#but the curve of your waist... the soft ridge of your belly...

[jisokai]

My brain has been rotted so ignore me but—

Tattoo artist Sero…

with his hair tied back, stray strands falling over his eyes while he works. His style is simple, mostly sketchy and fun pieces, but he sports a sleeve of intricate, delicate swirls. He's professional and kind while you talk through what you want, but excited—with a giant grin and eager eyes.

You're going for a stomach piece, one that stretches along your side, ending at your hip. Sero is focused while he works, usual grin replaced with a pursed mouth, brows knit tightly.

The pain is manageable, a flurry of fiery ants trailing your torso, but his warm fingertips distract you as they run up and down your skin, holding it in place as he makes each meticulous line, sometimes pressing the back of his hand into your navel. You hold your breath with each stroke and look away, overwhelmed from the sight of him—him so focused on you.

When he nears the end, where the ink continues down your hip, the tip of a slender finger curves into your waistband where it's ridden up. He's gentle, respectful, pulling just enough to uncover the edges of the final lines.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, eyes meeting yours for a split second—to confirm you're okay—before immediately returning to the skin under his fingers.

You lean your head back, clenching your jaw as you stare at the ceiling, taking steady breaths to manage the pain—and that tingling heat everywhere he's touching you.

shinsou thoughts...

[ozarkthedog]

WARNINGS: 18+ mdni. riding Joel on the couch. slight size difference kink. -> no plot, only fucking that old man <- W.C: 468 AUTHOR'S NOTE: enjoy this word vomit. i saw this pic and then went brain dead.

Jumping Joel's bones the second he's through the door after a day of patrolling.

Pushing the brick wall of a man back on the couch and dropping to your knees, unbuckling his belt in record time, and teasing his soft cock until he's leaking and throbbing hard over your tongue. His hips rise off the couch as he presses his girth further down your throat, making you sputter and gag. Joel runs his fingers over your scalp, cooing your sticky whimpers. He looks down at you, absolutely memorized by the satisfied tears in your eyes. "Needed him pretty bad, huh?"

You nod with his cock still lodged in your throat; the simple vibration of your muddle response is enough to make his eyes slam closed and cock leak over your tongue.

"Get up 'ere," He grits, helping you rise on weary legs and hastily tug your panties to the ground. He cradles your hips as you settle onto his lap, forming his larger body around yours; he taps his weeping crown against your dripping heat, teasing you like you teased him not long ago.

"Think you can take him? Take e'ery inch?" he rasps, his still throat hoarse from a day out in the cold.

Your hands clutch his broad shoulders, his weather-worn jacket smelling of birch and snow bunches in your grip as he ever so slowly eases you down his cock.

His massive palms curve around your hips and lewdly palm your ass until your clit touches the grey-brown curls that litter the base of his cock.

"There ya go. Spreadin' 'er all the way open for him," He flexes his length, sending a shock wave through your system, igniting all the nerves that drove you mad all day.

You bite back a curse on the first steady rise and fall on his cock. His salt and pepper facial hair bristles your skin as he pants against your cheek while you ride him. "I can feel your fuckin' heartbeat."

Your knees dig into the cushions, and frantic breaths burst from your lungs on each bounce as pleasure blossoms in your belly. Joel's expansive hands easily reach around your waist and guide you along every ridge and blood pumping vein, easing your distress and seeking out the ache only he knows how to quell.

He presses his forehead to yours and shares your breath, driving you closer and closer to becoming one. You drown happily in his coffee dark eyes as a wave of bliss races down you're spine.

"Lookit' you fallin' apart so quickly," a feral hand curls around the back of your neck and tips your head, making you look down at where you're connected. The base of his cock glistens with fresh white cream. "Comin' on my cock like you were made for it."

[sobbingscripter]

𓈒⋆⑅˚₊୨🌹wc. 5471🌹୧₊˚⑅⋆𓈒

“Yeah.” Your voice is soft, fingers carding through Mark’s hair, the silky feel between your fingers is the only thing keeping you from wearing your excitement on your fucking forehead.

“Wait, really?” He perks up, pretty brown eyes focused on your face, searching your expression for a hint of deception but all he finds are kiss swollen lips curled into a sheepish smile, fluttering lashes and a tongue that swipes across your bottom lip with the same fluidity he wants to feel against his leaky tip.

“Yes, really.” You snort.

And Mark’s excitement is palpable, lips curling into a wide grin, and he sits up, blankets pooling at your hips and you glance down at the very, very prominent shape in his boxers. The fabric pulled so taut that you’re beginning to think he might actually lose circulation and you watch as Mark reaches over, grabbing your phone from beside his and he unlocks it.

Fingers flying over the cracked screen guard, and he taps his fingers impatiently against your cover.

“What are you doing?” Your brows scrunch in confusion, thighs tossed over his ones and you feel the way warm muscles tense and twitch under the weight of your legs.

“Playlist.” Mark whispers, his fingers scrolling through your Spotify, adding just the right songs.

“Are you serious?” You groan, laughter tinging at the edge of your voice, as you stare at Mark. Clad in a President Nixon T-shirt and black boxers, raven strands tousled messily from the way your fingers carded through the strands so incessantly, a dopey grin formed by lips reddened from kissing and his fucking eyes.

So dazed, pupils blown wide and long lashes fluttering with each half-blink. Light reflects off the pretty brown of his eyes, and you could stare at him like this forever.

“Okay, done.” Mark whispers, setting your phone back down and he adjusts the sound just a bit until he’s hovering back over you, lips ghosting over yours. The ball of his nose bumping against yours in sweet butterfly kisses, his hand moving to rest on your waist while the other supports his weight above you.

“Do you have condoms?” Mark questions softly, lips pressing against yours in sweet, gentle kisses. Slowly trailing his lips along your jaw, his hips pressing into yours and you feel the way he grinds his clothed cock against your pussy, the flimsy fabric of your nightshorts doing nothing to obscure how you’re soaking through the cotton.

“I— hah…” A weak sigh leaves your lips when Mark kisses the hollow beneath your ear, and your thighs wrap around his waist firmly “I don’t think we wear the same condom size.”

A breathy laugh against your neck has your cunt oozing slick, a pool beneath your hips and you’re trying not to whine whenever his ridge catches at your sloppy folds. “Yeah.” Mark murmurs. “Your dick’s so much bigger than mine.” And he kisses the curve of your neck. “What size are you?”

“Magnum.” You whisper. “Extra large, with extra ribbing.”

And Mark laughs, his head lifting. “Why do you know so much about condoms?”

“I don’t.” You snort. “I pulled that out of my ass, but.” You hum. “How couldn’t you guess that? Don’t you know about condoms?”

And Mark shrugs. “No. I always thought that with the right person, I wouldn’t have to wear them.”

His voice is quiet as he looks down at you, pretty eyes roving over your features and he swallows, lips curling into a dorkish grin that has you weak, your belly clenching at the way he slips his hand under your shirt, giving your waist a gentle squeeze before his hand slides up further. Stopping until his thumb traces over the curve of the underside of your breast.

“Call it alien instincts.” He whispers, pressing another kiss to your neck and you sigh. “M’still waiting for you to dry out and get all gross.”

“I’m not like ET. I’m basically like… Kryptonian.” He answers softly, sucking a mark into your skin and you gasp at the sudden sharpness of the action. A slight pinch that makes your heels press into his lower back.

“And what’s your kryptonite?” You hum softly.

“I’d tell you to take a guess but that’s kinda cheesy.” Mark whispers against your skin. “So, it’s comic books.”

You let out a giggle, your lips parting to say something but Mark’s thumb brushes over your nipple, teasing the velvety soft bud until it stiffens beneath his grasp and you take a shaky breath, your lashes fluttering shut as you feel the way Mark’s kisses trail lower and lower, until he’s pushing your shirt up, past your belly and tucking it beneath your chin.

And he stares.

Unapologetically.

Muscular fingers flexing as they grasp at your hips, brilliant chestnut pools focused and trained on the way your nipples harden, pebbling under his gaze. And you swallow.

“Is something — bitch, wait, are you playing The Weeknd?” You attempt to sit up, shifting enough for your elbows to support your weight but Mark presses a hand on your chest, pushing you back down and he dips his head. His tongue’s hot as he drags along your nipple, eyes glancing up to watch your expression as his lips find purchase, tongue flicking and his other hand moves back to palming your unattended tit. Your body nearly leaves the surface of your mattress at the way Mark attends to you, pandering to your body and you whine.

“Are you sensitive here?” Mark breathes out, but it’s like you don’t hear him immediately.

Your fingers are raking through his hair, nails dragging along his scalp and Mark groans, eyes fluttering shut as he shifts his attention to the other.

He’s impeccably good at it.

But clumsy enough for you to know that this is his first time.

His hips rut against your thigh desperately and you let out a low sigh, your eyes rolling back.

“Shit…” You whisper, swallowing hard before you nod. “Apparently so.”

And he grins.

“Score.”

Mark tugs at your nipple with his teeth and he lifts his head to admire you.

Glossy, swollen nipples, a belly that’s dipping inward with every shallow breath you take and Mark’s hooking his fingers into the waistband of your shorts and panties, pulling them down in one go and Mark tosses them aside. Before grasping at the edge of his shirt, pulling it overhead and tossing it aside.

“Fuck, you’re so perfect.” He breathes out, desperately as he shifts, kisses and hickeys scattering themselves across your torso with each desperate press of his lips, fingers wrapped around your thighs and Mark pushes your legs apart. His lips pressing a kiss against your fleshy, plump mound before guiding your legs to part comfortably.

And your hands immediately go to cover yourself, and he lets out a little hum, before shifting, peering at you with a confused expression. “You okay?”

And your lips purse as you try to find a way to say you’re a little nervous about that. “Are you like….” You chew on the inside of your cheek. “Does— do you have to like… do that?”

Mark lifts the covers, hands moving to support his weight as he stares down at you. “If you’re not comfortable with it, we don’t have to do that. It’d just make it easier for later, you know.”

“It’s not that I’m not comfortable, it’s like… You don’t have to, if you don’t like… wa—"

“I want to.” Mark interjects. “I’m not doing it for you, I’m doing it for me. I gotta put me first.”

You snort, loudly before looking at Mark. Your brows furrowing as you remember your anxiousness. What if it doesn’t… Like…

“What if it’s like not… You know?”

And Mark lowers himself back to between your thighs, his chin resting on your mound and he watches you with soft, empathetic eyes.

“The worst possible thing that could happen, is you tasting like pennies because you don’t drink water.” Mark deadpans. “But I like the taste of pennies.”

And your lips purse. “We’ll get back to the penny tasting part later but are you sure?” Your voice is quiet.

“I’m sure.” Mark whispers back. “Can I show you how sure I am?”

When you nod, Mark’s head dips and he sighs in delight

Thumbs move to spread your puffy lips apart, your glossy cunt being stared at so intently that you can feel it. But it doesn’t make you any less horny. And Mark groans quietly when he watches the way you twitch.

“Demogorgon.” Mark breathes out and you gasp. “Mark, you fucking asshole. That’s not fun—…nnyyyyy..”

You whine weakly when you feel the way his warm tongue drags through your sloppy folds, slick pooling on the wet muscle and Mark groans as your thighs press against his ears.

