#before break it was laundry from like two weeks before and i ran out of time to do the other week’s worth of laundry before leaving SO. in | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

gutsby · 9 months ago

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Who’s Your Daddy?

Pairing: Stepdad!Joel x Reader

Summary: You get stuck in the washing machine. Thankfully, your stepdad is around to help you out.

Warnings: 18+. Unprotected piv. Deadbeat-Perv-Peepaw LOVES corny porn tropes and women over half his age. Stepcest & dubcon technically bc Reader’s locked inside an appliance, but she’s into it (getting fucked, not stuck). One (1) kick in the dick. Spanking. Brat-taming. Choking. Daddy issues. Size kink. Praise kink. Infidelity. Creampie.

Note: Saw this post by @ovaryacted and started BARKING. For my Old Man lovers/daddy issues crew, this one’s for you.

Word count: 8.3k

It was the closest thing to porn you’d ever done before.

Still, you weren’t quite ready to call it that.

And why should you? Financial straits were no anomaly to a girl your age, especially in this economy, and almost everyone you knew had a side gig of some kind. It just so happened that your job required slightly skimpier attire. And a webcam. And some very special…accessories that would likely send your grandmother into cardiac arrest if she ever took a peek inside your bottom dresser drawer.

Okay, it was definitely porn.

But you never showed your face, so it didn’t really count as the same kind of stuff that your family condemned.

You scampered out of your room the second you heard the front door to the house slam closed all the same. Arms laden with G-strings, stockings, satin bralettes, lace and tulle bodysuits of almost every style imaginable, you ran a quick, perilous path to the living room window and made sure to keep your head ducked low as you did. You peered out through the gap in the curtains and had to squint hard to see anything in the midafternoon sun.

Then you saw it and felt instant relief—they were leaving.

Your grandma for one, your mother for second, and wherever the latter was headed, you knew her shadow would be soon to follow. You saw a thick plume of smoke outside and surmised that Joel was somewhere around the other side of the SUV, smoking and droning on about how he was perfectly fi-i-i-ne to drive, don’t be like that.

By ‘like that’ he meant sensible. And by ‘perfectly fine’ he meant two Miller Lites shy of completely shitfaced. You could already imagine the wry smile on your mother’s lips as she tried prying the keys from his hands. Your stepdad would probably plant a wet, sloppy kiss on her cheek to win a ‘yes’ in return—and when she shyly reminded him that he couldn’t afford to get another DUI, he’d get pissed and yank them out of her fist anyway.

Fucking loser.

Fucking triple-the-legal-limit dumbass motherfucker.

It didn’t bother you as much today because you knew they were only driving a couple blocks away to get to the farmer’s market, but you’d be lying if you said you didn’t hope he’d get caught. Again. Maybe blow a 0.25 this time and land his old, ungrateful, law-breaking ass in Travis County Jail, where his little brother Tommy was likely keeping a cell bench warm for him, per usual.

At any rate, you didn’t have time to be fantasizing now. It was your turn to embody some guy’s grossest wet dreams for the next two to three hours. Stripping away layer after layer of your latest, tightest ‘costume’ while catering to whatever requests happened to float in your inbox, you knew you’d be up to your eyeballs in work. Though almost routine by now, you had to hurry up.

If you could just get the rest of this ridiculous gunk out of your clothing, you’d be all good to go for the job.

TRMAN22: Pour honey on your tits in the next vid???

TRMAN22: Milk too. All over you.

Looking back, you probably shouldn’t have obliged that request. Now you were facing the consequences—forced to throw all your clothes in the washing machine because the milk and honey you’d dumped on yourself for that video had gotten everywhere, and then swiftly congealed while wasting away in a pile of laundry for over a week.

The whole heap smelled rancid. Still felt sticky, too. Presently, you chucked each one inside the washing machine while holding your breath, and as soon as the last was discarded, you sniffed the shirt you had on.

Tolerable. With the rest of your stuff in the wash, you hoped to get at least one request off the checklist:

TRMAN22: Bet you’d look sexy in a schoolgirl outfit!!

TRMAN22: Why don’t you try one on for me?

It was gag-worthy and gross. Slightly alarming for a man who was more than likely twice your age and old enough to remember Watergate, but you agreed to play along. Your old school uniform was, after all, the only clean clothes you had left, and ‘TRMAN22’ was, unfortunately, your top subscriber. He’d paid $300 for this video alone.

TRMAN22: Wear some NEON pink panties for me too ;)

You squatted in front of the washing machine and stuck a hand inside. You sifted around, furrowing your brows.

The brightest undies you owned were in there, soiled, but you figured you could get away with one gross article of clothing, all things considered. You reached a little further and continued to dig. When you couldn’t find it by feel alone, you peered inside the circular, metallic cavern of the washing machine and craned your neck.

Not here…not here…not—

You tilted forward, venturing a closer look with your head, then shoulders, pushing into the machine.

—here, not here, not—

“EW!” you shrieked.

In your search, you’d inadvertently brushed up against a mildewed piece of clothing that had gotten wedged between the grooves of the washing machine’s interior.

A pair of boxers, it seemed.

You recoiled as soon as your fingers grazed the wet and smelly thing. Your skull went crack against the low-sloped ceiling of the appliance, and a jolt of pain was quick to course through you at the contact. You groaned.

Of course Joel had forgotten some old, cum-stained scrap of fabric out of his last load. Always leaving his shit around for you or your mom to pick up like he owned the place. And here you went, again, angrily plugging your nose and pulling as hard as you could on the shorts to get them free from the washing machine. You hardly thought twice, just made a face and then yanked on it.

The boxers wouldn’t budge.

You tugged even harder. The fabric stayed put.

Something akin to a grunt and a whimper, only far more pathetic, slipped out of your mouth, and you slapped the half-hollow steel wall in frustration. Surrounded as you were—fully encased in metal—the sound just echoed.

“Fucking…CUNT.”

You weren’t sure if you were talking to the shorts, the machine, or Joel Miller in the abstract. Or maybe all three. You just hated the thought of washing your lingerie with your stepdad’s skivvies, and no amount of rational thought or practical reasoning could hold you back now.

The tip of your index finger sank deep beneath the same ridge of the wall where the boxers had gotten stuck. You curled it inward, trying to loosen the material up a little. You wriggled your knuckle even further. And just when you managed to get a hold of the cusp of the tangled fabric—just when it seemed the green plaid cluster was about to give way—you heard a low pop. You felt it, too.

Shortly, your finger was pinched inside the deep, blunt valley of steel that had similarly snagged Joel’s boxers. It seemed you’d pushed the tip of your finger so far that you were caught straight down to the second knuckle—trapped between two grooves of unforgiving alloy inside the washing machine tub with no clear means of escape.

You jerked your arm back, panicked. When the metal sank its teeth even deeper, you didn’t stop. Completely heedless of the pain, you operated on impulse and by the feeling of needing to get the fuck out of that little space, quickly, and instead yanked your hand back even harder.

To your horror, your finger was stuck.

“FUCK!”

You stared down at the poor digit, only half-visible inside the wall at this point, then glanced down at the heap of sweaty, sticky, slutty pieces of clothing that were presently strewn about you, and felt an even deeper stab of dread. Stuck inside your family’s washing machine with every bit of damning evidence one could hope to have—and wearing your old school uniform to boot—you realized at once you were fucked if you didn’t get out.

You slammed your palm against the nearest wall once more, shaking your other wrist like an unruly child.

“FUCKFUCKFUCKFUCK!”

You weren’t good at solving problems. In point of fact, you sucked at all things prudent resolution-related and regularly made it a habit to capitulate whenever you sensed loss inevitable. You were a little like your mother in that way, quick to give in to life’s uglier challenges. The only way you could conceivably claim to be stronger, the only place you always had the strength to say ‘no’ was—

“Aw, shit.”

—Joel.

Your throat tightened as soon as you heard the voice. Your eyes went wide, and the rest of you went numb.

Bent at the waist and kneeling with half your body inside the washing machine, you remained there, motionless. Back arched and ass out. Thanks to the way you’d rolled your old plaid skirt, the fabric covered almost zero cheek.

Someone behind you cleared their throat. Then coughed.

And coughed again, again, and again. Evidently trying to clear the smoke out of his lungs and the surprise from his eyes as he drank in your sight from the doorway.

“What in the—wh—th—” You could hear Joel wheeze, beating his chest with his fist, “What— in— the hell?!”

“Help me,” you hissed.

You weren’t sure why you chose that as your go-to. It just sounded like the right thing to say, and frankly, you weren’t sure how else to distract from the fact Joel was probably gawking at your ass as he coughed up a lung.

“The fuck do you mean ‘help’?! What are you doing?”

The coughing subsided, if only momentarily. You tried pulling back on your finger again to get out, but couldn’t.

“I-I’m…I was just…” you stammered, heart racing.

You heard the tread of heavy footfalls. You felt them.

“Just—trying…” you ventured again, suddenly at a loss for words and breath alike as you felt a presence draw in.

You could smell him.

That realization alone made you want to stop taking in air altogether. It happened out of instinct, really—feeling the shift of two huge boots settle behind your feet and then flinching inward, further inside the metal tub for…safety? A pang of abject humiliation? You were far past the point of civility with the man, caring what he thought, or fearing for your modesty in a position like this, but something about the proximity now just made you itch.

You wished your finger wasn’t jammed inside this appliance so you could give that feeling relief, somehow.

At length, Joel’s voice dragged you back:

“What’s stuck?”

Too calm. A second passed. Then he added, more stern,

“This some fuckin’ joke’a yours or somethin’?”

“No!”

“Then what—”

“My finger. My finger’s stuck.”

You tried to crane your neck to see behind you, but all your eyes had to feast upon was denim. Bluish-grey stonewashed denim, faded with years of use. Joel stood back for a second, as if considering what to do, and then you saw two hands descend to brace themselves against his knees. He bent at the waist to get a better look below.

When his eyes locked with yours, you got the same twist in your gut as you’d felt before, only sharper. Shameful.

The look on Joel’s face was abnormally bright.

“And how on earth did that happen, dumbass?”

Your shame morphed into chagrin in a blink, seeing the ghost of a smile bleed into your stepdad’s features.

“‘Cause of you, leaving your shit in here!” you snapped. Your chin jerked toward the green fabric, “I was just trying to get your boxers unstuck—and my finger…”

Your finger was kind of fucked.

Joel cast a look inside at the source of your frustration. He extended his left arm and reached over your torso, and as he did, you felt the slightest, albeit solid, sort of warmth press in. The man let out a low groan of exertion—likely at the strain the movements placed on his joints.

The warmth got worse. You weren’t sure where it started.

Vaguely, you were aware of Joel’s thumb pressing into your hand. Gliding down your finger, stroking across the spot where your knuckle had gotten caught, he circled over it, slowly, and made another sound in his throat.

“Well that ain’t…good.” Not one to mince words.

By now, your whole body was on fire. You barely had the strength to keep kneeling, much less speak to the man thumbing your hand and pressing his heat so close—

“Just get me out!” you shrieked.

You heard your mother’s voice in that. A shrill, impatient lilt in her speech that came out, invariably, around Joel. Normally, he would have done something to deserve it. But today, with his hand splayed over yours and his breaths as calm and even-keeled as he could hope to have them while he tried to help, he was blameless.

Evidently, he heard a trace of your mother too, because you heard him laugh. You felt the reverberations of his amusement travel up from his belly all the way to his lips.

“Cool your pits, kid.”

For that, you would’ve loved nothing more than to reach back with your free hand and hit him in the balls. But, as it was, this man was your only hope for escape, and he was being tolerably polite, anyway. He pinched your finger between the tips of two of his and gave it a tug.

“Okay, lemme just—” Joel started.

“Why are you home, anyway?”

The question came out more clipped than you meant it.

“Why are you dressed like that?” Joel countered evenly.

“I asked you first.”

“I asked you second.”

You reckoned he could probably feel you roll your eyes, even if he wasn’t able to see you do it right now. He waited another moment, then leaned back on his haunches and withdrew his arm from the tub.

“Mama don’t like me drinkin’ and drivin’, you know that.”

With that, the warmth was gone. Joel retreated.

“Like that’s ever stopped you before.”

You heard him exhale a little harder through his nose. When he’d steadied himself against the washing machine, gave his knees another second to prepare for getting up again, you could feel his eyes back on you. Maybe he lingered longer than his legs really needed.

Maybe if he hadn’t stayed crouched like that, he wouldn’t have gotten the chance to give your surroundings a second look. He wouldn’t have stopped to watch the rate of your breaths pick up or the way your skin startle to bristle with some strange, unknown sensation. He certainly wouldn’t have felt for himself the fever leaking out from the base of your spine right then.

Today just wasn’t the day for keeping secrets, it seemed.

“And what’s this?” You could feel Joel lean back in.

He was looking again. Peering inside. Steadying his weight with the edge of the washing machine gripped in one hand, while the other snaked its way back inside.

You’d already squeezed your eyes shut by the time Joel got a hold of something. You didn’t know what it was.

But it became painfully clear that it wasn’t just one ‘thing’ that had grabbed his attention at all, but rather a series of items that his hands were just now getting to explore. You didn’t have to see his broad and tan, callus-streaked fingers to feel them roaming over your clothes.

Gross.

“Gross,” Joel agreed, as if he’d read your mind. Grinning.

If you thought the embarrassment was bad before, you really only knew a fraction of what humiliation could be. Your finger throbbed along with the pulse in your skull.

Your mother’s husband whistled and lifted something.

“Darlin’, this is just…disgusting.”

You winced. You tried not to pry an eye open, to steal a covert look through the frame of your lashes in that dim and crowded spot, but the inducement was too great—Joel was dangling one of your lime green G-strings like it was a fish he’d just caught out on the lake. Boasting it.

Doting, almost.

“Well I’ll be—”

“Will you quit?!” you snapped.

You grabbed the thing out of his hand and threw it aside.

“Can you be serious? For one fucking secon—”

“Oh, I’m bein’ serious, sweetie,” Joel cut in. Cool as ever, “Serious as the business end of a .45, I swear.”

He paused. Then he reached for a white nylon bustier, drenched in a layer of honey that was as hard as a rock.

“Do you always keep your little…skank tanks so filthy?”

That was it. You kicked your heel back—and up—and made a pass to hit your stepdad square in the balls.

Your aim wasn’t the best it’s ever been, seeing that half your body was trapped inside a home appliance at the moment, but what your jab lacked in accuracy, it made up for in force: your foot plunged into the seam of Joel’s jeans full throttle. From the way the back of your heel plowed into his crotch, and the sound that clawed out of his throat the same instant, you reckoned you did okay.

What you weren’t expecting was a smack in return.

An answer in kind—delivered by the palm of Joel’s hand.

A taut, thoughtless THWACK on the swell of your ass.

Your mouth fell open. Your body barely had the chance to recoil when, shortly, another blow landed on your cheek.

Joel spanked you.

Spanked you.

“Fuckin’ brat,” he spat. His palm had slid up with the weight of his last slap, and now his fingers were clenched in a fist in the back of your skirt. You couldn’t see it, but you could feel him gripping fabric. It was firm.

He was firm—unrelenting in his hold.

Kneeling behind you, yanking back a handful of tartan skirt like it was nothing, then sidling up behind you.

And just when your attention was drawn to some other firm thing, it was shortly diverted by another sensation.

“JOEL!” you shrieked as he gave you another spanking.

The bare skin of your cheeks was on fire. Joel hit hard. Just when you feared you might legitimately whimper with the sting of that last blow, and while the imprint of his palm was still fresh, you felt it move again. Lower.

“Joel.”

That came out more like a whine than a cry of protest. And how could you, now, when he was soothing the raw bite of his hand with a touch that was kneading the skin?

Working the soft, supple flesh of your ass in his hand like he’d never dream of being anything else but gentle to it.

“Good?” Joel said.

Your head flinched to nod, but your brain thought better.

It did feel good. So good, in fact, that your eyelids were starting to droop just a bit and your back was subtly arching into the touch, but those were only instincts. Stupid, useless, brain-rotted reflexes born of years of paternal neglect and replete indifference, the likes of which could bring a grown man to his knees, begging—

“Please.”

But the entreaty was your own, and the voice that spoke it was hoarse. Your belly sank into the circular aperture of the washing machine, and you could feel your ribs scraping close to metal. Nevertheless, you didn’t mind. That ditzy lizard brain of yours was starved for physical touch, and who were you to deny her at a time like this?

No, not when Joel was squeezing like that.

Groping was the more appropriate word for it, really. Notwithstanding the decades of sexual experience that no doubt preceded the man that was standing before you—behind you—today, Joel was unduly coarse. His broad, weathered hand made as if to cool its former sting, but the motions themselves were jerky. Desperate.

He needed this worse than you, the fucking pervert.

Just when the realization had begun to settle over your mind and your legs were getting to feel a little less like jelly, knowing you weren’t the only weak one here, Joel’s palm slowed down. He pressed the heel of it into your flesh as if to force himself to stop, then he took a breath.

“Now use your words.”

“But—” you sputtered.

“I said,” Joel resumed, and you could sense it was through gritted teeth. His movements came to a halt.

“We use our words when we want somethin’, hear?”

It was the first you’d heard Joel attempt to enforce anything close to discipline with you in your life.

That had to warrant a little defiance, no doubt.

Under your breath, quiet: “So ‘we’ includes ‘you,’ too?”

Beneath that one, seemingly innocuous question was lurking another, and both of you knew it: Remember that time you put a fist through the kitchen wall? Was that a good example of what it means to ‘use words,’ Joel? Whether it was adequate provocation or not, you could sense what was coming next before you’d even finished. When the spank landed on your right cheek so loud that it echoed, you didn’t flinch. You did snag your lip between your teeth to keep a sound from spilling out.

“A dad makes rules. Ain’t his to follow,” Joel growled.

You blinked and bit down harder. Watched the broad, amorphous shape of the man’s reflection shift along the back metallic wall in hues of grey and blue and wished you had the strength to turn around and face him then.

“You aren’t my dad.”

“Said ‘a’ dad, didn’t I?”

“You’re not that either.”

Heat was rising to your cheeks again, this time for different reasons. For a cause you were far better acquainted with to date—annoyance at Joel.

“So that means I’m—”

“Nothing. You’re nothing to me,” you finished, tone wry.

Nothing to anyone, you wanted to add. Not with a shiny gold band latched onto your left hand to tell the world that you’re married to my mother, a pack of smokes tucked away in the jeans she washes every week, or a couple years spent under the same roof as me. Nothing.

Your teeth clamped back down—and almost sank clean through your lower lip this time—when next you felt a touch at the plush, covered mound that was normally shielded between your legs. The spot that was hardly ever tilted up in a position like this, exposed to the air and a man’s hungry gaze, now invaded by the press of a single thing: a warm and soft middle finger at your core.

Joel brushed the tip of it against your entrance, through your panties, and sucked a breath through his teeth when both of you felt a tiny squelch at the pressure.

He pressed harder, and the wetness only spread.

You didn’t have to be in Joel’s position to know what he was seeing, but the feeling from his finger overpowered any better sense to speak—or tell him to stop. He traced his slow, cruel circles against your warmth and moved it up to where he knew he’d find your bud, and when you whimpered, he simply added his index to the mix. There wasn’t a doubt in your mind you were leaking heat at that point. You could feel it seeping beneath his touch.

“Nothin’, huh?” Joel breathed, voice low. Your arousal made a sickening hiss beneath his fingers as he rubbed you even harder, “This feel like nothin’ to you, honey?”

You couldn’t speak. He knew you weren’t capable of it.

“‘Cause this sure don’t feel like nothin’ to me.”

Wet and tacky beneath his touch, your warmth supplied the answer that your mouth couldn’t form. It came out in more of a tap, tap, tap, punctuated by breaths that were toiling in earnest not to turn into moans too soon. But, as hulking and clumsy as his hands had once shown themselves to be, the old man knew where to put them, at least. He made circles on your clit with practiced ease.

“You can try lyin’ to me, but she can’t.”

He was right. ‘She’ was a traitor.

You could deny it all you wanted, but the proof was there.

Indeed, she was crying. Aching. Bleeding with desire. Throbbing beneath the pads of Joel’s fingertips and growing only more desperate as he increased the speed of his touch. When he notched the drenched cotton to the side, you had to grit your teeth to keep in a whimper.

Joel whistled.

“See? Seems like she likes me just fine right here.”

Your jaw stayed wired shut with the weight of your own humiliation. Instead of answering aloud, you hummed. Made a sound low and soft in your throat like, ‘Uh-hmm’ and tilted your hips, as if you didn’t know how else to ask. Joel couldn’t see inside the washing machine, but he must’ve felt the gesture, because he greeted it with a motion of his own: he chuckled, and he puckered his lips.

And when you felt the warmth of his spit hit you between your folds, your shame should’ve tripled. Should’ve made you flinch away from his touch and tell him that was so fucking gross, Joel, stop, but then he smeared it up your slit. He pressed in and mixed it with the rest of your arousal; any reproach died on your tongue in an instant.

A part of him was on you now. Trickling in, sticking to the most sensitive part of you, and settling into your skin like a glaze. With his other hand, he found your skirt again.

“Who’re ya wearin’ this for, sweet pea?” Joel murmured.

“No one.”

Another glob of spit landed between your cheeks. Now, the man used the lubrication to sink two fingers inside you—pushing them in until the rim of your cunt met his knuckles. You whined at the stretch, felt him coax your walls open with a consciousness and a carefulness that felt almost mean, but then he stroked down the base of your spine with the hand that still held onto your skirt. He soothed your startled cry with a curl of his fingers.

And he found the soft, spongy patch of flesh inside that made your eyes roll straight to the back of your skull, quickly. Working his fingers in and out, flattening the base of his free hand over the skin exposed by your flipped-up skirt, and watching your body give way to the force of his fingers, he was uncharacteristically patient. Exacting in the way he worked your body open to him.

“What do you care?” you groaned. You winced when you felt a squelch signal that he’d stretched you even wider.

“‘Cause,” Joel started, slow. Pumping his fingers through your folds and likely wondering when he’d add a third, “You got your hand stuck in a fuckin’ washing machine, a treasure trove of this slut stuff piled in a heap…I mean…”

“They’re just clothes!”

“Just clothes?”

In the wake of those terse, incredulous words, you tried your best to match his tone—call his bluff—but the only sound that came out of your mouth was punctured by a pitiful whine. He tried another finger but couldn’t fit it in. As wet as you were, and as strong as he was, your cunt wasn’t quite ready to accept all three of Joel’s thick, probing digits inside. You’d fit more than a thing or two with a girth even greater than that in the past, but you figured your nerves might have something to do with the way you were tightening around the man’s fingers now.

Why you couldn’t take more of him in, as much as you wanted him there, felt, at present, like something of a shortcoming, and a pathetic one at that. You let out a breath, and a second later, Joel slowed his motions.

You didn’t expect him to stop. Didn’t hold out a hope he might curtail his pace and talk you through a quiet, gentle arrangement for fitting a third finger inside you—that just wasn’t him. You didn’t have to share a paper-thin bedroom wall with your mother and her husband for the last however many years to know that Joel Miller was not a tender lover. It simply wasn’t in his nature to care.

So when you heard the clink of a belt coming undone a moment later, your senses strangely flooded with relief. He wouldn’t care, wouldn’t inquire, wouldn’t coddle with false, romantic ideals of how a woman should be treated.

In that way, Joel shared something in common with your father after all: he set standards as low as they could go.

“Just clothes?” he repeated, snapping your underwear against your ass and jerking the fabric further aside.

Then somehow send those expectations even lower.

There was a hand splayed out across the small of your back. Another fiddling with the front of his pants, wrestling the button and zip of his jeans in little more than one, two, three careless seconds, before he drew in closer to your rear. Your slit was messy, wet, and exposed to his eyes once again. For a second, you almost took comfort in the fact that your hand was still wedged inside a groove of steel and you couldn’t meet his gaze.

That was, until Joel slid his bare length along the seam of your cunt. When the inability to see him made it so you had no other choice but to be surprised when he finally touched you was unnerving, to say the least.

And when the head of his cock blended seamlessly between your folds, was drenched in less than a blink and nearly notched straight into the place you needed him most—well, that had an effect on him, too. Joel moved his flat and sweaty palm up your back, found purchase in the hem of your blouse, and gripped it. Tugged it down a little more and let a low groan billow out of his throat while he rocked his hips back and forth.

Desperate, clumsy, pussydrunk Joel was back before you’d even realized he’d left. Only now he was keen to put the disquiet and hesitations to rest; he needed to fuck you before either one of you wisened up just then.

Your parts and his commingled again. First, with the lethally warm trail of precum leaking out from his tip. Then the intrusion that followed, inevitably, glossed with self-indulgence and desperation—soiling any semblance of platonic affection or parental attention—as he fed you the first inch of him. Barely half the head got fitted inside and your grip on that was like a vice. Joel’s was bruising.

Suddenly firm on your hips, carving crescents in the skin:

“When’s the last time you got fucked, baby?”

You reckoned Joel had a guess—and it wasn’t correct.

“Last…week,” you whimpered, words punctuated with a sigh as his cock tried to make room for more of him.

Joel sucked in a breath that almost sounded like a laugh. He’d barely gotten an inch past his tip, facing more resistance than he’d felt in a long, long time, and you were wet, but so tight. He was big but not so massive as that. He couldn’t fathom what you were saying was true.

“That…fratboy fuckstick you went out on a date with?”

“Didn’t think you even saw me leave.”

Joel withdrew, gripped your hips even tighter, then drove his cock to nestle three solid inches inside your cunt. It was extra snug, but he made sure to try to loosen you up with a couple short, shallow thrusts and a hand gradually drifting down between your legs. Of course he saw you.

The circles on your clit and slow-growing movements may as well have been kerosene in your veins. With what limited range of motion you had in that grey, compact space, you let out a sigh and dug the fingers of your free hand into the closest scrap of fabric beside you. Joel’s own touch gradually moved from your hip to drag your hand behind your back, clasping his. He fucked in deeper

“So that’s who this is for?” Thumbing your skirt.

“Y-Yeah,” you lied.

“Wanted to send naughty pics in the schoolgirl getup?”

“Yes,” you lied again. You closed your eyes when Joel sank his cock even deeper and made you stretch inside.

“‘Atta girl,” he praised.

It might’ve been the first he’d validated you in your life.

“Grippin’ this cock extra tight, ain’t ya, sweet girl?”

Never in a million years would you have imagined it’d come this late—or leave Joel’s mouth in a way like that.

‘Elastic’ wasn’t a word you’d ever used to describe your body, either. Frankly, there was no need for it to be; every one of your partners before had been average-sized, and every other object that went inside you, too, had almost always been a comfortable squeeze between your walls. Outside of maybe your first time and a once-off awkward hookup now and again, you were never forced to feel a stretch to this degree. Joel felt huge moving inside you.

He was nearing your cervix and still nowhere close to the base of his cock. Meanwhile, you were stuffed to the brim, saturated with arousal and his spit, and practically keening at every stab of his hips. You couldn’t reach back because Joel’s fingers were still enmeshed with yours, gripping them hard behind your back. As wore down, fucked out, and desperate as you already were, you were less than only a second away from asking him to ease up.

And then he stopped.

Joel pulled out, let go, and pressed onto the old washing machine, where you heard his touch echo through metal.

