he can see everything while you melt. But you’re determined to watch him fall apart. Not in submission, but in safety. You want him to lean into that feral edge he gets when you’re on your knees and he palms the back of your head. When he almost slips into something raw and selfish. Clint isn’t a selfish man, though. He’s built with devotion and grit. He takes it as his duty to be the kind of lover he thinks you would want to brag about. The kind of lover that focuses on you and your pleasure.

And in his man flavored brain he hasn’t considered that you might get off on pleasing him.

So he doesn’t indulge. Doesn’t surrender. Doesn’t luxuriate.

You can practically hear his inner voice. His thoughts and the visceral sensation from his perspective.

When he nears the edge—testing his resolve—he’s prideful about his self-control. Thinks it makes him a better man to hold off. Never falling too deep into the seduction of your mouth.

Your teasing tongue. The soft, warm slip of your lips, enveloping just the tip. Like a warm bath cascading over every nerve, cushioning every ridge and vein.

Slipping and sliding, in and out and in and out. He loses his tether to space and time.

Squeezing, sucking—engulfing him in your mouth, freeing his mind in waves.

Until the abstract starts to take shape. Building and building.

The pressure.

Building and building.

The escape.

Relief is so close, but the build up is fucking divine.

And then your eyes. The glassy, faraway gaze you get when you’re so lost to the baser carnality of flesh and sin. The way your lips swell and shine as you work harder, faster. Bobbing up and down. Sucking in your cheeks. Using your hand to coat his shaft in saliva.

Until you’re hungry. Ravenous.

Taking more and more.

Until his dick is nudging the back of your throat, the spongy tip working deeper as your muscles constrict.

Until something clicks deep inside you, and that low, filthy moan starts rolling out without permission.

Until your groaning vibrates against the head of his cock, and he nestles deeper into your throat. You both feel it—his length throbbing desperately inside of you.

When tears run down your cheeks, and everything is a wet mess, dripping from your chin—

When just the tip grazing the back of your throat is about to turn into shoving his cock mercilessly deeper and deeper?

That’s when he always stops.

That’s when he pulls you off of him. His hands holding you back like he’s holding off a demon. Like he has to stop you from devouring him whole. For his survival.

Your gnashing, vicious glare is quickly softened. But a mess of tears and anguish bubbles instead. Tempting him, like only his body can release you from this torture.

But you don’t get your way. You’re shushed.

Dismissed. You argue with teary eyes and a ragged, hoarse voice. Protesting his cruelty. You think that part might clue him in.

The fact that he’s the one dragging you off of him.

That you’re crying on your knees for more by your own volition.

You think, maybe, if he’s so devoted to bringing you pleasure, to coaxing you into waves of bliss—mindless, syrupy, boneless bliss–that just maybe, he’d let you keep going. Let you spend the time you want with your lips wrapped around his thick cock. That he’d give himself to you with trust.

If he wants to do such a good job pleasing you–then maybe he ought to let you have your way.

Let you twist your soft fist, pumping his cock from base to tip. Filling the room with debased wet noises as the pool of saliva under your tongue drips, thick and shining, over your knuckles and beneath your palm.

Let you hear him. Unfiltered. No more strangled grunts and throaty groans. You want to hear him call out for you openly, from his heart and from the caveman part of his brain he keeps domesticated most of the time.

You crave the deep, thrumming moan of satisfaction. His elation reverberating in your bones.

….

So this morning, before he got out of bed, you made him agree. You drive a sharp, no-nonsense bargain. No outs. All your demands spread on the table—or the sheets—between you. You wanna take your time and you want him to enjoy it. No, there's no ulterior motive and there’s no anniversary he’s forgetting about. “Okay,” he murmurs into your ear before giving you a chaste good morning and good-bye kiss. He hesitates when he catches the hard line between your brows. “You always say that.” “Do I?” “Mhmm. You say ‘okay’ when we start messing around—during the movie I picked and before I know it you’re fucking the daylights outta me and I’m passing out in your ratty old t-shirt again.” “I thought you liked wearing my shirts to bed,” he argues but the soft smile peeking out the corner of his eyes tempers you. “Maybe.” You shift your hips to pull at the aforementioned shirt where it’s twisting and bunched up underneath you. With a soft huff you add, “Just say ‘yes’.” “You got it backwards, babe. Nancy says ‘just say no’.”