Mark feels the way your cunt twitches against his tongue, and he tugs a folds into his mouth, eyes focused on your chest and the way your breath stutters, rather than the whines you’re muffling with your hand.

You’re writhing. With the way you’re trying to simultaneously get away AND closer to his tongue, Mark’s finding it hard to keep the smile from his face. Your fingers sink into his hair, fisting the raven strands and he groans, tongue lapping needily at your dripping pussy and when Mark pays attention to your clit, you squeal. A hand on his forehead, pushing him away.

“Not there—!” You hiss, your voice a weak whine and Mark lifts his head, staring at you from beneath heavy lashes.

And Mark huffs. “Listen here,” He swallows, pushing the covers out of the way and ultimately, leaving them bunched at his waist instead, “I can lick a pudding cup clean in like, a minute. This, this is my calling.”

And you pant, bleary eyes glancing down at him, your cheeks flushed and hot.

“You’re a literal superhero.” You remind him. “I think that’s more … Your calling.”

“Well, lucky for me, I don’t pay you to think.”

“You don’t even pay me.”

And Mark lets out a boyish little giggle, peering up at you and this time, he can make out your features properly. So much better than when the covers were obscuring his vision.

“Shhhh.” Mark shushes you. “I’m busy eating.”

You roll your eyes, although it’s to the back of your head but you’re pretty sure your point is across. Fingers remain clutching your thighs, Mark’s lips find purchase around your clit and he’s suckling at the sensitive bud, only stopping to drag his tongue along the nerves and you whine.

Your body feels like it’s on fire.

“Is it good?” Mark whispers softly. “Do you like that?”

And you nod weakly. “Uh-huh, keep doing that. M’really close…”

Your belly dips in shock, lungs taking in deep breaths of air that just don’t seem enough when you feel his tongue drags along your slit, your toes curl and your brows bunch. And your hips jerk upwards.

“Shit, shit, shit, shit.” You pant. “Mark, m’gonna—”

You don’t get to finish your sentence when your orgasm’s ripping through you like a tidal wave, slick bursting from your gooey walls and trickling down your already sloppy cunt. Your body shivers, nerves wracking and you’re trembling with each swipe of Mark’s tongue. And he groans.

“Fuck, you taste so good. What are you eating?” And he peers up at you, his chin glossy and his eyes hazy.

“Uh— berries? I’ve been eating a bit healthier. You know, more juices, less soda.” And Mark nods his head, tongue out and dragging sloppily against your cunt, before he raises his head.

“Keep doing that.” And he buries his face back between your thighs, latching onto your clit and he shakes his head, hands shifting to the backs of your thighs, pushing your legs to your chest. And you’re spread out like a meal. Something for him to admire and feast on until either of you pass out.

And Mark drags his tongue from that furled hole, all the way up to your pretty, puffy pearl and you gasp.

“Way too close!” You huff. “You can’t go that close to my ass.”

And Mark groans against your pussy, looking up at your from beneath furrowed brows and his words are barely audible.

“Boo, tomato, tomato.” He slurps at your cunt, and the sound is loud enough that it drowns out your weak mewls. You’re a little bit oversensitive, your thighs still a bit unsteady and with the way Mark keeps prodding his tongue, you’re guessing he’s not stopping anytime soon.

“Have you ever been fingered?” Mark whispers, using one of his hands to push his hair out of his face, and he melts when your hand replaces his, fingers sliding through the strands and keeping them from falling to his face.

“Where would I have found the time to be fingered?” You breathe out, body twitching whenever his breath ghosts over the slick, a chill breeze that makes your toes curl in your socks.

“Your parents aren’t ever home, you don’t have any hobbies other than sleeping.” Mark shrugs.

“You described an extremely busy schedule to me just now, and I’d like for you to find fingering time on there.”

And he huffs.

“Yapper.” And his middle finger slowly pushes into your cunt, and gorgeous, blown out brown eyes focus on your face, watching every twitch o your brows, every part of your lips for even a lick of pain and discomfort. Your body shifting until your feet are planted on the bed, on either side of him.

“How does it feel?” Mark whispers, tongue tracing over your clit and you swallow hard.

“Like… a little uncomfortable but it doesn’t really hurt-hurt.” You answer softly.

“And if I do this?” Mark’s finger curls, the calloused pad of it brushes against that gooey spot you’ve never reached before and you gasp, nails dragging against his scalp when you fist his hair.

“Do that, please.” You sigh. “S’good.”

“Fuck, you’re so tight.” Mark whispers quietly, his brows scrunching and he can feel the way his cock aches in his boxers, precum soaking through the fabric and he ruts against your bed like a fucking animal. But he’s subtle about it.

Mark sucks at your clit, finger thrusting and brushing along that gooey spot, pressing down until there are stars bursting behind your eyelids, and you squeal.

“Fuck, fuck, right the—!”

You’re coming around Mark’s finger, slick pooling beneath your hips, dripping down the crease of your ass. And you’re fine with it being there.

But Mark isn’t.

He forces your knees to your chest again, head dipping lower before he’s dragging his tongue from the edge of your spine, along your furled entrance, your oozing slit and all the way to your clit and circling it with the point of his tongue.

And you gasp.

“Mark. I swear to God. If I get an infection—”

“I’m not sticking my tongue in your ass, oh my God.” He groans. “But fine. I guess you’re just not about that life.”

And you giggle, bringing your hands up to your face to hide your blush. “You fucking dork.”

“Do— do you think you’re ready?” Mark questions, a hand reaching up to push your face slightly. “Look away.”

“I should probably be ready.” You murmur quietly, your gaze lifting to the ceiling but you can’t even deny that the back of your eyeballs are burning to catch a glimpse of what’s been causing the print you kept eyeing.

For the last couple of years.

And Mark peels off his boxers, before flinging them in your direction. And your mouth falls open. “Why are they wet?” You giggle, a snort slipping past your lips as you pick up his boxers, setting them to the side and you look down at where Mark’s hand is wrapped around the base of his cock, ruddy tip ghosting over your folds. You begin to fear for your organs.

“You know, now that I’m looking at it—”

“I won’t make it fit.” Mark deadpans, dragging his cock along your leaking slit, slick coating his cock and he lets out a shuddering breath when he aligns himself with your hole.

And he swallows heavily.

“Take a deep breath…” Mark breathes in.

And your brows bunch.

He looks… Stressed.

Eyebrows knitted, lips parted to let out calculated breaths, his chest heaving and— oh my god, his hand’s shaking.

“Mark?” You call softly. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m good.. I’m just like… hyping myself up— fuck, your hand’s so warm…”

Mark sighs, a whimper slipping past his lips when he feels the way your hand wraps around him, gently guiding his tip towards your fluttering cunt, peering down at you from beneath hooded eyes, his skin prickling and he swallows hard. His body shivering, and muscular hands move to rest on your knees, fingers digging into your flesh as he pushes forward.

Your hands are so much daintier than his, softer, smaller and he feels the way your walls clench, cunt snugly wrapping around his flushed and bulbous tip, and Mark’s brows furrow.

And you snort.

“Are you okay?” Your voice is a breathy giggle. “You know, seeing as you’re losing your womanhood.”

Mark’s scowl makes you laugh, your muscles clenching around him and Mark gasps, his hips surging forward a good 3 inches and your eyes widen.

“You motherfucker—!”

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry!” He breathes out. “I’ll pull out.”

His cock drags against your soft, plush walls, him in that way that makes his lips form a pretty ‘o’ shape, brows raising.

“You’re so warm…” He sighs. “For a heart so cold.”

The laugh slips effortlessly from your lips, your lashes fluttering and one of your hands move to rest on his lower belly, fingertips ghosting over the muscles of his abs but the contact’s enough for his stomach to flex, the sight so painfully delicious that if you didn’t feel like you were being split in half, you’d have slid a dollar down his torso, and Mark leans over you, the silver chain dangling in front of your eyes.

Lips pressing against yours, and your arms slink around his neck, thighs parting to accommodate him better and you feel that uncomfortable burn as he slowly pushes into you. Your nails drag down his back, a satisfying purr slipping past Mark’s lips and he shushes you.

“It’s okay, its okay.” He coos. “It’s gonna feel better in a minute, yeah?”

A hand slips down between you, fingers gently circling your clit, the sensation makes your body thrum and Mark groans, face pressed into the curve of your neck when he hears the lewd way your pussy squelches around him.

“You’re so… Tight… Fuck, shit—” Mark swallows, “—I need to pull out.”

His chest heaves, and he lifts himself just a bit, hands shifting to your hips and your brows bunch.

“Now?”

“Yeah, right now...” He swallows hard, chest heaving and a sharp breath leaves his nose. “…s’too much. I’m gonna come.”

He looks down at where your pussy swallows him, plush and glossy lips busted open, slick trickling down the sides of him and he swallows, expression damn near pained and he lets out a whine.

“I don’t wanna.”

Mark leans forward, sweaty torso pressed against you, his face buried in your neck and you whine when he pushes deeper into you, mushroom-y tip pressing sloppy French kisses against your cervix, your fingers sinking into the hair at his nape and Mark whimpers when he feels the way you clamp down on him. Precum smearing against your slick walls with each shallow thrust of his hips, desperate humping as he whines into your neck, needy and his arms wrap around you, fisting the fabric of the shirt you have yet to take off.

He doesn’t mind it.

It’s his shirt.

“Don’t pull out.” Your lips brush against his ear, and Mark swallows hard. His heart beating against his ribcage, body prickling with nerves and he nods his head.

“Okay.” He breathes out.

Mark sits up, watching the way your thighs are strewn lazily across his, his cock buried deep enough that he can make out the little bulge just below your navel and he pulls out slowly. Watching as each inch of his cock emerges coated in a gloss that reflects the light that creeps through your curtains, before pushing back in.

Your body keens, nearly instinctively curling into yourself and he brings his hand back down, his thumb pressing tight circles on your clit and you gasp, nails digging into his forearms and your head tips back, your throat bobbing.

“Fuck, right there.” You pant out.

Mark’s slowly picking up speed, gentle thrusts that push him closer to the edge and when your body spasms, belly dipping inward and your knees pull themselves to your chest, he knows he’s a fucking goner.

Mark’s hands bracket the backs of your thighs, pushing your knees to your chest and he pushes into you, feeling the way your pussy clenches and Mark comes.

And God, he pulls you out of your reverie with the pornographic moan he lets out. Plump, pink lips parting, brows scrunching into a twitching frown, eyes squeezed shut and his hips keep moving. You feel the way his cum paints your insides, pearlescent droplets slipping out of you and pooling beneath you. His thumbs press into the fat of your thighs, pushing your legs just a bit further apart and he fucks into you deeper, faster.

“Fuck, you feel so good—” Mark gasps, peering down at you with hazy eyes and blown out pupils.

“Play,” he pants, head lolling and tipping back, moonlight dancing on the crown of his head, “play with it while I fuck you.”

Mark has your brain turning into mush, your fingers moving to lazily swipe over your clit, dainty fingers swirling over the bud and Mark watches the way your toes curl, pussy squelching and gushing around him as you come. Your legs shaking, your heart beating so much louder than he’s ever heard it before and you’re whining. Squealing, nails dragging at his forearms and leaving streaks behind in the flesh.