He was leaning against it. You were about to turn around. Before you could, though, you felt his form mold into yours—this time not in it, but on it, as he drew closer and once more reached into the space where you were stuck.

“Can you be brave for me, baby?” Joel murmured.

“Wh—” you started, soft, only to feel the words plucked straight from your lungs as Joel leaned his body inside. Carefully, and with concerted effort, it seemed, he was trying to squeeze his way into the O-shaped hole of the washing machine, snaking his arm around your torso.

Pinching your finger again. Breathing just gently enough for his exhales to tickle at your shoulders and your neck.

“Can you be brave?” he repeated, and you weren’t sure you’d ever heard him so soft-spoken, or felt him so close.

You nodded, not knowing why.

Without another word, your stepdad pinched the digit even tighter and yanked it out from where it was stuck.

It all happened so fast. Joel freeing your finger, squeezing it tight, helping you out of that hot and crowded space while your legs gave way like mush beneath your weight—and your hand throbbing in pain. You’d never thought a single finger could cause a feeling as strong as that, but it stung like hell. You almost raked your nails through the man’s arm when he tried to hold you back, holding you up just as well as you stood.

“Joel!” you screeched, like the whole thing was his fault.

You flexed your hand and wanted to sob. You could feel the streaks of pain start to claw up your wrist, were just about to shove Joel aside and wallow in agony, when at length, he did something strange and unexpected again.

This time, he lifted your index to his mouth and kissed it.

It wasn’t a sensual kiss. Coming from Joel, it hardly even seemed affectionate. His lips were so warm and firm and decidedly unacquainted with anything approaching a threat of tenderness that his act read almost aggressive. He let your finger rest loosely against his mouth, and he kissed it again, while his eyes burned holes into yours.

‘You’re okay’ came out muffled against your hand.

“You’re okay—hey—baby, you’re good. Don’t cry.”

You hadn’t even noticed the tears had started to form. You blinked and felt one trickle down your cheek. With the hand that wasn’t holding your wrist, Joel brushed his thumb against that lone trail of moisture. He didn’t cup your face, hold you close, or stroke your cheek in the seconds that followed, though he did keep kissing you.

Or, rather, it—your finger.

Joel didn’t have to care for you at all. He just feared he might’ve pulled on your hand too hard in getting you out.

‘You’re okay’ was being mumbled away like a fractured refrain, touch descending gently to your hip, and his eyes grew softer by the second, surely he had to be thinking it.

Sinking inside you, again. He was standing; your hips were tilted to his, and your ass was pressing flat against the front of the washing machine. All it took was an inch or two off the ground and your limbs hanging limply around his hips for Joel to fuck back into you. He sucked on your finger so hard you feared the skin might actually bruise—a hand hickey, of all fucking things—and when his grip tightened on your side, you knew he felt it too.

His teeth succeeded his lips in an instant, and he was biting, gnawing pathetically as a groan shuddered through his chest. If you didn’t know better, you might’ve said the sound was veering perilously close to a whimper.

Fully sheathed inside you, Joel Miller didn’t seem to care. His lids fell like lead across the upper half of his brown, glossy eyes, and the expression behind them was blank.

Safe.

“‘S’alright, baby,” he grunted. Maybe he’d just seen you wince, as he cradled your hand and withdrew another inch, “Keep squeezin’ me, it feels real good. Right here.”

Out of instinct, your gaze drifted down to the spot where his body joined with yours. The sight was hardly a shock, but the feelings it evoked were not—he had you split along two-thirds of his dick, a pretty shelf of belly protruding beneath and gleaming with the arousal he’d drawn out from your body. Tufts of silver and grey littered his skin in every direction, aged muscles tensed with the weight of each thrust, and the warm weathered hand that hadn’t dared touch you once before today was now cupping your chin. Tilting your head closer to him.

“Right here, baby. Look at daddy.”

Wild, unbridled heat flooded your brain in a second. The thing seared the insides of your skull with all the force of a fire and stole the air from your lungs just the same—still, you couldn’t refrain from making a face in disgust.

“What the fuck, Joel?” You shouldn’t have liked it.

His hand ascended your throat in a blink.

“Ain’t that what you want, sweet pea?”

“I—”

Just as you started to answer, though, his cock took a dizzying plunge, hitting exactly the right spot inside you. Like clockwork, your mouth fell open, a whine tumbled out, and Joel took that as his chance to grip your neck even tighter and push your hips against the washing machine, where his height afforded him an easy hold.

“What you want—”

He squeezed harder.

“—what you need—”

You gasped, starved for air. It wasn’t every day a man took your breath away. Not like Joel could, anyway.

“—is me, ain’t it?”

The gaze fixed on your face was alight with desire.

“Bet you miss him somethin’ awful, huh? Been needin’ a man to fill that spot ever since he left, haven’t ya, baby?”

‘He’ required no further clarification. The words stung. You communicated as much by wriggling your hips back and pressing your hand against Joel’s chest, just quit it.

Keep fucking me, but shut the fuck up about my father.

“I don’t miss shit,” you sniffed. Felt the head of Joel’s cock carve a shape somewhere deep inside your body and couldn’t pretend it wasn’t filling a metaphorical void someplace else. You hadn’t got this much attention from a man as many years your senior since…well, ever, really.

You preened beneath his touch. Wanting to feel. Wanting to please. Wanting, more than anything, to be needed.

Joel sated each craving with a simple hand smoothed over your face. His palm moved from your throat to your chin to the hinge of your jaw before coming to rest at the nape of your neck. This time squeezing lightly, bringing your face in close while he fucked you. He pressed a kiss to your forehead, and your stomach tightened inside you.

“That’s alright,” he said, words hardly above a whisper, “No need to miss that man at all, ‘cause I’m right here.”

For once the assurance came as somewhat of a comfort. You suspected it had something to do with the fact he was balls deep inside you and pushing you closer and closer to the brink of release with each painstaking stab of his cock. You fisted his flannel, holding him there. Spreading your legs, accepting his thrusts, taking each movement with ragged, shallow breaths and moans that blended with his own, you felt your body grow warmer.

Almost febrile beneath him as he tilted your head again.

“Who’s your daddy now?”

You winced, shaking your head. You hated that word.

“Who’s your daddy?”

Joel lowered his hand and began to thumb at your clit. Hot pleasure coursed through you, made you whine at the contact and dig your heels even deeper in his back.

“Who’s your daddy, baby? It ain’t that hard to say.”

But it was. Joel stroking your clit, stuffing you full, ghosting his lips against yours without ever furnishing a kiss, just goading you on with: ‘I know you wanna say it.’ Tough grey stubble teased your mouth with each word.

“I know she needs to cum, sweet girl. Know that poor little pussy’s taken a beating—and she’s done so good for me—but she needs to let it out now. All over me.”

His gaze held yours. You couldn’t turn away.

An unmistakable tenderness pervaded that look, and it didn’t seem keen to depart. No matter how tightly you pursed your lips, made fists in his shirt, or choked his cock between your walls in fluttering, desperate pleas, the man remained calm. Attentive. The eyes didn’t stray.

“It’s okay to say it.”

“C-Can’t—”

“Sure can. Be the easiest thing you ever do—D-A-D-D—”

“Please. Please.”

You hardly even knew what you were asking for at this point, only beholden to that big, swollen something in your tummy starting to give way beneath the push of Joel’s cock. Tightening up, leaking out, practically drooling down the length of this man who seemed relentless in his current pursuit. Two more circles on your clit and you were keening, whimpering pathetic as ever:

“Pleasepleasepleaseplease.”

“Say it now. Who’s it for?”

Above you, Joel’s teeth gleamed in a smile—or a snarl, you couldn’t tell. All you knew was the pleasure, the concomitant pain of having to contain this desperation while his thrusts sped up. You were bouncing on him, getting fucked against the washing machine in the raw and terrible central Texas heat wearing a sheen of sweat and a set of clothes that no longer fit your body, but that was just fine. You were okay. Joel was here, and he was holding your head, lips hovering less than an inch away.

“Who’s. Your. Daddy?” His words were slow. Coarse. Spilling into your mouth with every short puff of breath.

You couldn’t take it. You felt a band of pressure come to a head in your belly and the brush of Joel’s cock making its rounds in and out of your swollen cunt, pushing hard, and you knew that you’d had enough. He knew it, too.

“Y-You.”

“Who?”

“Joel.”

“Who?”

Your wet, pearly slick rang a deafening pitch. Enough.

“You, daddy! Daddy—please, fuck—I-I-I’m gonna cum.”

“Gonna cum for me? Make a mess of your old man?”

“Make a m-mess— yes, daddy, yes—” you slurred.

Joel drove his cock, fully coated in you, down to the hilt. He captured your lips in a kiss and didn’t even mind your mouth was whining, hissing, whimpering its filthy pleas for him to fuck a nice, big orgasm out from your body.

“—want yours inside,” you added, without realizing it.

“Sweet girl…” Joel groaned.

You didn’t know what you were asking him for. How badly he wanted it, too. His cock dragged in and out of your precious cunt and was barely more safe from the threat of its grip when you spasmed, at the last. Joel should’ve expected no less, after all the time he’d spent teasing and edging, then begging you gently, in grunts, ‘Cum for daddy, baby. Let me have it, that’s it, good girl.’ Still, somehow, he wasn’t prepared in the slightest.

When you squeezed your eyes shut and kissed him back—that was all it took. When you clenched on his cock, gave the front of his shirt a tug, locked your ankles about his hips so you could more properly increase that friction by fucking him back, grinding in place, he feared he might fairly make an irreparable, unforgivable mistake.

And when the whites of your eyes appeared again—eyelids fluttering open while your lips were glossed with his spit and a lazy smile—and said what you said next, he sensed that his fate was sealed. The old man was fucked.

“Cum inside me, daddy. Please.”

Joel couldn’t have stopped himself if he tried. He shuddered, then flooded your insides with rope after rope after rope of his spend, burying his face in your neck and taking your hips in his hands like a looser grip might lose you to him forever. He fucked his cum deep, deeper, darlin’ don’t move, can’t lose a drop, baby, please, he let out a whimper that made your walls pulse again. You felt him fill you to the brim and keep rutting his hips. Your body and his were shaking by the last of it.

And when he was finished, Joel dropped a kiss along your limp, glistening lips. He slid you back on the metal. By the expression on his face, it was plain to see he was loath to withdraw, but he had to. That tender little hiss and the sounds of your shared fluids trickling out were all the impetus he needed to act quick. As soon as he’d pulled out, Joel was back leaning against the washing machine—tilting your hips back a little, then lowering his sweaty, handsome head to the spot between your legs.

The wrinkles to the sides of his eyes grew more pronounced when he smiled. A happy grin, plastered across his lips, would have struck you as almost smug, were it not for the look of sheer adulation that followed it.

Joel was enthralled, watching his cum leak out of you. He kissed your thighs, flickered his gaze to your own, briefly, then damn near sank his nose inside the place he was watching before your fingers stopped him cold.

It was your body, after all. He had already had his fill.

Hardly knowing what came over you in that moment, you sank two fingers inside your wet, drooling hole and watched the eyes of the man beneath you go wide. He soaked in that sight completely: you pushing his cum back in, drawing it out, using the viscous white liquid as a lubricant of sorts before releasing a pleased little sigh.

Joel closed his mouth reluctantly. It took him more than a second to tear his eyes from that place, but when he did, the motions were quick to grow assured, by turns.

As if remembering something.

In a second, the innocent smile you’d seen before was being infiltrated, slowly, by a look you couldn’t place. Joel’s grin morphed from gentle to contented to plainly enthused and beaming ear-to-ear with a conceited glint. With his finger, he tugged your panties back into place.

“Baby—” he started, only to be cut off lightning-quick.

“What? What is it?”

His smile stretched even wider. By that act alone, you were half-tempted to forget the events of the last hour and set your jaw in a scowl. You looked down, unamused.

“What?”

“It’s just…” The man trailed off, and as he did, his gaze descended with it—straight down to your bare pantyline.

You cast a look there too—“What the fuck is it, Joel?!”

At that, two brown eyes flitted back up to you.

“I thought I asked for neon pink underwear, baby.”

Your breaths slowed. His gaze didn’t waver. Your heart came to a standstill in your chest, and you were amazed you had even half your present willpower then to speak.

“Wait, Joel, wh—”

“Shame you couldn’t get around to filmin’ today. Had me hard as a fuckin’ rock with all that milk and honey stuff.”

You nearly choked on your spit. Joel kept grinning.

“You’re—”

The guy. That fucking subscriber. The one who’d paid almost $500 in commissions in the last month alone.

You stared at Joel with eyes as wide as saucers, and were about to press on, when you heard the front door to the house shriek back on its hinges. Two sets of footsteps followed it, and their entry inside was loud.

Immediately, Joel rose to his feet. It seemed that grin wasn’t meant to stay long on his lips, because the next thing you knew, he was dropping a kiss somewhere soft and sweaty on your face and flipping your skirt back into place, holding his index up to his lips and stepping away. Your mouth twisted into a frown but stayed zipped out of sheer necessity. Seeing this, and likely unable to help himself, your gross, depraved, grinning old man leaned back in and planted his hands on either side of your hips on the washing machine. His nose nudged into your own.

“Between us—” he began, slowly.

“Get fucked,” you finished for him.

Joel nodded his assent, smirk faint. He cast a look over his shoulder, and, hearing what sounded like your mother’s footsteps drawing closer, lowered his voice.

Rubbing his thumb under your chin, making you tip your head back to meet his for one final look—then a kiss:

“You keep my secret, I keep yours, alright?”

—

Note: I’ve never done a real writing challenge before, but hopefully this fic will work for #hotdilfsummerchallenge !!! @hellishjoel this is such a fun ass idea & i hope you enjoy❣️

#‘WHAT ARE YOU DOING STEP BRO????’#BUT IT’S JOEL #AND HE’S VERY CONFUSED BUT ALSO VISIBLY ER*CT #don’t ask me to elaborate because i have no idea what i just wrote #joel miller smut #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller imagine #joel miller one shot #joel miller #joel miller tlou #joel miller fic #joel miller fanfiction #joel tlou #the last of us fic #the last of us #tlou #stepdad joel #hotdilfsummerchallenge

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mashtatosworld · 2 months ago

Text

calm in the chaos

summary: you give birth to your first baby

You should have known when Jiyong walked into the room with a beret perched on his head and a set of fine paintbrushes in the other, that today was not going to go as planned.

You had thought you were going to start painting the nursery.

You had been excited, even, having selected a range of pink shades together weeks ago. You’d imagined the two of you working side by side, getting messy with paint, making this space a home for your little girl.

But instead, you found yourself sitting on the nursery floor, your maternity dress rolled up over your stomach, as your husband carefully dragged a paintbrush across your swollen belly.

You sighed, watching him dip the brush into a soft pastel colour before sweeping it over your skin. "Ji, why are we doing this again?"

He didn’t even look up, his lips pursed in deep concentration. “She gives me inspiration.”

You arched a brow. "She?"

“Our baby,” he said as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. "I’m waiting for her to tell me how she wants the room painted."

You blinked. "You don’t know what colour you want the nursery to be?"

He had a vision board, a Pinterest board and even hired interior designers to help plan the nursery. But in the end, the two of you went to the store and picked out your favourite swatches of pregnancy safe paint - of which he was now painting on your stomach.

“I thought I did," he admitted, sticking a tiny flower to your belly, right where he had just painted. "But then I realised, I should wait for her input."

You stared at him, bewildered. "She’s going to decide?"

He nodded sagely. "Of course."

You sighed again, shaking your head. "And how exactly is she going to do that?"

At that exact moment, a small but firm kick pressed against your stomach, right where he had been painting.

Jiyong grinned, eyes wide with excitement. "Ahhh, see? She’s choosing!"

You couldn’t help but laugh. “Or maybe she’s just done with you poking her all the time.”

He ignored your teasing, his expression turning softer, more thoughtful. He ran a hand gently over your stomach, his wedding ring cold against your skin as it grazed the painted surface.

"I feel so connected to her already," he murmured, pressing a kiss to your belly. "I think she’s going to share my artistic vision but have your beauty." His eyes flicked up to you, filled with so much love it made your breath catch. "She’s so lucky."

Your heart melted, and you reached out to touch him, feeling closer than ever. "We’re the lucky ones, Ji."

He smiled, rubbing a hand over your belly again before picking up another flower petal and sticking it carefully to your skin.

After a few more strokes of paint and some deep, artistic pondering on Jiyong’s end, you finally asked, "So… now that she’s chosen the colour, can we start painting the nursery?"

Jiyong froze, slowly pursing his lips. His expression instantly shifted from serene to guilty.

You narrowed your eyes. "Jiyong."

He cleared his throat. "Well… we could… but, you know, it's a lot of labour, and - "

"Ji."

"And you're pregnant, and I just - ”

"Ji."

"I don’t want you moving around too much!" he finally blurted, eyes pleading. "It’s not safe!"

You stared at him, incredulous. "That’s why you’ve been delaying? Because you don’t want me painting?"

He nodded quickly. “I mean, you are involved! You’re growing our princess!”

You threw your hands in the air. "Jiyong, come on. I want to help. I’m not going to break!"

He hesitated, clearly torn between his need to protect you and his desire to make you happy. After a long pause, he finally sighed in defeat.

“Fine.”

"Thank you."

"But only sticking flowers to the wall," he warned. "No climbing ladders. No stretching. No actual painting. Just decorating."

You rolled your eyes but took what you could get. "Deal."

He'd been like that your whole pregnancy.

You weren’t allowed to carry anything. Not a grocery bag, not the laundry, not even your own shoes if he was feeling particularly protective. The man had damn near wrestled a glass out of your hand once, insisting it was too full and too heavy - until you nearly bit his head off.

After that, he reluctantly allowed you to lift a drink or your phone. But everything else?

Off limits.

𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪

An hour later, the nursery was transformed.

The walls were coated in the perfect shade of soft pink, the door dotted with tiny, delicate flowers. Jiyong had even painted a subtle mural on one wall - gentle brushstrokes forming a dreamy, almost ethereal heart. It was beautiful.

You both stood in the centre of the room, looking around in awe.

It suddenly felt real.

This wasn’t just a room anymore. This was your baby’s room. The space where you would rock her to sleep, where she would wake up every morning, where she would play and grow.

Jiyong took your hand in his, his grip warm and steady. He gave you a small, almost disbelieving smile. “This is really happening, huh?”

You squeezed his fingers. “Yeah.”

Briefly, you were pulled back to when you first met him. At the time, you'd been too afraid to even look him in the eyes. And yet now you would touch your stomach and wonder if your baby would have those same, curious eyes...

He pulled you into his arms, holding you close.

You closed your eyes, resting your head against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heart.

The three of you - already a family.

𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪

You should have known.

You should have known when Jiyong didn’t touch a single drop of alcohol all night - not even during Youngbae’s toast.

You should have known when he stayed practically glued to your side all night, his hand permanently resting on your belly like some kind of monitor.

And you should have known when he kept looking at you with that knowing little smirk every time you shifted uncomfortably.

But you?

You were in denial.

Sure, there had been some cramping earlier that day, but that was normal at nine months pregnant. It was not the start of labour.

No way. Not tonight, of all nights. Not when you were supposed to be enjoying Youngbae’s big concert, surrounded by your closest friends.

So, you pushed through.

You swayed lightly in the VIP section, singing along with Hyorin. And you breathed through the discomfort when Jiyong leaned in, murmuring sweet nothings against your temple.

And then the concert ended.

You were all backstage, congratulating Youngbae, when a sharp pain rippled through your stomach. Your hand immediately shot out, grabbing the nearest thing - which happened to be Jiyong’s forearm.

You squeezed, fingers digging in.

Jiyong didn’t even flinch.

Instead, he sighed, tilting his head with that same knowing smirk. "Right, jagi - your contractions are within five minutes. It’s time to go to meet our baby."

Silence.

Then -

“WAIT, WHAT?!”

Every single person in the room turned to stare.

Youngbae, still towelling off his sweat, froze. Hyorin’s jaw dropped. Daesung, mid-sip of water, choked violently.

"Is this really happening?!"

"How could I have not noticed?"

"I'm going to be an uncle again?"

Jiyong rolled his eyes. "Yes, ok, she's in labour. Time to go. Let’s move."

"Yah!" Hyorin smacked your arm. "Why didn't you say anything?"

"You can't smack a pregnant person!" Daesung jumped in, standing in front of you like a personal bodyguard.

You tried to protest, but another contraction hit, and all that came out was a pained groan.

"What are we waiting for!" Youngbae ushered, grabbing his wife as Daesung threw on his jacket.

"This isn't an afterparty." You muttered, shuffling out of the room with Jiyong at your side as the others followed closely behind.

"We were there when you met, we'll be there for this too."

𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪

The car ride was complete chaos.

You were wedged in the back between Hyorin and Daesung, who were gripping your hands like they was the ones about to give birth.

Youngbae was in the passenger seat, throwing out directions that he believed was the fastest way to the hospital.

"Take a left here! Hyung! Hyung! You missed the turning," He instructed Jiyong, his maps up on his phone. "Go right here! No! Jiyong!"

Your husband ignored his frantic shouting as he continued straight ahead. "I know the way." He'd been studying every route to the hospital since you entered your third trimester.

Daesung, squished in the back, was losing his mind. “Drive faster! Why are we not driving faster?! This is an emergency! Run the light!”

Jiyong stayed silent.

Completely calm. Not panicked. Not frantic. Not hovering.

He just gripped the wheel, eyes steady, jaw set. Cool. Collected.

Which only made it worse because nobody expected this.

“Why is he so quiet?!” Daesung hissed from the back.

"Maybe he's in shock!" Hyorin whispered back. "Youngbae fainted when I had our son."

"Hey... I was tired and simply closed my eyes," Youngbae muttered in return. He then looked to his bandmate with wide eyes. "You're not going to faint right? Tell me and I'll grab the wheel."

Jiyong rolled his eyes. “I’m perfectly fine.”

"That makes it weirder, Jiyong!” Daesung exclaimed.

You let out a strangled groan as another contraction hit, gripping Hyorin’s fingers like a vice.

Jiyong found your eyes in the mirror. His voice was calm when he spoke.

"Breathe, jagi," he murmured. "We’re almost there."

Everyone else was in full-blown meltdown mode, and yet he was here, anchored, pulling you back down to earth.

𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪

By the time you got to the hospital, Jiyong immediately sprang into action.

The moment the car stopped, he was out, grabbing the hospital bag from the trunk - which he had secretly packed without your knowledge.

Meanwhile, the rest of the group spilled out of the car like a panicked clown parade.

"Move, move, move!” Youngbae yelled like it was a military drill.

Jiyong opened the door for you, helping you out carefully, and wrapped an arm around your waist as he guided you inside. The others trailed behind, all talking at once -

"We’re here for the birth!”

"She’s having the baby right now!”

"We need a wheelchair!"

"I can still walk Daesung.” You declined even when he nearly tripped you up, trailing closely behind at your heels.

Jiyong ignored all of them. He was only focused on you.

Hyorin was on the phone with your mother, giving her updates in hushed tones. Youngbae was already calling Jiyong’s mom. Daesung, pulled out his own phone, not one to be left out.

"I'm calling Seunghyun," He muttered.

Another contraction hit. You clenched your jaw, voice shaking. "Ji... I’m scared."

And just like that, his entire demeanour softened.

He turned to you, his hands framing your face as he rested his forehead against yours.

"I know, baby," he whispered. "But you’re going to be okay. I’m right here."

And somehow, that was enough.

𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪

The moment you were wheeled into the delivery room, the chaos of your friends faded.

It was just you and Jiyong now.

He never let go of your hand.

Not once.

Through every contraction, every moment of pain, he was there. Whispering reassurances. Kissing your knuckles. Smoothing your hair.

"You’re doing so well, jagi."

"Just a little more, my baby."

"I’m right here."

And when your daughter finally entered the world - when her tiny cries filled the room - Jiyong let out the softest, most broken breath.

The doctor placed her in your arms, and Jiyong just stared.

He looked at you, his eyes wet, his lips trembling. "She's here," he whispered. "You did it."

You nodded weakly, exhausted beyond words.

And Jiyong - your calm in the chaos - just broke.

Tears streamed down his face as he cupped your daughter’s tiny head, his hands shaking. "She's perfect," he whispered.

You smiled sleepily, watching the love in his eyes as he gazed at your little girl - the masterpiece he had been waiting for.

The one he'd been waiting for his whole life.

𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪

a throwback to the birth of baby diva! i thought i should post this before Angel arrives - which is not long now!

taglist: @petersasteria, @mirahyun , @allthoughtsmindfull , @gdinthehouseee , @infinetlyforgotten , @redhoodedtoad , @kathaelipwse , @lxvemaze , @loveesiren , @sherrayyyyy , @getyoassoutthetrunk , @shieraseastarrs , @ctrldivinev , @xxxicddbr88 , @onyxmango , @tryingtolivelifeblog , @tulentiy , @bettelaboure , @maskedcrawford , @breakmeoff , @emmiesoverthemoon , @rafesbunniebby , @ricecake9999 , @fleabagspurplewife

#bigbang #kpop #mashtatosworld #gdragon #kwon jiyong #kwon jiyong x reader #gdragon x reader #gdad

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joeyfranchise · 3 months ago

Text

do you picture me?

joe burrow x fem!reader

summary: after dealing with the aftermath of a bad day at work, lingering frustrations from a fight with joe and him being gone due to an away game… you find yourself pent up and needing relief. little do you know, joe’s feeling the exact same way.

warnings: explicit sexual content, 18+ only. mdni. (masturbation (m&f), lewd images… etc.)

word count: 3.2k.

note: i had this idea while listening to picture you by chappell roan!! :) ily ily as always commentary, asks & feedback welcome!!

you hated being so pent up, feeling so close to the edge like this.

nothing had gone your way for nearly a week and it was all becoming too much, you were ready to break-through this horrible funk you’d sunk into and get back to feeling normal. you wanted to leave work, go home, get comfortable, and talk to joe.

unfortunately, your boyfriend was away from home for a game, and the two of you hadn’t been on the best terms when he left.

the fight you had was the catalyst for your bad week, and although it was over something pointless that you could barely remember now, you and joe were both too stubborn to apologize to one another. he ended up leaving for the game without so much as a goodbye, and he’d only pinged you with his location when the team made their arrival to pittsburgh, home of one of their divisional rivals.

you sent back a petty thumbs up even though you were dying to talk to him, and somewhere over on the east coast joe’s fingers were flexing by his phone… he was seconds away from breaking too.

the next day you were swamped with work, endless reports to file and countless calls to take and it sucked every ounce of energy from your body. you left work feeling exhausted, your lids heavy as you slid into the driver’s seat of your car and started it before heading home.

you’d made it home safely and you knew you needed to cook dinner, but you were parched. you pulled a gallon of milk from the fridge and untwisted the cap, ignoring the bit of crust that fell off when you pulled it away. you brought the jug to your lips and took a hefty swig - something you wouldn’t normally do - and you immediately wretched. it was sour.

you slammed the jug down on the counter and ran to the bathroom, practically throwing yourself over the toilet as you started to gag from the congealed dairy you almost swallowed. needless to say, that did you in for the night.

you woke the next morning still feeling nauseous, and tacking on the sadness of an empty bed next to you and a dry phone on your bedside table was the icing on the proverbial cake. you slowly rolled out of bed and made your way to the kitchen to at least make coffee, forgetting you’d left the already sour milk out on the counter overnight.

you quickly disposed of it before trudging back to your room to get dressed to go out and grab a coffee, because you couldn’t make it at home without milk.

heading over to your favorite local coffee shop gave you a much needed serotonin boost, and your drink was delicious, but your spirit was torn right back down when your favorite barista handed you two chocolate chip cookies - the thing you and joe always came here for.

it stung immediately, knowing you hadn’t talked in a few days. you were so close to caving and you missed him horribly, but you also hated admitting you were wrong, so it was a sticky situation all around. you thanked her and headed out to your car, eager to get back home and tidy up the house before resuming your much needed bed-rotting session.