“Shut up.” You toss a pillow at him for that. “I’m not offering ‘free’ drugs. Just let me do something for you. You work too hard. Too much dangerous shit.” He gives you a sober look as he pulls his arm through the sleeve of his shirt. “It’s not forever. And I’d do it every day for us, there’s no you owing me anything.” “I know,” you sigh softly. The sun filtering through the dusty blinds is already warm on your skin. Neither of you have a lot. But you have each other. And that fills him with enough pride to fight tooth and nail to get out of the debt he was born into—no matter the job. “Why don’t you consider it doing something for me?” “This shouldn’t even be an argument.” “That’s what I’m saying!” You stretch dramatically before crossing the room, feet padding across the worn carpet. “Don’t trip. I just wanna see my man let go and come down my throat.” He lets you pull him in for another kiss. You can feel the heat of your words dancing on his tongue as he deepens it, palm firm around your jaw, encouraging you to keep going. You pull back with a soft laugh. “We could do it now.” “Baby, you weren’t even listening!” You scoff, giving him a gentle push. “I said I wanted to take my time. I’d miss half my shift.” He relents and you send him off with a stern ‘be safe.’

He thinks you’ll forget. But you won’t. You can’t. You told him over and over again that this is all you’ve been able to think about. And despite the fact that he scares the shit out of anyone that looks in your direction, he doesn’t scare you with his attitude. And when you get home from your shift it’s only gotten worse. The insatiable thirst to feel him clear your mind—fucking your mouth like he means to replace every thought with the weight of him. To only have the mental capacity to focus on breathing and relaxing your muscles. It keeps you fired up enough to drag him straight to the bedroom, before you’ve even gotten out of your work clothes.

You warn harshly that if he tries to stop you, you’re going to come up with your own punishment for him. You don’t miss the way his eyes darken and his nostrils flare when you threaten him.

No. Today, your hulking debt collector—with his sour looks, dry humor, and leather jacket—is going to let you take what you want. And you tell him as much in a rant interrupted by a few kisses punctuated with your teeth tugging at his lower lip and clothes being pulled off and tossed to the floor. Stubborn as he is, he knows you’re even worse. So he’s pliant when you push him to sit at the edge of the bed, settling onto the mattress with a knowing gaze.

Clint is still and quiet as you start. His own head is still full of enough bullshit from the day.

Just watching. Breathing. Nothing else exists when you drop to your knees in front of him. When you look up at him it’s not loaded with faux innocence and the frustration is already dissipating, all that’s left on your face is the joy and a hint of sinister satisfaction. It sparkles in your eyes and has you buzzing.

He’s yours and you’ve got no mercy now. Just a desire to give. And Clint? He starts to slip so quickly now. Enjoying the way you hum, tongue flat against the underside of his cock, vibrating soft and low. As if you’d been starved, you start with making out with his tip, lathing your tongue along the crown, suckling and swirling it between your lips and letting your saliva and his precome pour from your tongue so you can coat his shaft down to his balls. Messy. Sloppy. Eager.

Wet, obscene sucking sounds mix with his throaty grunts in the warm evening air. He’s beginning to loosen up and you’ve barely gotten started. You pay special attention to the sensitive spot that you know makes his stomach muscles tense and his toes snap. His own groan is cut off with a strained curse. You ease off the intensity, but for every sound he makes you reward him with a more enthusiastic response. Trying to tell him you love to hear him. To keep going. Louder.