When your hand falls away, Mark simply takes over.

A true friend, pinching your clit between calloused fingertips, rolling it until you’re swatting at his hands, the overstimulated bud swollen and he groans when he feels you push at his belly.

“N-no….” You whine. “S’too much…”

“Move your hand.” Mark huffs, before he pins your hands above your head, leaning forward and you gasp when his hips grind against yours, his face pressing into the curve of your neck. He sucks marks into the flesh, sweet hickeys and his hips meet yours in a messy cacophony of plap! plap! plap!

“It’s too much…” You pant out.

“But you look so pretty, though.” He coos. “You can take it, can’t you?”

Mark kisses away the tears that roll down your flushed cheeks as you nod weakly, your chest heaving and glossy lips parting.

“You wanna switch positions so you can cry in peace?” Mark whispers and you nod.

“Mhm.”

You’re flipped onto your belly effortlessly, a pillow stuffed beneath your hips, and Mark slowly pushes into you. Your back’s arched so deeply, your face pressed into your pillow and your hair’s a bit of a mess as Mark gently tugs the T-shirt from your body.

“Shit, ‘s big.”

And Mark grins.

“I’m big, huh?” He taunts you, hand moving along the curve of your spine and he feels the way you clench down on him.

“Yeah, your fat head’s big.”

And Mark sighs. “Not fucked out enough to compliment me?”

You shoulders shake as you snort with laughter, lifting yourself just enough to peek at him over your sweat-slicked shoulder.

“Not even close.” You lie and he hums, his hands moving to palm the fleshy globes of your ass, spreading the fat and he watches your furled hole clench as a thick wad of saliva travels down the cleft of your ass.

“Guess I’m just gonna have to fuck the niceness into yo—”

“Want a break from the ads?”

Marks expression falls, his attention moving towards the illuminated screen of your phone, bright green on display and he swallows hard.

“How fucking cheap— Just get premium!”

“Premium’s expensive!”

“I’m not even kidding right now, I’ll give you my actual bank account if you get premium.”

“I’m not getting premium. That’s like, the ultimate final boss of consumerism.”

Mark groans loudly when the ad finishes, and he lets out a breath. Before he waits, impatiently tapping at the base of your spine, eyes narrowing at the back of your head the longer it takes. And then, something plays.

“What shit is this?”

“No, no, leave it. I like this.” You swat his hand away, your head moving to the stupidly catchy tune and Mark shuts his eyes.

“I’m actually gonna choke you out. What is this?”

“It’s ‘Year of the Ca—’ mmph! ”

You’re interrupted when Mark pushes your face into your pillow, hands gripping the fat of your hips and he shifts closer, cock churning your insides with each thrust he gives, cum leaking down your inner thighs and he groans. The lewd squelch of your cunt nearly drowns out the soft voice of Al Stewart, but not enough. Mark’s brows are furrowing, swallowing hard as he feels another coil begin to form is belly. Aggressive and fiery, Mark’s snapping hips have the fat of your ass recoiling of the sharp angles of his hips, one hand moving to grasp the back of your neck while the other clutches at your headboard.

His hips are unforgiving, brutal thrusts that has your walls spasming, nails clawing at the sheets of your bed, your back arching and you’re pushing back against Mark, ass flush against his hips and you’re letting out weak, muffled whines into your pillow. Drool, and tears mix and you raise your head, looking over your shoulder at Mark.

“Mark…” You complain, your body breaking in a cold sweat when he pulls out of you, leaving your drooling pussy to clench around. And your expression falls when you watch the way he picks up your phone, swiping through the various musical options.

“Are you fucking serious right now?” You hiccup.

“I cannot fuck to this. I’m so sorry, it’s just—”

“Markus!”

“Fine!”

Mark’s shoving his cock back into you, the warmth is inviting and that fucking stretch has you gasping, eyes rolling back in your head and you whimper.

You don’t know how long you’re gonna last with his hips thwacking into you like you owe him money.

You probably do, but you have no intention of paying him back.

Your belly’s coiling, your toes are curling and your body’s threatening to go slack and Mark leans forward, pressing a kiss against your back.

“M’gonna come inside, yeah?”

“Uh-huh….” You nod weakly. And a pitchy sound rings out when you feel the way his cock pushes out thick, pearly ribbons that leave streaks across your gooey walls, and your body goes limp, his following and you’re grasping at your pillow. Letting out panted breaths and he kisses along your shoulders, warm and affectionate presses on his lips that have you sighing.

And his hips roll against yours. Slow and deep, and you’re whining weakly.

“It’s too—”

“You can give me one more.” His breath ghosts over your ear, arms wrapping around your midsection and he pulls you closer to him. He can feel your heart beating as erratically as his, your body warm and sweat, skin flushed. “I’ve heard you come 5 times, back to back. You can do it for me.”

And you whine, pressing your face into the sheets as his hips roll against yours, grinding into you and fucking his cum deeper.

“You wanna get on top?” Mark coos softly and he watches as you shift almost uncomfortably, raising your hand weakly and you flip him off.

And Mark hums, a snort of laughter slipping past his lips and he lets out a soft moan at the way your fleshy cunt squeezes him, before he pulls out of you, flipping you onto your back.

“You’re so pretty.” Mark coos, hands brushing along your hips and belly, sliding up to your chest and he ghosts his thumbs over your perky nipples, still oversensitive and he watches the way your body twitches.

Big doe eyes are tear-filled, your lashes fluttering and your lips are swollen. And Mark glances down to where your glossy pussy remains unattended and he sighs softly, biting his bottom lip as he pushes back into you, inch by inch. Watching the way your back arches off the bed.

“Can you put your legs on my shoulders?” Mark speaks softly, hands massaging along your thighs and his gaze flicks up to yours, and the way you’re staring at him makes him smile, dimples deepening in his cheeks.

He looks…

'Radiant', as zesty as it is, is the only word to describe him.

Muscled body coated in a thin sheen of sweat, droplets traveling down the delves of his muscles, broad chest heaving, a thin silver chain glittering in the faint light. His hair falls over his face, a few strands stuck to his forehead and his eyes. They’re glittering like ponds of honey, framed by dark lashes and his lips curl so deliciously into a grin.

“Right.”

He murmurs, before guiding your legs onto his shoulders, leaning forward to press a kiss against your lips as he sighs when your arms wrap around his neck, pulling him closer. He purrs when your fingers disappear into his hair, sweat-slicked strands moving between your fingers as his hips grind against yours.

That scratchy tuft of hair above his cock tickles at your clit, overstimulating the bud even more, his chest presses against yours and he keeps his eyes on yours.

“Why’re you —hah— looking so deep into my eyes?” Your voice is soft, and Mark lets a breathy giggle fan across your face, his hips pressing into yours, timing each of his thrusts with one of your perfect, rhythmic pulses that slowly speed up.

Your orgasm impending.

“I’m trying to figure out if you’re as in love with me as I’m in love with you.”

Mark’s voice is softer than you’ve ever heard it. His lashes fluttering as his lips keep ghosting over the apples of your cheeks, pressing sweet kisses to your rosy and flushed face.

And you swallow.

“I am.”

It’s the first time you’ve admitted it to anyone without there being a comedic undertone, without some… Discrete joke of self-loathing because Mark was looking in every direction except yours. And you swallow, your gaze focused on his.

“Really?” He whispers softly, a hand cradling the side of your face, and he’s drinking in every sensation you have to offer. And you weakly nod.

Only snorting when he presses his rosy face into the curve of your neck, his knees causing the bed to dimple and you feel the way his arms wrap around you, forcing your hips to angle a bit more upward.

And his hips rut.

Hard.

Mushroom-y tip pummelling against that spongy spot, your toes curling and your nails scratching at his back. You’re effectively folded in half, folded in a way that would have lawn chairs jealous because of how much space you’re saving but you can’t even think of that.

Not with the panted praises in your ear, the flurry of “you feel so good” and “fuck, you’re so pretty like this”s making your mind melt. Your body's pliable and weak, electricity pulsing just beneath your skin and your cunt’s oozing, wet shlick! shlick! shlick! sounds accompanying the sounds of his thighs slapping against the fat of your ass.

And you tuck your face in Mark’s neck, nails digging into his skin, biting down on the muscle of his shoulder as you stifle the scream that threatens to tear your throat as you come, gushing and soaking the tops of his thighs, his pelvis and tightly toned lower belly.

Mark wrings you dry. Fucking into you until you’re a weak, trembling faucet and he pulls out, looking down at the creamy mixture that trickles out of your gushing cunt.

And he swallows, panting just a bit.

“Are you okay?” Mark coos, his thumb tracing over your swollen clit, peeking out from between velvety folds and you nod weakly.

“Mhm…” You breathe out, your body prickles with goosebumps, your sheets soaked and you look like deflated sex doll.

“You wanna go again?”

And you stare at him incredulously.

“No.”

T🌹A🌹G🌹L🌹I🌹S🌹T

@lucky-beheaded ; @queen-of-gotham ; @coldvirginbitch ; @wittyjasontodd ; @a-n-a-n-a1 ; @dearlyya ; @broicouldjustbuyyousomekombucha ; @jasontoddswhitestreak ; @daydreams-and-peace ; @misstyy12 ; @fruticake ; @httpstes ; @waterflowersblog ; @glowinthedarkjellyfish ; @vm4879bb-blog ; @monaekelis ; @radlovesfics ; @allycat4458 ; @bigbodycity ; @feral010 ; @anesthesia-4rizzle ; @princesstrunkz ; @blackfox774 ; @sh1d0uryus31 ; @your-lovely-rose26 ; @slugstarzz ; @ripcolel0l ; @strawbiemilk420 ; @verysynical ; @kikiiguess ; @missam ; @luvvfromme ; @luvvcharxo ; @alma-ru3 ; @mxvoid26 ; @urfriendlyfrog ; @the-good-kooshe ; @troublesome-nara ; @secretaccountlol ; @syubseokie; @atanukileaf ; @im-nowhere-but-also-somewhere ; @i-love-frensh-fries ; @lov3vivian ; @boyofroyo1 ; @tamaranblaze ; @supersecretxreadersideblog ; @etphonehome0623 ; @markgraysonlover ; @icanmeltanigloo ; @itzmeme ; @buckturd

[daryltwdixon]

Hi!!! Would you write something for Joel where he's been insecure about his lil tummy (dad bod™ 4thewin) and reader reassures him about that? Thankssss

Joel Miler x Reader Sun Kissed

fluffy, domestic hardworking manual labor Jackson!Joel a/n: anon, I loved this shit so much. im no better than a man when it comes to objectifying joel miller. ended up going fluffy instead of smut like I originally thought. I know it's not exactly what you were looking for, but hope you enjoy nonetheless!

Summer came with a vengeance on Jackson, that was for certain.

Even the animals were sluggish, tired, wearier than ever. More water was flowing down from the mountains, and thanks to the dam, survival wasn’t a concern, but that didn’t mean the heat wasn’t out to kill. The days of dehydration and exposure on the open road were long behind you, yet summer still found ways to make its presence known. The humidity didn’t cling late into the evenings or mornings, but the afternoons—God, they blazed hot and unrelenting, radiating off the mountains like a furnace.