—

once you arrived back home you began cleaning immediately, knocking out the pesky dishes first and then focusing on your other tasks like folding laundry, sweeping, and dusting.

your cleaning playlist was set to shuffle, and the loud music flowing through the areas of the house you had your attention on helped your mood improve. you danced and sang along, swaying your body to the rhythm as you worked to tidy everything up, which took way less time than you expected.

you had long since finished your coffee, and when you looked at the clock on the stove you realized only a few hours had passed, giving you more free time in your evening than you knew what to do with.

you decided on taking an everything shower, hoping the hot stream would help you release some of that tension you’d been holding so tightly in your back and shoulders. you quickly rushed to the bathroom and took off your clothes, placing them neatly in the basket next to the shower door before turning the water on. you opened a drawer next to the sink and grabbed out a eucalyptus scented shower steamer and tossed the tiny puck inside before stepping in yourself.

the comforting scent of eucalyptus enveloped you immediately. you stepped under the shower head and let the hot water run down your body, soothing over the tensed muscles of your back and neck. first, you made sure your hair was well saturated before squeezing some of your favorite shampoo into your hands and lathering it in, scratching your nails over your scalp in a relaxing manner. once you were satisfied with that you rinsed it before raking conditioner through your ends and slowly rinsing it out moments later.

as you squirted some of your coconut scented body wash onto your loofah, you let your mind slip to joe… and what he’d done to you in this shower just before your fight, just before he left for pennsylvania. you tried to push the thoughts from your mind as you washed your body off, but it was hard once your movements traced over places where his hands had been.

it was almost like you could still feel the phantom of his lips against the shell of your ear, whispering dirty things to you.

“you’re so beautiful like this, all for me.”

“that’s it baby, just like that. look how well you’re taking me.”

standing under a burning hot stream was how you found yourself now, yet still, you shivered. you quickly finished scrubbing your skin and rinsed yourself off, using every bit of willpower you had to push joe from your mind… but your resolve was slipping.

he was overtaking you.

you decided to cut the shower short, you didn’t really need a shave anyway. what you needed was to do your skincare, dry your hair, make dinner and maybe even read some. those things always helped you relax, and you needed a distraction to push him from your mind.

you turned the water off and stepped out of the shower and quickly grabbed your towel, wrapping it around your dripping body as you shivered slightly. you stepped closer to the mirror and looked down at all your skincare products laid out before you in the basket you always kept by the sink, but you couldn’t bring yourself to start your normal routine. your mind still lingered on joe. you wanted to push it away… but you couldn’t. you were still thinking of the way his hands felt against your skin that morning when he’d pushed you against the wall under the water, the way he’d kissed and nipped at your neck as he lifted you up and filled you as he helped you wrap your legs around his waist.

the calloused pads of his fingers had traced every inch of your body, running along your curves as he took you apart, his strong tight grip held you into place as he unraveled you against the tile wall. you felt every single inch of him with every thrust and… oh. you’re starting to feel hot.

you could feel the heat pooling between your legs as you stood in front of the mirror completely zoned out, staring off into space as you thought about joe more and more. fuck skincare too.

you quickly exited the bathroom and made sure the blinds were drawn as you stepped back into your room, holding the towel tightly against your naked frame. once you were satisfied with the darkness in the room - not too dark but with no lights on, and faint shadows along the walls from your dark curtains - you dried your skin as fast as you could, your body now covered in gooseflesh.

you wrapped your hair up in a different towel and walked to the closet, searching for a box you kept on one of the shelves by your shoes. a giddy feeling bubbled up in your stomach and spread over your body as you searched for it, you hadn’t done this in ages… but based on the way you were feeling and the thoughts you were having about joe… you needed it.

you located the box and stretched up to grab it, eagerly pulling it down from the shelf and carrying it back into the room before placing it on the bedside table where you’d also left your phone.

inside the box were several long unscented candles encased in glass, you only used them for rare occasions like this when you needed to set the mood. you pulled them out gingerly along with the lighter you kept in the box, and you placed the candles on top of the nightstands next to both sides of the bed before lighting them.

you shivered with excitement before moving the box to the floor and dropping your towel, then hopping up onto the bed.

in the drawers of the table next to you there were many toys from an experiment you and joe tried once, and though nothing was as good as the real thing, you thought about using one of them for your escapade… you grabbed out a small blue bullet vibrator and placed it on the nightstand next to your phone just in case you needed some extra help.

you shimmied up the bed until your back was pressed against the headboard, and then you took a deep breath. you let your eyes flutter shut as you began to trace your hands along your skin, goosebumps still covering your body. you imagined they were joe’s hands skimming the expanse of your body, that joe’s thumb and forefinger were tweaking your nipple, not your own.

in your mind’s eye you could see him clear as day, hovering above you with that sultry look in his bright blue eyes, smirk plastered across his perfectly pink lips. you pictured him running his hands along your thighs, fingers tracing and squeezing the meaty flesh, just as you were now.

you began to visualize the things he’d done to you in the shower again but… that wouldn’t be enough. you needed to think of something else. your mind drifted off to all kinds of places, all sorts of predicaments you’d been in with joe where you had to be quiet, how he’d once held a hand over your mouth at the bengals facility while he stuffed you full by the showers. you were so afraid of getting caught yet so thrilled at the same time.

you slid your right hand down your body slowly and the left continued to play with your breast, groping and squeezing and pinching just as joe would if he was here. you were shivering with excitement as your fingers reached your entrance, and you scooped up some of your arousal with your fingertips before slowly dragging them back up to circle your clit.

the next thing that came to mind was the first time you’d brought joe back to your hometown to meet your parents, after dinner he’d whisked you away to your room, eager to have his hands all over you. his lips were instantly pressed to your neck as soon as you’d crossed the threshold of your old bedroom.

he’d pulled you into him immediately, his plump lips quickly finding the sweet spot just below your ear as he worked to draw a wanton moan from your lips, one that had your eyes widening as soon as it fell from your gaping maw. you struggled to close the door behind you, but you couldn’t let your parents see or hear this. joe laughed at you then, he always thought you looked cute when you were flustered, especially in a sexual sense. he pulled you over to the bed once the door was securely closed, and he’d made you promise to be quiet for him. you’d have no trouble with that, you reminded him. you were just worried he would be too loud. he only smirked at you before kneeling near the foot of your small twin sized mattress, his fingers looping into the waistband of your pants as he pulled them down quickly along with your panties.

he eyed you hungrily as he looked you over, his eyes almost laser focused on your already dripping wet core. you had wondered what he was waiting for, he was eyeing you so hungrily and you were ready for him to bury his face between your legs, to devour you.

his gaze moved past you, he was now staring at something beside you. you turned your head confused, but your eyes met the stuffed bear you’d had almost your entire childhood. joe stood for a second and grabbed the bear, turning him so his back was facing you. “mr. wiggles doesn’t need to see this,” he laughed, getting back into his spot at the foot of your bed. his arms hooked around your legs as he pulled you down the bed, and he wasted no time burying his face in you, slurping and sucking at your clit as your hands moved to cover your mouth, loud moans threatening to pour from your lips.

you snapped back to the present moment as your fingers continued to circle your clit quickly, your body shivering from the sheer pleasure you were experiencing. it never felt as good as it did with joe, but pleasure was surely radiating over your body now.

you reached down with your other hand, looping your arm underneath your thigh, and pressed two fingers slowly into yourself. you gasped at the pleasure, your left leg was pressed up to your chest so you could fuck your fingers in and out of yourself as your right hand continued to tease your sensitive nub.

if joe was here he’d be praising you, he’d be worshiping your body.

“look how good you’re doing, baby. you’re taking it so well.”

“my pretty girl, always do such a good job for me. you were made to take me like this, huh?”

his lips would be pressed to your ear, his words a mixture of sweet nothings and simultaneously the dirtiest things you’d ever heard. you imagined his fingers working you to the edge instead of your own, slamming into you and bringing you to the brink.

you thought about all the things he’d do if he found you in the predicament, your body slightly sweaty, wet hair wrapped in a towel as you pressed yourself farther into the headboard while your hands worked you closer and closer to your orgasm.

all for him. because of him.

you imagined him standing in the doorway, arms crossed as he smirked at you and… oh, that did it. your orgasm hit you instantaneously, the pleasure blinding as you felt yourself clenching on your own fingers. it made you feel a little drunk, experiencing your peak in both ways. you moaned his name as you came, calling out to him in a plea he wouldn’t hear until he was back home, until you could apologize in person and he could pound you into the mattress himself.

you pulled your sticky fingers from your core and wiped them against your sheets, something you’d normally care a lot about… right now, it didn’t matter. you grabbed your phone from your nightstand and opened the camera before sliding down the bed, lying there against the pillows.

you posed for the photo so that joe could see your right hand still between your legs, fingertips still slowly dancing across your now overly sensitive clit. you hoped he’d be able to see the sheen of sweat across your abdomen, and your pert nipples as you pressed your arm against your tits to give him a better view.

you snapped the photo and opened your messages, frowning as you clicked on the thread and the last thing you saw was the thumbs up you’d sent. you added the image and typed him a quick message before hitting send.

you: i miss you a lot and i’m sorry. hurry back home 🥲

you locked your phone after double-checking the photo and message, you wanted to make sure it sounded right. you placed it back on your nightstand and you rolled over, burying your face in the pillows. you were spent after all of that work, and your eyes slowly closed as your breathing slowed and you fell into a light slumber.

—

joe grabbed the keycard from his pocket, quickly sliding it into the door and pulling it out before twisting the handle and stepping inside. he slid his shoes off and went straight for the bed, plopping down flat on his back as he stared up at the ceiling.

team dinner was nice, but the conversations droned on and he was exhausted, and he was missing you. he’d told himself all week that he wouldn’t come to you first, that he’d either wait until he was home to apologize or wait until you texted or called him, but his resolve was slipping.

he needed you. he needed to touch your soft, perfumed skin. he needed to press his lips to every inch of your body… but also also needed you because the game was tomorrow night, and he didn’t think he could do it without one of your pep talks. he knew you knew that too, but he didn’t want to push it in case you were still mad at him. he grabbed his phone from his pocket and his heart lurched as he saw the notification, you’d sent him a message a little over an hour ago.

he quickly unlocked his phone and immediately the breath was knocked from him as he saw the lewd image you’d attached, with a message about missing him. his anxieties flew out the window, replaced by an incessant desire for you. it was carnal, he knew he had to do everything he could now to win that game and get home to you, to take you apart and put you right back together afterwards as he often did.

he could feel his erection already growing in his pants, and with his eyes fixated on the image you’d sent he slowly reached his hand past the waistband and wrapped his fingers around his already painfully hard cock. he flicked his wrist one, two, three times as a soft moan fell past his pink lips, and his eyes fixated on the call button at the top of the screen. fuck it, he thought. he pressed it and brought the phone to his ear to listen to it ring.

after the fifth ring he thought he should hang up, he’d have to use his imagination to get himself there… but then he heard an open line, and your beautiful yet groggy voice greeted him.

“hello?” you asked, softly and innocently, but he knew you knew why he called. “baby,” he breathed out, his voice desperate as he continued to stroke himself. you giggled and he hissed, knowing he was fucked. he heard you clear your throat before responding, his hand never stilling on his cock.

“is there something i can help you with?”

photos and dividers are not mine. all cred to owners.

taglist: @joeyburrrow @starsinthesky5 @joeyb1989 @kykysinlovewithafairytale @burrowdarling @bengals-barnesbabe @loveyatopluto @toterry @unhingedfangirl @superheroprincess22 @burreauxsworld @slimshiesty @yelenasbraid @definitelynotdomanique

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a-regular-amount-of-spiders · 5 months ago

Text

When's The Last Time You Felt Safe (BirdFlash)

Birdflash Oneshot, 18+ Details Below

Caretaker Dom Wally, silly fluffy smut. Some Emotional Hurt/Comfort Dick winces as he tries to gingerly press an ice pack against his back, the top of his suit striped off on the floor. He’d been shot, luckily nothing that made it past his armor, but unluckily bruising the hell out of his back. He’s got green, purple, red, and blue dappled all across his body from the night, trying to get too many kids away from too many traffickers. His breath hitches as the memory of the limp bodies of the people he’d failed refuse to leave him. The mission had objectively been as successful as it could have been, but it didn’t feel like enough. He never felt like enough and he was just so very tired. Tired enough to miss the flash of red and orange as it blitzed into his room, but not so much that he didn't flinch as the ice pack was taken from him. He twisted around so quickly that his body screamed in protest, and he winced as he took in the concerned face of Wally, dressed in sweats and a soft shirt. You okay Rob?” Those verdant eyes stare down at him, the worry held within barely covering the steely stubbornness that lets Dick know that Wally won’t accept a lie right now. He shifts a bit uncomfortably, turning away, as though he could hide from the hurt festering in every grain of his soul these days. “You worry too much Walls.” He replies, instead of answering the question. Even looking away he can’t stand to lie to him. He hears the man sigh, and feels the air in the room circulate. When Dick opens his eyes, Wally is crouched in front of him, so he can make eye contact, resting his hands lightly on Dick’s knees. “Let me take care of you?” He asks, so earnestly that Dick feels guilty for the rush it sends down his spine, shame twisting in his gut immediately. Horrifyingly he wants to cry, as though he remembers how, and just let Wally bear the weight of the world for him. But he can’t, he couldn’t stand the guilt that would follow. Dick cannot allow himself to be selfish, it never ends well. So he swallowed thickly, and forced the correct words out. “You don’t have to do that.” Dick knows that’s what he’s supposed to say, which would prompt Wally, all midwestern politeness, to ask ‘are you sure’ and Dick would say yes, Wally would leave and he’d be all alone again, no one around, a poison no one wants- “I want to. Please let me.” Wally breaks the script, squeezing his knees and breaking Dick out of his thoughts. He’s saying “Okay” before he can even register that he’s spoken. But Wally is smiling so maybe that was exactly what he was supposed to say. “Do you want to be in something more comfortable?” He asks carefully, because Wally figured out ages ago that Dick got weird about touch sometimes, and now he always telegraphed, always asked. Dick hated it. He needed it, and he hates that he needs it. It was different when they were younger. He misses that. He nods though, because he never minds when Wally gets in his space, and he’ll be out of his suit before he can overthink it. There’s no one else who can do this for him, so he may as well take advantage of the times it is offered.

Wally cleans up his things, and he thinks he hears his laundry starting which he’s been ignoring for two weeks now. Wally helps him change into sweats and it makes the heat of embarrassment swell in his chest, is he really this incapable? But there’s food in his lap and the tv is flipped on to a silly movie he’d mentioned wanting to see once, and Wally is asking if he can put some sort of ointment on his bruises so Dick doesn’t have time to dwell too deeply on it. He looks at the plate of warm pizza slices now in his hands, the box on the table from that place he’d found by the Titan’s Tower and always got for celebrations. “You ran to Jump City to get me dinner?” Dick mutters, unable to muster enough energy for incredulity just yet. “All things considered, that’s not very far for me” Wally replies, shaking the ointment in his hand with a raised brow. Dick nods, taking a bite of the pizza. It’s a comforting, familiar taste that warms his whole body. Nostalgia that chases the icy loneliness from the edges of his body. He scarfs it down quickly, feeling significantly better. He hadn’t realized how woozy and cold he’d felt until it went away. “Better?” He can hear the smile in Wally’s voice as he stands behind him, long fingers gently rubbing the bruise cream along the injuries spotting his back. Dick tries to pay attention to the movie, but the feeling of Wally’s hand skating so gently across his skin is better than any lullaby. A blanket is pulled over him, and the heaviness of the weighted fabric is soothing, but there’s a lingering self hatred lying in the shadow of Dick’s enjoyment. “Yeah” He responds, rough and quiet, feeling raw and shelled out. He shivers when Wally moves away. His friend plops down on the couch, propping one leg up so it’s resting against the backrest, and the other is hanging off the side. “C’mere Rob, I’ve got you.” Wally says, so painfully tender. Dick tips over curling against the lean line of his best friend, a long buried ache settling as those lithe arms wrap around him loosely. He shakes apart without a sound, he doesn’t know if he could make noise when he cried even if he really wanted to. Or if the strangled sort of way emotions tear out of him could even be called crying. Wally’s fingers card through his hair. He doesn’t ask, he doesn’t press, doesn’t insist on seeing, but he doesn’t awkwardly turn away either. Wally comforts him in a way that helps, understands him in a way no one else ever bothered to learn. He’s a steady, patient presence at his side, and Dick can’t help but feel like an alley cat being coaxed from a crack in the wall. “A lot of people died today” He whispers into the fabric of Wally’s central city college shirt. The hand in his hair pauses, before continuing. So Dick keeps talking. “I should have found them faster. If I’d kept a better eye on my city then I would have known sooner and I-” He cuts himself off “I know that’s not reasonable. I know it won’t fix it. I just-” He wishes the crushing feeling would go away “I wish it got easier. I wish I didn’t feel this way every single time” Wally doesn’t tell him it isn’t his fault, doesn’t tell him he did his best, doesn’t give him the argument he wants and doesn’t need. Doesn’t give him the space to hurt himself on his own words. Instead he just holds him close, and says “I know, Rob” and somehow breathing gets easier. “You don’t have to stay.” Dick says, even as his arms wrap tightly around Wally’s waist. Even as he presses just a little closer. “If I leave, will you be able to sleep?” Wally asks in that measured tone, the one he uses when he knows the answer. Dick doesn’t answer, and feels petulant for it. He presses his face into Wally’s chest and cries more, letting his guard down for the first time in however long it's been since Wally stayed the night last. Dick cries, as much as he ever can, until he falls asleep, falling again, always falling.

Dick wakes up slowly, to the warm smell of a fresh made breakfast. He still feels like he’s falling until Wally's head peeks around the corner, hair a mess and grin wild, some dollar store apron tied with a messy bow. That’s when his body realizes that there’s someone here to catch him this time, that he was finally right to make the leap. He smiles back, hauling himself up to follow the delicious smell wafting in from the kitchen.

“You made breakfast?” Dick asks, despite seeing the huge spread across his too small dining table.

“Well I was hungry, and someone has got to take care of you” Wally’s voice is low in his ear and Dick shifts a bit uncomfortably. Why does he have to get so close when he says things like that? Next thing he knows, he’s sitting at the table, plate piled high with food, staring bewildered at Wally.

“I-” He blinks, adjusting to being moved somewhere by a speedster, “I can’t eat all these Walls.” He takes a bite of the pancakes, and groans “Nevermind, I’m eating everything at this table.”

Wally laughs “C’mon man, I know how to look after you by now.” His keen gaze suddenly makes Dick feel transparent, and a part of him frantically wonders why in god's name Wally has to talk to him like that, but he’s able to suppress his reaction with the ease of someone who’s been doing it since his teen years.

“You don’t have to help me this much, you know?” Dick protests weekly between bites. “No?” Wally hums noncommittal, pressing a glass of water into Dick’s hand. “And if I want to?” There’s something almost predatory about the way he asks it, but perhaps that’s wishful thinking. “Then…” He takes a sip of water “Then go ahead I guess.” There’s a strange tension in the kitchen as he eats, Dick can tell Wally’s attention is more on him than on the food in front of him, which is making him feel a bit hysterical given that very little pulls a speedster’s attention away from their food. Wally’s gaze holds a weight to it, and Dick has to keep reminding himself that Wally is probably just worried. He resolutely ignores the part of his mind noting that he feels mostly alright now, and that Wally knows him well enough to see that. He finishes his food and tucks all his emotions in a box, standing and putting his plate away. The table is cleared and the dishes are done by the time he reaches the sink. He smiles at his friend, who still has that slightly too serious expression on his face that leaves Dick feeling off kilter, and on edge. He can tell there’s something being left unsaid, and Wally wants him to be fully aware of that. However, Dick can’t bring himself to ask. Irrationally and despite all insistence otherwise, he can’t prevent himself from being scared that if he asks, if they broach whatever conversation is hanging in the air, that Wally will put distance between them. He’s scared that Wally will ask for space, or tell him that he’s aware of and doesn’t share Dick’s feelings. That those feelings make him uncomfortable. Wally waits a moment, and can’t hide the disappointment that briefly laces his expression. Seeing that is like a lance, and Dick wants very badly to make it up to him, would that he knew the cause of the disappointment to begin with. “Wanna play a game or something?” Dick hedges, only relaxing when he sees Wally’s smile return. “How about you pick something to play, and I work out some of the tension in your shoulders and back? Your controllers have too much input lag for me.” Wally replies, following Dick into the living room, and watching him pick out a game. “Doesn’t every controller have too much input lag for you?” Dick asks, letting Wally pull him into the space between his legs, hands resting on his shoulders as he launches some game Tim had gotten him. “Victor made some specialty ones for me after I broke too many in the Tower. I think Tim has been making updated ones for Bart.” Wally massages his shoulders, head propped up on top of Dick’s so he can watch him play.

“Why don’t you run and grab them?” he replies, repressing a shudder as Wally’s hands smooth down his back, skillfully applied pressure releasing the long held tension in his back. Long fingers leave sparks of pleasant warmth in wake, overtaking the pervasive dull soreness. Dick is internally proud of his self control until those hands skate down his sides, grip resting firm on his hips so Wally can whisper in his ear; “You’re doing so well Dickie” Wally’s voice is low, his breath ghosting the shell of Dick’s ear. A bolt of arousal shoots down his spine and he is barely able to suppress the accompanying whimper. He really hopes Wally doesn’t look down, because then he’ll definitely never want to touch Dick again for any reason. “I’m not really doing anything” He replies, glad for how normal he sounds. He wants to bang his head into a wall until he has something resembling sense when Wally squeezes the meat of his thighs, because now even sitting still is a struggle. “Sure you are. You’re letting me help you. You’re trusting me” Wally is still extremely close, tone almost heady. His grip loosens so his hands can drift up Dick’s legs, thumbs resting on his more sensitive inner thigh. Wally keeps talking even though Dick’s breath is stuttering and he’s squeezed his eyes shut, holding perfectly still. “This okay? If it’s not that’s alright. I won’t be upset, all you gotta do is say. And we can go back to just hanging out” Wally sounds perfectly calm, and Dick hates him a bit for it, because Wally is brushing his fingers over the tent of his jeans and Dick’s head falls back against his shoulder as he gasps. “Yes. It’s okay, Jesus Christ Walls” His voice is high and ready as Wally dips one hand beneath his shirt, the other one palming him with just enough force to make Dick shake, legs jerking in response to the overwhelming pleasure that dances across all his nerves. Wally nips his ear, then starts mouthing at his neck. “You’re so gorgeous like this. In my hands, letting me do what I want. Letting me treat you like the precious thing you are.” His voice is gravely, and he tugs Dick flush against his chest, grinding forward into him. Dick chokes on nothing as he feels the burning warmth of Wally’s own arousal against him. The words are as effective as any touch, making Dick reach back and grab Wally’s hair, pulling until his face is the right angle to kiss. The kiss is messy and a touch desperate, vaguely following the rhythm of his hips as they roll. Wally flicks the button of his jeans open, biting down on his bottom lip, pulling away. Dick tries to follow eagerly, but Wally yanks him back by his hair, watching with dark satisfaction as it makes him keen. “Still okay?” He sounds breathless, and Dick nods eagerly. “Mind taking this to your room?” His thumb is stroking tender circles into his cheek, like he’s something delicate. Dick turns his hand to bite down on the tip of it, just to watch those green eyes widen, and hear his breath hitch. Dick looks up at him through his eyelashes, licking the pad of his finger.

“Please, Wally?” He lets the desperate little whine building in his throat twist the edge of his words, and hides a smile behind a pout when he sees Wally’s blush spread to the tips of his ears.

Next thing he knows he’s flat on his back, spread across his bright blue comforter, Wally kneeling between his legs. Wally grins down at him, shirt and pants long gone.

“Can I strip you sweetheart?” He asks, rubbing the outside of Dick’s thighs. Dick cant help but think he looks gorgeous, pink down to his chest, freckles dappling his skin, and the sun catching his green eyes in such a way that Dick can see the flecks of yellow and brown. He nods, cataloging the way Wally looks, just in case he doesn’t get to see it again. The adoration in his eyes, the hard line of his dick straining against his black briefs, and those strong runner’s thighs spreading his own apart. Dick nods again, expecting to have it happen before he can even register it, but Wally takes his time, pulling Dick’s shirt off and kissing every inch of newly exposed skin. Dick lets out a slow breath, tension releasing and back arching languidly into his touch. Wally stops at his shoulders, moving up to kiss his lips, slow and sweet.

“I want you to say it. Tell me what you want Rob.” There’s certainly a sharp edge to his voice, which makes all the blood vacate Dick’s brain. “I…” Dick takes a deep breath, trying to clear the haze that had settled over his brain. “I want you to make me feel good. I want you to tell me what to do. I’m so tired of thinking, and making choices, I just wanna…” “Let go?” Wally finishes as he finally pulls Dick’s shirt over his head, then helps him shimmy out of his underwear and sweats. Dick watches Wally, loving the way his eyes flick across his body, like he can’t pick a place to look.

“Settle in Rob” Wally picks up his leg, pulling it over his shoulder and kissing down the length of it. “When I’m done you won’t be thinking of anything other than how amazing you feel. Wally bites his inner thigh, just below the apex of his hip. Kissing everything but the place Dick wants his mouth the most. Just as he’s about to open his mouth to complain- or beg, but no one can prove that- Wally licks across the head of his cock, and his tongue vibrates. Dick goes taught, back arching as he swears. “F-fuck!” he yelps “You can do that?”

“Perks of being a Speedster” Wally quips, kissing along the length of him, fingers encircling the base and vibrating. Wally has to hold his hips down as he takes him into his mouth, the sensation is so intense that before he knows it Dick is whiting out, coming down Wally’s throat with a reedy moan. Wally pulls off, kissing Dick and licking into his mouth, the taste of himself on Wally’s tongue has him groaning, wrapping his arms around Wally’s shoulders. His head feels fuzzy and the haze of pleasure leaves him forgetting why speaking without a filter as a terrible idea- “I love you so much Wally” He smiles blissfully. Wally, to his credit, doesn’t even pause.

“I love you too Rob, so very much. You’re so good and sweet for me. You’re doing so well.” Wally praising him has Dick squirming in his happy haze. “Fuck me?” He requests, hooking his free leg up high on Wally’s back to leverage himself such that he can grind up against him.