“Fuck, that feels good.” Yes! Like that. You stroke him with your mouth and hand in tandem, hoping to milk another sentence out of him. It’s not that he doesn’t praise you normally or that he doesn’t love to murmur something filthy in your ear in bed—in the checkout line at the grocery store. It’s that you just wanna hear it pouring out of him without a filter. You want to hear him so fucked out—because of you—that he can’t help but spill whatever’s in his head. You want to hear him unravel out loud. He’s getting there. Encouraging you with more soft praise that makes your chest swell and your cunt flutter.

You pull off his dick with a wet pop, moving to kiss and suck at the base. You continue with your hand, slow, firm, pumping along the smooth skin and twisting your wrist—keeping him revved up, but not overwhelmed. Not a race. “Keep talking.” You meant for it to sound like a seductive purr—but to your surprise it’s edged with something desperate. His cock jumps in response, the muscles in his thighs ripple with tension. “Please, I need to hear you.” Again, you’ve got his number, the kick in his shaft and the clench of his jaw confirm your discovery. “Shit. Yeah, okay.” His chest is already heaving, and his eyes half-hooded. He pushes some loose curls back from your face as you start to take one of his balls into your warm mouth. You play with silky smooth skin on your tongue. “You make me feel so fucking good.” You move to the other. Letting your eyes fall shut for a moment and breathing deep. The musky scent is grounding. It also makes you want to dig your nails into his thighs and take him for a fucking ride.

His hand slides around to your jaw and you pull back, licking your lips. Then his thumb finds your mouth, slow and deliberate, tracing your lower lip before slipping past your teeth, like he’s trying to soothe the riot in his chest.

You suck on it, eyes locked on his, and something shifts in his expression. A quiet flicker. Awe, maybe. Or disbelief.

“Come here,” he murmurs, voice gone gravel-soft. He guides you back onto his cock, his other hand cradling the back of your head, fingers lacing through your hair as he settles in.

“Just like that,” he breathes. “Goddamn, you look so pretty like this.”

His thumb stays at the edge of your mouth, wiping a smear of spit from your cheek as his hips lift just a little, more instinct than control. “Like you were made for me.”

His words swirl over you, thick and sweet like the smoke from a Black and Mild, curling slow down your spine. The heat flows smooth and slow, flowing down your spine as droplets of sweat threaten to form.

You work him with precision, knowing his body like an instrument. Conducting an orchestra of one.

His sentences turn to grunted single-syllable words each time you take a little more of his dick. Sweat beads form in constellations on his chest as it rises and falls.

He’s in deep now. Under your spell.

Entranced by your bright little moans and the gleam in your eyes as you stare up at him.

He knows no more words.

Just heavy, ragged breathing interspersed with choked sounds. You use your tongue to tease, swirling and tracing along every nerve you can locate.

Involuntary moans, frustration and something raw are strangled in his throat and reflected in your own. You’re frenzied, just as fucked out from taking him apart as he is from being deconstructed by your mouth.

He strains, thighs flexing, as you suck and swallow lewdly. Your tongue could be numb, but you need more. You don’t stop. You can’t stop.

He swells on your tongue, getting heavier and harder like your mouth is coaxing it out of him.

Your lips strain around him, stretched just wide enough to ache, your jaw protesting each inch. The head of his cock drags slow against your palate, thick and impossibly hot, filling every inch until your throat has no choice but to yield.

You breathe through your nose, fighting the instinct to gag. Your whole body tightens like it’s wired straight to your throat. The delicious pressure—dense, unrelenting—makes your throat pulse around him. He’s reduced to something primal. Revealed to be just as debauched at his most raw and unfiltered. He thrusts harshly, finally shoving himself down your throat the way you wanted. Fucking your mouth with abandon, his eyes rolled back and tendons in his forearms rippling as he clenches his fists. You gag, obscene and choking on the force of it. He’s heavy on your tongue, riding the edge of unbearable—until his wide hands force you off. He cradles your jaw between his hands, briefly letting you back off to cough before he supports the weight of your head. You stare up at his face, taking in every detail. The patchy flush scaling up his neck and his mouth drooped in a stupor. Wrecked and euphoric.