Today was no exception.

You knew Joel was out working the fence line in this heat, so you’d sent him off with plenty of water—two full canteens, a firm promise you’d be by at lunch to refill them. He’d grumbled about being fine, but you knew better. Stubborn as he was, he wouldn’t pace himself.

When noon rolled around, you made your way through town, shielding your eyes against the glare, waving to the few folks you passed. Small talk was predictable, everyone muttering complaints about the heat, wiping sweat from their brows.

Then, finally, you reached the south end of town—and stopped dead in your tracks.

Because, well… damn.

Both of the Miller brothers were hauling lumber, stripped down to nothing but work-worn jeans and boots, shirts tossed haphazardly over a nearby fencepost. Their backs glistened in the sunlight, broad shoulders flexing, arms corded with effort as they hefted heavy beams. Sweat traced slow paths down the ridges of their muscles, catching in the dips of their spines, gleaming in the golden light.

Joel was all raw strength and weathered endurance, years of survival carved into the thick frame of a man who had endured more than his share. He wasn’t lean like Tommy, but solid—broad through the chest, thick at the waist, his build shaped by necessity and years gone by. His tummy was softer with age, dusted with dark hair that tapered down over the curves of him in a way that made your mouth go dry. His arms—God, his arms—were powerful, veined and tanned, shifting with every movement, slick with sweat and streaked with dirt.

You couldn't quite blame the sun for the heat coursing through you.

"Hello, gentlemen," you called, voice lilting just enough to be playful.

Both Tommy and Joel turned at the sound of your voice, and despite the heat, a warm flicker of something else sparked in Joel’s gaze when he saw you. You stepped forward as they pulled off their gloves, handing Tommy a fresh canteen before turning to Joel, who wiped the sweat from his brow before reaching for his.

Joel’s fingers brushed yours when he took the canteen, his palm warm and calloused, damp with sweat. He grunted a soft thanks while he kissed your cheek, and then twisting the cap off, tilted his head back to drink.

And oh, what a sight that was.

His throat bobbed as he swallowed, sweat slipping down the thick column of his neck. The sun beat down mercilessly, highlighting every ridge and plane of him—the breadth of his shoulders, the worn strength in his arms, the scars that told stories only he could share. His stomach was soft beneath the curve of his belly, a body shaped by labor, by hardship, by years of carrying burdens no one else could.

You wanted to put your hands all over him.... So you did.

Joel barely had time to react before you stepped into his space, reaching out to press your hands flat against his chest. He stiffened immediately.

“Now what’re you doin’?” His voice was rough, a little wary, but he didn’t move away.

You hummed, tilting your head, fingers splayed wide as you dragged them down, feeling the heat of his skin, the slick dampness of sweat beneath your palms. "Admiring," you murmured, pressing lightly into the soft curve of his belly.

Joel made a noise, somewhere between a scoff and a bashful grunt. "Ain't nothin’ worth admirin’."

That made you frown.

"Hey." Your hands flattened against him, insistent. “Don’t talk like that.”

His gaze flickered away, jaw tight. He shifted slightly, like he was thinking about pulling back, but you only pressed closer, standing on your toes to nudge your nose against his cheek, your lips brushing the corner of his mouth.

"I love this," you murmured, tracing slow circles over his belly with your thumbs, feeling the way his breath hitched. "All of it. All of you."

Joel swallowed hard. His ears were pink now, that telltale sign of his embarrassment creeping up. You knew that if you pushed just a little more, you could really fluster him.

You just couldn't help it.

Your fingers slid lower, dragging lightly over his stomach, tracing the dip of his waist before smoothing over his sides, nails scratching just enough to make him shudder. His whole body was warm beneath your touch, solid and sturdy, sweat-slick and sun-kissed. You dragged your hands up again, all the way back to his chest, smoothing over the broad plane of muscle there before letting your nails scratch lightly through the hair.

Joel let out a soft, shaky breath. "You're a wicked little thing, ain't ya, hunny?"

You grinned.

He tried to act unaffected, tried to keep that gruff, unshaken demeanor, but the way his fingers twitched at his sides told a different story. The way his throat bobbed when you pressed another soft kiss just below his jaw. The way his chest rose a little too fast, like you’d stolen his breath.

You locked your hands around his middle, your hips attached to his, the denim of his jeans rough against your bare thighs where your shorts cut off.

"You're so damn handsome, Joel."

That finally did it.

A strangled sound left his throat, and before you could tease him any further, he grabbed you—big, strong hands gripping your hips, pulling you flush against him. He buried his face in your neck, and the sudden contact sent a shock of warmth through you. His breath was hot against your skin, his nose brushing just beneath your ear. You could feel the dampness of sweat from his bare chest pressing into your front, sticking to your clothes, but you didn’t care.

"You’re gettin’ sweat all over me," you giggled, scrunching your nose playfully as his fingers flexed against your waist.

Joel huffed out a gruff, breathless laugh. "Serves you right."

Before you could respond, a voice called out from across the yard.

"Y'know we got work to do, right?"

Tommy.

You turned just in time to see him smirking, leaning against the fence with his arms crossed, watching the whole scene unfold.

Joel let out a long, exasperated groan, but instead of letting go, he pulled you even closer, pressing his face more firmly into your neck, his beard scratching against your skin.

"Yeah, yeah." he muttered against your throat.

You laughed, curling your fingers into his hair, letting him hide for just a little longer.

You’d both get back to work eventually.

But for now, you were perfectly happy tangled up in the warm, broad, beautiful body of the man you loved.

[sashiavi]

HEAR ME OUT HEAR ME OUT!!.....Big voy Zhongli...I MEAN-- THE Geo archon? Morax? Come on! He has to be a big boy, after all he shaped Liyue's mountains!!

♡ Genshin Impact Big Boys ♡

You're so righttt omg BigBoy!Zhongli/Morax my king ♡ I'm writing this in his prime Morax era I hope that's okay mwah ♡

My fave genre of Zhongli cough I even have two fics about it cough ◇ ◇

Warnings : 18+ Smut | Morax!Zhongli | possessive | dumbification | dom/sub & master/pet | abuse of power dynamics | Size Difference | monster cock - knotting - belly buldge- breeding | God/Mortal | potential dubcon | the more I write the more warnings come up | 'cunny' as a descriptive word for afab anatomy |

→ᴰᵃʳᵏ ᶜᵒⁿᵗᵉⁿᵗ ᵂᵃʳⁿᶦⁿᵍ←

♡Be in charge of your own reading and look after yourself♡

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BigBoy!Morax who towers over many. Easily over twice the size of an ordinary mortal, effortlessly tall, thick, strong, with heavy muscles coursing with omnipotent power. Carving and shaping the mountains of Liyue, with the effort of a minimal wrist flick.

BigBoy!Morax who lazes on his throne, heavy robes draped off of his body, legs spread apart, cheek pressed into the palm of his hand. His body absolutely dominates over your own, dwarfing you while you rest in his lap. His other arm practically cups you, coddling, with you napping away, head agaisnt his chest, your own pretty peppery floral robes water-falling off of his throne.

BigBoy!Morax with the sheer power of a mighty Dragon, supreme, pre-eminent, forced to take extra care and precaution with you; His pretty little pet.

BigBoy!Morax with a hand easily over twice the size of your own. His thumb longer than your jaw, swiping over your cheek and ear. He practically engulfs your face when he cups the side of it, fingers cradling the back of your head, thumb gently dancing over your closed eyelid. The soft core lapis glow of his hands illuminates your pretty, soft features, allowing him to admire you for hours on end- chanting sweet praise and compliments over and over.

BigBoy!Morax who's hands absolutely shrink your stature. Curving over your waist, gripping your hips, fingers effortlessly wrapping themselves around for frame, tickling at the soft bumps of your spine.

BigBoy!Morax who eyes you from above when you walk by his side - On the rare occasion he allows you to walk, much rather opting to carry you everywhere you went - height barely grazing up to his waist, your hand wrapped around just a few of his fingers.

BigBoy!Morax with his even bigger bed, covered in waves of soft silks, the space around dazzling in pretty little things belonging to his hoard. Archons, the treasure-hoarding being marvels at the prettiest little thing in his collection, all splayed out just for him.

BigBoy!Morax with a thick, forked tongue, perfect for hot, spitty kisses, barely battling for control, relishing at how his pretty pet just submits to him. Archons, the feeling of your little tongue sliding over his own, suckling on him obediently.

BigBoy!Morax and his appetite. Eagerly licking and lapping, tongue fucking that sweet little spot inside your cunny, swallowing down all those sweet juices. His large mouth practically engulfs you, thick fangs pin pricking gently into your cunt, lips suckling on your achey clit. His massive hands wrap around your waist, pulling your pretty self into him, forcing his lips to smush, fangs to bite, tongue to curl over and over.

BigBoy!Morax with claws all too sharp to press into your prefect pussy, forced to tongue fuck you into your first orgasm, stretching you out for him.

BigBoy!Morax with a heavy, thick cock. Standing tall despite its size, holding its own, drooling agaisnt his stomach. It was almost otherworldly, ever so slightly unhuman, with ribs and ridges, a pointed tip and a thick, fat knot right on the base of his length. He's always marvelled at your silly reaction, the awe in your eyes, swallow of your throat, eyeing the dribbly tip of his pudgy cock with a look of unease. He laughs, almost purs, soft in his chest, hand on your cheek.

BigBoy!Morax who has to go slow. Just the tip, juuust the tip. Circling your sticky clit with his thumb, rough, slow rubs forcing your cunny to gush, wetting his cock, letting him slide in bit by bit.

BigBoy!Morax who bottoms out in your cunt, cock pressing into your tummy, bulging up into your guts, leaving the lovliest indent of his cock on your front. He cuddles you, coddling his pretty pet, hushing and soothing away all the tears and hiccups with kisses and licks to your face. Oh, you're so full, aren't you? It's not easy taking the cherishing gift of a God, pretty pet doing such a lovely job.

BigBoy!Morax absolutely relishes in the sweet squeeze of your cunny on his thick, bullying length. Hugging him tight, drooly, sticky pussy lips kissing agaisnt the knot on his base, poor pink little clit grinding on his pelvis.

BigBoy!Morax who is not at all afraid to manhandle your body, giant hands latching to your waist, fingers almost intertwining with themselves over your back. Up your hips go, only your very upper back and shoulders lay on the bed as Morax sinks you down on him, himself. You're forced to wrap those legs around him, barely managing to properly anchor yourself, obediently taking him in like a perfect, little, fuck doll.

BigBoy!Morax watches that fat bump in your gut press up over and over, his thick pudgy head soothing under your belly. He can't help but press a thumb into it, massaging over that spot, listening to those insolent little whines and begs your dumb little mortal brain spews at him.

BigBoy!Morax who was still a merciful God, spitting hot globs of spit on to your cunny, keeping it nice and wet for his cock, letting that knot slip in just for a moment. His other thumb comes down, down, down, rubbing large and slow circles into your clit, forcing out those little gushes and squirms.

BigBoy!Morax, gentle as he is, still managing to to fuck you silly. Long, rhythmic slides of his cock, hands guiding those pretty hips, lifting and pulling in delicious motions- Tip to knot, thick inches squelching in and out, filling up that pretty cunny, little Pet so full, pretty dolly servicing his weepy cock.