“Christ Rob” Wally groans, hips stuttering. “You’re so needy, gotta let me take care of you. I’m gonna be so good to you babe” He’s gone for just a moment, back before Dick’s leg can even lower, lube in hand. “Did you run while turned on?” Dick grins, distinctly amused, coherent thought returning slowly. Wally raises a brow. “What happens at that pace is between me and the speed force” He responds, pouring lube in his hand and stroking along Dick’s semi, tracing down along his perineum and circling Dick’s hole. Dick flinches at the slight vibration he feels before the finger is before pressing in. “You’re p-pretty good at that” He looks up at Wally, eyes almost black from pupils blown wide with want. It settles an ache he hadn’t realized had been weighing him down. Seeing Wally above him, blushing down to his chest, grinning like he can’t believe his luck, finally allows Dick to let go of the painful yearning he’s pushed to the backburner for over a decade.

“Yeah?” Wally grins, confident is a good look on him, “Just wait till I learn all your buttons” He presses another finger in, hooking them and managing to press right against Dick’s sweetspot. The hot molten feeling from before washes over his body again, leaving him shaking and floaty, nails digging into the lines of Wally’s back. He pulls himself up enough to moan right in Wally’s ear as he rolls his hips against him. “Don’t forget- you’re not the only one learning” He nips down the column of Wally’s neck, fascinated by the way that the bruises disappear from his pale skin. Wally’s rhythm breaks for a moment, and he can’t help his smug satisfaction and the way Wally groans like his orgasm was ripped from his chest. “You better be ready boy wonder, cause that was mean” Wally pulls his fingers away, but doesn’t actually do anything until Dick gives a beyond exaggerated “please”, which makes them both laugh. “You’re ridiculous.” Wally looks bright and unburdened by all the years that have passed between them as he presses into Dick. Dick can’t help but clench down at the feeling, squirming even after Wally presses to the hilt, hips twitching. Dick feels giddy, and full, and more relaxed than he can even remember ever being. He pulls Wally into another sloppy kiss, burying his hands in soft hair. “I love you Wally” He kisses the freckles on his face. “You’re perfect” Wally starts fucking into him at an almost blinding place, body humming like he can’t quite help it. He kisses all across Dick, like he can’t pick any given part of him. “Says the most perfect man I’ve ever seen. You’re so gorgeous, I’ve been wondering so long if you’d let me do this. Trust me like this.” Wally is talking almost too fast to hear, only years of practice enabling Dick to keep up. “I love everything about you, who you are, your smile, all the stupid shit that drives me insane. You’re so cute too, when you get all flustered. But I never could have imagined how you’d look like this. So pretty and sweet and relaxed-” Wally continues to praise him until they’re both babbling, and Dick isn’t really sure where the before and after points of their orgasms were. Only that eventually they slowed down, and Wally cleaned him up, fed him, and pulled him into his arms. And everything felt okay, at least right there, in that moment. Nothing was wrong. “I meant it Rob. I love you. I wanna be with you, if you let me.” Wally kisses his hair, rubbing his back. “It’s always been you, for me. Safety, home. Whatever you want to call it.” Dick looks at him, bright blue eyes as piercing as they always have been, complemented by the blush high on his cheeks. “I want you in every way I can have you.” “You deserve more than that, you know? Then taking what you can get” Wally lightly brushes the hair out of his eyes. “Hm, maybe you can prove that to me?” Dick smiles, unburdened.

#amountofspidersfic #dick grayson #birdflash #wally west x dick grayson #Wally West

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crowsofdarkness · 4 months ago

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Neighbors: Part One

pictures/gifs not mine. all found on pinterest. cover made by me*

Parings: Bill Skarsgard x OFC! Rose

Word Count: 3,648

Content Warnings: Bill being a sweet flirt, language, and smut that will include mentions of masturbation, fingering, unprotected p in v, dirty talk, slight degradation if you squint, and public sex.

Summary: A simple chance encounter inside the laundry room with her new neighbor seems to change Rose's life without warning.

PART TWO

Humming a tune to myself, I hoisted the laundry basket up higher on my hip as I trotted down the long hallway from my apartment towards the laundry room. It was nearly two in the morning and that’s when I usually decided to do my laundry since the machines would be open this late.

The bottom of my shirt flew in the wind I created as I walked and the chill from the AC in the complex brought goosebumps to my bare legs. I’d waited longer than normal to do laundry so I had no pants to wear, hence the oversized shirt, fuzzy socks, and my moccasins.

It was fine though. I’d been doing my laundry this late for months now and I’d never run into someone.

Until now.

Coming to a stop in the doorway of the laundry room, I dropped the basket to the floor when a pair of bright eyes met mine, pinning me in place. His hands were quickly working in folding laundry. Not just any laundry, my laundry.

More specifically a pair of red lace panties.

“Your laundry was taking up the two machines so I thought I’d fold it for you,” my neighbor smiled at me.

My new neighbor. The one who moved into 4C two weeks ago. The one who I could hear singing in some different language through the walls of my bedroom. The one who I could not stop staring at. The one who I could not stop thinking of day and night.

Bill Skarsgard.

“Uh,” I cleared my throat while licking my lips. “What do you think you’re doing?”

Bill raised a brow, setting the folded pile of clothes neatly on the table in the middle of the laundry room.

“Your clothes were taking up the only dryers for the last two hours,” he repeated.

I blinked, still dumbfounded that not only had my cute neighbor took it upon myself to fold my clothes but seemed to separate them exactly like how I would. In the few weeks since he moved in, I’d all spoken a handful of words to him. The quick smiles or hellos when we passed each other in the hall. There was one time my dog, Floki, slipped through my legs when I was bringing in groceries and ran into the hallway. Thankfully Bill was there to quickly snatch him up before bringing him back to me. Floki is an english cocker spaniel and even though he’s small in size, he makes up for it in speed. That day he was on a mission to run down the four flights of stairs in hopes of making it outside.

“If I overstepped, I’m sorry, Rose,” Bill said, breaking me from my thoughts. “I just wanted to help and I really needed the machines.”

“It’s fine, Bill,” I said rather quickly while holding up my hands. “Although, it is a bit weird I caught you fondling my panties.”

A deep chuckle filled the air which seemed to ease the sudden tension and carefully, I picked up the basket from the ground and walked over towards Bill. As I began placing the folded clothes into the basket, I watched out of the corner of my eye as he placed his wet clothes from the washer into the dryer.

Although we hadn’t spoken much, we did exchange names on the day he moved in.

“Do you usually do your laundry at two a.m.?” I asked.

“No, not typically,” Bill answered with a small chuckle, scratching at the small hairs covering his face.

All I did was hum in response before pulling out my other load from the second dryer and began folding those. I knew who Bill was, what he did for a living. It was the talk of the complex when he first moved in that we had a movie star living with us.

“Do you usually walk the halls in nothing but a shirt and fuzzy socks?”

I snapped my head up towards Bill who was now leaning his back against the table next to me. His broad arms were crossed over his even broader chest and the smirk that played on his lips made something ignite inside of me.

“This late, yes. Mostly because I have no clean pants and I wasn’t expecting to run into anyone,” I informed.

“Wait till the last minute to do laundry, huh?” Bill teased.

I narrowed my eyes. “Typically no. But I’ve been sick the last week, dying in bed with liquids and antibiotics so my laundry has piled up.”

“I thought I heard you coughing and sneezing,” he chuckled while now sitting up on the counter next to my pile of clothes.

“Huh?” My brows furrowed in confusion, forcing myself not to look at his long legs dangling in the air.

Or the way those grey sweatpants were hugging every perfect muscle in his thighs.

Or the prominent bulge in his pants as his eyes lingered on my bare legs.

“Thin walls,” he said with a wink.

I hummed again while fidgeting with the sleeve of one of the clean shirts I had yet to fold. Bill’s bright eyes were staring directly down at me, and I shifted on my feet. Bill didn’t make me uncomfortable.

No, far from that.

Being so close to him like this made something inside of me ignite to life. Everytime we ran into each other, there’d always be small flirtatious comments and lingering stares, but nothing more. I did my best to push away those feelings, play it off as a little crush on my neighbor. Even though I knew deep down, it was more than a crush. Especially with what happened the other night.

“Oh fuck,” I groaned as the vibrations hit my clit again. “So good.”

I arched my back on the bed as the orgasm began to crest inside of me, nerve endings coming to life with the prospect of finally letting go. I’d been edging myself for the last ten minutes, pulling away my vibrator whenever I got too close, in order to have a bigger boom sort to speak. My knees began to shake and I ran a hand through my hair, pushing it away from my sweat slicken forehead, ready to finally let go.

“Bill!” I cried out unexpectedly when those bright eyes of my neighbors forced their way inside of my sex induced state.

There was a pitter patter of knocking on the wall above my bed. “Everything alright in there, Rose?”

Cursing the thin walls of my apartment under my breath, I slowly rolled out of bed before stalking into the bathroom.

“Rose?”

“Hm?” I let my hair fall in my face, hoping the copper strands would hide the crimson hue covering my cheeks as I continued to remember what happened the other night.

This was the first time I was facing Bill since the incident, mostly because I was doing whatever I could to avoid him. I wasn’t even sure if he heard exactly what I was doing. For all I know, he could have just wanted to say hi.

Through your wall? Are you really that dumb? He even said he could hear you through the thin walls.

“How are you feeling now?” He asked.

“Uh,” I cleared my throat before going back to folding up the last bit of my clothes. “Better. The antibiotics helped. I’m not contagious or anything if that’s what you’re worried about. I don’t want to mess up any future filming plans you may have.”

He waved me off and then jumped off the counter to head over to the dryer that just buzzed, indicating it was finished. For a few moments, the only sounds that filled the laundry room were our shared breathing and Bill moving around, setting clothes in specific baskets while I stood almost frozen when I felt his presence behind me.

“How’s your dog?” Bill’s deep voice broke through the silence behind me. “Any more escape attempts?”

“No, thankfully. And his name is Floki,” I said, seeing Bill now back in his previous spot next to me.

Instead of sitting on the counter, he stood next to me to fold the last bit of his clothes.

“Floki. That’s interesting.”

“It’s from one of my favorite shows. Vikings,” I had just placed the last of my clean clothes into my basket when I glanced up at Bill, to see a wicked smirk on his lips.

Lips I was desperate to taste.

“What?” I asked when he still hadn’t said anything.

“The actor that plays Floki in Vikings is my brother. Gustaf Skarsgård.”

My eyes widened at Bill’s revelation and I stood to face him head on. “No way! I couldn’t even see the resemblance.”

Bill chuckled, the noise making my heart flutter, and crossed his arms over his chest. “I like to think he looks like my other brother, Alex.”

“Do you have a lot of siblings?” I asked.

For the next few minutes while we stood facing each other, every so often moving closer towards one another, Bill filled me in on parts of his life and the successful line of actors that was the Skarsgård family. Once he was done giving me the rundown of the family tree and me telling him about how I own the bookstore around the block, opening it a few years ago, we both finished folding our laundry and were now standing so close to each other I could hear his breathing as if it was my own.

There was a sudden charge, almost appearing out of nowhere, and Bill must have felt it as well because his fingers ghosted over the skin of my thighs. Not touching but close enough his heat danced over me.

“Remember how I said I could hear you through the thin apartment walls?” He asked, voice dropping slightly.

I nodded but froze in horror when the realization set in on why he was asking me this.

“You heard me the other night. When I-,” my voice trailed off as I felt my face heat with crimson.

Oh this was so bad. Bill probably thinks I’m some sort of weirdo who thinks about him when they use their vibrator.

“Oh, that,” I stammered. “I didn’t think you could hear. But it wasn’t you I called out for. I was with someone that night.”

It was mostly true. Earlier that night, I invited an ex over for a quick hook up but when he left less than an hour and I was unsatisfied, I took it upon myself to finish the job.

Something flicked in Bill’s eyes which told me he didn’t believe a word I said.

“What part of me did you think of when you touched yourself?”

My eyes snapped up from my fuzzy socks to the sly smirk that rested on Bill’s soft face and something inside of me warmed at the image of Bill being the one who held the vibrator against my clit.

I swallowed thickly, trying to find a voice to respond, but the only thing I could do was continue to think of how Bill looked naked against the burnt orange color of my bed sheets. How his scent would stain my pillowcases for weeks after.

“I-uh-I told you. I was with someone that night.”

“I know,” Bill snorted. “He sounded like a real catch. How long did it last?”

My face burned with embarrassment for not only him being able to hear the disaster of a hookup I had but also the fact he was fine with openly talking about it. Usually talking about my sex life didn’t bother me but when it was with someone who I wished I was having sex with, it made me incredibly nervous. I didn’t want Bill to get the wrong impression of me.

“He was in and out in less than ten minutes. Literally,” I sighed. “I don’t need to be reminded of my disastrous sex life or the fact you heard us. But I didn’t call out your name later. I ended up going to sleep shortly after he left.”

A squeal erupted from my throat when I felt myself being lifted from the ground before being set down on the counter in the laundry room. With one hand, Bill spread apart my legs so he could step into them and rested both arms on either side of me. Locking me in place.

“You know, your left eye does this weird twitching thing when you lie,” he noted.

“It does not!” I shot back, sort of defiantly.

It did.

My left eye always twitches when I tell a lie. My mom would always call me out on it growing up.

“You still haven't answered my question,” he said, changing the subject of my blatant lie.

I blinked. “What question?”

“When you touched yourself, did you imagine it was my fingers?” He asked while tucking a strand of copper hair behind my ear.

I should lie to him. Tell him that I definitely was not thinking of his lips sucking my clit. But it was futile, knowing he had heard me. And the fact he would call me out again.

“Your tongue,” I admitted.

A deep noise vibrated in Bill’s chest as his hands now rested on my thighs. With him setting me on the counter, the bottom of my shirt rode up, exposing more of my legs and my bright orange panties. His fingers kneaded my skin, causing a small moan to fall from my lips.

“Did you think of me when he was fucking you?” Bill's warm breath fanned over my ear.

Now his hand slipped between my legs, dragging a finger over my panties and I shivered with his touch.

“Yes.”

I didn’t bother to lie, afraid that if I did he would stop whatever he was doing. I needed this. I needed Bill.

“You smell so good,” he mused while breathing me in. “Like white roses.”

Pushing my panties to the side, he gathered up my wetness to draw small circles against my clit and my head fell forward against Bill’s shoulder.

“Look how wet you are,” he mused. “This all for me? You want me, don’t ya, Rose?”

Words were foreign especially when Bill slipped a finger inside of me to slowly drag it in and out. So all I could do was nod. With his free hand, he cupped my chin so he could force me to look into his bright eyes.

“Do you want me to stop?”

I hastily shook my head and grasped at his shirt. “No, Bill. Please keep going. I need this.”

I could barely finish my words before he captured my lips in a feverish kiss, tongue immediately forcing the inside of my mouth to devour me whole. My body ignited with warmth, it spread through each of my veins, and my heart nearly burst out of my chest. I’d been dreaming of how Bill’s lips taste for the last few weeks and now that I finally did, I realized it paled in comparison to my dreams.

“More,” I muttered against his lips, rutting my cunt against his finger. “I need more. Please.”

Bill understood because he pulled out his hand from my panites to yank me off of the counter. Spinning me around, he pushed down my upper half against the counter and kicked my legs apart. My knees shook with anticipation and I was thankful I’dfinally showered after being sick in bed the last few days.

Even though I couldn’t see, I knew Bill was yanking down the front of his sweats and not bothering to take off my panties, he pushed them to the side. When he pulled out his cock, I groaned when I felt the head press gently inside of me before halting.

“Are you on anything or should I grab a condom?” Bill asked.

I could hear the strain in his voice at the fact he’d have to stop this to run to his apartment to grab a condom.

Glancing over my shoulder, I gave him a small smile. “I’m on the pill. We’re good.”

With my approval, Bill quickly sank deep inside of me, both of us groaning. I’d never felt so full before as I writhed against the counter, trying to hold onto something as he snapped his hips into me from behind.

“Fuck, Rose. Your cunt is gripping my cock so tight,” Bill grunted while resting his forehead against my back.

The sound of the dryer buzzing, indicating it was done, fell away to white noise. Only briefly reminding me that we were in the laundry room of our apartment complex meaning anyone could walk in and see Bill spearing me open on his cock. But the excitement of being caught brought forth my orgasm, teetering on the edge.

Bill dragged out his cock to slowly fuck me with the head and I sputtered out his name, forcing my ass against him with the hope he’d fill me up again. I clenched around him, our shared wetness creating ungodly sounds. His warm breath fanned my face and I titled my head slightly to crash our lips together again, my tongue finding his instantly. One of Bill’s hands gripped tightly against my hip while the other slipped inside of my panites to thrum against my swollen clit.

“Oh, shit,” I nibbled on his bottom lip. “I’m so close, Bill. Don’t stop.”

“Never,” he said while now wrapping the arm that held my hip around my midsection to hold me tight against him. “Your cunt takes me so well, Rose. Like it was made for me.”

My head fell to the cool granite counter, the feeling of him fucking me and his fingers drawing circles on my clit was all too much. Sweat gathered at the back of my neck as my body tensed in Bill’s embrace and my jaw fell slack, my orgasm ripping through me. I spasmed all over his cock, soaking him, and he stalled his hips for a moment.

“Gonna fill up that pretty pussy, baby,” Bill grunted before his cock twitched inside of me, doing exactly what he said.

With both of us slumped over on the counter, we allowed ourselves a few minutes to catch our breath before Bill slipped out of me and set my panties back in place. I frowned at the wetness between my legs before rising up to adjust the bottom of my shirt.

“Uh, well,” I did my best to fix my hair, hoping it didn’t look like I just had sex in a public laundry room.

Bill stuffed his hands deep in the pocket of his sweats and wore a lazy smile. “I will admit, this is a first for me so I don’t know how to end this.”

“You mean to tell me you don’t fuck every girl that you meet in the laundry room?” I teased.

“You’re the first,” he hummed.

We stood there for a few beats, just staring at each other while not knowing what to say. I didn’t expect to find Bill here when I came down to finish my laundry and I definitely didn’t expect to have him fuck me over the counter.

Just as my lips parted to speak, a new form entered the room causing both Bill and I to step away from each other. I recognized who just walked in; the nurse from 2A who worked the late shift, meaning she would do her laundry at four in the morning when she got off shift.

“Oh, well looks like we meet here again Bill,” she giggled while setting down her basket of clothes on the counter next to him.

“Hey Lauren,” he greeted but there was somethin indifferent in his voice.

Lauren gave me a forced smile before glancing back at Bill, resting a hand on his arm. “I’m starting to think you’re purposely doing your laundry at this time so you can run into me. This is the fourth time now, right?”

My eyes snapped over towards Bill, something festering low in my gut, and his eyes were filled with a somber color; something unreadable.

So I wasn’t the only one he’d met in the laundry room at this hour?

Get over yourself, Rose. You’re jealous over a man who isn’t yours. All he did was fuck you, that’s it.

Yeah but what if he lied about me being the only one he’s fucked in here?

The voice inside my brain didn’t return my question with an answer so with a long sigh, I gathered my things and gave Bill a curt nod.

“See you around.”

I scurried out of the laundry room down the hall towards my apartment, ignoring his calls after me. I tried to tell myself over and over again that it was just a quick, heat of the moment, hook up. It wouldn’t be anything more so I had no right to be hurt about the idea of him hooking up with someone else.

Once in the safety of my apartment, I greeted Floki with a quick pat to the head after setting down my clean baskets in the entryway. As I made a quick beeline towards my bathroom to shower, I did my best to let out a steadying breath, knowing that I could move on from this. Bill was just a neighbor, that’s it. A good fuck. If I was lucky, I wouldn’t run into him all that often. I mean, I rarely did before so now it would be no different.

Yet, a month and a half later and no sightings from Bill, I found myself knocking on his apartment door only to be met with silence. So with one final look at the envelope in my hand, I slipped it underneath his door and turned my back towards it, stalking into my apartment with a heavy heart.

#bill skarsgard #bill skarsgård #bill skarsgard fanfiction #bill skarsgard fics #bill skarsgard one shot #bill skarsgard smut #bill skarsgard imagine #bill skarsgard x ofc

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bittybeanscafe · 26 days ago

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PART 1: Too Much Little Mix-Ups! (..◜ᴗ◝..) 🍭

🍬 Asahi Azumane X Fem!Reader (SMUT) 🍬

“It was just laundry day, a day you dreaded. It turned into a severe mix up and now your clothes aren’t even yours!! 🍭”

Contains: Pwp, cheesy build-up, size kink, pathetic Asahi (he is WHIPPED), kinda dom!reader, reader is pictured as short compared to him (duh), fingering, slight overstim, wrapping of the willy, Asahi cries and begs, belly bulge, lmk what else I missed

🍰 Café Menu 🍰

The bus ride had been long, loud, and full of back-and-forth shouting over snacks and music. You’d slumped against the window with your headphones in, half-asleep, while the rest of the team bounced between talking about how excited they were and how dead they were going to be by the end of the trip.

Training camp, they said. But when the bus finally rolled to a stop and you stepped out, it looked a hell of a lot more like a resort.

It wasn’t fancy, exactly—but there were palm trees swaying lazily in the breeze, warm golden sunlight streaming down onto sand-colored walkways, and a huge open gym just past the row of cabin-style dorms. The air smelled like saltwater and sunscreen. Everything was too clean and too quiet in a way that told you it wouldn’t stay that way for long.

A two-week coastal training camp, right before the season picked up.

Which meant: sunrise workouts. Morning drills. Team runs along the beach. Sweaty afternoons in the gym. And laundry. So much laundry.

The day passed in a blur—coach barking instructions, teammates groaning over pushups and sprints, the sun baking your skin during a brutal beach circuit that left sand stuck in your shoes and between your toes. By the time dinner rolled around, you were too tired to even shower properly. You just rinsed the worst of it off, grabbed a plate, and flopped next to your teammates at one of the long wooden tables set up on the back deck.

Asahi had been quiet most of the day. Focused. Serious. He was always like that during training—but every now and then, you caught his eyes flicking to you during breaks. Just for a second. Just enough to make your stomach flutter.

You didn’t talk much. Not today.

But the silence between you never felt cold. Just... simmering.

And by the time the stars were out and the day was finally over, you realized your bag was already full of sweaty practice clothes, half of them damp from the ocean or gym or both.

Which is how you ended up in the shared laundry room alone at nearly midnight—barefoot and half-asleep.

The dorm laundry room is empty, save for the low rumble of dryers and the occasional drip from a leaky faucet in the corner. Fluorescent lights hum overhead, casting everything in that sterile, too-bright glow that makes you feel like a raccoon in a convenience store.

It’s almost midnight. You’re running on fumes.

You’d meant to do your laundry earlier—honestly, you meant to do a lot of things earlier—but practice ran long, your arms are still aching, and the thought of putting it off another day felt worse than dragging yourself down here like a corpse.

You toss your clothes into the washer without ceremony. Practice gear, sleep clothes, your go-to black sports bra, a pair of soft cotton shorts—the pair, the one that fits just right. All of it goes in as you yawn so hard your jaw cracks.

By the time the dryer finishes, you’re leaned against the counter with your cheek pressed to your palm, halfway to dozing off. You start pulling your clothes out, folding mindlessly. A shirt here, a sock there. Your hands move on autopilot.

Then—

Something soft and unfamiliar brushes your fingers.

You pull it out.

Plaid boxers.

You blink at them, confused. Hold them up.

They’re not yours. Definitely not. Too big. Too not anything you own. They smell like fresh laundry—clean, subtle detergent with just a trace of something else. Cologne, maybe. Masculine, but soft.

You fish through the rest of your clothes, a little more alert now. Halfway through the pile, your brows draw together.

Where’s your sports bra?

Where are your shorts?

You check again. Nothing. But you do have a shirt in here you don’t recognize—black, oversized, a little worn around the collar. It’s not your brand, not your size, and definitely not something you’d packed.

Your stomach sinks a little.

Someone else must’ve opened the dryer while your stuff was in there. Maybe their clothes got mixed with yours when the machines got shuffled around. Classic laundry chaos.

You sigh, long and slow.

“Of course this would happen tonight.”

You hold the boxers up again and shake them out. They’re soft. Worn-in. The kind of fabric someone probably sleeps in.

The shirt’s the same. Oversized, comfy-looking. Smells the same, too—warm and clean, like sun-dried sheets and something vaguely woodsy underneath.

You glance toward the door. Consider going back, retracing your steps, maybe catching whoever ended up with your stuff.

But it’s late. You're barefoot, and you’d have to walk around asking people if they found your bra.

Not happening.

You plop the basket down and peel off your top, slipping the unfamiliar shirt on over your head. It falls over your hips easily, swallowing your shape. It’s soft. The sleeves brush your elbows. You kind of hate how good it feels.

The boxers come next. A little baggy, but you roll the waistband once and they settle mid-thigh. Honestly? Not bad.

You catch yourself in the reflective dryer door and pause.

Oversized black tee. Plaid boxers. Sleep-rumpled hair and socks that don’t match.

You look like you’re wearing a boyfriend’s clothes. And that’s weirdly cute.

“Sorry, mystery laundry guy,” you mutter, tossing your remaining clothes back into the basket. “You’ve been looted.”

You turn off the lights and head out, warm and cozy in stolen clothes, completely unaware of the minor crisis you’re about to cause in someone else's brain tomorrow.

The air is warm even before the sun fully rises, soft golden light filtering through the wide dorm windows and spilling across the floor. The ceiling fan whirs lazily overhead. Outside, you can hear seagulls already causing a racket, and the dull thud of a volleyball being bumped around by the earliest risers.

You’re barely awake.

The shared hotel is quiet, except for the rustling of blankets and the occasional groan as someone tries to convince their sore limbs to get moving. You blink against the sunlight, sitting up in your bunk and rubbing your eyes. A stretch works out the stiffness in your spine, and the shirt you’re wearing shifts with it—falling off one shoulder.

It smells faintly like someone else.

You glance down at yourself—oversized black tee, plaid boxers cinched with a rolled waistband. Your legs are bare. Your hair’s a mess. You look like someone’s lazy Sunday morning.

You kind of love it.

The room starts to stir around you. Across the way, Daichi stretches where he sits on the edge of his bunk, his shirt riding up just enough to show the line of muscle at his lower back before he yawns loudly and stands.

He turns.

Sees you.

Stops.

There’s a blink—then another.

“…Huh.”

You glance up, sleepily. “Morning.”

Daichi narrows his eyes just slightly. Not judgmental. Not even teasing. Just... curious. And way too observant.

He looks down at the boxers. The shirt. Then very, very slowly, looks over at the bunk across from you.

Empty.

Asahi’s bunk.

You watch him piece it together in real time, eyes shifting between your outfit and your completely neutral expression.

You give him a small, innocent smile. “Problem?”

He raises an eyebrow. “Not unless you tell me those are your clothes.”

You shrug. “They were in my laundry.”

That’s not a no.

Daichi huffs a laugh through his nose, pinching the bridge of it like he’s trying to decide whether to say something or let it go. He doesn’t say anything—just shakes his head and mutters “...gonna kill him,” under his breath before heading toward the showers.

You’re left sitting there, legs swinging over the edge of the bunk, sun warming your skin and heart pounding just a little harder than you expected.

The mess hall is bright and open, wide windows letting in sea breeze and sunlight. The long buffet tables are lined with scrambled eggs, miso soup, sliced fruit, and toast. Someone’s playlist hums low from a Bluetooth speaker in the corner, and most of the team is already halfway through their plates, still in a mix of pajamas and training gear.