But Clint’s dark eyes are glinting with an alertness you weren’t expecting. He looms over you with something wicked and enticing settling into his features.

The view sends a rush of hedonistic desire barreling through you. And a deviant grin spreads on your face, before you open your mouth wide, laying your tongue out for more. A dark chuckle shakes Clint’s ribs. “So fucking stubborn,” he growls, his voice rough and dangerous. He releases his grip, watching with an amused smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth when he sees the effort it takes for you to hold your own head up. You squirm under his heady gaze, rubbing your thighs together seeking any relief for your throbbing pussy. Hoping he doesn’t call you out for it. Not right now. If you were to give in. Fold. Beg him to fuck you now, you know he would. You’d sob, writhe, and wail at just the kiss of his cockhead against your clit. The heat and pressure would have you undone before he could sink it inside of you. Your swollen bundle of nerves pulses with anticipation and frustration.

You know he’d torture you deliciously. Fuck you slow and heavy, make you feel every inch before giving it to you like you want. Arousal drips from your achingly empty cunt, and your walls clench as if his dick were just out of reach. He grins like he knows exactly what you’re thinking.

“Stubborn and greedy,” Clint adds, before tapping each of your cheeks with his shining, slick shaft. He sits proudly, letting his cock bob in front of your open mouth before repeating the same motion. He tilts his head, studying you with rapt attention as he listens to the sticky slap of skin against skin.

Saliva pools under your tongue as if you weren’t a slippery, spit coated mess already. You can feel the energy between you humming. A switch flips somewhere deep. Heat rushes your veins, thick and sudden, like liquor spreading through your chest and rolling low. Clint grips himself with a tight fist. Big hand. Big dick. You go a little dumb for it, your vision blurring at the edges. He pumps his hand once. Twice. That’s as far as you can count right now. He fucks his fist with a tight grip, hips canting just slightly. A few more strokes, then—“Open.” He taps the blunt tip of his dick on your shining, pink tongue. “This what you want?” he asks with mockery edged with disbelief. “You want it nasty? You wanna suck on it just to make me feel good?” You hum your affirmation as he starts to rock back into your mouth with slow thrusts. It’s not long before he works back up to a brutal pace, holding you steady as he slips past your lips over and over again. His strangled, handsome grunts punctuate every movement, and you moan back in call and response. Lascivious. Depraved. Mindless with ecstasy. “Oh, shit.” His voice is untethered. “You love it.”

You moan again in agreement and encouragement. He’s getting it.

“Making a fucking mess, baby.” “Mmm,” you purr, muffled by the wet sounds filling the air.

“Yeah, you always get what you want, don’t you?” Your entire body alight, thrumming with delight and lust. For a moment your eyes flutter shut and you’re lost in the most rudimentary form of existence. Just a body. Not dehumanized like an object—but human. Flesh and blood and bones and nerves. Controlled by gravity and pleasure.

His.

When you pull back to catch your breath—ragged and gasping—you hold his heavy lidded gaze. Instead of wiping the saliva off your face you smear it down your chin, drawing your hand down to squeeze your tits in a show for him. A thousand remarks silently float on his heavy exhales. Praise and awe and filthy teases he can’t put together. You revel in the weight of the moment but can’t hold back the impish smile that spreads across your face.

You have another silent conversation with his cock. Studying it. The curve, the heft, the thick vein pulsing just beneath the surface. The fat droplet of precome leaking from his slit that joins your saliva catching in streaks and gathering at the base—where it sinks into the soft, dark curls there, slicking the roots and making everything look unbearably erotic.