BigBoy!Morax who can only last so long with that tight gushy squeeze on his length. Poor Morax who looses himself a little. Prettiest cunt sucking him in so, so well? Can't just dangle that sweet, juicy forbidden fruit in front of him and expect him to not take a bite.

BigBoy!Morax who let's his hips fuck into his precious, darling Pet's cunt. Meeting those hips he forces into his own, thick and slippery knot edging, pressing, slipping- The God growls, capturing your lips with his, thick tongue swirling around your own, forcing you to suckle and nip into him.

BigBoy!Morax hums low when he finally slips that thick, swollen knot into your dumb little mortal cunny, fat tip squirting and oozing thick spurts of cum into your tummy. Oh, he needs to be deeper, nestle his breeder cock up in your gut, paint your cervix white with seed.

BigBoy!Morax eggs his lovely pet on, those hands pulling your hips into his still, now grinding that juicy abused clit on his lower tummy. He feels that pretty cunny squeeze, hears those cries and moans, feels them vibrating agaisnt his tongue. He thrusts as much as he can with that locked knot in your pussy, clicking wetly with the hot pressure of him all stuck in you. His heavy balls continue to squeeze, bursting hot ropes of heavy, thick seed into you over and over. Slow and drawn out, his orgasm could last for minutes on end.

BigBoy!Morax who finally, finally gets that sweet cunt to squirt, making a mess all over his lap, gushing and pulsing, letting that buldge press in, impossibly deeper. Another hot weep of cum, milked out by that heavenly squeeze of you wrapped around him.

BigBoy!Morax laying peppery kisses over your face and neck, maneuvering your smaller-than-his frame around, hushing your sweet mewls when your poor body quivers. Poor, poor overstimulated little you, body reacting to the slighted of touches.

BigBoy!Morax who has you laid on his chest and tummy, thick cock stuck in your cunt, nestled and still drooling. His massive hands soothe over your thighs, massage into your back, pat your hair and caress your teary face. Awh, sweet girl. His lovliest, prettiest little doll. It's alright, your God is here, he'll soothe those aches and kiss away the pain. In the meantime, take a little rest, right on his chest, nice and comfy. Poor little mortal, always so tired. Keep him nice and warm now. Just like that.

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I may have gotten carried away.. but I hope you enjoyed regardless ♡

A Small Risa Message: You are loved, you are appreciated and you are allowed to enjoy this kind of fiction ♡

Property Of; SashiAvi

[godjo]

✮ — warrior’s executioner. 

you’re an earthquake that rocks his steady rhythm. 

tags — zoro x afab!reader. 1.3k wc. soft -> rough, like really, dappled with a lot of prose (i hope they make sense tbh). huge cock!zoro. creampie. a LOT of cum, sue me. cervix fucking. very explicit smut. minors, blank, and ageless blogs dni.

from hunter — i… don’t know. i felt so, so, soft for zoro in this fine afternoon. this fic made me vulnerable lmao. this is hardly proofread btw. ✮

imbued with an ache for glory since the sprout of his childhood, the way of the warrior lives in zoro’s skin and bones like a malignant disease of no existing palliative. he inhales the roughened edges of a samurai’s principle like air his lungs need to survive. these beliefs are claws of death that have grazed him one too many times, yet he wears the thousand cuts with pride. 

they whisper about him across the four seas: the devil wearing a human’s flesh, they say, siphoning his unyielding strength from the depths of hell. enemies see his swords like the embodiment of death, the extended hands of sharp torment, while allies revere his strength. 

his hands are tainted with blood from hard won victories. and zoro has never even thought of cleaning the proof of endless wars snaking along the lines of his palms until he’s met you. 

“are you sure you want this?” zoro asks for what seems like the third time, and for each you answer him with a feathery chuckle. “i don’t want to hurt you.” 

“you won’t hurt me, zoro.” there’s a spark of assurance in your eyes, fueled by conviction that it would take more than his tenacity to inflict pain upon you. 

zoro admires you for it; he desires you for that inelastic poise. and so he moistens his lips, guiding the raw end of his cock through your supple pussy lips. he’s been leaking like crazy, transparent lines of precum smeared all over your bare stomach where his rigid cock had been resting.

he palms his girth as if to soothe the stiffness; he’s unimaginably hard, pulsing with fierce vivacity. tremors rack zoro’s body, not on the account of anxiety, such is a distant feeling, but because of how much he wants to shove his thick cock right into your pussy, fuck you until your insides crumble.

“spread your legs wider for me,” he whispers, breath catching up in his throat when he feels the wet caress of your slabbering cunt around his flushed cocktip. 

you share a shuddering breath when he sheathes himself to the hilt, closing his good eye in concentration, in savoring the gummy embrace of your pussy around his twitching shaft. all the might and the brawn he’s built for years now melts into a thick puddle underneath his wavering feet. 

you’re an earthquake that rocks his steady rhythm. 

hovering above you, cautious as to not crush your ribcage with the weight of his immeasurable desire and wanton lust, zoro moves with calculated tempo. he pitches his head right below your chin, staggering breath fanning the crater between your collarbones. seconds— a dribble of a moment within which he loses his composure— that’s all it has taken for his gruff hand to cage the tender flesh of your waist and pull you with snapping vitality, therefore burying his hungry cock further in your insides. 

with an obscene yelp, you toss your head back. your weakened frame finds its leverage on zoro’s broad shoulders, leaving wild stripes of crimson on his golden skin with your nails. you can feel the ridges of his girth, the angry veins scraping your cunt repeatedly, making the little wet hole swell. 

“i’m sorry,” zoro confesses softly against your heated cheeks. “did i hurt you?”

you wish you can pour your heart out and say no, he’s not hurting you and he never will. tears grace the corner of your eyes, from the fluttering emotions hugging your belly, and you can only shake your head. at last, your hands find the curve of his flushed cheeks. he looks feverish, pushed into perpetual agony and terror of breaking you. like you’ve never done before, you tug him by the face and seal his lips with a kiss that quickly forms a whorl of saliva inside your mouths. you never let him go. 

zoro’s heart will burst, he swears it will. the unspoken consent triggers his primal need, the animalistic urge of wanting to prove how you drive him to the edge of insanity.

he pounds your pussy like a mad man freed from restraints. he folds your knees to fuck you properly while watching your cunt swallow his needy cock to the base. there are strings of transparent liquid connecting your pussy to his shaft, augmenting the smacking sound whenever he brings his weight down your soiled cervix. hungrily, repeatedly, mercilessly. 

“z… zoro!” your unabating and quivered chant injected with pleasure. “more… i need you— want you.”

need. 

his eye dilates as the word flows inside his system. he slides his upper body down to meet yours, a breathless yet fervent chuckle rising from his throat. zoro has been maiming your cervix with his insatiable cock for what seems like forever now. he’s been fucking you so maniacally that his bladder shudders and your pussy has turned a damped mess under his vigorous thrusts. all this is accompanied with brutal strength. 

instead of cowering away, you tell him to sink in you deeper. 

you, who emit the air of lavender blossoms and speak with honey in your mouth. you, whose featherlight touch whispers life into every withered thing. you, who keep a universe of all things soft and kind and gentle locked inside your velvet chest. 

“you’re perfect,” zoro murmurs against your mouth, pinning his cock one more time to your slabbering cunt. “and you’re mine.”

your belly heats up from the fervid claim. rapture, its pleasurable hand reaching for you, as zoro’s movements become deliberately slow. his spine moves like waves, the roll of his hips jittery yet deep. you feel it all at once when he pops your hardened nipple in his mouth. zoro suckles, salivating around the areola while maintaining his slow pace.

the heat picks up its intensity, along with the furiously lewd moan gaining strength and fleeing your lips. caged in a bubble of sensitivity that will burst at the seams with an airy touch, you clamp a hand over your mouth but zoro takes your wrist to pin beside your head. his final savage thrust sends rolling waves of euphoria squeezing your chest until the only way you can breathe again is to shout his name with a piece of your soul attached in it. 

zoro tattoos your expression in a huge part of his memory; the narrow of your brows, how your pretty lips shape his name, and the tears of release like silver satin adorning your eyes. with that image he buries his cock between your velvety walls, down and down until his cocktip meets your cervix again, and there— bouts of thick cum burst in your uterus. 

he screams your name, placing his life and his love between its syllables. you touch his face, soothing his shivers, but he just won’t stop filling your womb with fresh and viscid cum like he’s not busted a fat nut in a hundred years. zoro’s eye teared up at the sensation. 

“i… i can’t stop. fuck— it’s seeping. fuck, fuck—”

you lock your legs around his hips. “let it all out.”

zoro admits defeat and collapses on top of you. his cock continues to plug your pussy with blobs of cum. he withers beside you, then, and finally pulls out achingly. even without the grip of your cunt his swollen tip lazily oozes all over the sheets. 

“how are you feeling?” he tucks you in, securing your body with the warmth of his. 

“definitely sore,” you breathe, tracing the mark of stitches on his chest with a delicate finger. “but happy. how about you?”

he ponders at the question. how does he feel, truly? once, he wondered if his tenacity is just another word for wickedness and if shedding blood is the only purpose his unmatched strength serves. he pondered about the hunger he’s shackled in his core and whether it could only be satiated as he felled each enemy with a sword. 

zoro fears that he’ll never learn how to hold you close to his heart without tarnishing the perpetual twinkle of light in your luminescent eyes. but then he kisses you, and you do not flinch from its violence. 

zoro has found the answer, then. 

how could he ever hurt you when you make him tender?

how could he ever hurt you when you turn him to pieces?

[somnambuletta]

tithes of flesh (mdni 🔞)

(implications of consentual non-con, and previous non-con, degradation, power-play, fingering.)

jack does not kill needlessly. that is what you tell yourself, in the quiet spaces between wakefulness and sleep, in the moments where his presence looms beside you, dark and still like something not quite human.

his hands, when they touch you, do not bruise like how they once did. no, not now. now, they map the ridges of your collarbone with a reverence you do not understand. now, they linger at the hollow of your throat, fingers brushing against the sliver of a beat underneath, feeling- not for the purpose of harm, but for certainty.

"you are afraid", jack tells you- his words factual, and almost amused. he tilts his head, faceless, eyeless, yet he still sees you all the same.

you shake your head. "i'm not."

his hands slide lower, pressing at the dip of your waist, tightening just enough to make you draw a breath. not enough to hurt. never enough to hurt. not anymore.

"liar." his voice has become a thing without sharp edges, smooth and indulgent, as if he enjoys peeling the truth from you like skin from a fruit. he likes that you still tremble, that your body still remembers the things that he has done- the ways he has made you beg- once for mercy, and now for something far worse.

"you told me once," he muses, his hands curling around the small of your back, "that you believed in god."

you swallow, and he hums, as if he can hear the answer in the silence that follows.

"i did", you breathe, and it is the first true thing you have said in days.

"and now?"

you do not answer. jack does not need you to.

his head dips, slow, deliberate. his mouth drags over the curve of your shoulder, breath hot against the bare skin, a mockery of something holy.