You’re one of the last to come in.

No fanfare. No dramatic entrance. Just a sleepy walk through the sliding doors, tray in hand, legs bare, face unreadable—like you’re not wearing someone else’s boxers rolled up at the waist and a shirt you definitely didn’t pack.

The moment Asahi sees you, something inside him shorts out.

He’s halfway through his first bite of rice when his eyes land on you—and stay there. Fork frozen halfway to his mouth.

Your hair is still messy from sleep, pushed back lazily with a headband. The oversized black shirt drapes off one shoulder, riding up a little in the back. The plaid boxers are unmistakable. His boxers. The ones he couldn’t find last night. The ones he swore he put in the dryer.

His mouth goes dry. His brain bluescreens.

Across from him, Sugawara pauses mid-sip of juice, following his gaze.

And wheezes.

“Oh my god,” Suga whispers, already grinning. “Dude—”

“Shut up,” Asahi mutters instantly, eyes flicking back to his plate as if that will help. It doesn’t. He can still see you in his periphery. You’re grabbing fruit. Stretching to reach the miso ladle. The shirt lifts ever so slightly at the back.

He nearly drops his chopsticks.

You don’t even look at him. You know what you’re doing, and that makes it worse.

Daichi leans back in his seat across from Asahi, sipping his tea slowly. “Told you,” he says, smirking behind the rim of his cup.

Asahi’s ears go bright red. He still doesn’t look up.

“I didn’t…I didn’t give her those,” he says, like that’s the part everyone is assuming. “They were in my laundry basket, and then! now they’re-“

“Oh, we know you didn’t give them to her,” Suga laughs, nudging his arm. “That’s what makes it funnier.”

Asahi finally chances another glance.

You’re walking toward the table now, tray balanced casually in your hands, expression unreadable. You sit at the end of the table, a few seats down—but close enough to feel his attention dragging toward you like a magnet.

You look over.

Just once.

Met his gaze, dead-on. Held it.

You didn’t smile.

But there was something in your eyes—mischief, curiosity, maybe a challenge.

Asahi immediately looks back at his plate like it just told him his future. His entire face is on fire. He’s suddenly, painfully aware of every inch of skin you’re showing, and the fact that it’s his damn shirt covering it.

He doesn’t say a word.

But he’s absolutely losing his mind.

He can’t sleep.

He tries. He really tries. He flips onto his side, then onto his back, pulling the thin sheet up to his chest like that’s going to help. But the only thing his brain will focus on is you. The way you looked this morning. The way you still haven’t returned his clothes.

The image of you—bare legs, shirt slipping off your shoulder, acting like it was nothing—is burned into his skull.

And now?

Now he’s hard.

Not in a crude, teenage boy way. In a way that hurts. In a way that comes from too many days of watching you from a distance and wanting so badly to hold you, to touch you, to be allowed to have you—just once. Just long enough to show you how much you mean to him.

He’s embarrassed. Of course he is. He always is.

But the ache won’t go away.

The hallway is quiet this late—just the low hum of the overhead lights and the occasional creak of old wooden floors settling beneath the heat. The dorms are dark behind their sliding doors. Everyone’s asleep.

Except you.

And, apparently, him.

You’re sitting on the porch just outside the dorms, one leg swinging lazily over the edge, the other tucked beneath you. A warm mug of tea cradled between your hands, the steam curling up in front of your face as you stare out into the star-scattered sky.

The air smells like salt and sun-warmed wood. You feel peaceful.

Until you hear soft footsteps behind you: gentle, hesitant.

You don’t even have to look up.

“I thought you’d be asleep,” you murmur.

There’s a pause. Then, his voice, soft and hoarse from disuse. “I couldn’t. You?”

You tilt your head back slightly. “Same.”

When you glance over your shoulder, he’s standing there in a hoodie and gym shorts, hair messy, looking like he lost sleep over something. Probably everything. You give him a small smile and nod toward the space beside you.

“Sit with me?”

He hesitates only a second before moving—quiet, careful, like he doesn’t want to take up too much space. His thigh brushes yours as he lowers himself down, and you don’t move away. You just sip your tea, letting the silence settle again.

For a while, neither of you say anything.

The stars pulse faintly above. The crickets chirp from somewhere in the grass. He smells faintly of soap, like he just showered and didn’t dry off all the way before crawling into bed and giving up on sleep.

You lean your head on his shoulder, almost without thinking.

You feel him freeze. Just for a second.

Then he exhales through his nose, barely audible, and lets himself lean back into you.

His hand is resting on his thigh—tight fingers twitching.

Your voice is soft. “You okay?”

“I…” he swallows thickly. “Yeah.”

You lift your head to look at him, just enough to see the pink flush working up the side of his neck. His eyes flick toward you, then drop instantly back down to the floorboards.

“Liar,” you say, quiet but teasing.

His shoulders rise with a shaky breath. He doesn’t respond.

So you ask, gently, “Wanna talk about it?”

He nods, but it takes him a moment to speak. When he does, his voice is even softer.

“I saw you this morning,” he says. “Wearing my clothes.”

Your heart gives a little flutter. But you keep your expression even.

“I figured.”

“I wasn’t…” He stops, frowns, shakes his head. “I wasn’t prepared for that. At all.”

You tilt your head. “Why?”

He finally looks at you, then really looks. Like he’s been holding it in all day, and now he can’t anymore.

“Because you looked beautiful,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “And you always look beautiful, but it was different. And I—”

His throat works. His hand clenches.

“I didn’t know what to do with it. I couldn’t think straight. I still can’t.”

The words are shaky, unpolished, but honest. You feel them sink into you, warm and deep.

You shift slightly, turning to face him more fully. “So you came out here to tell me that?”

He shakes his head. “No. I came out here because I couldn’t sleep. I just… needed air. But then I saw you, and I thought-”

He stops again. His eyes flick back to yours.

“I’m really glad you’re here.”

Your chest tightens—because it’s real. Every word. Unfiltered. Honest in the way only Asahi could be.

You set your mug down on the porch.

Then you reach over, slow and deliberate, and slide your hand into his.

He looks at you like he might fall apart.

“I wanted to wear your clothes,” you say softly. “They felt safe.”

His fingers curl around yours. “You can wear them whenever you want.”

“I think I’ll keep that shirt, then.”

He huffs a breath of laughter: shaky, breathless.

And when you lean in just a little, just enough for your noses to brush, he doesn’t pull away.

He whispers your name, barely audible. Like a prayer.

Then he kisses you.

Gentle. Reverent. Like he’s afraid to press too hard, like he wants to savor the moment before it disappears.

And when it deepens, when his hand lifts to cup the side of your face, thumb trembling against your skin. It’s no longer just shy affection.

It’s longing.

Years of it, maybe.

He pulls away first, but barely. His forehead rests against yours.

“I want you,” he whispers, the words catching in his throat. “But only if you want me too.”

“I want you.”

His voice cracks on the last word—soft, broken and honest—and you feel his hand tremble slightly against your cheek. You pull back just enough to see him: eyes wide, glassy, pleading without even trying to. Like he’s scared to ruin it, scared to be dreaming.

“Asahi,” you murmur.

His eyes flutter shut at the sound of his name in your voice. He nods, breath shaky. “I—I know. I just…can I—?”

His words trip over themselves, but his hands are gentle as they slide down, tentative as they find your hips. He holds you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

You climb into his lap.

His breath hitches. His fingers dig into your thighs like he’s trying not to lose it.

You settle your weight on him slowly, straddling him on the porch bench. The night air is warm, but he’s warmer—his body radiating heat beneath the hoodie, his heart thundering beneath your hands. And he’s already hard. He’s been that way, but you somehow made it worse. You feel it the second you sit down, the subtle shift in his posture, the helpless way his breath stutters.

He’s not subtle. He doesn’t know how to hide it.

He leans his head back against the wall with a soft thump and whispers, “Oh my god.”

You smile a little, fingers drifting beneath the edge of his hoodie. “You’re not very good at playing it cool.”

“I’m not cool,” he says instantly, breathless. “I’m—I’m not even functioning right now. I think I’m dying. You’re—you’re sitting in my lap, and I think I’m gonna black out.”

You laugh quietly against his neck, brushing your lips there, feeling the way his pulse flutters like a trapped bird.

His hands slide up your back, slow and reverent, fingers tracing the lines of your spine through the borrowed shirt.

“You feel so good,” he breathes. “You always do, but—like this—it’s just…”

His voice trails off as you grind your hips just a little.

And he whimpers.

Not loud. Not needy. But soft, desperate. Like he’s been imagining this for too long and now he doesn’t know what to do with himself.

“Please,” he whispers, forehead pressed to your collarbone. “Please, I want to touch you. I want—” he pauses, swallows, “—I want to make you feel good. I’ll be gentle, I swear. I’ll be so good to you. Just—please.”

He’s rambling and he doesn’t even realize it. You can feel how tense he is beneath you, like he’s trying so hard not to rush, trying to be respectful even as he melts into you.

You pull back, cup his face in your hands, and lean in to kiss him again—slow, deep, full of promise.

“You’re already being good,” you murmur. “Let me take care of you too.”

His breath catches again, and you feel his whole body shiver. His breath stutters as your lips ghost over his again, and this time, the kiss turns hungry.

It starts slow—still careful, still sweet—but you feel the shift in him, the moment that control slips. His hands tighten on your hips, dragging you closer, anchoring you to him like he can’t bear the thought of even an inch of space. His kiss deepens, mouth parting against yours like he’s starving and you’re the only thing he’s ever wanted to taste.

And god—he whimpers again when your hips move.

It’s instinctive, needy, and he hates how fast it’s happening, but he can’t stop. Every part of you is touching him—your thighs bracketing his, your fingers in his hair, your mouth warm and eager against his—and he’s drowning in it.

“You’re killing me,” he breathes, broken, pulling back just enough to press his forehead to yours. “I can’t—” he pants, shivering. “You don’t understand what you do to me.”

“I think I do,” you whisper, rolling your hips slowly.

He shudders so hard you feel it all the way through his thighs.

His fingers slip under the edge of the shirt you’re wearing—his shirt—and he palms the soft skin of your waist like he can’t believe it’s real. His touch is light. Gentle. Like he’s trying to memorize you with his hands.

“I’ve wanted you for so long,” he says, voice wrecked. “I used to imagine what your skin would feel like… what your voice would sound like when you wanted me.”

You lean in and press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “I want you now.”

He groans, low and quiet, burying his face in your neck.

“Say it again,” he begs, breath hot against your skin. “Please.”

“I want you.”

His hands are trembling now, sliding up your back, across your ribs—still careful, still unsure, like he’s terrified of rushing—but his hips twitch beneath you, and you feel how hard he is. How close he is to completely losing it.

“You don’t know what that does to me,” he murmurs, voice barely a breath. “I’ll do anything. Just—tell me how to touch you. Tell me what you like.”

You guide one of his hands up, resting it just under the swell of your chest, and he looks up at you like you hung the stars in the sky. Like he can’t believe you’d let him touch you this way. That you want him just as much.

His thumb brushes gently over sensitive skin and your breath catches.

His lips part.

“God,” he whispers. “You’re so perfect. I don’t—I don’t deserve you.”

You kiss him hard, cutting that thought off completely, and the way he groans into your mouth—needy, overwhelmed—makes you ache.

Every touch is worship. Every kiss is a confession. He’s so hopelessly in love with you that it hurts.

You’re both breathing hard now—sweaty, flushed, your bodies pressed so close you can feel every twitch and tremble in him. His hands are everywhere: your waist, your back, the soft slope of your ribs, like he can’t decide where he wants to touch you most.

And he keeps whispering the same thing between kisses:

“You’re so beautiful.”

“You feel like a dream.”

“I can’t believe this is real.”

Your fingers slide under his hoodie, tracing the defined lines of his stomach, and he makes the softest sound when you dip lower. You feel him jerk slightly beneath you, the tension coiling in his thighs, the way his whole body is screaming please.

“Wait,” he pants, eyes fluttering open, dazed and flushed. “I—hold on—just a second.”

You freeze, searching his face. “Are you okay?”

He nods, still breathless. “Yeah. Yeah, I just—I think I have—hold on.”

He gently lifts you off his lap, just enough to shift, then starts patting around the oversized hoodie pocket. When he doesn’t find it there, he leans sideways off the bench and grabs for his drawstring gym bag. You watch, biting your lip as he unzips the front pouch with fumbling fingers.

He lets out the softest, most sheepish groan when he pulls out a small foil packet.

“You keep one in your bag?” you ask, raising an eyebrow, amused.

His ears turn scarlet. “I—it’s not like I planned anything, I swear. Noya put it in there, like, months ago. He said something about me being ‘a late bloomer’ and that I should be prepared. I forgot it was even there.”

You’re trying not to laugh, but it’s adorable. He’s adorable. All awkward and desperate and blushing while holding a condom like it’s about to combust in his hand.

“I’m really glad he did,” you say, voice low, leaning back into him.

His eyes meet yours again, darker now, wide with awe and want. “Me too.”

And just like that, the humor melts into heat again. His hand finds your hip as you straddle him once more, mouths meeting in a kiss that’s messier this time—hotter, needier, deeper. You reach for the hem of the hoodie and start to tug it up, and he lifts his arms instinctively, watching you like he’s witnessing something sacred.

The moonlight washes over you both—soft silver glow, bare skin, deep shadows.

Asahi looks at you like you’re holy.

And when your fingers trail down his chest, your mouth following suit, he exhales like he’s letting go of something heavy.

“Please,” he whispers again. “Let me love you.”

He’s panting into your mouth when you finally murmur against his lips, “Not here.”

Asahi stills, blinking like it takes him a second to understand.

You glance toward the row of hotel rooms just off the porch—still quiet, but not private. If anyone wandered out for a water bottle or a midnight snack, they’d catch you straddling your teammate, red-faced and wrecked-looking, a condom in his hand.

He follows your gaze and immediately nods, face flushed. “Right. Yeah. Shit.”

You slip off his lap, legs shaky, giggling quietly when he groans at the loss of you.

“C’mere,” you whisper, reaching for his hand.

He follows like it’s instinct. Like he couldn’t say no if he tried.

You lead him down the hall on quiet, quick feet, barefoot and grinning like you’re both in high school and about to get caught sneaking out. You pause at your door—the extra room they gave you when one of the assistant managers dropped out last minute, leaving a spare. You’d been staying there alone all week.

But not anymore.

You push the door open and step inside, glancing over your shoulder.

Asahi’s standing just outside the threshold, hesitating, his big frame backlit by the hallway light. His hair’s messy, lips kiss-swollen, eyes wide with something so deep it knocks the breath out of you.

“Are you sure?” he asks, voice soft. “You can still say no. I—I mean it.”

You reach for him, fingers curling into the front of his hoodie.

“I’m sure.”

And that’s all it takes.

He steps inside and shuts the door behind him.

The moment it clicks closed, you’re in his arms again, his mouth back on yours like he couldn’t bear another second without it. But now there’s urgency in him—soft desperation, the kind that only comes from wanting something for so long it aches.

He walks you backward until the backs of your knees hit the bed. You sink into the mattress with a gasp, and he follows—hovering over you, braced on his forearms, kissing you like it’s the only thing keeping him alive.

He pulls back, chest heaving, lips parted.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs. “I don’t know what I did to deserve this. To deserve you.”

You cup his face, brushing your thumb along the edge of his jaw. “You’re everything, Asahi.”

And god—the way his eyes soften. The way he looks at you like he’s about to cry and fall apart and explode all at once.

He kisses you again. Deeper. Slower.

Then his hands start to wander.

He takes his time, even though you’re both already trembling with how badly you want it—touching you like every inch of your skin deserves to be known and remembered. Like he’s been holding back for years, and now that he has you, he’s never letting go.

And when his fingers skim beneath the waistband of your shorts, when you arch into him and whisper his name—he breaks.

He finds the foil packet again with shaky hands.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers, voice rough and full of love. “Just let me show you.”

The foil packet glints in his hand before he sets it gently on the nightstand. His hands are already returning to you—tentative but aching, thumbs brushing along your waist where his hoodie has ridden up. You feel him hesitate, like he’s asking permission with his touch.

You nod, and he breathes out something that’s not quite a moan, not quite a prayer.

He tugs the hoodie up slowly, like he’s unwrapping something precious. His eyes trail every inch of skin as it’s revealed, wide and reverent, and when the fabric slips over your head and off your arms, he just stares.

“God,” he whispers. “You’re unreal.”

You move to sit up, reaching for the hem of his shirt next. He freezes when your fingers brush his stomach, and when you pull the hoodie off him, he lifts his arms obediently, eyes locked on yours.

His skin is warm and flushed, a dusting of hair across his chest that makes your fingers itch to explore. You run your hands along his torso, and he shivers—visibly—biting his lip so hard it goes pale.

Then your fingers drift lower, brushing the waistband of his shorts, and he chokes on a breath.

“Can I…?” you ask softly, voice low.

He nods immediately. “Please. Anything.”

You help him out of the gym shorts, slow and careful, and when he’s left in just his boxers, you lean forward and press a soft kiss to his stomach. He gasps—shudders—hands threading through your hair like he’s trying not to melt.

His voice is wrecked when he whispers, “Your turn.”

You nod, guiding his hands to your waistband. They’re shaking. He looks up at you one last time, and you smile.

“I trust you.”

He exhales hard, then slides your shorts down your legs with reverent fingers. His touch is gentle—never hurried, never rough—like he’s scared you’ll vanish if he moves too fast.

And now you’re both nearly bare, tangled in the moonlight, hearts racing loud enough to fill the room. The silence is soft and heavy between you.

But he still hesitates when his hand skims your thigh and brushes just below your clit.

“I don’t want to mess anything up,” he says, his voice so quiet it’s barely there.

You take his hand, guiding it where you want him most, and whisper, “You won’t.”

He groans—low and full of need—his body arching toward yours like gravity itself is pulling him down.

Then he kisses you again, deeper than before, his fingers tightening on your waist. You feel the length of him press against you, hot and hard and barely restrained.

And when you whisper his name, soft and pleading—he finally breaks.

Your breath hitches when his fingers skim further down—tentative at first, like he still can’t quite believe he’s allowed to touch you like this. You shift beneath him, hips rolling gently in encouragement, and his mouth drops open when his fingertips brush against your leeb.

You're already so warm. So soft.

“Asahi,” you whisper, your voice wrapping around his name like silk. “It’s okay.”

He presses his forehead to yours like he’s overwhelmed. “I just… I don’t wanna hurt you.”

“You won’t,” you promise, guiding his hand again. “I want you.”

The way he exhales—like he’s relieved, like he’s unraveling—is enough to make your heart ache.

He kisses you then—deep, slow, his lips trembling—and gently slips one finger past the feeble ring of resistance your needy hole gave.

You gasp into his mouth, your back arching, and he stills immediately.

“Too much?” he asks, panicked. “I can stop—”

“No,” you breathe. “It’s perfect.”

He moans, soft and broken, eyes fluttering closed as he starts to move—slow, careful, completely entranced by the way you cling to him.

“You’re so tight,” he whispers, voice raw. “So warm. You’re gonna ruin me.”

He curls his finger just right and you whimper, hips grinding against his palm. The sound you make tears a quiet groan from his throat, and he presses a kiss to your jaw, your neck, your shoulder—anywhere he can reach.

“Let me do more,” he begs, so full of want it hurts. “Please.”

You nod, too breathless to speak, and he slips in a second finger, watching your face like it’s the most important thing he’s ever seen. His fingers were larger than yours—that much you can tell. How the hell could you take him if you were breaking around his fat fingers?

Your mouth falls open, eyes fluttering, and he melts.

“You’re so perfect,” he murmurs. “So good. I want to make you feel everything.”

His thumb brushes gently against your throbbing clit, and when your thighs twitch around his hips, he loses it just a little—hips jerking, breath ragged.

“You don’t know what you do to me,” he says, eyes glassy, voice almost slurred with adoration.

He curls his fingers again and watches you fall apart beneath him—soft moans, flushed skin, your name gasped on his lips like a prayer.

And when you start to tremble, when your hands grab for his shoulders and you grind into his touch like you can’t help it—

He knows he’s never going to be the same again.

Your walls clench around his fingers as he moves deeper, slower, more deliberate—his lips still brushing your jaw, your neck, your shoulder, like he needs to ground himself in your skin. Every tiny sound you make goes straight to his head.

But it’s the way your hips start to roll into his hand—desperate and uncontrolled—that makes him completely lose it.

“Asahi—” you gasp, voice cracking, “Fuck! A..ah please—I’m—so close—”

He shudders, thumb circling against your clit more vigorously than before, his breath stuttering in your ear. “Please,” he whispers, “please let me see it. I want to see you fall apart. I want—everything.”

And when you break—when your body tenses, your thighs twitching, your back arching off the mattress as his name spills from your lips in the sweetest, most unrestrained moan he’s ever heard—

He loses his mind.

His fingers slow but don’t stop, working you through it gently while his eyes drink you in.

Your flushed chest, the tremble in your legs, your mouth parted in pleasure, your brows pulled together so beautifully—he’s never seen anything like it. Not in real life. Not even in dreams.

“You’re—” he starts, but he has to stop. His voice cracks.

He presses his forehead to your collarbone, overwhelmed. “You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

He slides his fingers out carefully, tenderly, like he’s handling something sacred. Your body’s still shaking from the aftershocks, and he holds you through them, murmuring your name like a promise.

Then he looks at you again.

The softness in your eyes. The way you’re still catching your breath. The dazed, blissful smile on your lips.

And it hits him all over again—how much he loves you. How far gone he is. How there’s no going back.

“You’re perfect,” he breathes.

Asahi’s breathing is uneven as he slowly pulls his fingers away from your sopping hole—slick, shining, trembling just slightly as he lifts them to look. And then, like he can’t help himself, like he has to know—

He brings them to his lips and tastes you.

A soft groan leaves his throat the second he does. His eyes flutter closed, and his shoulders tense, like the pleasure of it nearly knocks the wind out of him.

“God,” he whispers, licking them clean. “You taste so good.”

You just stare—heat rushing to your face as he looks down at you like he’s never wanted anything more in his entire life. You’ve never felt so shy in your life.

He leans over you again, slow and heavy with tension, pressing a kiss to your temple as his hands brace beside your head.

“You’re okay?” he murmurs. “Still good?”

You nod, pulling him closer. “I need you.”

He breathes out hard, almost like he’s in pain. Then he kisses you again—deep and sweet, the taste of you still lingering on his tongue as he shifts against your body.

When his hips press against yours, you feel him. All of him.

And holy hell.

You reach down instinctively, and your fingers wrap around the outline of him through his boxers. You feel his whole body jolt.

“Asahi,” you breathe, “you’re… you’re huge.”

His face flushes deep red, and he gives a sheepish, strained laugh. “Is… that okay?”

You bite your lip, heart racing, and nod. “Yeah. I just—god.”

His breath is ragged as he nudges his boxers down, baring himself completely to you. And when you finally see him, your jaw drops.

He’s thick, long, flushed a deep shade of pink at the tip. His hands tremble a little as he kneels between your legs, trying to breathe.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he says again, voice tight. “Are you… ready? Can you take me?”

You look up at him—nervous, sure, but aching for him. The stretch will be intense, you know that, but…

You reach for him, pulling him down until his forehead rests against yours.

“I want all of you,” you whisper. “Even if I can’t take it all at once… I want to try.”

He groans—low and desperate—and kisses you like he’s about to give you everything.

Because he is.

Your fingers wrap around him, slow and steady as you guide the condom over his length. He twitches in your palm, hips stuttering like he has to move or he’ll combust.

“God,” he whispers, voice breaking. “I don’t think I’ve ever been this hard.”

You glance down at him—thick and flushed, resting heavy in your hand—and you can feel the nerves starting to crawl up your spine. He’s just that huge.

And he’s watching you like you’ve hung the stars.

You ease him back onto the mattress until he’s against the headboard, legs spread, hands clutching the blankets at his sides. His breath is shaky. His pupils blown wide. When you straddle his lap, his hands immediately rise to your hips—but he doesn’t grip. He waits.

He lets you take control.

You reach down and guide him to your soaked hole, and the moment the thick head presses against you, you freeze—not from fear, but from the sheer pressure of it.

You’re already soaked from how badly you want him, but it doesn’t matter.

He’s just that big.

“Asahi,” you breathe, heart racing, “I don’t… I don’t know if I can—”

“You don’t have to,” he blurts, face already flushed. “We can stop— I can stop—”

“No,” you pant, gripping his shoulders. “I want to. I just—god, you’re so thick.”

He groans, head tipping back, hips twitching beneath you even as he tries to stay still. His hands grip the sheets like if he touches you, he’ll snap.

You start to sink down, slowly, feeling the wide stretch as your walls part around him. It burns. Not in a bad way—but in a way that makes you dizzy, like you’re being filled too deep already, and you’re only halfway.

You gasp and stop, shaking slightly, thighs already trembling.

“Fuck, Asahi—”

“I’ve got you,” he says immediately, voice wrecked. “You’re doing so good—so good—do you want to stop?”

You shake your head, biting your lip, eyes fluttering shut.

“I want to take you.”

He whimpers—actually whimpers—as you slowly lower yourself another inch.

You can feel every pulse of him inside you, feel your walls stretch to accommodate the sheer size of him. It's intense. He feels everywhere, impossibly thick, and your body’s struggling to take him all in.

“You’re so—tight,” he rasps, “you’re—squeezing me so hard—”

You exhale shakily, forehead pressing to his. “I’ve never felt anything like this before.”

“You don’t have to take it all,” he whispers, desperate. “Just—just what you can. I don’t care. You’re already—perfect.”

You shift your hips slightly, adjusting, and his hands fly to your thighs—but still, he doesn’t move. He just holds you, helping ground you through the stretch.

Another inch.

Then another.

Until you're almost seated fully, and it feels like he's in your stomach.

Your breathing is ragged. Your whole body trembles. But Asahi looks like he’s ascending.

“You’re taking me so good,” he groans, voice gone hoarse. “You’re so good—I don’t deserve this, I don’t—”

“You… fuck— y…you deserve everything,” you whisper, and finally, finally, you sink the last bit down.

You’re shaking in his lap, overwhelmed by fullness, heart pounding like you just ran a marathon—but his hands steady you, warm and careful, lips brushing your temple as he holds back every urge to move.

You’re stuffed, stretched, and aching—and completely addicted to the way he looks at you.

Like you’re his whole damn world.

You stay still at first, breathing hard, trying to get used to the overwhelming fullness. Your cunt flutters around him, adjusting, and he lets out a long, low groan—his fingers pressing into your thighs like he’s barely holding on.

“I—” his voice is hoarse, desperate, “I can feel everything.”

You give a soft, breathless laugh, but even that feels shaky. “You’re—you’re so deep…”

His hands trail up your waist like he’s memorizing the shape of you. “You’re doing so good,” he says again, almost like a prayer. “So good for me.”

You rock your hips—barely—and his entire body shudders beneath you.

Your pussy clenches again at the stretch, but this time there’s pleasure beneath the burn. Your hands settle on his chest as you lift yourself just an inch or two, then slide back down.