It’s almost stupid. The way it’s just him. Maybe that’s just biology or a little bit of Freud (which you’d never admit), but the dick is really built just like him. Strong and gorgeous and molded by something greater than you to show his devotion, just like his hands, and his fucking intuition—and most of it’s so alive. You can feel his pulse under your fingers as you spend a little too long enjoying your moment of appreciation, until you trace down, down, down, to massage his balls. Vulnerable. Just for you. In the most twisted romantic sense you could tear up if you thought too long about the way your man is vulnerable just for you. The things he does just to keep you both afloat. The violence he deals in, the hard edges, the determination and gall. And yet—he never chose this. To be born into a world that demanded so much. You pull off with a gasp, breath ragged, and spit slow onto the head of his cock. It drips, glistening, and you drag your tongue through the mess before taking him in again. Slow and deep, like a fucking performance. Your lips seal around him, cheeks hollowing as you sink lower. Clint huffs out a short breath, half groan, half laugh. “Jesus,” he mutters, like he can’t believe how far gone you are. Like he loves it.

You salivate faster than you can swallow. Slick rushes down his shaft, noisy and obscene. Salt and musk coat your tongue—warm, earthy, a little bitter.

You slide your hand up slowly, twisting your palm like a prayer. His breath hitches. He twitches. You chase that with your mouth, leaning into the gravity of it.

You don’t just suck his cock—you kiss it.

Your whole body is pulsing. You can feel your heartbeat in your clit. In your fingertips. In your tongue.

You lick along the crown, slow and pointed, tracing the soft ridge where the color darkens. He jerks. You chase that movement with your mouth, then your hand, then your whole body leaning forward like it’s gravity pulling you down.

Tongue first. Then lips. Then again and again. Plush kisses. Sloppy kisses. Filthy, noisy, open-mouthed adoration.

You drag your tongue down the underside. Flat and slow. Tasting where he’s softest. You hum, low in your throat, and he shivers like you just said his name.

Clint lets out a sound somewhere between a grunt and a moan. You swear it scrapes up from somewhere he never lets anyone near. His hands find your face again.

“Don’t stop,” he rasps, broken and breathless. “Don’t fucking stop. Baby, please.”

His voice hits that hunger that’s been gnawing at you. This is what you want. His unraveling. His trust. The heavy roll of his hips and the deep, animal sounds in his throat. So raw and desperately close.

So, you give it to him, tight and perfect, your hand stroking in sync with the rhythm of your throat, never breaking eye contact.

You feel the shift when he’s too far gone to hold back. His thighs tense. His breath cuts off. The curse he mutters is strangled and low—your name folded into it like a prayer.

Then he comes.

Hot and deep in your throat, pulsing with every wave. He tries to pull back but you don’t let him. You hold steady, swallowing around the weight of him, letting him give it all to you. His fingers curl tight in your hair, his hips stuttering as it shakes through him.

When all the fight is finally gone from his body, you lick your lips, smiling unapologetically. Quiet seeps in as he catches his breath. His voice is barely audible when he speaks next, wrecked beyond repair. “You’re gonna kill me,” he whispers.

There’s a beat. A flicker of mischief in your smile.

“How would I do it? I couldn't live without ya.” You murmur in your best Sid Vicious accent, earning you an eye roll and a soft exhale from Clint. “You and that fucking punk movie.” He scoffs without animosity. “Mhmm,” you hum, letting the relaxation settle into his bones.

You rest your head on his thigh and watch his fat cock soften in front of your nose—the way it twitches, rolls, like everything inside of him is still shifting and settling.

The air is thick. Sweet. Like sex and sweat and reverence.

You’re high on it. On the quiet, wrecked man under your cheek. On the trust. The way he gave in.

It’s not just about giving anymore.

Your pussy is still swollen and wet just from watching him fall apart.

You haven’t come. You’re not even frustrated. Just restless—wired and buzzing.

You still need him in your mouth.

Not hard. Not dominant.

Just warm and soft and spent. His taste still clinging to your tongue. The scent of skin and salt in your lungs.

You want to feel him twitch back to life against your lips. To savor it slow.