"it's cruel," he murmurs, "what they do to the lamb, isn't it?" his lips press comfortably against your pulse, the words a stain against your skin that he washes out with a kiss. "to call it blessed, even as they slit its throat."

his words pout into your ears like venom, slipping down the ridges of your spine, curling around something deeper than fear. he is too close, his breath rolling over the damp flesh of your jugular, the heat of him pressed firm against your back, his hands searching with an hedonistic slowness.

but there is no mercy in his touch- only possession, only the weight of his aver settling into the fatty cavities of your bones.

jack exhales, lips painting the shell of your ear. "and yet", he hums, voice slick like oiled leather, "you let me touch you, still."

one of his hands slides downward, slow, deliberate, tracing the curve of your hip. his grip tightens, just enough to remind you of what he is, what he has done, what he could still do, if he wished.

"you don't fight anymore." his tongue flicks over the pulse at your throat, teeth nipping, not quite bothering to break the skin- but clenching enough to feel it later. "you don't cry." his other hand moves, trailing up your ribs, spreading his fingers over his stomach. holding you still. holding you open.

"you just.. take it."

the heat pools low in your belly, shame curling with it like a serpent. because he's right- you don't fight. you haven't in a long time. his hands are carved into your flesh like scripture, his voice tattooed in the recesses of your mind where prayers and gospel no longer reach.

jack chuckles, the sound vibrating against your throat. "does that make you a disciple, then?" his fingers flex, his body shifting against yours, making you feel just how much he enjoys this too.

you try and twist away, but he tuts, tightening his grip.

"no, no- don't run now. not when you were so eager just a moment ago." his hand dips, teasing, tracing, mocking the way your body responds to him despite it all.

your breath hitches. he presses a kiss to the side of your neck again, deceptively soft, almost tender. and then- his lips part, his teeth grazing over the place he's marked again and again.

"sweet little lamb," he murmurs voice dripping with amusement. "so desperate to pretend you're still innocent."

shame burns in your chest, between your thighs- and jack feels it, drinks it down like sacrament.

"poor thing", he purrs, fingers curling into you, drawing a sound from your lips that you do not mean to make. "do you think the lambs understand, before the knife comes down? do you think they know they are being led to slaughter, or do they just stand there, dumb and docile, letting themselves be taken?"

you shudder, gasping as his pace shifts, pleasure curling, building-

"ah-ah", he coos, hand stilling, pulling back just before the crest, leaving you trembling, ruined, aching. "not yet."

your head falls forward, frustration burning hot in your stomach. he presses his lips to your temple, cruel mimicry of affection.

"what's wrong?", he teases. "did you want to be blessed?"

you hate him. you hate him so much, and yet, you arch into his touch anyway. as you had- as you always would since the first day you succumbed, and offered yourself to something other than god.

his fingers return, slow rubs for no reason other than to taunt. your hips jerk towards them, betraying you, offering yourself despite everything.

jack hums, like he expected nothing less.

"i think you have been led astray", he says, mockingly thoughtful. his hand hovers just before you, free palm cupping your jaw, and turning your head towards him. his thumb presses to your lips. "maybe i should make you repent."

your breath is shaky. his nail digs into the crevice you'd bit into your own flesh.

"say it", he commands, voice honey-thick with satisfaction.

you shake your head, refusing- because you know what he wants. you know what he's trying to do.

but jack has made you weak. jack has made you his.

his grip strengthens at your chin, forcing you to still. "say it", he repeats.

you bite your lip, breath shallow.

"say it, little lamb."

your resolve breaks. you close your eyes, heat crawling up your spine, and in the smallest, most humiliated whisper, you give him what he wants.

"..please."

jack moans, lips curving into something dark, triumphant, and unbearably pleased.

"good girl."

[revelboo]

*Cat meowing hungry for some crumbs from "The Coma Kid"* MEEEOOWWRR

Pssst pssst pssst *shakes the treat bag*

The Coma Kid Pt 6

B 127 x Reader

• Mouthing against the curve of your hip, he feels almost over energized by the taste of you, the sounds you’d made and the way you’d moved against his mouth. One of your soft hands touches his helm as he vents against you just to watch you tremble. Rocking his own hips against the berth to try and ease the ache, he groans. “See? I can take care of you,” he says, lips brushing against your slick flesh and you make a hitching little sound. “Make you feel good.”

• Whimpering as his glossa slides against you again, you find yourself rocking your hips, encouraging him. Fingers gripping his helm when his glossa delves lazily inside you and that needy ache spreads. “Wait, you whisper when his mouth moves. Lips roaming against you to press a bite against your hip, glossa sliding and dipping into your belly button to make you gasp before he’s shifting to cover you. And you feel something hard pulsing against your inner thigh. Branding you with his heat as he grips himself and you sneak a look a between your bodies before he’s lining himself up and slowly pressing deep. Breath catching as you feel every ridge and bump of his spike stretching you. “Please.”

• “You’re so tight,” hips rocking slowly, he groans at the way you grip his spike. Imagining you carrying his sparklings almost enough to make him release right then. “This okay?” Moving in slow thrusts, he stares down at your eyes as your lips part. And you turn your head away when he tries to kiss you. Feels that disappointment spark deep, but pushes it down with all the other little things that hurt him. You’ll come around. Be such a good carrier for him. Be here waiting for him every day, smiling and happy to see him. Thrusting faster as you make a soft, needy noise and hook your legs around his waist, he nuzzles against your neck.

• He’s mumbling nonstop, his thick spike driving into you. Some of its in your language, but most of it seems to be alien gibberish. The bits you can understand seem to be praising the way you’re taking his spike, how you feel under him, what a good mate you are. Reaching up to dig your nails into the seams in his plating, you move to meet his thrusts, chasing that peak. Telling yourself it’s only sex. Because as soon as you can, you’re out of here. You’re not his fated spark mate or whatever and you can’t stay.

• “Bee,” you gasp out his name and he feels you tremble under him. But it’s his name he latches onto. It’s the first time you’ve actually said it and his spark warms as he shifts over you, hips snapping against yours. Because you’re letting your guard down, starting to like him maybe. Trusting him with yourself and he’s desperate to prove he’ll take care of you. That he has you. And you arch, crying out and milking his spike as his mouth opens against your jaw. Hips rocking frantically before he’s filling you, servos tangling in your hair. You’re going to be happy. There’s nothing he won’t do to make sure of it.

Previous

Next

[purinbunnii]

Morning Whispers

Suguru x Reader

The morning light filters through the shoji doors, casting golden hues over your quiet home. The air is thick with the scent of freshly brewed tea and the distant hint of rain-soaked earth from last night’s drizzle. You stir beneath the soft sheets, stretching your limbs lazily before your eyes land on the man standing by the kitchen counter.

Suguru.

Bare-backed, hair tousled from sleep, he stands in loose black pants, his broad shoulders flexing as he works at the counter. The sight of him—strong, comfortable, utterly yours—sends a warm shiver through you.

You slip from the futon, the wooden floor cool against your feet as you approach him. Your arms wrap around his waist from behind, your bare cheek pressing against the warmth of his back.

“You’re up early,” you murmur, voice laced with sleep.

Suguru chuckles, his hand coming to rest over yours. “Couldn’t sleep. Thought I’d make you tea.” His voice is deep, still husky from sleep, and it stirs something molten in your belly.

You trail your fingers lightly over his stomach, feeling the ridges of muscle beneath his skin. “Mmm… considerate husband.” You press a kiss between his shoulder blades, feeling the way he exhales deeply at the contact.

His free hand reaches back, cupping the back of your thigh, pulling you closer so your bodies are flush. “And you… my beautiful wife.” His voice is lower now, a teasing growl. “Clinging to me so early… you missed me in your sleep?”

You hum, your lips brushing his spine. “Always.”

Suguru turns in your embrace, his arms circling your waist, trapping you against the counter. His gaze is molten gold in the morning light, dark eyes heavy with affection… and something darker. His fingers skim up your back, sending a delightful shudder through you.

“You keep looking at me like that, love,” he murmurs, dipping his head so his lips graze your jaw, “and tea won’t be the only thing getting heated this morning.”

Your fingers tangle in his hair, tugging just enough to hear the low sound he makes—one of satisfaction, desire. “Then maybe tea can wait,” you whisper.

He grins, slow and wicked, before capturing your lips in a kiss—deep, unhurried, tasting of warmth and home.

And just like that, the quiet morning melts into something much more sinful.

————

The kiss deepens, slow and languid, his lips tasting of warmth and quiet devotion. Suguru holds you close, his fingers splaying over your lower back, pressing you against him until there’s no space left between your bodies. The heat of him seeps into your skin, making you shiver, despite the warmth of the morning.

“You’re insatiable,” you murmur between kisses, breath hitching as he moves to your jaw, then lower, pressing soft kisses along your neck.

Suguru hums against your skin, his lips dragging over the sensitive spot just beneath your ear. “I could say the same about you,” he teases, his breath hot, sending delicious shivers through you. His hands slip lower, fingers ghosting over the curve of your hips before gripping them possessively.

Your fingers tangle in his hair, dark strands soft between your fingers as you tilt his head up to look at you. His pupils are blown, his lips slightly parted, the image of a man utterly devoted to you. Your heart clenches at the sight—how is it that after a year of marriage, after so many mornings together, he still looks at you like you’re his world?

“I love you,” you whisper, and something shifts in his expression.

His hands cradle your face, his thumbs tracing the shape of your lips, his gaze softening with something deeper than desire—something achingly tender. “I love you more,” he murmurs, before capturing your lips again.

The tea on the counter is long forgotten as he lifts you effortlessly, setting you on the wooden surface, standing between your legs as his hands explore, mapping familiar territory like it’s the first time. His lips find your shoulder, pressing reverent kisses along your collarbone, down to the delicate strap of your nightgown.

“You’re beautiful,” he breathes against your skin, and the way he says it—like it’s the most obvious truth in the world—makes your cheeks burn.

“Suguru—”

His fingers trail up your thigh, slipping beneath the fabric of your gown, teasing, but never quite enough. You arch into his touch, impatient, needy. He chuckles, dark and full of promise.

“Tell me what you want, love.” His voice is a whisper against your ear, sending a shiver down your spine.

“You,” you breathe, hands gripping his arms, nails digging in just enough to leave faint marks.

Suguru grins, slow and wicked. “Then let me take care of you,” he murmurs, his lips trailing lower.

And in the quiet glow of the morning, he does—until you’re breathless, undone, and utterly his.

————

The soft light of dawn spills over the two of you, casting golden shadows across Suguru’s skin as he moves between your thighs, his touch reverent yet demanding. His fingers trail along your bare thigh, his gaze dark with a mixture of love and something deeper—something primal.

“You’re breathtaking,” he murmurs, pressing slow, open-mouthed kisses down the line of your throat. His hands slide up your sides, pushing the delicate fabric of your nightgown up inch by inch, exposing more of your skin to the cool morning air.

Your breath hitches when his fingers skim the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, teasing, coaxing. He’s taking his time, savoring every reaction, the way your body trembles under his touch.

“Suguru,” you whisper, your fingers gripping his shoulders, needing more, needing him.

He hums against your skin, his lips curving into a teasing smile. “Impatient?” His voice is thick with amusement, but there’s an edge to it—a hunger barely restrained.