Asahi’s head falls back with a broken moan. “Pretty girl—“

You do it again—slow and shaky, still adjusting—but the way he reacts to every tiny movement makes it impossible not to keep going. His breath comes out in harsh, stuttering gasps, hands trembling as he resists the urge to move for you.

“I’m gonna lose my mind,” he pants. “You’re squeezing me—feels so good, you feel so good—“

You bite your lip and start to ride him in earnest—lifting and rolling your hips in slow, deliberate motions. It’s still a stretch, still intense, but the pleasure is blooming now. Deep and full and raw.

Your cunt hugs every inch of him as you start to find a rhythm, your thighs burning from the effort, your breath catching with every slow thrust down.

“Asahi—” you whisper, “you’re so big—so full—“

His eyes snap open, dazed and wild, looking up at you like you’re a dream.

“You’re beautiful,” he chokes out. “I—I can’t—”

His hands rise to cup your face like he needs to see you, feel you, hold you.

“You feel like heaven,” he whispers.

You lean in, kissing him slow and romantic/y as you roll your hips again—and that’s when he finally breaks.

He gasps into your mouth, hands gripping your waist, his whole body trembling beneath you as he moans your name over and over, completely gone for you.

And through it all, you keep moving.

Giving him everything.

Taking everything.

And loving every second of the way he falls apart for you.

You're riding him slow, hips rolling in deep, dragging circles, and Asahi is gone.

He’s not even pretending to hold it together anymore—his head tossed back, mouth parted, eyes rolling every time your pussy sinks back down over him. He’s breathing like he’s been running, flushed and sweating, hands roaming your waist like he needs to feel every inch of you to believe this is real.

“Shit,” he gasps as your hips sink again, “I can see myself—look—look, baby—”

You blink through the haze and follow his gaze down to your lower stomach—and your breath catches.

There’s a bulge. Faint, but there. Pressing up from inside you every time you sink all the way down, your insides sucking him in to the base.

“Oh my god,” you whisper. “Is that really—”

“That’s me,” he moans, utterly wrecked. “I’m so deep—I’m so deep—”

Your cunt pulses hard around him, and he jerks, groaning like he’s trying not to cum right then and there.

“Feels too good,” he breathes, wide-eyed and shaking. “You’re so tight, so wet, I can’t—fuck, I can’t think.”

You can feel how full you are, feel the stretch of him inside you every time you move. It’s unbearable in the best way—like your whole body was made to fit around him, like you’re split open and stuffed and loved all at once.

You roll your hips again, deeper this time, and his hands shoot up to cup your waist, trembling. “Don’t stop,” he begs, voice hoarse. “Please don’t stop—I’m already so close—I’ve never felt anything like this—never—”

You lean over him, chest to chest, and his arms wrap around your back instantly, holding you like you’re going to disappear. His hips twitch up into you, just once, and the sound you make shatters him.

“Baby,” he pants, “you’re milking me—your pussy is so good—it’s too good—“

He’s not just hard—he’s pussydrunk. Absolutely gone, so far into you he doesn’t even remember his name.

And still, he looks at you like you’re his everything.

“I love you,” he chokes out, forehead pressed to yours, voice wrecked and raw. “I love you so much—please—please let me cum inside you—”

You're riding him slow, teasing now—hips dragging up until only the tip of him stays inside before you ease down again, just barely, keeping that maddening pressure right where he wants more.

Asahi is begging.

“Please,” he whimpers, eyes glassy, head pressed to your shoulder. “Please let me cum—I’m so close, I can’t—please—“

You pull back enough to look at him, fingers threading into his hair. “You- y-you think you’ve —shit— earned i-it— ah! — already?”

He chokes on a moan, his hands tightening on your hips. “I’m trying—I’m trying so hard—“

“Mmh! T-then be a good boy and — ah! — wait.”

His whole body trembles. You feel his cock throb inside your core, and you don’t let him thrust—not even a little. Just keep rocking, slow and deep and frustratingly controlled, even as he sobs softly into your skin.

“You feel too good,” he gasps, hips twitching like he’s fighting himself. “I can’t think—baby, I can’t—“

“Hold it,” you whisper into his ear, voice thick with power and affection. “You said you’d-you’d — ngh! — be a g-good bbboyy for me, r-right? Shit!”

He nods desperately, but the second you tighten around him—just slightly—he snaps.

With a broken, gasping sob, his hands fly to your waist and he forces you down, burying himself all the way to the hilt in one uncoordinated thrust.

You squeal—your cunt clenches hard, the bulge in your stomach pressing impossibly full—and it sets off a chain reaction neither of you can stop.

“Asahi—!”

He cries out as he cums, the orgasm hitting him so violently his whole body arches. His cock throbs inside you, pulsing with wave after wave of heat as your own climax crashes down right behind his.

Your legs tremble. Your walls flutter. The fullness, the stretch, the feel of him losing it inside you—it pushes you over the edge so hard you can’t even breathe.

And Asahi’s sobbing.

“I’m sorry,” he gasps, still buried deep, his arms wrapped around you like he’s scared you’ll pull away. “I couldn’t—I tried—you felt too good—I’m sorry—“

You lean in, kiss the corner of his mouth, and roll your hips again.

He gasps, jerking beneath you, and his cock—still painfully hard—twitches again, already sensitive.

“Y-you’re—baby, you’re still—” he gasps.

“Oh, we’re not done,” you whisper, voice wicked against his throat. “You said you wanted to feel everything, right?”

His breath catches.

Then you move again—slow and deep, pussy dragging around him, still pulsing from your orgasm—and he breaks.

You stay there for a moment—both of you catching your breath, skin sticky with sweat, your thighs trembling as you rest against his chest. Asahi's arms are still tight around your waist like he’s grounding himself with your body.

Eventually, you shift, gently easing yourself off of him.

He lets out a soft whimper at the sensitivity, hips twitching as his softening cock slips from your cunt. You reach down, fingers brushing his overstimulated length, and start to carefully peel the condom off.

He blinks at you through the haze, dazed and flushed. “W-wait… why are you taking it off already?”

You glance up at him, lips tugging into a lazy smile. “Because I don’t need it.”

His eyes widen, brain still catching up. “Huh?”

You tie the condom neatly, toss it into the small bin beside the bed, then turn back to him—naked, glowing, still pulsing with heat. You lean down, your mouth brushing against his ear.

“I’m on birth control,” you murmur, soft but deliberate. “So next time… you don’t have to pull out.”

He short-circuits right there, his cheeks flaming as his breath catches in his throat.

“N-next time?” he echoes, voice cracking.

You just smile, fingers raking through his sweat-damp hair. “Oh, baby. You didn’t think I’d let you off with one round, did you?”

59 notes · View notes

fruittt-punchhh · 11 months ago

Text

Pop My Cherry!

all parts

Synopsis: your dad’s best friend is none other than Toji Fushiguro, and you can’t help but wonder what he could do with his hands.

Characters: Toji Fushiguro x reader. Choso Kamo is mentioned, not a major part of the story.

Content: Minors Do Not Interact! afab! reader, fem! reader, dad’s best friend! Toji, suggestiveness, cursing, inexperienced (ish) reader, reader is a virgin but has done things ya know, reader smokes weed, alcohol usage, pet/affectionate names, no smut yet 🫶

Word Count: 2.2k-ish

Notes: friends!!! This is my first ever smut! Pls be nice🫶 if you have any suggestions, comments, advice, PLEASE feel free to let me know!! I hope you enjoy hehe. (filthy smut if you’re down for that in pt. 2 trust) excuse any typos, proofread a bunch but I’m also human. 💖

It had been a terribly long week already, and it was only Thursday. You were on spring break from university, and you had spent most of the week catching up on overdue assignments.

You were staying with your father, as well as your brother, and your father’s best friend. He had a condo at the beach that wasn’t too far from your university, so it worked out well.

You had just finished your final essay for philosophy 200, closing your laptop with a snap! as you rub your eyes. It was nearing 3:30 a.m. but you still felt so much residual stress from the paper. You had a joint ready and waiting for you, and a hit or two couldn’t hurt, right? Enough so you could relax, maybe grab a snack, and hit the hay. You open your bedroom window, creeping out onto the balcony to let your worries fade away.

————————————————————————

You throw your leg over the window sill, trying to keep your balance. You lowkey had the munchies so you head to the kitchen before you retire for the night. Until you are met with a surprise.

Your father’s friend (you think his last name was Fushiguro?) has been gone all week for “work”. You noticed him coming in at odd hours of the night, looking worse for wear.

“What are you starin’ at, doll?” Toji says as he looks for a shirt in the laundry room.

You feel your cheeks turn red as you try to quickly avert your eyes. You wore nothing but a large t-shirt as you crept into the kitchen, hoping you wouldn’t wake your father.

You thought you heard Toji come in maybe an hour earlier, but you couldn’t know for sure. Here he stood, fresh out of the shower with nothing but a small towel wrapped around his waist. His dark hair was dripping down his back and he still looked as if he was radiating heat from the shower he just took (or was that you?) It was all of a sudden much too warm in the kitchen for your liking.

“S-sorry, I was just grabbing a snack. I’ll be quick,” you stammer. You had only ever seen Toji a few times, and you didn’t remember him to be this… attractive? You didn’t know if that was even the right word. In this moment, you felt attracted to him, sure. But you also felt small and helpless. As if he could pierce through you with his gaze alone. You truly didn’t mean to stare, but you also didn’t expect anyone else to be in the kitchen at 4 a.m., either.

He interrupts you with a smirk, “What’s the rush? It’s y/n, right? Grab me a beer out of the fridge while you’re at it, girl”

If you thought your cheeks couldn’t be any redder, you were wrong. You felt the crimson blush cover your ears as you turned around to look for a beer in the fridge. There was a (beer brand here) in the back on the bottom shelf. You tried to bend at your knees as to be discreet, but you could have sworn you heard Toji clearing his throat as you did so.

Toji slipped on a pair of black boxer briefs as you grabbed him a beer like the sweet girl you are. He felt as if the wind was knocked out of him when he saw you bend down, searching the fridge for his drink. Call him crazy, but he could’ve sworn you weren’t wearing any panties. He quickly ran the towel through his hair, trying to ignore the rush of blood he felt surging to his dick.

You grabbed the beer, as well as an apple for yourself. You walked over to Toji, and he took the beer from you with a ‘thanks’. He popped off the cap with his molars and took a big swig. You watched as the beer dripped down his chin and over his adam’s apple. You also noticed the scar covering his pretty lips.

Your eyes wandered as he finished his beer surprisingly quickly. He would usually come home covered in a mixture of dirt, sweat, and sometimes blood. Apparently, underneath the dirt and grime was a body that was sculpted by the gods. Everything about him was so big. His huge tits pecs and his ripped abdomen. His biceps were bigger than your head and his hands, oh god, his hands. They were riddled with callouses and he had short, bitten nails. His fingers were so thick and you started to imagine what it would be like to feel them on your body.

Your temperature rose as the lewd thoughts entered your mind. This is your father’s best friend! Although he was a a few years younger than your dad, he was still much too old for you. Not only that, but you were still (unfortunately) a virgin. And not for a lack of trying! You were double majoring in psychology and philosophy, so most of your limited leisure time was spent smoking to relax, or hanging out with your small group of friends on the weekends. Sure, you had masturbated plenty of times, and you’ve given the occasional blowjob. But you’ve never quite found the right person at the right time to go all the way with. You never cared much about the label ‘virgin’ until now, feeling like you might have been missing out.

Now, you were standing in the kitchen in the early hours of the morning thinking about what this man could do to you with just his fingers. The thought alone had you squeezing your thighs together, trying to give yourself any relief from the problem you’ve created.

“You know it’s rude to stare, right y/n? Especially after I asked you a question, doll”

Yet again, he’s caught you off guard. I mean seriously, how old were you? You felt like a teenage boy who had just seen his first pair of tits. You need to pull yourself together so you can get out of here as soon as possible. You didn’t know how long you would be able to hold it together without making it quite obvious that internally, you were aching.

“Shit, I’m sorry! I was lost in a train of thought, I-I guess. What was the question?” Hopefully he doesn’t catch on to your half-lie.

Toji pulls a black compression tee over his torso, giving you a moment to collect yourself finally. He throws the beer in the trash and steps into the light of the kitchen alongside you.

He flashes a toothy smile at you, “You should watch that language. Pretty girls don’t go around saying things like that. And I asked you what the hell you were doing up so late.”

Pretty girls? Did you hear him correctly? He could just be saying things to get you to squirm, and if that was his goal, it was working all too well. You hope his smile was out of politeness, but you knew enough about Toji from your father to know that this man did not have a polite bone in his body. It seemed almost as if he was teasing you?

“S-Sorry about the language, I’m just tired. I’ve been working on my philosophy paper for the last few hours and I just wanted a snack before I went to bed,” you admitted truthfully.

Toji rolled his eyes, smirking at your statement, “God, that sounds so fucking boring. I’m surprised you finished it, I woulda given up hours ago.”

You smiled at his honesty. You knew that your paper topic ‘the perception of personal space’ and your other assignments on morals and judgement were not everyone’s cup of tea. “It’s actually quite interesting, it’s about the concept of how one perceives personal space, but I definitely wanted to call it quits a few times. I’m just glad I can sleep in tomorrow.” You admit with a grin. Despite his blasé attitude, a part of you thought he might actually be listening (at least a little bit).

All he heard was bla bla bla. It seems interesting enough, if you have absolutely nothing else going on in your life. How could you even write two sentences on personal space, let alone an essay? “If it’s that fucking interesting, then why are you in here looking like a walking corpse? Have you seen those bags under your eyes? You need the sleep more than I do, hun.”

Well damn. You didn’t think it was that bad, especially not enough for some old man to point out. You had been staying up most nights trying to catch up on your work, and you could sleep in anyways. But each morning you found yourself awake at 7 a.m. on the dot, still cursed by the rigidity of your usual school routine.

“I’ve just been behind, so I’m trying to catch up while I have the free time.”

Toji peers at you and scratches his head, “Why the fuck are you doing school work on spring break, anyway? Aren’t ya’ supposed to be at the beach getting wasted with your girlfriends?”

While you admit that would be fun, there was just no time for it this year. You were in the last semester of your senior year, and you were graduating with top honors. You had to keep up the good work so you could hopefully be accepted into graduate school in the fall.

“I mean it’d be fun sure, but smoking is more my thing anyways. I like relaxing after all my work is done, so I’d rather stay here and get caught up while I can, ya’know?”

How cute. Look at you trying to be a good little student. It would almost be admirable if it didn’t make his stomach churn at how sickly sweet it was.

“That’s good, doll. Keep it up and you’ll be making big bucks just like me, yeah? What are you wanting to go to school for anyways, to be a fuckin’ therapist or some shit?”

Everyone thought you wanted to be a therapist, but truth be told, that profession couldn’t be more off your radar. You had enough problems of your own to deal with, and you certainly didn’t need to hear other people’s on top of that.

“I’m not going to school to be a therapist actually; I really want to be a professor one day. What do you do for work anyways? You always look like you just came home from war or some-“

He cuts you off before you can land a joke at his expense. Toji’s profession wasn’t the best topic for conversation, given that his line of work was very hush-hush.

“You’re cute. Next question.”

Cute?? At this point you felt like he was toying with you. But you did have another question for him.

“How come I can’t say ‘shit’ but you can say whatever you want? I’m grown, aren’t I?”

Toji shifted towards you. You stood in the door frame between the kitchen and the hallway, your apple untouched. You were too busy thinking of what to say next to the large, burly man that was suddenly peering over you. He came to the doorframe, throwing one hand on top of it. At this point, he was towering over you. His shadow cascading over you as you felt yourself shrink into the background. Toji glared at you with his velvet green eyes and a smug grin was plastered across his face. You felt his hand grasp your chin, forcing you to look up at him. Your neck was strained as you attempted to make eye contact with the taller man.

“Can’t you hear woman? I said pretty girls don’t go around saying shit like that. Do I look like a pretty girl to you?” He says as he inches closer to your face. You could smell the beer wafting from his mouth. But the smell was quickly overrun by the rest of him. He smelled like pine, cheap liquor, and…cinnamon? Suddenly, the grip on your chin tightens. His hands are so large, he’s even starting to squish your cheeks, making you look like an absolute fool underneath him.

“I asked you a question, princess.”

The name throws you off guard, but for some reason, you’re not upset.

“S-sorry, no y-you don’t look like a pretty girl. Of course not, m-my bad.”

“That’s what I thought, y/n.”

Toji spits as he releases his grasp on you, standing straight and stretching his arms as he lets out a yawn. He smelled the weed all over you and could tell how flustered you got from your little interaction. He grabs the apple from your hand, taking a huge bite which in turn means you only have about half an apple left. He hands you back your snack, pats your head then saunters over to the couch, plopping down with a grunt. He grabs the remote and turns it to some wrestling show he always watched.

You look at him, confused. You weren’t even staring this time. You were simply dumbfounded at the interaction you two just had. Surely that can’t be it, right? He’s just going to watch tv after he had you literally in the palm of his hand? (and he ate half of my fucking apple)

You move to turn the lights off, and you put your apple in the trash. Your appetite for food was long gone. You quietly walk out of the kitchen into the dim hallway. Toji calls your name, startling you.

“Sleep tight, doll.”

pt. 2

308 notes · View notes

red40overdose · 8 months ago

Note

hey baaabe, can you maybe write tae or jimin falling for oc whos also an idol but they cant really show it to anyone? 🥹

A/N: I will write Tae with a proper secret relationship but for now I present to you……

IDYLLIC

IDOL!JIMIN X IDOL!GN!READER

Synopsis: Jimin has a rule. A code if you will. Under no circumstances will he ever date another idol. He's lived by it for many years. Not once has he ever been close to breaking it. Until he met you that is.

W/C: 2.2k

WARNING: Jimin struggling with his feelings slight angst

REQUESTS: OPEN

It wasn't ideal. In an industry like Jimins you don't have time for relationships. A lot of the time you don't even have the mental energy. There was too much to work around.

You don't want to date a fan. They already have a version of you built up in their head. One that would quickly prove itself untrue.

If you do manage to find someone who doesn't know who you are that too can become a disaster. Paparazzi lurk behind every corner. The whole relationship is forced into secrecy. It could ruin your career, it could ruin your partner's life. It isn't good for a relationship. Most people need more. They want to go out on dates. They want normalcy, not to be hidden deep in a closet like dirty laundry.

There were other idols… one look at an idol of the opposite sex and the media would be pumping out articles about a secret love affair. Every week someone would come up to Jimin asking about an idol he hadn't even spoken to.

That was only part of it. Companies would clash. Some companies would push a narrative to try and profit off it.

In the Idol industry, two idols dating was taboo. Some sort of curse that ran rampant through the industry. People would talk behind their backs. Send sympathetic looks to the poor souls that fell victim to it. It was hard as an idol not to fall for another. Idols ended up being around other idols quite a bit. People have needs and when you're surrounded by attractive people it's hard not to go seeking comfort.

Another idol would know what you're going through. They could understand things regular people never could.

But it always ended badly. The media loved it. It was a drama that kept people clicking. So the cameras kept flashing.

So Jimin did the sensible thing. He swore off dating. Of course, every now and then he would find himself in someone's bed. But it never was more than that.

He would risk his and his members career on a scandal. Jimin knew he wouldn't be able to balance a relationship and everything else like Namjoon does. He would slip up when he knew he would. It was easier to just not even try. It was better this way.

For a long time it worked. Jimin managed. He wasn't tempted. He was good.

Until you waltzed into his life. It was at a photoshoot. You were also set to get photographed by the same photographer.

Your shot was before his. As luck would have it, Jimin had arrived early and the staff invited him back.

He had seen you before. Your face was plastered over posters and billboards all across Seoul. None of it could compare to you in real life. None of them, not even the best photos that got the front page of magazines, came close to capturing all of you.

Jimin couldn't tear his eyes away from you as you posed. Your eyes strayed from the camera and settled on him for one brief flickering moment and that's all it took for Jimin to know he was a goner.

Then as if you hadn't even seen him at all your eyes settled back on the camera. Jimin hightailed it out of there and into the break room.

Water. He needed water. That's it, he was probably just dehydrated. Jin was always getting on his case about drinking more water. Something to drink and he would be just fine.

He had just cracked open the bottle and was about to take a sip when he heard you.

“Hey it's Jimin right?”

Slowly almost like a scene out of a movie Jimin turned. Only a few feet behind him there you were. Still in all the glam required for the photoshoot, obviously you had just finished. Jimin swallowed dryly, wishing he had drunk the water already. His tongue was sticking to the rook of his mouth. He managed one shaky nod.

“I'm Y/N.”

“I know.” Great, he had finally managed to say something and he sounded like an asshole.

You took it in stride, or maybe you just hadn't noticed

“Sorry for making you wait. Had some wardrobe issues so we went a little over time,” You said sheepishly.

Then as if it was the most natural thing in the world you reached around him and grabbed one of the water bottles on the counter.

Instantly your scent surrounded Jimin. His breath hitched before he settled on just holding his breath. This close he could see the rise and fall of your chest with each breath. He could see the smallest crease in your eye makeup, probably from laughing.

You leaned back like nothing had happened at all. Like you hadn't just thrown Jimin's code and way of life out the window. You hadn't noticed a thing at all.

Jimin's photo shoot didn't go as well as they usually did. His mind was elsewhere, his poses a little sloppy as he tried to listen to the staff. But everything just felt like static noise.

Ever since then you seemed to be everywhere. Or maybe Jimin was just now noticing your presence.

You were at every party. Every formal event. Always dressed exquisitely. Always looking perfect. Always distracting him.

The rest of his members took notice. They would cast each other looks every time Jimin's eyes strayed back to you.

Jimin tried his hardest not to think of you. To cast every thought of you from his mind. He would turn off the T.V if you came on screen. He would turn off his phone every time you were trending.

Yet everywhere he went. You were there. When he got seated next to you in a fashion stone all he could do was sit stone still. He listened to you gush about the pieces with your friend and it just made everything ten times worse.

Occasionally you would turn to Jimin and try to make small talk. Everytime you two were in the vicinity of him you tried to talk to him. Maybe you were just being polite but Jimin couldn't help but relish in it.

It was so unnatural for him. Jimin was used to making others flustered, not the other way around. He just had that effect, yet this time all of it was turned around on him.

All of it came to its peak on New Year's eve. Hoseok had insisted on throwing a party. Only certain people were invited. Mostly other Idols the group trusted and some personal friends.

You made an appearance. Something Jungkook who had made the guest list failed to mention.

You were beautifully done up and hanging off the arm of one of your friends. The two of you looked so comfortable together. You fit into that spot so perfectly Jimin started to wonder if the two of you were dating.

The thought made him so uncomfortable that he had to turn away. Jimin just missed the look Jungkook gave him.

Jimin poured himself a drink, the first one of the night.

“You alright man?” Jungkook asked.

“Yeah why?” Jimin took a sip and winced at the sharp taste of alcohol and way to sweet juice. Damn Taehyung and his strange drink concoctions.

“I dunno. Lately you've seemed…” Jungkook paused, not sure how to put it, “Strange. You know you can talk to me right? Any of us?”

He wanted to. So badly. He wanted to ramble endlessly about you. How you always managed to look so perfect. How you helped the staff that one time you spilt a drink. How you always kept a calm composure when something clearly ticked you off. How he thought about you every waking hour.

But he couldn't. They all knew about his code. How he felt about dating, especially dating another idol.

Jimin was afraid that he would agree. They would tell him it wasn't a good idea. Not worth the trouble. And then he wouldn't. Because he respected the options of his members, even if it killed him inside.

Yet he was also afraid they would tell him to stop being stupid. To go for it. That even if it ends horribly at least he had you. Even if it was for a little bit. If they held that opinion… Jimin didn't know what he would do.

So he settled on “I'm fine, just stressed about this next album.”

Jimin could tell Jungkook didn't buy it. Not even for a second. Not wanting to be questioned, Jimin slinked off to go find Jin and to avoid you.

He managed well. Jin was in the kitchen over seeing Taehyung's new drink ideas.

You were easy to avoid. Jimin could easily spot your form in the crowd. Pick out your laugh in the cacophony of voices.

Halfway through the party Namjoon came and found him, “Hey Min can you go grab the bottle of tequila I left out on the balcony? My hands are kind of full.”

Namjoon gestured with an arm full of coats. Jimin didn't even notice that most of the coats were the groups, which had already been started away in their respective closets.

“Oh so it's a tequila kind of party?” Jimin said with a smirk before he pushed himself away from the counter.

He worked his way through the crowd before he reached the glass doors leading out to the balcony. Jimin spotted the bottle, sitting on the patio table. He slipped out to quickly grab it.

But what he failed to notice was you, arms crossed and leaning over the balcony. Gazing up at the stars.

Jimin noticed you only a split second before you turned around.

“Oh hey Jimin,” you greeted. It was too late now for him to scamper back into the party.

“Hey. What are you doing out here?”

“Oh you know. Just needed a break from the party.”

Jimin hummed in acknowledgement.

“Care to join me?” You turned back around to look at the night sky once more.

“Well Namjoon asked me to-” Jimin looked over his shoulder back at the glass doors. What he saw cut his sentence short.

Yoongi was staring at him with a devious little smirk. When their eyes met Yoongi reached forward and turned the lock on the door.

God damn him. Jimin gestured widely at Yoongi, willing him to unlock the door. It's not like he could yell out and demand him to. Not with you standing there.

With a cheeky smile and wave Yoongi slinked off into the crowd. Leaving Jimin stranded on the patio with you.

“Do I bother you?” You asked.

Jimin swung back around so quickly he almost gave himself whiplash. You hadn't turned back around but there was a noticeable tension in your shoulders.

“What?” Jimin said bewildered, “No? What makes you say that?”

“It just seems like you've made it your life mission to avoid me.”

Jimin was starting to wish he had accepted the third drink Tae tried to shove into his hands. He could really use the extra liquid courage right now.

Damnit. Jimin thought to himself. Get it together. You're a grown man. Jimin Park.

Jimin breathed out a deep breath and came to rest against the railing with you. His eyes focused on the cityscape in front of you two. He couldn't trust himself to look directly at you. He might jump onto you and never let you go.

“I don't…. Dislike you.”

“Well it sure seems like you do.” You said quietly.

Jimins heart panged. This wasn't what he wanted.

“I'm sorry…”

“Listen. I know we don't know each other. And we don't have to. Let's just be civil? It's hard in this industry.”

No no no. This is NOT what he wanted. Not how he planned this to be. Jimin didn't want to be civil, he wanted to be yours.

“I want to… know you.”

“You don't have to spare my feelings Jimin.”

Jimins head whipped around. You still hadn't looked at him. Your jaw was clenched and your bottom lip was quivering as if you were about to cry.

“I'm not! I'm really not, Y/N I-” Jimin took a deep breathe “I like you. I really do.”

You were silent.

“I don't date…” Jimin said after a moment.

“Oh….Jimin…I really think I like you too… But I don't do hookups.” You said slowly.

“That's not what I meant… I mean usually I don't date. But I can't stop thinking about you. You make me want to throw that rule away and never look back.”

There were some cheers from the party. Then the countdown started.

You turned to face Jimin head on. Your eyes met his for the first time since he came out to the patio.

“Three!”

Jimin swallowed and his eyes flickered down to your lips.

“Two!”

“Jimin. Will you kiss me?”

“One!”