Greedy. Curious. Unhurried.

You’re not sated. You’re still hungry—but not for release. For him.

Just to feel it on your tongue again.

Soft and pliable, still sticky with spit and come.

Still heavy. Still his.

You drag your tongue along the cooling dampness, the velvety, stretchy skin, reverent and insatiable, already craving the weight of him, hot and hard in your mouth.

Clint is still coming down when you move again.

Your head stays on his thigh, lips brushing against the inside of it, inhaling deep like you’re grounding yourself in the scent of him.

His body is lax, legs spread wide, leaned back on his elbows.

"You done?" you ask, soft and sweet, like you aren’t already pressing your lips to his hip, nipping gently.

Clint makes a rough, exhausted sound, falling flat to the mattress and dragging a hand over his face, groaning deep in his chest.

"Yeah, baby," he mutters. "I’m done."

But you know better.

His cock is still right there, softening but still thick, still kicking with life, still heavy against his thigh.

Your lips part, hovering just above the swollen tip, breath fanning against him, watching for his reaction. Your breath is warm where it ghosts over the sensitive skin, and his leg jerks beneath your touch.

"Don’t—" he exhales sharply, fingers twitching like they want to push you away but can’t quite commit. "Too much," he mutters, but his voice is weak, lacking the sharpness of a real command.

Not a real warning. Not convincing.

Because when you press a kiss to the flushed, glossy tip of his dick, his whole body jerks. It’s slow and reverent.

His hand spasms where it rests on the bed, like he might reach for you. Like he might pull you away.

But he doesn’t. But he never does.

His body is betraying him.

"You don’t get it," he pants, eyes squeezed shut. "It’s not gonna happen. Not again."

Wrong.

Because his cock is already yours again. Already swelling before you take it back into your mouth. Heavy and helpless. Thickening against your tongue.

Clint groans. Low, drawn-out, almost pained. "Oh, fuck—"

But you hum against him, savoring the way he jumps at the sensation and whimpers at the tail end of a wrecked gasp.

His hands clutch your head, body shaking, legs trembling, no fight left in him.

Offering gentle licks and soft, open-mouthed kisses, worshipping him like he’s a divine being.

The room feels heavier with each passing moment. His body is trembling now, muscles taut beneath your touch. He leans back up to watch you, glued to your mouth.

You’re meticulous, lavishing every inch of him with attention. Feather-light brushes of your lips along his shaft. The tip of your tongue tracing the sensitive ridge beneath the head. You’re not trying to drive him mad. You’re succeeding.

And when he gets it…he breathes your name. Dazed and destroyed.

Something in you sings at the sound of it. It’s not just filthy—it’s sacred. He’s falling apart, and you’ve never felt so full. So loved. So in control and completely out of it all at once.

“You. Fucking menace,” he rasps, voice hoarse and raw. A sound you want to hear more of.

You smirk up at him and Clint groans, tipping his head back, already broken, already yours.

He’s yours now. Completely undone.

So you shift, wrapping your hand around his base, watching his thigh jump beneath your palm like his body’s trying to wrestle itself out of control. His jaw ticks. His brows pull together like he’s fighting to keep his eyes open. But he has to watch you.

He bucks once, involuntarily jerking toward you. The noise that slips out of him is caught somewhere between a gasp and a moan. You just lean in and swirl your tongue slowly around the ruddy, deeply flushed flesh.

The noises he makes are guttural, unrestrained. The growls in his chest vibrate against your lips when you take him back into your mouth.

His shaft throbs against your tongue, impossibly sensitive, and every movement of your lips sends sharp jolts through his body. He’s panting now, the sound raw and ragged, as you bob your head seeking more.

You’re not just getting off on his sounds. You’re addicted to his surrender. Every breath, every tensing muscle, a confirmation that he’s still letting you have him.

You can feel him straining to hold on, his body taut with the effort, but he’s unraveling fast.