You arch against him, the warmth of his body pressing between your legs, the heat of his breath ghosting over your collarbone. “You’re teasing,” you murmur, half-lidded eyes meeting his.

Suguru chuckles, dark and velvety. “I just love watching you like this,” he admits, his hand finally slipping between your thighs, fingers tracing over the thin fabric covering your growing heat. The sensation is maddening—just enough to make you shudder, not enough to satisfy.

You whimper, tilting your hips into his touch, desperate for more. He groans softly at the sound, his restraint slipping as he hooks his fingers under the fabric, dragging it down slowly. His lips never leave your skin, trailing lower, pressing kisses down your stomach as his hands part your thighs.

“Perfect,” he murmurs, his voice thick with reverence as he settles between your legs. His fingers glide over your heat, spreading your desire with slow, deliberate strokes, watching the way you react to him.

“You’re always so responsive,” he whispers against your thigh, his breath warm, teasing. “So beautiful when you fall apart for me.”

A soft moan escapes you as his fingers slide deeper, his pace agonizingly slow, deliberate. Suguru watches you with hooded eyes, taking in every gasp, every arch of your body as he builds you up, his movements confident, practiced, worshipful.

The morning air is thick with heat, the quiet sounds of your pleasure mingling with his deep groans as he works you to the edge. His name falls from your lips in a breathless plea, fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer, silently begging for more.

Suguru obliges, his mouth replacing his fingers, his tongue tracing sinful patterns against your sensitive flesh. The sensation is overwhelming, pleasure coiling tight in your stomach as he devours you with slow, deliberate strokes, savoring every reaction.

“Let go for me,” he murmurs against you, voice filled with devotion, need.

And when you finally do, your body trembling beneath his touch, he holds you close, whispering soft praises against your skin.

Even after your breathing evens out, Suguru doesn’t move away. He presses lingering kisses against your thighs, his hands tracing gentle circles over your hips, grounding you. His gaze finds yours, dark and adoring.

“Good morning, my love,” he whispers, a teasing smirk tugging at his lips.

You laugh breathlessly, pulling him up for a deep, languid kiss. “Best morning ever.”

Suguru chuckles, wrapping his arms around you, his warmth enveloping you completely. “And we’re just getting started.”

————

The remnants of pleasure still linger in your body, the warmth of Suguru’s touch imprinted on your skin. He’s still wrapped around you, his lips ghosting soft kisses along your shoulder, his breathing steady, deep.

The morning light has shifted, golden hues softening into something gentler, filtering through the shoji doors, painting his bare skin in a warm glow. You sigh, tracing your fingers along his jaw, feeling the roughness of his morning stubble.

“You’re staring,” he murmurs, eyes still closed, but there’s a lazy smirk on his lips.

You hum, brushing back a stray strand of his dark hair. “You’re beautiful,” you say softly, running your fingers down his spine, relishing the way his muscles shift beneath your touch.

His eyes finally open, dark and molten, filled with something that makes your stomach flip. He leans in, pressing a kiss to the corner of your lips, slow and languid, before murmuring, “You must be tired, love. I should carry you back to bed.”

You laugh, running a hand through his tousled hair. “I think I like it right here.”

Suguru chuckles, pressing another lingering kiss to your lips before finally pulling away—just enough to slide his hands beneath your thighs and lift you with ease. You gasp, wrapping your arms around his neck as he carries you effortlessly toward the bedroom.

“You spoil me,” you tease, nuzzling against his neck.

He huffs a soft laugh, his grip tightening. “You deserve to be spoiled.”

When he sets you down, he climbs in beside you, pulling you against his chest. His hands are warm as they roam your back, soothing, grounding. You sigh into his touch, completely content.

After a long moment of silence, he murmurs, “I love you.”

The words are soft, but there’s a weight to them, a depth that makes your chest tighten. You tilt your head up, pressing a kiss to his jaw, his cheek, then finally his lips. “I love you too. More than anything.”

He exhales, like he’s been waiting to hear it all over again, even though you say it every day. His grip on you tightens for a second before he relaxes, pure contentment written all over his face.

After a while, you feel his stomach rumble against your hand, making you giggle.

“Someone’s hungry,” you tease.

Suguru groans, rubbing a hand over his face. “I got too distracted to eat,” he admits, smirking down at you. “Your fault.”

You roll your eyes playfully. “I’ll make breakfast.”

Before you can move, Suguru tightens his arms around you. “Nope. I’ll do it.” He kisses your forehead before slipping out of bed, stretching his arms above his head.

You watch him as he walks back to the kitchen, wearing only his loose pants, his broad shoulders flexing with every movement. You smile to yourself, feeling that familiar warmth swell in your chest—pure, unwavering love.

By the time you join him, he’s already preparing food, hair tied back, humming softly to himself. The sight makes your heart ache in the best way.

You wrap your arms around him from behind, pressing your cheek against his back. “Marrying you was the best decision of my life,” you murmur.

Suguru turns in your embrace, cupping your face in his hands, his eyes filled with something so tender it makes your breath catch. “Marrying you was the easiest decision of mine.”

He kisses you again, slow and sweet, like a promise.

And as you spend the rest of the morning cooking together, stealing kisses between bites, laughing as he tries to feed you first, you realize—this is what love is.

This is home.

[ginnsbaker]

empty crib

Summary: “So?” you ask, not lifting your gaze from the crib you've been assembling for the past thirty minutes. Wanda simply shakes her head, discarding the pregnancy test into the trash.

Word count: 5.3K+ | Tags: Smut (18+), Angst, ILGOSS Universe, Slight breeding kink

A/N: Another oneshot in the ILGOSS universe, this time requested by anon who wanted something about Wanda and Reader's struggles with getting pregnant.

Masterlist

-

You slide slowly inside of Wanda with a groan, starting with steady, shallow thrusts. Your hands find their way to her waist, fingers inching towards the softness of her lower belly. Each movement of your hips against hers is fueled by the tantalizing idea of filling her. The thought is driving you crazy, and you can't help but visualize a future where Wanda carries a piece of both of you inside her. 

Ever since the two of you finally decided to get pregnant, and that Wanda would be the one to carry the baby, you've been constantly consumed by the thought of impregnating your wife, fucking her like an obsessed, horny teenager every time you get the chance. Wanda hasn't expressed any complaints either. She seems to want you too, in that desperate, touch-me-or-I’ll-die kind of way. The last time you were both this intoxicated with each other was during your honeymoon, but the difference now is that you're both more comfortable and daring in bed, having had ample time to learn about each other's likes and dislikes.

Now is no different; in fact, the atmosphere feels even more heady since Wanda recently received the embryo implantation. Lifting your wife’s hips slightly off the bed and putting the rest of your weight on your knees, you begin thrusting into her in slow, deep strokes. You make sure to pull out with just the tip of the strap inside, before pushing back in with more force. You repeat the action with rapt attention and soon, the unmistakable sound of wetness fills the room—a rhythmic squelching accompanying every thrust of the strap. 

“God, Wanda,” you groan, feeling the wetness of her coating your cock, watching it trickle down her soft thighs, “You're so fucking wet, you’re dripping.”

She lets out a throaty moan, her voice dripping with lust, “Because of you.” Wanda's own hands move to the roundness of your ass cheeks. She grips them tightly, nails digging into the flesh, urging you with a silent plea to drive into her with more force. You struggle to keep your eyes open, even as pleasure begins to stir in the depths of your stomach. They trail over Wanda's body, taking in every exquisite detail. The soft, blue hue cast by the moonlight makes her skin look even more ethereal, highlighting the slight sheen of sweat that has formed on her forehead and neck. The delicate curve of her breasts draws your attention, especially her tight, pink nipples that stand erect in the heat of the moment. You take a deep breath through your nose, inhaling the scent that is distinctly hers, a mix of sweat, arousal, and the lingering fragrance of her perfume. 

Her lips, plush and rosy, are half-parted, soft moans escaping them every time you move within her. But it's her eyes that capture you the most. They dart to yours every now and then, holding your gaze, the vulnerability in them enough to make your heart race. As you continue to move, you notice the little details—like the way her face scrunches up in sheer pleasure when you angle yourself to hit that particular spot deep inside her. The way she bites down on her lower lip, trying to muffle a particularly loud moan. You're hopelessly enthralled by her, that sometimes you toy with the idea that you can cum just by looking at her, by filling your senses with everything that is Wanda Maximoff.

In the heat of the moment, you allow yourself to be fully immersed in the experience. You imagine the strap is a part of you, a real extension of your own flesh, and you feel—or at least, you pretend to feel—every ridge, every hot, slick part of her clenching around you.

Wanda whimpers on cue, as if reading your thoughts. “I want all of you. Now.”

Suddenly, you feel her fingers drawing slow circles around your rim, teasing the sensitive skin there. The unexpected sensation makes you gasp, your rhythm faltering momentarily. “What are you—?” you start, only to be silenced by her lips crashing onto yours.

The kiss is fiery, desperate, and when you pull away, she whispers, “More.” 

You comply, thrusting with renewed fervor, driven wild by her touch and her words. “I'm close,” you gasp, the coil in your belly winding tighter with each thrust. You're slicker, your thrusts becoming deeper, and with a particularly hard drive, you're pushed deeper inside her than you'd imagined possible.

“Do it,” she moans, her middle finger slipping inside your ass, “cum inside me.”

Wanda's inner walls clench tightly around the toy, signaling her own impending release. Her legs lock around your waist, pulling you in even deeper, and you can't hold back any longer. With a strangled cry, you climax, your body shaking with the force of it. You bury your face into the crook of her neck, biting down on the spot where her neck meets her shoulder, leaving a mark that will surely be visible tomorrow.

The two of you ride out the waves of pleasure together, your breathing ragged and in sync. But the moment of rest is brief. Sensations still course through you, and with a sense of boldness, you start moving again, this time at a pace that leaves both of you breathless.

“W-wait,” Wanda stammers, her body already trembling from overstimulation. “It's too much.”

Instead of slowing, your fingers deftly find her clit, beginning to circle it with precision. Her protests turn into moans, her body arching up to meet each of your thrusts. And then, with a gasp and a shuddering sigh, she comes undone beneath you once more.

Moments later, her eyes flutter open, and there's a look of sheer astonishment and satisfaction in them. “You... you're incredible,” she breathes. “I've never felt so full, so complete.”

“You did so well, love,” you whisper, brushing a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “You took everything I gave, and you looked absolutely stunning doing it.” Unable to resist, you lean down to capture her lips in a tender kiss, before your hand moves to caress her belly. “I love the idea of filling you up,” you murmur against her lips.

She chuckles softly, her fingers tracing patterns on your back. “I noticed,” she teases.

Not ready to break the connection just yet, you wrap your arms tightly around her, savoring the closeness. And with a gentle roll, you shift positions, with Wanda now on top of you. The toy remains in place, and you both shiver from the sensation, even as the urgency of earlier has mellowed into a languid post-orgasmic haze.

Wanda nuzzles her face into the crook of your neck, her soft breaths tickling your skin. “Let's just stay like this,” she whispers, her fingers lazily drawing circles on your chest.

“You know,” you muse aloud, a dreamy quality to your voice, “I’ve always liked the name ‘Elena’ for a girl. And maybe ‘William’ for a boy. What do you think?”