He pressed his lips to yours as cheers echoed out from the party.

#bts army #bts x reader #bts fanfic #bts x fem!reader #bts x male reader #bts headcanons #bts x you #jimin x reader #bts jimin #park jimin #jimin x you #jimin x y/n

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sinful-sonnet · 5 months ago

Text

Whiskey & Wildflowers

Chapter 3

Prev | Next

“Fractured Comforts”

Dbf!Joel miller x f!reader

W/C: 7.7k

Summary: Grieving the loss of your mother, you find unexpected comfort in your father’s best friend, Joel. As you struggle with loneliness and depression, Joel steps in to help you regain stability. Despite the tension of forbidden feelings growing between you, Joel becomes your steady source of support, offering warmth and safety when you feel most lost. The story unfolds as you navigate grief, healing, and the complexities of your connection with him.

Content warnings: grief and loss, mentions of ed, power dynamics, self neglect, depression and isolation, emotional vulnerability, co feelings of attachment, unprotected piv, m orgasm, f orgasm, lmk if I missed anything

—-

Life without your mom felt surreal. The house was quieter, heavier, like the absence of her presence was weighing everything down. Your dad had taken it the hardest. He’d always been the strong one, the one who held everything together, but now he was crumbling in ways you’d never seen before.

You’d stepped up, doing everything you could to keep things running—making meals, cleaning, and trying to keep your dad from completely shutting down. It was exhausting, but you pushed through, telling yourself it’s what your mom would’ve wanted.

Joel and Sarah started coming by more often to help out. Sarah would sit with your dad, trying to distract him with little conversations or even just her presence. Joel, on the other hand, took to fixing things around the house—stuff that didn’t even need fixing, really.

“You’ve done enough,” Joel said one evening when you tried to stop him from working on a squeaky cabinet hinge. “Why don’t you take a break, darlin’? You’ve been runnin’ yourself ragged.”

You shook your head, setting down a pile of laundry. “I can’t, Joel. If I stop, everything’s gonna fall apart.”

Joel gave you a look—soft, but firm. “It won’t. You’re not alone in this, you know. Let us help.”

You sighed but nodded, sinking into a chair. Joel was right, though it didn’t make it any easier to let go of the reins.

Later, Joel sat with your dad, who was nursing a half-empty glass of whiskey at the kitchen table. He hadn’t said much since Joel arrived, and it was starting to worry him.

“I’ve known you a long time,” Joel said, his voice low and steady. “I ain’t ever seen you like this, man. You gotta talk to me.”

Your dad looked up, his eyes tired and red. “What’s there to say, Joel? She’s gone. She was my whole world, and now I don’t even know how to… how to be without her.”

Joel leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. “You got your kid to think about. You ain’t gotta do it alone, but you can’t shut down on her. She needs you.”

Your dad ran a hand through his hair, nodding slowly. “I know. It’s just… hard.”

Joel stayed quiet for a moment, then said, “We’ll get through this. All of us. One step at a time.”

From the living room, you watched the two of them, grateful for Joel’s steady presence. Despite everything, you felt a little less alone knowing he was there—not just for your dad, but for you, too.

—

“I think I need to get away from here for a bit,” your dad said one evening, his voice low and uncertain. He sat across from you at the kitchen table, his hands wrapped around a cup of coffee he hadn’t touched.

You froze, the words hanging in the air like a weight. “What do you mean, Dad?” you asked softly, trying to keep the worry out of your voice.

He sighed, his shoulders slumping. “It’s just… everything in this house reminds me of her. Every corner, every damn thing I see. I can’t—” He stopped, taking a shaky breath. “I can’t breathe here. I need to clear my head.”

You didn’t know what to say. The thought of him leaving felt strange, like the house would be even emptier without him. It wasn’t like he was doing much to keep things lively, but at least he was here.

“How long would you be gone?” you asked hesitantly.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “A week, maybe two. I just need some space to figure out what the hell I’m doing.”

You nodded slowly, though a knot tightened in your chest. “I get it,” you said, even though you weren’t sure if you did. “Just… don’t stay away too long, okay?”

He reached across the table, placing his hand over yours. “I won’t. And I’m not leaving you alone. Joel and Sarah will check in. I’ll call every day, I promise.”

It didn’t make the idea of his absence any easier, but you forced a small smile. “Okay.”

Later that evening, when Joel came by, you told him about your dad’s decision. His brow furrowed, and he rubbed the back of his neck. “He said that, huh?” Joel muttered.

“Yeah,” you said, your voice quiet. “I get why, but… it feels weird. The house is gonna feel even emptier.”

Joel looked at you, his eyes soft with understanding. “I’ll be around,” he said simply. “You won’t have to do this alone.”

You nodded, the reassurance helping a little. But as the days passed and your dad packed up to leave, you couldn’t shake the unease that settled deep in your chest. The house would be quieter than ever, and even with Joel and Sarah stopping by, it wouldn’t feel the same without him.

You reminded yourself that you weren’t a teenager anymore—you were 25. You could live on your own, and technically, you had been managing everything in the house since your mom’s passing. Still, the thought of your dad leaving made you uneasy.

It wasn’t about not being capable—you’d proven you could cook, clean, pay bills, and handle the day-to-day chaos of life. But the house had always been a shared space, a place where you felt anchored by family. Without your dad there, it felt like something essential was being taken away, leaving you adrift in a sea of silence.

“You’re grown, kid,” your dad had said when you expressed your hesitation. “I know you’ll be fine. Hell, you’ve been keeping things together better than me these past weeks.”

It wasn’t exactly comforting, but it was true. You nodded, trying to reassure him—and yourself. “Yeah, I know. I’ll be fine.”

And you would be. You’d done it before—college apartments, short stints away from home—but this felt different. This wasn’t about independence or learning to stand on your own. This was about filling the void left behind by the people who were supposed to be there with you.

As the day of his departure came closer, Joel stopped by more frequently, making sure you were set up with everything you might need. “You got enough groceries?” he asked one afternoon, leaning against the counter.

“Yeah, Joel. I’m good,” you replied with a small smile. “I’m not helpless, you know.”

He smirked but didn’t argue. “I know that. Just… makin’ sure.”

Deep down, you knew Joel was trying to fill in the gaps, to make sure you didn’t feel completely alone once your dad left. It wasn’t lost on you, and for that, you were grateful. But it didn’t change the lingering emptiness you felt when the house fell silent at night, the weight of memories pressing in around you.

You’d be fine—you kept telling yourself that. You were 25, after all. You could handle it. But that didn’t mean it didn’t feel impossibly hard.

———

A few weeks had passed since your dad left, and you’d fallen into a pattern of isolating yourself. The house felt cold and empty, like a hollow shell of what it used to be, and you found it easier to just stay in your room.

You stopped answering the door when Joel and Sarah came by. Even when they unlocked the door with the spare key your dad had left, you’d lock yourself in your room, pretending to be asleep or too tired to come out. The truth was, it was all just… too much.

Deep down, you couldn’t shake the nagging fear that your dad might never come back. He hadn’t said much the last time you talked—just short, clipped answers that left you feeling more worried than reassured. The thought of losing him, too, was unbearable, so you retreated further into yourself, hoping that maybe shutting everything out would make it hurt less.

It didn’t.

Sarah had tried coaxing you out, knocking softly on your door and calling your name. “We’re worried about you,” she said one day, her voice filled with concern. “Please, just talk to us.”

You didn’t respond, your body curled up under the blankets as you stared at the wall.

Joel wasn’t as patient. He stood outside your door the next time he came by, his voice firmer. “Darlin’, I know you can hear me. I’m not gonna push, but you can’t keep doin’ this to yourself. Open the door. Please.”

But you didn’t.

Joel hated the idea of leaving you alone like this. Sarah could see it in the way his jaw tightened whenever you shut them out. He wasn’t the type to sit back and let things happen, but this was different. You weren’t just shutting the world out—you were shutting him out, and it was killing him.

“She’s not okay, Sarah,” he muttered one evening after they’d left the house again, unsuccessful in getting through to you.

“I know,” Sarah replied, her voice small. “But what can we do? She’s gotta let us in.”

Joel shook his head, running a hand down his face. “I just… I hate seein’ her like this. I just wanna—” He stopped himself, swallowing hard. He couldn’t finish the sentence. He couldn’t say out loud what he really wanted: to hold you, to make everything better, to take away your pain.

But you weren’t letting anyone in, and it left Joel feeling helpless in a way he hadn’t felt in years.

You hadn’t been eating properly or drinking enough water, and it was catching up to you. Your body felt weak, like it was falling apart bit by bit. Your head throbbed constantly, your limbs were heavy, and even getting out of bed felt impossible most days. You didn’t know exactly when you’d let things get this bad, or why you hadn’t tried harder to stop it. Maybe it was just the depression, weighing you down like a lead blanket.

You stared at the wall, the hours bleeding together. You couldn’t even remember the last real meal you’d had, let alone the last time you’d actually felt like yourself. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you knew you should care—about yourself, about everything—but the energy just wasn’t there.

Joel barely crossed your mind. Even though he and Sarah had been coming around, you hadn’t let yourself think about him too much. It was easier that way. The ache in your chest from everything that had happened—the loss, the loneliness, the guilt—it was already too much. Thinking about Joel would just add another layer to the mess.

You rubbed your hands over your face, trying to snap yourself out of it, but the haze of exhaustion and hunger wouldn’t let go. Deep down, you knew you couldn’t keep going like this. Something had to give. You just weren’t sure if you had the strength to do anything about it.

Joel couldn’t stop thinking about you. Every time he came by and found your door locked, every time Sarah came back with another failed attempt to reach you, it ate away at him. He’d thought about breaking down your door more than once, just to make sure you were okay, but he stopped himself every time. He didn’t want to push you further away.

The guilt weighed heavy on him. He couldn’t shake the memory of that day—the look in your eyes when he pulled away, the way your voice broke as you thanked him before leaving. He wondered if rejecting you had been a mistake. Maybe if he’d let you in, been there for you in the way you wanted, things wouldn’t have gotten this bad.

But he also knew that line of thinking wasn’t fair—not to you, and not to himself. It wasn’t just about that moment. You were grieving, trying to hold it all together while your world fell apart, and Joel knew there was only so much anyone could do to pull you out of it.

Still, the thought lingered. What if? What if he’d said something different, done something different? Would you be eating properly? Would you be taking care of yourself? Would you have let him help you before it got this bad?

Joel rubbed his hands over his face, frustration bubbling beneath the surface. He couldn’t keep sitting on the sidelines, watching you waste away. He needed to figure out how to reach you, but he didn’t know how to do it without making things worse.

All he knew was that the thought of losing you, of not being there when you needed him most, was something he couldn’t bear.

•

Sarah had started a new job recently, which kept her busy most of the time. She rarely came by to check on you with Joel anymore, leaving him to shoulder the worry on his own.

Joel noticed the difference immediately. Without Sarah’s presence to balance things out, the silence in your house seemed even heavier when he visited. He still used the spare key to let himself in, hoping each time that maybe this visit would be the one where you finally opened your door.

But you never did.

Joel tried not to let it show, but the absence of Sarah’s help made things harder. She’d always been the optimist, the one to reassure him that you just needed time and space. Now, without her around, the weight of his concern felt even greater.

He caught himself lingering in the living room some days, hoping to hear any sign of you stirring upstairs. When he didn’t, his frustration and helplessness grew. He hated the thought of you being up there, alone, letting yourself waste away.

“Damn it, kid,” he muttered to himself one afternoon, pacing the living room. He ran a hand through his hair, debating once again whether to break down your door. But just like every other time, he held back, telling himself that forcing his way in might only make things worse.

Still, with Sarah gone most of the time, Joel felt more alone in this than ever. And no matter how much he tried to shake the guilt, it kept clawing at him, whispering that maybe—just maybe—he could have stopped this spiral if he’d done something differently.

—

Joel sat on the couch, staring at the muted TV, his thoughts far from whatever was playing on the screen. The house was quiet as always, the silence pressing in on him. He was about to leave, convinced it was another fruitless visit, when he heard the sound of running water upstairs.

His heart skipped.

For a moment, he thought he was imagining it. He stood slowly, listening carefully. When he heard the faint sound of the faucet, his chest tightened. You were up. You were moving.

Joel hesitated, unsure whether to call out or stay where he was. He didn’t want to scare you back into your room. He sank back down onto the couch, trying to calm the sudden wave of relief that rushed through him.

Upstairs, you hadn’t even realized Joel was there. You’d decided, finally, that you couldn’t take the grime and heaviness anymore. A bath sounded like just what you needed to feel somewhat human again. Thinking you were alone, you left the bathroom door open, letting the warm steam drift into the hall.

You sank into the tub, the hot water enveloping you, and for the first time in weeks, your body started to feel a little less like it was falling apart. You leaned back, eyes closed, letting out a long sigh.

Joel didn’t know what to do. He could hear the faint sound of water splashing upstairs, and he felt conflicted. Part of him wanted to go up, to check on you, to make sure you were really okay. But the other part of him knew how fragile this moment was. If you knew he was there, would you shut down again?

So, he stayed put, his leg bouncing with nervous energy as he listened to the faint sounds of life coming from upstairs. It wasn’t much, but it was something. And for now, that was enough.

After your bath, you wrapped yourself in an oversized hoodie, your legs bare beneath it. You didn’t think much about it as you padded downstairs, your hair still damp and sticking to your neck. For the first time in weeks, you felt hungry enough to try making yourself something to eat.

As you descended the stairs, Joel caught sight of you, and his breath hitched. He hadn’t seen you this close in weeks, and the sight of you knocked the air from his lungs. You looked so much thinner than he remembered, your cheeks hollowed and your frame smaller beneath the loose hoodie.

“Oh, sweetheart,” Joel whispered, his voice heavy with worry as he stood and started toward you.

You froze on the bottom step, gripping the railing tightly as his words hung in the air. The raw emotion in his tone—the mix of concern and sadness—hit you like a wave, and for a moment, you didn’t know what to do.

Joel slowed his approach, raising his hands slightly as if to show he wasn’t going to push. “I didn’t mean to scare ya,” he said softly. “I just… I wasn’t expectin’ to see you.”

You looked away, your eyes darting toward the kitchen. “I was just gonna make something to eat,” you mumbled, your voice hoarse from lack of use.

Joel’s heart twisted at how small and fragile you seemed. He wanted to say a million things—to ask if you were okay, to tell you how worried he’d been, to apologize for not doing more sooner—but he held back, not wanting to overwhelm you.

“Let me help,” he said gently, nodding toward the kitchen. “You don’t have to do it alone.”

You hesitated, your fingers tightening around the railing. Part of you wanted to tell him no, to insist you could manage on your own. But another part—the part that felt so worn down and tired—wanted to let him in, just this once.

“Okay,” you whispered, barely audible.

Joel gave you a small, reassuring smile and gestured toward the kitchen. “C’mon. Let’s get you somethin’ to eat.”

As you followed him into the kitchen, you couldn’t help but feel a flicker of warmth in your chest. It wasn’t much, but it was a start.

As you shuffled into the kitchen, Joel’s gaze unintentionally drifted down, and he realized you were only wearing an oversized hoodie. His eyes lingered on your bare legs for a moment too long, the sight catching him off guard.

His cheeks warmed as a faint pink crept over them, and he quickly looked away, clearing his throat. “Uh, you want eggs? I can whip some up real quick,” he said, his voice a little strained as he busied himself at the stove.

You nodded, not noticing his brief lapse, and moved to sit at the table. “Yeah… eggs sound good.”

Joel cracked a few eggs into the pan, his movements a little more deliberate than usual as he tried to distract himself. Get a grip, Joel, he scolded himself. She needed help, not… whatever the hell that was.

The sizzle of the eggs filled the room as he worked, sneaking glances at you from the corner of his eye. You looked so small, sitting there with your hands in your lap, your damp hair sticking to the side of your face. The sight tugged at something deep in his chest, pulling him back to his primary focus—making sure you were okay.

He placed a plate of eggs in front of you a few minutes later, leaning slightly over the table. “Eat up,” he said gently, his voice softening. “You need it.”

You murmured a quiet “thanks” before picking up your fork, and Joel took a seat across from you, keeping his eyes firmly on your face this time. For now, he told himself, it was enough just to be there for you.

As you picked at the eggs Joel had made, you glanced up at him briefly, noticing how tired he looked. His brows were furrowed, and his jaw was tense, though he was trying to mask it. You realized, maybe for the first time, that all of this—your isolation, your grief—might have been weighing on him too.

The thought sent a pang of guilt through you. You hadn’t considered how your downward spiral could be affecting anyone else, let alone Joel. He’d been coming around, checking on you, probably worrying nonstop, and you’d barely acknowledged it.

Your grip tightened on your fork as shame bubbled up inside you. “I’m sorry,” you said suddenly, your voice barely above a whisper.

Joel’s head snapped up, his expression softening as he met your eyes. “What for?”

You shrugged, looking down at your plate. “For… shutting you out. For making you worry. I didn’t mean to…” Your words trailed off, and you swallowed hard, unsure how to finish the sentence.

Joel leaned forward, resting his arms on the table. “Hey,” he said gently, his voice steady and reassuring. “You don’t need to apologize for that. You’ve been through a lot, more than anyone should have to deal with.”

You nodded slightly but didn’t look up, the guilt still gnawing at you.

Joel sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I ain’t gonna lie—it’s been hard seein’ you like this. But I’m not mad, and I don’t want you feelin’ bad for leanin’ on me, alright? That’s what I’m here for.”

His words hit you harder than you expected, and you felt your throat tighten. You nodded again, this time meeting his eyes briefly before looking away.

“Thanks, Joel,” you murmured, and for the first time in weeks, you felt a small, fragile spark of hope that things could get better.

As you glanced up at Joel again, your eyes lingered on him a little longer this time. The feelings you’d been trying to bury for weeks came rushing back, hitting you all at once. Despite the exhaustion etched into his face, the slight dark circles under his eyes, and the way his shoulders seemed heavier than usual, he still looked devastatingly handsome.

His hair was slightly tousled, strands of gray catching the kitchen light just right. The lines on his face only made him look more rugged, more… Joel. And the way he looked at you—with that steady, unshakable concern—made your heart ache in ways you didn’t know how to handle.

You quickly looked down at your plate again, your cheeks warming. You felt ridiculous, sitting there in your oversized hoodie, barely holding yourself together, and yet your mind was consumed with how much you wanted him.

Joel noticed the shift in your demeanor, the way you fidgeted slightly with your fork. “You alright?” he asked, his voice low and laced with concern.

You nodded quickly, not trusting yourself to speak. If he kept looking at you like that—with those warm, tired eyes—you were sure you’d say something you couldn’t take back.

Joel leaned back slightly, still watching you. “You sure?” he pressed gently.

You forced a small smile, nodding again. “Yeah… just tired,” you managed to say, though your voice betrayed the storm of emotions swirling inside you.

Joel seemed to accept it, but his gaze lingered on you for a moment longer before he looked away, his brow furrowing slightly. You couldn’t tell if he was buying your excuse or if he just didn’t want to push you too hard.

Either way, you were relieved—and maybe a little disappointed.

Your foot brushed against his under the table, tentative at first, but then you left it there, resting lightly against his. Joel froze for a moment, his fork stopping halfway to his mouth. He glanced at you with a confused look, his brows furrowing slightly as he tried to read your expression.

You met his gaze innocently, a small, almost playful smile tugging at the corners of your lips.

“What are you doin’, darlin’?” Joel asked, his voice low, carrying both curiosity and caution.

You shrugged slightly, your smile widening just enough to let him know it wasn’t an accident. “Nothing,” you said softly, tilting your head as you watched him.

Joel’s eyes narrowed slightly, not in anger, but in that way he did when he was trying to figure something out. His jaw tightened, and he leaned back in his chair, his foot staying planted firmly on the floor now.

“You shouldn’t… do that,” he said after a moment, his voice quiet but firm, though there was a hint of something unsteady underneath.

“Do what?” you asked, your tone light, almost teasing.

Joel gave you a look that was a mix of exasperation and something else—something deeper, something he was trying desperately to suppress. “You know what,” he muttered, glancing away briefly, like he couldn’t hold your gaze for too long.

You could see the faint pink rising in his cheeks, and it made your heart race. You didn’t push further, but you left your foot resting where it was, feeling a strange sense of satisfaction at how easily you could fluster him.

Joel cleared his throat and picked up his fork again, though his movements were stiffer now. He didn’t look at you as he focused on finishing the meal, but you could tell by the tension in his shoulders that you were on his mind.

You leaned back in the chair, resting a hand on your stomach as you let out a content sigh. “That was great. Thank you,” you said, your voice warm and genuine.

Joel finally looked up at you, his expression softening as a small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Glad you liked it, darlin’,” he said, his voice low and steady. “You needed it.”

You nodded, feeling the weight of his words settle over you. It wasn’t just about the food—it was about the fact that he cared enough to make sure you ate, to be here when you hadn’t let anyone else in.

“You didn’t have to do all this, you know,” you said softly, your gaze lingering on him.

Joel shrugged, leaning back in his own chair. “Somebody had to. Can’t have you wasting away on my watch.”

His tone was light, but there was something serious behind his eyes, something that made your chest tighten. You didn’t know how to respond, so you just nodded again, letting the moment hang in the air between you.

Joel stood up after a moment, collecting your plate along with his. “You want anything else? Somethin’ sweet, maybe?” he asked, glancing back at you.

You shook your head. “No, I’m good. Thanks, though.”

He nodded and carried the dishes to the sink, his movements deliberate and steady. You watched him for a moment, feeling that familiar warmth creep into your chest again. Joel always seemed to know how to anchor you, even when you felt like you were drifting.

And then you thought maybe you did want something sweet

“Not unless you’re on the menu”

Joel froze mid-step, your words hitting him like a ton of bricks. His back was to you, but you could see the way his shoulders tensed, his grip tightening slightly on the plates he was holding.

He set them down in the sink carefully, taking a moment before turning around to face you. His eyes met yours, a mixture of surprise and something darker simmering beneath the surface.

“Darlin’,” he said slowly, his voice lower now, almost a warning. “You don’t wanna be sayin’ things like that.”

You tilted your head slightly, the hint of a smirk playing on your lips. “Why not?” you asked, your tone teasing but your heart pounding.

Joel took a step closer, his eyes never leaving yours. “Because you don’t know what you’re askin’ for,” he said, his voice steady but strained, like he was holding something back.

You leaned back in the chair, still meeting his gaze, challenging him. “Maybe I do.”

Joel let out a deep breath, running a hand through his hair as he looked away for a moment, trying to compose himself. “You’re playin’ with fire, sweetheart,” he muttered, shaking his head.

But you could see it in his eyes when he looked back at you—he was tempted, and it was taking everything in him to keep his distance.

Despite the lingering grief and the weight of everything you’d been carrying, there was one thing you couldn’t ignore: you wanted him. It wasn’t just a fleeting thought or a harmless crush—it was a deep, undeniable pull. And as much as Joel tried to keep his composure, you could see it in his eyes, in the way his resolve faltered when he looked at you. Deep down, you knew he wanted you too.

You rose from your chair slowly, your bare feet quiet against the floor as you stepped closer to him. Joel watched you carefully, his jaw tightening, his hands gripping the edge of the counter like it was the only thing keeping him grounded.

“Joel,” you said softly, your voice barely above a whisper, but it was enough to break the silence between you.

His name hung in the air, heavy with meaning. He swallowed hard, his eyes searching yours for a moment before he spoke. “This ain’t right,” he murmured, though his voice lacked the conviction it had before.

You took another step closer, close enough to feel the heat radiating from him. “Maybe not,” you admitted, your voice trembling slightly. “But it feels right.”

Joel’s breathing deepened, his chest rising and falling as he stared at you. “You’re still grieving,” he said, his voice strained. “You’re not thinkin’ straight.”

“I’ve been grieving for weeks,” you countered, your voice steadying. “But this… you… you’re the only thing that’s felt real in a long time.”

Joel closed his eyes briefly, his hands flexing against the counter as if he were fighting some internal battle. When he opened them again, there was something raw in his gaze, something that made your breath catch.

“Darlin’,” he said quietly, his voice thick with emotion, “you have no idea what you’re doin’ to me.”

You stepped even closer, your hand brushing lightly against his arm. “Then show me,” you whispered, your voice daring yet pleading.

Joel’s jaw clenched, his eyes searching yours one last time before he exhaled sharply, his resolve finally breaking.

You stood there, barely an inch away from him, your breath shallow, heart racing. The desire for him flooded you, and in that moment, you knew you needed him. The weight of the grief and the isolation was still there, but it no longer seemed as important. He was right in front of you, his presence undeniable, and you didn't want to back down.

You reached up, your hand gently touching his chest, feeling the warmth of his skin through the fabric of his shirt. Joel's eyes flickered down to your hand, and for a moment, he seemed to lose himself, his breathing becoming heavier. He still tried to hold back, his jaw tightening in restraint.

"I won't stop," you said softly, but with conviction, your voice trembling with the intensity of everything you were feeling. "Not until you're with me."

Joel's gaze snapped back to yours, his lips parting slightly. The tension in the

room was palpable, and for a moment, it felt like the world had narrowed down to just the two of you, the silence hanging heavy as you waited for him to say something-anything.

But instead, he took a slow step closer, his hand coming to rest on your waist. His touch was firm, but the way he looked at you-like he was trying to make a decision he wasn't ready for— made your pulse spike.

"I don't want to hurt you," he murmured, his voice strained. "You don't need this right now."

You met his gaze head-on, refusing to let him retreat any longer. "I need you," you whispered, the words leaving your lips before you could stop them. The admission felt like both a relief and a weight, but you didn't care anymore. You weren't going to back down.

Joel's resolve finally cracked. He closed the distance between you, his hand cupping the back of your neck, pulling you into a kiss that was both desperate and filled with raw, unspoken emotion. It wasn't gentle or soft-it was heated, urgent, like he'd been holding back for far too long.

And you kissed him back, fiercely, knowing that in this moment, you both needed this. Needed each other.

Joel's groan vibrated against your lips as you deepened the kiss, your hands sliding up his chest, feeling the heat of his skin through the fabric of his shirt. The world outside of the kitchen faded away, leaving only the two of you locked in a moment of intense longing. His grip on your neck tightened, pulling you closer as if he couldn't get enough of you.

You responded with equal intensity, matching his urgency, your heart racing as you felt his every movement, every shift of his body against yours.

The kiss grew more feverish, your senses overwhelmed by the taste of him, the warmth of his body, and the undeniable chemistry between you.

Joel's hand slid down your back, pressing you closer to him, his lips trailing to your neck, leaving soft, heated kisses in their wake. He paused

for a moment, his breath heavy, and you could feel the tension in him—the struggle between what he wanted and what he knew was right.

"Darlin"," he breathed against your skin, his voice strained, "this... this can't happen."

But despite his protests, his body betrays him once again. His grip on you tightens, his fingers digging into your skin as he struggles to control himself.

He nips at your neck, his lips and teeth marking your skin in a possessive gesture. "But I want you so badly," he growls, his voice laced with frustration.

The sound of your moan sends a shiver down Joel's spine, his resolve crumbling even further. He lets out a curse, his hands moving to grip your hips, his fingers digging into the flesh.

He lifts you up effortlessly, carrying you over to the couch and laying you down on it. He hovers over you, his body pressed against yours, his breathing ragged.