His chases more unconsciously, rocking toward you and forcing himself deeper into your throat. The pressure is overwhelming, but you don’t stop. You press forward, letting him own the space in your throat as you swallow him whole.

The sounds are pornographic and lewd. Echoing in the air between his gasps and the muffled moans vibrating from your chest. He’s lost now, completely at your mercy, and you’re relentless. You pull back to tease him with just your hand, rubbing along the most sensitive nerves. So concentrated. You hold your tongue out–knowing he’s close again. “Like this?” you ask, already glowing with the high of reading his body so well. He can’t answer. Just squeezing his eyes shut. Fighting the urge to collapse. But he’s determined to watch you. His jaw flexing as he struggles. “Come for me,” the words are soft, like a prayer not a demand. “Again.” “I can’t—shit, baby, you’re too good,” he chokes, like the truth is dragging its nails up his throat. He pants out another curse and, “Gonna—”

When he comes the second time, it’s not as strong but just as physically and psychologically devastating.

It lands on your tongue and lips before you swallow and give him one last suck and squeeze, milking every last drop from him—along with an almost pained, broken groan.

Even as he softens, you don’t stop. You lick at the sensitive head, suckling softly, drawing a sharp hiss from his lips as his hips jerk away instinctively. His body shudders beneath you, his muscles trembling uncontrollably.

When you finally release him and his length slips from your mouth, you can’t stop from pressing one last kiss to the tip.

He lies back flat, utterly spent, the sheen of sweat on his skin catching the dim light. His eyes closed, his mouth slack as he tries to catch his breath.

You watch him, lips swollen, your whole body humming—sated, smug, and a little in love with how completely he gave in. You’ll never forget this version of him.

Soft.

Spent.

Yours.

You kiss the inside of his thigh, quiet and slow. Then drag your palm along his thigh. Still loose. Still recovering. But he’s watching you now, head tipped forward to keep his eyes on you.

A smile pulls at the corner of your mouth.

Clint exhales like it’s half a laugh, half a warning. “Didn’t think you’d go that fucking hard.”

You smile, just a little. “I told you I wanted to take my time.”

“Okay,” he admits. His voice is gravel, stripped bare. “You’re right.”

You don’t say anything to that. You stay there, the ghost of a grin on your spit-slick mouth, cheek pressed to his thigh like it’s holy ground.

You don’t move. Don’t gloat. Just exist with him like this.

Quiet. Sated. And a little exhausted.

Still his fault, really.

He loves you like a rock. Solid. Unshaken.

And maybe he still doesn’t let you make it all about him.

But tonight he did.

You gotta worship that when you can.

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

thank you for reading pls let me know what you liked or hated or ??? join my tag list here @yxtkiwiyxt my clint babe <3 @lovely-vamp-princess @gothcsz @auteurdelabre @adoreyouusugar @swankyorange @itwasntimethatdidit40 @ivoryandflame @indiegirlunited @syd-djarin @miss-oranje-disco-dancer @harriedandharassed @bbyanarchist @94namkooksworld

@mushgloomz @probablyreadinsmut @ohhoneypascal @noisynightmarepoetry

@joelmillerisapunk @lilac-boo @sunshinehaze1 @worhols @dontlookatme121 @sunshinehaze1 @clubsoft @natalieispunk @jokesonthem @slimybeth69 @4ever-billies-girl @gossipgirl-03

other a/n: a long time ago @gothcsz posted the first part of unscripted desire and these two lines:

Javier tuts, walking over to you with his soft cock hanging between his legs and you do your best to not let your eyes drop down to it. He’s got an unlit cigarette hanging from between his lips.

and it made me think about soft cocks for weeks, WEEKS! …which led to a wip that died when i lost my whimsy in the dark months, but now… NOW it is HERE bc it was meant for clint all along so extra ty for that <3

#clint x reader #freaky tales clint #clint x you #clint flood #freaky tales #idk how to tag this guy rn #clint x f!reader

607 notes · View notes