Joel gazes down at you, his eyes dark with lust and desire. He runs his hands over your body, his touch rough and possessive, as if he's claiming you as his own.

He kisses you hungrily, his tongue delving into your mouth as he devours you. He moves his lips to your neck, nipping and sucking at the sensitive skin there, leaving a trail of marks behind.

"You have no idea how long I've wanted this," he growls against your skin. "How many times I've imagined having you like this."

Joel can feel your body trembling beneath him, and he knows that you're just as affected by this as he is. He lifts his head, looking down at you with a mixture of hunger and adoration.

"I've tried to fight it," he confesses, his voice rough with emotion. "Tried to ignore these feelings, to keep my distance. But every time I see you, every time I hear your voice, I lose a little more control."

“Oh Joel, no more talking and just kiss me already” you teased

Joel lets out a low chuckle, his lips curving into a smirk. He loves the way you tease him, the way you challenge him.

"As you wish, darlin'," he replies, his voice dripping with desire.

He captures your lips in a searing kiss, his tongue exploring your mouth with a fierce intensity. He kisses you like a man starved, like he's been waiting his whole life for this moment.

Joel lets out a shuddering breath as you continue to grind against him, the sensation driving him absolutely wild. He can feel himself losing his mind, his control slipping further and further away with each passing moment.

He grits his teeth, trying to hold back his urges, but it's getting harder and harder to resist. He lets out a strained moan, his hips bucking involuntarily to meet yours.

"You're driving me crazy, sweetheart," he growls, his voice low and desperate.

You reach down to fumble with his belt, desperately trying to get it undone and free the thing you wanted the most

Joel watches you with hooded eyes as you struggle with his belt, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He can feel the heat of your hand against him, and it's driving him absolutely insane.

He helps you with the belt, unbuckling it and quickly tossing it aside. He then makes quick work of his jeans, shoving them down his hips along with his boxers.

With his already leaking cock free, Joel grabs both hems of your underwear and slowly but swiftly pulls them down and off exposing your aching cunt

Joel lets out a low, guttural groan as he finally sees you completely bare before him. He can't help but stare for a moment, his eyes drinking in the sight of you.

"God, you're beautiful," he murmurs, his voice rough with desire. "And all mine."

Joel continues to kiss and nip at your thighs, slowly working his way closer to your core. He can feel your body trembling beneath him, your breathing growing heavier with each passing second.

He reaches your center, his breath hot against your skin. He looks up at you, his eyes burning with desire, before he leans in and licks a slow, teasing stripe up your slit.

Joel grins against your skin as he feels you arch your back, your fingers tangling in his hair. He loves the way you respond to his touch, the way your body reacts to his every move.

He continues to tease you with his tongue, lapping at your folds and circling your clit. He knows exactly what drives you wild, and he's not afraid to use that knowledge to his advantage.

Your head was spinning, you almost couldn’t believe that this was really happening, after everything, But one thing you did know, you needed more.

“Joel, please”

Joel can't help but smirk at your pleading tone, the sound of his name on your lips like music to his ears. He loves it when you beg for him, loves the way you surrender to him completely.

He relents, no longer able to resist your pleas. He moves his mouth to your clit, wrapping his lips around it and sucking hard.

Joel lets out a low growl as you tug at his hair, the sharp sensation only fueling his desire for you. He redoubles his efforts, his tongue flicking and swirling around your clit with renewed fervor.

He slides a hand up your thigh, his fingers teasing at your entrance before slowly pushing inside.

“Joel-“ you breathed, you wanted more than just his fingers, you appreciated the foreplay but you’ve already done this to yourself countless of times thinking about him that you wanted him fully..

Joel could sense your growing impatience, and he knew exactly what you wanted. He knew you'd been thinking about him too, and the thought of you touching yourself to the thought of him drove him wild.

He continued to work his fingers inside you, his pace quickening as he sought to bring you to the edge. But he could sense your need for more, and he wasn't going to deny you any longer.

He lifted his head, his lips hovering just above yours as he spoke in a rough whisper.

"Tell me what you want, baby."

“I-I want you, your cock”

Joel's eyes darken with desire at your words, and he can't hold back a low, guttural moan.

"You want my cock, sweetheart?" he asks, his voice low and rough. "You want me to fill you up, make you mine?"

You just nodded hoping he could see, you were done talking

Joel could see the desperation in your eyes, the need etched across your face. He knew you were beyond words now, and he was more than happy to oblige.

He moved quickly, positioning himself between your legs and lining himself up with your entrance. He looked down at you, his gaze burning with desire.

"Hold on tight, baby," he growled. "This is going to be rough."

Trying to physically and mentally prepare yourself for what’s about to come

Joel watches you prepare yourself, his chest heaving with anticipation. He can see the mix of nervousness and excitement in your eyes, and it only fuels his own desire.

He leans down, capturing your lips in a searing kiss as he slowly pushes into you. He groans against your mouth, the feeling of you around him overwhelming his senses.

Finally.

Joel lets out a low, shuddering breath as he fully sheathes himself inside you. The feeling of being buried to the hilt is almost too much for him to handle, and he has to take a moment to compose himself.

He breaks the kiss, resting his forehead against yours as he tries to catch his breath.

"You feel so good, baby," he whispers, his voice rough with pleasure. "So tight and perfect for me."

You clench around him, adjusting to his size

Joel lets out a strangled groan as you clench around him, the sensation almost too much for him to bear.

"Fuck," he curses, his grip on your hips tightening as he tries to maintain some semblance of control. "Do that again, baby. Please."

You continue to do it craving the way Joel is responding to it

Joel's eyes roll back in his head as you continue to clench around him, the sensation sending shockwaves of pleasure through his body. He can't hold back the moans and curses that fall from his lips, his hips instinctively bucking against you.

"You're going to be the death of me," he growls, his voice strained with pleasure. "I can't take much more of this, sweetheart."

Joel starts to move, his thrusts slow and deliberate at first. He savors the feeling of being inside you, the way your body clings to him with each movement.

But his control quickly starts to slip, his need for you overtaking any semblance of restraint he once had. His pace quickens, his thrusts becoming harder and more desperate as he chases his own pleasure.

Your gasping with each thrust as he hits the end of you so deliciously, nails digging into his back as he moves

Joel hisses as your nails dig into his back, the sharp pain only adding to the pleasure he's feeling. He can feel your body trembling beneath him, can hear the gasps and moans falling from your lips with each thrust.

He leans down, burying his face in the crook of your neck as he loses himself in the sensation of being inside you. His hips snap against yours, driving himself deeper and deeper with each thrust.

Joel’s hitting all the right spots and you can feel yourself bubbling closer and closer to the edge

“Fuck- Joel” you stammer “I’m so close”

Joel can feel you getting closer and closer to the edge, your walls clenching around him with each thrust. He can sense your desperation, your body trembling with need.

He lifts his head, his eyes locking onto yours as he drives into you harder and faster.

"That’s it darlin," he growls, his voice rough with desire. "Cum for me”

You reach down to start rubbing your clit, desperate for your release

Joel watches as you reach down to rub your clit, his eyes darkening with desire at the sight. He can't help but groan at the image, the thought of you touching yourself while he's inside you driving him wild.

"That's my girl" he encourages, his hips bucking against yours as he continues to thrust into you. "Rub that clit for me. I want to feel you come undone around my cock."

And so you do. Coming undone completely as your eyes go dark and the sensation sends an electric pulse through your entire body as you tremble, moaning beneath him

Joel watches as you come undone beneath him, your body trembling and your moans echoing through the room. The sight is enough to send him over the edge, his own release crashing over him like a tidal wave.

“Fuck sweetheart, I’m gonna cum” He buries his face in your neck, letting out a strangled groan as he spills himself inside you. His hips continue to jerk against yours, riding out the waves of pleasure until he's spent and panting for breath.

He lays there on top of you for a while before getting up and quickly heads to the bathroom to grab a warm, damp cloth. He wants to take care of you, to clean you up and make sure you're comfortable after what just happened.

He returns to the couch a moment later, gently parting your legs and using the cloth to clean away the mess he’s made in between your legs. His touch is gentle and tender, his eyes soft as he focuses on taking care of you.

Joel slides his underwear back on and lifts you up in his arms, cradling you against his chest as he carries you to your bed. He's always loved how small and fragile you feel in his arms, how you fit against him perfectly.

He lays you down gently on the bed, tucking the blankets around you before climbing in beside you. He pulls you close, wrapping his arms around you and holding you tight against his chest.

Joel held you tightly, his chin resting atop your head as his hand stroked your back in slow, soothing circles. The steady rhythm of his heartbeat against your ear grounded you, and for the first time in weeks, you felt like you could breathe.

You cuddled into Joel, burying your face against his chest as his warmth surrounded you. His scent—faintly of soap, coffee, and something distinctly him—was soothing, grounding you in a way you hadn’t felt in what seemed like forever.

His arms tightened around you protectively, and you felt the steady rise and fall of his chest with every breath he took. It was calming, like a silent reassurance that everything was okay.

You let out a quiet sigh, allowing yourself to melt into him. Joel’s hand moved to rest gently on your back, his touch slow and deliberate, as though he wanted to remind you he wasn’t going anywhere.

a/n: soo that happened 🥴 I couldn’t wait any longer to get the show on the road lmao

#joel miller #joel miller angst #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller game #joel miller show #the last of us #joel miller pedro pascal #tlou fanfiction #joel x female reader #joel miller sad #joel miller smut #pedro pascal smut

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muniimyg · 1 year ago

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⋆𐙚₊˚⊹ chaebol!jungkook (8) ⋆𐙚₊˚⊹ *nsfw*

series m.list // taglist closed.

note: for my og readers... iykyk

🏷️ permanent taglist: @joonsjuice @pamzn @defzcl @maryy1300 @whoa-jo @taetaecatboy @jksusawife @un06 @firesighgirl @rrosiitas @butterymin @parkinglot-nights @musicjournalsjdb @kissyfacekoo @jkslvsnella @vampcharxter @bloopkook @kekerrreke @somehowukook @bbystarcandykoo

jungkook doesn't know if he's gone completely mad or if he's just mad.

it's so blurry right now. the difference in feeling, the moment, the way he feels like he lost all control. it's so strange. in his head, he knows it isn't that bad. so what if you've been ignoring his texts for the past two weeks. so what if you've been absent from all the events he expects to see you and your fiancé at. so fucking what?

so what if he storms downstairs and knocks on your door?

he brought three excuses to offer you but as he stands in front of your door, his knees go weak. he ignores his gut feeling to follow his heart. without another thought, jungkook knocks on your door.

once.

twice.

then, he loses it. he begins to bang on your door like a fucking psycho.

just as he takes a breath, you open the door. wide-eyed, you stare at him in complete shock. then, when you find your words, you spit them at him. "are you out of your fucking mind?"

jungkook takes a step inside your home.

"are you?" he hisses. "two weeks? leaving me after we fucked and i fell asleep was one thing, but ignoring me for two weeks is another. do you get that? what the fuck could you be up to that requires your attention for two weeks—"

"keep your voice down!" you yelp, pushing him back. "he's—"

"jeon?" your fiancé identifies as he comes out from a door. jungkook catches a glimpse. it's your bedroom.

your fiancé walks towards you two, adjusting his tie. he smiles, greeting jungkook warmly.

"is everything okay? you've never visited our home before," he says as he snakes his arm around your waist. your lips curve into a gentle smile as he does this to you. "are you here for business matters? ran out of sugar? or a wedding invite? we just finalized them." he rambles rather excited.

none.

i'm here for your fucking wife.

jungkook shakes his head. "are you headed out?"

your fiancé nods. instantly, you break away from him and open the closet door nearby. taking a jacket out, you help put it on your fiancé. he thanks you as he puts his shoes on.

"last minute meeting. gotta head to the office since my study is filled with wedding prep stuff. ___ here wanted the space. of course i had to give it to her," he laughs. "i'd give her the world."

jungkook bites his tongue.

"y-yeah. i, uh, i just came by because the penthouse cleaning lady did my laundry and mixed our clothing—this belongs to you, right?"

you and your fiancé freeze as jungkook offers your panties.

"total mix up."

your fiancé lowers his gaze at jungkook. he sucks his teeth in and thinks for a moment. you grab your panties from jungkook's hand and hide behind your man. why would jungkook do this? he's swimming too far out. he's crossing too many lines.

you feel him grow suspicious as he states, "there's only three penthouses in his building... kinda weird that ms. kwon would get our loads mixed up..."

you clear your throat.

"love, you're going to be late." you reach over and give him a kiss on the cheek. "come home soon, okay?"

he shakes off the moment and nods. "godspeed. it was nice seeing you, jungkook... thanks for bringing back her... love, while he's here, you can give him the invitation! it'll be a waste to mail it. oh, hey! come to our rehearsal dinner too. it's next friday. go on, love. invite him to that too!"

"for sure," you comply. "jungkook, join us then too."

jungkook blinks at you. "i'll have my secretary clear my schedule... yah... you should get going. good luck with the meeting. if you need anything, let me know." jungkook adds, offering his hand to your fiancé to shake.

he tugs jungkook's hand and grins. "is this you saying you want to merge? i can draft a contract by tonight. join us for breakfast tomorrow and we can be one big happy family."

jungkook chuckles, declining his awful offer. "you wish."

your fiancé laughs heartily. "we can't be competitors forever," he says. "to be honest, i constantly feel like i'm losing against you."

you gulp at his words.

jungkook's eyes shift to you.

then, your fiancé glances at his watch and notices the time. he bids you two goodbye. pushing past jungkook, your fiancé hears him say something he never expect to hear.

"jin," jungkook breathes, "i feel the same."

with that, jin gives him a gentle look. as he turns around to leave for real, he reminds you to give jungkook the first invitation to the wedding. when jin is out of sight, jungkook turns to you. he doesn't say it, but he feels it.

he feels heartbroken.

jungkook takes a moment to look around your home. he's never seen it, really. it's beautiful. there's a lot of things that remind him of you and your taste. the colours, textures, and even placement of art... there's a lot of pictures. pictures of jin and his fishing trips, yours and his travels, and family.

so many pictures of family.

there's a burning feeling inside of him that he can't contain. it's either jealousy or guilt. he doesn't know. he doesn't really want to know.

"what the hell was that?" you cry, shoving jungkook.

jungkook doesn't move.

"not that i have to explain myself to you, but i've been busy with the wedding stuff. why can't you be patient? why can't you leave me alone—"

"goddamnit, don't you think i've tried, woman? do you think i like doing this? i've done everything i can. i even fucking bought you a new phone since yours must be broken—" he pulls out a new phone from his back pocket and tosses it across your kitchen island. you watch it slide, eyebrows knitting together.

"why? my phone isn't broken—"

"then fucking answer when i call. when i text. when i want you."

you glare at him.

"i'm not yours, jungkook."

he towers over you.

"so fucking what?"

a silence falls upon you two. it's almost upsetting. it's almost like if heartache had a sound—this would be it.

"why'd you come here?" you whisper. "you didn't need to bring my panties down. you didn't need to give me a new phone. you—"

"i miss you," jungkook confesses. "i miss you so much that nothing feels the same. my home doesn't feel like home anymore. i miss everything about you. i miss the way you'd come back to me... now, you don't even send me a text back?"

"jungkook—"

"do you miss me too?" he asks, sounding desperate. he takes your hand and pulls you close. "say you miss me, please... i'm losing my mind. i need to know you miss me too."

you take a breath in, feeling dizzy from the truth.

"say it, ___," jungkook begs, as he drops your hands and places his on your waist. pulling you even closer, he places soft kisses on your neck. "you miss me too, right? say you miss me."

you stay silent.

"y-you're going too far, jungkook... you can't come to me home and demand things like this. you can't speak to jin like that—"

"fine," he yields. "i'm sorry. i apologize. i'll send you a fruit basket to signify my regret. i'll behave at the rehearsal dinner. i promise to do all of that... if you j-just—"

"okay, okay," you cup his face and run your thumb across his lips. looking at him sweetly, you see his eyes tearing up. he was hurting. you know it.

"i missed you too," you cave. "i miss you, jungkook."

just like that, jungkook's whole world lights up again.

he kisses you deeply. so much so that when you pull up for air, you lose balance. he picks you up and takes you to your bedroom. the bedroom you share with jin.

there, he sets you down. he takes off his shirt, and then he unbuckles his belt. you watch as he strips and salivate over his body. he crawls on top, hands reaching for the nape of your neck. jungkook then brings you to his lips, kissing you once again. then, he begins.

he has you in all the way he wants to.

you give it to him.

he places himself in between your legs and brings heaven to you. jungkook does everything he's been missing to do with you. he eats you out until your legs shake. he fucks you until you can't take it. somewhere in between your moans and uttering his name, jungkook cums inside you.

he spills himself inside you. onto your sheets. yours and jin’s.

when he rolls off of you, you take a minute for yourself. as you gather your thoughts and he dresses himself, you can't help but feel shameless. your stomach twists and turns. it flips and flops like never before. there’s a sudden wave of indescribable emotions that take over. your mind floods with morale attempts to fix this.

then, it draws a blank.

"do you want me to help you change your sheets?" he asks, breaking the silence.

you shake your head.

"n-no... i just... i can't believe i just—"

"we just..."

"yeah... we just..." you feel yourself about to cry. "can you go? the invitations are in his study. third door to your left. keep your promise, okay? behave at the rehearsal dinner. bring a date. figure it out, jungkook."

"___—"

"i'm begging you... i don't know what else i can do. it's like i have no control when i'm with you. i always cave. i always go to you. i always... is it always going to be like this? am i always going to be this messy?" you choke on your own words. as you feel yourself sob, you let him know one more thing; "it feels like i've known you all my life. is that weird? like we've met before. we've loved before.... but here? in this life... it's like we can't even..."

"we can't what?"

"we can't even be friends."

jungkook takes a breath. he doesn't go to you when you start to cry. he lets you have this for yourself. rushing out, he doesn't bother to take an invitation for your precious wedding.

from the beginning, he had decided what to do with you.

he'd wait.

he'd wait for you to like him again.

he'd wait for your love.

link to paraluman ... again, iykyk :)

#bts fanfic #bts angst #bts smut #jk smut #jk scenario

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2lip-charm · 2 months ago

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Beyond Never

Pairing: Shen Xinghui | Xavier & Gender-neutral Reader

Word count: 1.9k+

Tags: One shot, alternate universe, romantic soulmates, fluff and hurt/comfort, mutual yearning/pining/longing, dreams, loneliness, mental health issues, & spoiler-free.

Content warnings: Depictions of mental health struggles, mentions of self-harm (vague, passive, and not further elaborated), possible unrealistic depictions of romantic love due to the nature of a soulmate au, and possible ooc depictions of Xavier.

Summary: He lingers the most in the mornings, in tangled knots of hair and heavy sleep. You can't say you remember him; you've never met. But as you sink deeper in the bog, thick and unforgiving, you feel him, guiding you to the surface.

Or: it's hard enough to live. Xavier helps you exist.

The air in your car feels heavy and lethargic, a stark contrast to what you walked through just seconds ago. It was enough to sting your eyes. You fail at blinking back the tears, and debate on whether you should start the car before you grab a tissue. As eager as you were to leave work, to detach completely from it's monotony, you settle in your seat similarly to how you would the couch before the start of a movie. The seat lets out a timid squeak as you mold your back to the cushion. It seems... peaceful. Quiet. But Time gnaws at the world's bones, turning the sky its striking orange. Time finishes its dinner, full and content, and moves along to eat, sleep, work, and play as always. It doesn't wait for you to do the same. Or more so, it doesn't wait for you to try to do the same.

You fill the commute back home with the usual mutterings.

Ran out of that good fruit juice... But it's so expensive... Do I really need to go grocery shopping this week? I need to make a list. I'm not cut out for this meal planning shit- It's so boring and it takes up my whole Sunday.

Ugh, I really don't want to do laundry. Do I still have enough underwear? I'll just wait until I run out.

I need to text mom back. I keep forgetting. She gets so worried when I don't reply right away. She's suffocating sometimes.

I just want to go home. I just want you.

You wonder if it's shameful, how desperately you want. It's a guilty relief to not have met him yet. He's a ghost of a lover; closer to a figment of your imagination than a soul love persisting through and through. You tell yourself not to cling, and the embarrassment sets into your frown. The grip on the steering wheel is tight, and you start to notice the ache in your knees from sitting so long. Your sigh is long in length and frustration. Opening the window and letting the outside pour in is an appreciated aid. It helps you forget. Forget how shame clings to your clothes, how it tickles your skin, how it pulses like a dull metronome in your head.

The last fifteen minutes of the drive is met with static. The wind outside is comforting in spite of its biting cold, and the sun, nearly hidden, makes your view easy on the eyes. It became easy to go. To drive and relish in the crunching of the gravel. A speck of relief sputters in your chest as you make the turn into the parking lot. It's familiar, safe. You don't head in until it's blue and dark, no clouds in sight. Tiny stars tremble above, and you smile at the moon before dragging yourself away.

Dinner is spent half-present, mind elsewhere with a YouTube video essay filling parts of your appetite. A monster of a video breaking down the latest TV series you devoured. A perfect pairing to your leftover lunch and hastily made dinner. Everything tastes lesser these days– less flavorful, less satiating. You don't bother to skip the ad in the video, chewing just to chew, hearing just to hear. Just to finish, wash the dishes, and head to bed.

You don't think of him when you stand up, empty chair across your small table (perfect for two). You don't think of him returning home, eating dinner with you. You don't think of how eager you'd be to hear his thoughts on what you cooked that night. No, you think of him as you wash the dishes. And you think and nag at Fate for it's cruelty in muddling him. How you remember the heat from his lips, sweet on your neck. But not what he said, and how he said it, as he spoke against your skin. One thing, but not the other; until it was dizzying to try and piece him together. You loved all of him regardless. You know you do. Even the faint wisps of him are precious. You catch yourself before you start the chase.

The one thing they gave us were our names. I know yours, so you mine, right? Do you think we'll know when we meet? That... you're mine, and I'm yours? I'm scared I won't know. That I'll pass by you one day, and the only you I get to know gets trapped in my head. In me.

I forget about you entirely sometimes. When I don't want to be here, when I'm stuck. And I don't want that. I know you. I know I do. I want to love you fully.

Mom keeps bringing up grandchildren lately, but I- I can't even remember your voice. At least, not today. You're safe to me, alive and warm. I don't think about everything else- marriage, children, whether I move in or you move out. If my family will like you, if I'll even want to introduce you to them. Are you always this warm? I think I'll cry if we- once we meet. I don't want to take myself away from you. Is it annoying, the way I push and pull away? I bet if the red string of fate existed here, I'd have bled from how tight I hold it. Good thing we can't hear each other's thoughts-

You finish washing the dishes just before the water feels too hot.

The few steps it takes to get to your bathroom are rushed and uneven. It's not physical; there's no heaviness in your chest or throbbing in your head. No soreness in your shoulders or knot in your back. It's a coldness that wraps your soul, not your skin. The look you give yourself in the mirror is desperate; you know what for, but you refuse to voice it in your head. You've been here all this time. Why falter now?

You woke up this morning, came to work on time, finished work with no complaints, and reached home in one piece. You had all the ingredients to bake a cookie recipe you had saved for months. Your mother is coming this weekend to spend time with you. You have an outing that made it out of your group chat in three weeks.

You will wake up again.

But you catch it, the way you lug yourself along. The way you push and push. It hurts beyond your bones.

Sleep is a dangerous thing to cling onto. It's the only good thing you feel at times. It means waking up to mornings. To the soft blue glow along the windows, and birdsong. He lingers the most in the mornings, in tangled knots of hair and heavy sleep. He visits you beyond never, beyond anything of quantifiable measure. With all of him, even if you can’t remember. So you'll curl up in the covers to mimic his warmth, and gently peel the sleep from his visits. Sometimes there's a tingle in your skin, a reminder from him that you're pulsing and beating and alive. You love when he takes you away, deep into what hasn't been, what may or may not be. But what you love most is his forever, a silent vow to fight against your currents, a spiteful spit at your inner sufferings. To be with you now, as it is. He finds that better than dreaming, than conjuring up grand, cloudy-sweet deviations. To one day make memories, to revel in your present. His forever is Knowing, something of a blade heavy and threatening. Raw and throbbing and final from its endless duels. A swing powerful enough to begin and end.

"I let you go to grab the eggs just for you to spawn in the noodles section." He lets out a breathy laugh, stopping the grocery cart just enough so that he can slot himself in between. You don't look up to respond just yet.

"Are these noodles more important than me?" He leans in close, heat comforting and pleasant.

"Well, they're for you, Xavier. You almost always come over hungry." (And through the window somehow, but you don't mention that part. Dream mechanics or... something, considering you live on the fifth floor of an apartment complex.) You step back to stare at him before throwing a pack in the cart. He throws in another.

He's always so close. Too close, and you get desperate to step back and look. Look and see and just try to remember even if you wake up with Xavier in splotches. His hair is soft and messy from the ride here. The car was getting stuffy, but not hot enough to turn the fan on, so he cracked a window open. His shirt's slightly wrinkled, and the little rabbit charm from his phone is peeking out of his pocket. You feel for your matching one inside your pant pocket.

"You think this is enough? Ready to check out?" Xavier waits. He doesn't head back to push the cart. You turn your whole body to face him, and when you look at his eyes, you can't help but want to cry. You hate that that stupid charm is peeking out. You hate that you probably woke him up in the middle of a nap, and that he didn't iron his shirt in a rush to meet you. His mouth's slightly open, and you see him shift. He's more slouched, eyes concerned. He's waiting.

"No. I don't think it's enough. I think you should just move in at this point." You pause heavily between every sentence, breaths uneven from holding in your gasps. Your eyes are glassy, and you nearly break when the tears start to blur his face.

He takes both of your hands in his before he mumbles an, "I know."

"Your hands are always dry around the fingertips. Have you not been using the hand cream I gave you? Why were you napping at 9 PM? Why did you rush over when I told you to take your time? You're always looking at me like that. S-Stop looking at me like that." You shiver at the pads of his fingers. They ghost along your shoulders, soothing and ticklish against the fabric of your shirt.

"Look at you like what?" He stares at you like you'll stare back.

"Like you want me. Want me just as much even though-"

"Don't finish that. I know how I feel about you. I know I love you." He's said it just as much as you have. He wraps his arms around you, and you hope, if anything at all, you remember his scent. Deep, nostalgic, familiar. This one thing, if only that from this moment. Your name leaves from him shaky and cracked.

When you look up, you feel his lips on your forehead, shifting into a smile before adding a few more pecks. It's too much, so you smile all goofy. It's all you can muster in spite of it. Of everything. The want, the shame, the spiraling.

"Fate will only ever bring us closer. You have given me you, and that is all I ask for. Think of me in Fate's confines; that's all we can do. I will find you, and hold you as you are."

You wake up with specks of him all around, invisible to the morning rays. Your skin feels raw and crusty around the eyes, like you cried. You can't process what you've remembered yet.

But he's here. Like clockwork, he lingers.

Author's note: welcome! to my first ever completed fic :DD ! ! love and deepspace has been my comfort game these past few weeks, so i hope this provides some sort of comfort and/or entertainment for any readers out there experiencing anything similar.

Cross-posted on: AO3

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