Wanda giggles, her breath warm against your neck. “Already thinking about baby names, are we?”

You shrug, feeling a bit bashful. “I can't help it. I'm just... excited, you know?”

She pulls back slightly, looking deep into your eyes with her own sparkling ones. “I know, darling. But remember, it's only been a week since I got the implant. We don't even know if I'm pregnant yet.”

You sigh, the reality of the situation sinking in. But then a stubborn grin forms on your face. “How about we make sure you are?” you say as you gently rock your hips upward.

Wanda gasps, her cheeks reddening. “You do realize that's not how it works, right?” But even as she says it, you can notice her gaze already darkening.

“But it doesn't hurt to... practice, right?” you whisper, your movement becoming more deliberate.

Wanda bites her lip, considering, then nods with a smirk. “Alright then. Let's 'practice'.”

-

It’s the third attempt that ends with Wanda not being pregnant. To be sure you're doing everything right, you and Wanda decide to visit a different reproductive endocrinologist.

The sterile walls of the clinic, coupled with the waiting room's soft music, can't quell the anxiety bubbling up inside both of you. You glance at Wanda, her fingers drumming a nervous rhythm on the armrest.

Soon, a nurse calls you into the doctor’s office. It’s more welcoming than the antiseptic hallway outside. A tall, thin woman with a kind face and graying hair greets you both with a warm smile. “Hello, I’m Dr. Adams. Please have a seat.” She gestures to two comfortable chairs opposite her desk. You both take a seat, and she flips through Wanda's medical charts, scanning the numerous notes and test results. After a few more minutes filled with the sound of pages flipping and muffled conversations outside the room, the doctor finally looks up, focusing specifically on Wanda.

“I’ve gone over your charts and the lab results,” she starts evenly. “Everything looks promising. The numbers, hormone levels, all of it—it’s in the range we’d hope for. In clinical terms, you're a great candidate for conception.”

You and Wanda release a synchronized breath; Both of you have been overthinking this, searching for any fault, so it's reassuring to hear that everything is not only normal but also as it should be—perhaps even great.

Dr. Adams continues, “However,” she leans forward, “conception, in my personal belief, isn’t solely a game of numbers. God, or whatever higher power one might believe in, still has a say. There’s a mysterious element, a touch of magic, if you will, in the process.”

Wanda nods, her eyes a bit watery, “We just want to be parents. It's been harder than we imagined.”

The doctor nods, clasping her hands together. “I understand. I always tell my patients, 'Do your part and let the universe handle the rest.' It might sound a bit philosophical, but I've seen countless stories of hope and miracles throughout my career.”

Squeezing Wanda's hand, you're buoyed by the hope in those words. In return, she offers you a tight smile.

“With that said, let’s go over your treatment plan. It says here in your clinical history that you’ve been on COH for a while now, so let’s just retain that as we might need to harvest a new batch of eggs again

“We'll also introduce a GnRH Agonist, probably Lupron, to make sure there's no premature egg release. And as a precaution, we might add a GnRH Antagonist like Ganirelix.”

“And after you retrieve the eggs?” Wanda asks, hoping for something different, something that could easily be the missing piece in all of this.

Dr. Adams smiles gently, “Then, we'll give Progesterone, perhaps in the form of an injectable or a vaginal gel, to prepare the uterus for the embryo implantation. And we may supplement with Estradiol for the uterine lining, especially if we consider a frozen embryo transfer later."

She pauses, completing the prescription as she continues speaking. “Around the embryo transfer, I'd also recommend antibiotics and possibly a low dose of steroids to enhance the chances of implantation.”

You both exchange glances, feeling as though you're back at square one. Dr. Adams catches the look shared between the two of you. “I understand your apprehension,” she says, “and it might feel as though we're taking a step backward or starting all over again. But sometimes, we need a new approach or a minor tweak in the process.”

You rub Wanda's back soothingly, but you can feel her muscles tense beneath your fingers. The medical jargon, the never-ending cycle of hope followed by despair, it all starts to blend into one blurry narrative. You take the prescription from Dr. Adams, thanking her for her time and insight.

At home, you both decide to take a break from the overbearing thoughts and treat yourselves to a quiet, simple dinner. 

-

You’re about to reach for the strap when Wanda stops you.

“Can we maybe... just for tonight—” Wanda's gaze meets yours, her lip caught nervously between her teeth, her eyes searching for your response as if she's made a misstep. “Just... just you. That’s all I need. Please?”

You place the strap aside, focusing solely on her.

“Okay, okay,” you whisper back, fingers delicately skimming the contour of her cheek, absorbing the heat of her flush. “Just us.”

You keep your gazes fixed on each other as you slowly guide her back onto the bed. The look in her eyes tells you she needs more from you—not just the need to come. You desperately want to tell her that whatever it is, she just needs to ask. Or that you wish you could understand her unspoken needs, so she wouldn't have to voice them, and you'd still fulfill them. But somehow, words fail to leave your lips.

Frankly, words have been failing you for quite some time now. And so, you let your mouth and your fingers do the talking.

-

“So?” you ask, not lifting your gaze from the crib you've been assembling for the past thirty minutes.

Wanda simply shakes her head, discarding the pregnancy test into the trash. For eleven months, you've both been diligently adhering to every guideline—tracking ovulation cycles, maintaining the prescribed diet, optimizing sleep schedules, even monitoring the daily water intake. You've both undergone all necessary tests for IVF, from basic hormone assessments to detailed embryological evaluations. Despite all efforts and precautions, Wanda still isn't pregnant. Of course, there's a pang of disappointment, but giving up isn't an option. 

“We just have to keep trying.”

Wanda scoffs as she pours herself a glass of water. Sparky scuttles up to her, hoping for a fallen morsel. “Easy for you to say.”

Distracted by her remark, you shift your focus from the wooden pieces that refuse to align. Your brows knit together, and your lips pull into a slight frown. Meanwhile, Sparky trots over and nudges your leg with his snout. “What do you mean by that?” you ask Wanda, while absentmindedly patting Sparky's head.

Wanda’s silence is a more powerful response than any words could have been, but she quickly sidesteps the tension in the room by changing the subject. “Do you want bacon?” she asks, her eyes focusing on arranging the ingredients on the counter.

Baffled by the sudden shift, you answer, “We don't have bacon. We've been on that strict diet, remember?”

“I picked some up yesterday,” she replies, her voice a tad too casual as she avoids eye contact, focusing instead on cracking an egg into a mixing bowl. You study her for a moment, sensing there's more beneath her words. 

“Wanda,” you begin gently, “talk to me.” She remains silent, but her grip on the pan's handle speaks volumes.

With no response from Wanda, you release a resigned sigh and refocus on the crib you’ve been struggling with. An insight strikes and you manage to align the elusive pieces. As you start hammering them together, the sound ricochets across the quiet morning—a rather unpleasant sound.

The clamor clearly irks Wanda, causing her to hurl the turner onto the sink with a resounding clang that captures your attention. The sudden motion startles Sparky, who retreats to a corner with a soft whine.

She spins around, her chest heaving with pent-up emotions. “You want me to talk? Fine, I'll talk. Why did you tell Natasha we were trying to have a baby?”

Your hammering ceases abruptly. Her rage blindsides you. It's true, you had shared your hopes with Natasha as early as a month into trying with Wanda. But that was a long time ago, why was this a problem now?

“You know Nat is like a sister to me, and I didn't think it would be an issue,” you try to explain. “It’s been so long since then, why bring it up now?”

Wanda’s face contorts as she struggles to hold back tears. “Because last night, she looked at me with pity, with sadness... I don’t want people’s pity!” she cries out. You set down the hammer and walk towards her.

“I promise, Nat doesn't pity you,” you say, taking Wanda’s hand. She struggles against your grip for a moment, but you don't let go. Eventually, she gives in, and you pull her into a hug. “But I'm truly sorry for sharing without your consent. That was my mistake.”

When you pull back, she doesn’t meet your gaze, her eyes fixed on the crib behind you. It's a beautiful piece, elegant in its design, something any parent-to-be would cherish. But for now, it only makes Wanda seethe even more.

“Natasha gave us that crib, didn't she?”

You nod, remembering the day when Natasha had surprised you both with the gift, her way of showing support for the new chapter in your lives. “Yes, she did. Out of love, Wanda.”

But Wanda’s eyes blaze, her voice breaking, “While you feel gratitude when you see it, all I feel is pressure. You know what I see when I look at it? The symbol of my failure. I feel like I'm letting you down, and now with Nat knowing, I have another person I feel I’m disappointing.”

You’re heartbroken hearing her express her anxieties. You had no idea she'd been carrying such a burden. Pulling her close, you hold her tightly. “I don't ever want you to feel that way. We're in this together, no matter what. And nobody—not even Nat—can make us feel less than.”

Wanda buries her face in your chest, allowing herself to release the pain she's been holding back. She clings onto you, her fingers gripping the fabric of your shirt as she seeks comfort in your reassurances. “Don’t you ever leave me,” she murmurs amidst her tears. “I just want to make you happy.”

Your lips press tightly together. Of course, you'd never consider leaving Wanda. The thought wouldn't even cross your mind. Where is all this coming from?

“You do make me happy, every single day,” you reply, your words soaked in the truth of your love for her, “with or without a baby, our happiness is crafted by the love we share, not by the expectations of others or the gifts they give.”

“And you love me?” Wanda asks.

Gently cupping her face in your hands, you make sure she’s looking directly into your eyes when you say, “Every inch, every fiber, every moment.”

Her eyes search yours, a shadow flickering within them that you can't quite pin down. After a long beat of silence, she whispers, “Okay. Then return that crib to Natasha.”

-

Natasha's apartment is a study in minimalist elegance with clean lines and straight forward colors. You ring the bell, adjusting the large box you're holding, and rehearse the speech in your head. After all, you've never returned anything Natasha has given you before.

The door swings open, revealing your best friend in a tattered shirt, her hair pulled back into a high ponytail. She eyes the box, then shifts her gaze up to meet yours, arching an eyebrow. “That's...a large box.”

“It's the crib,” you state simply, seeing no reason to beat around the bush.

Her eyes flash with understanding and perhaps a hint of curiosity. “Come in.”

You push the box through the door with some considerable effort and take a seat on her plush sofa, noting how her living room has changed since your last visit. New artwork on the walls, a couple of throw pillows that weren’t there before.

Natasha takes a seat opposite you. “How's Wanda?”

“She's... coping,” you reply with a bit of hesitation. “Some days are better than others.”

After Wanda confronted you about sharing the private details of your married life with your best friend, you've been extra cautious about what to share and what not to. With people like your boss Scott or your colleagues at work, it's easy. But with your best friend, it's hard to hold back, especially when she's the only other person you turn to for advice and confide in.

Natasha nods in understanding, her sharp eyes analyzing you. “You look...fit. More so than the last time I saw you.”

“Yeah, been on a restrictive diet to help Wanda keep hers. Thought it'd help her with food temptation if I joined in.”

She smirks, “That's sweet. But is that the only reason?”

You smile sheepishly, rubbing the back of your neck. “Well, initially, yes. But I've started enjoying my time at the gym. It makes me feel... more confident, I guess. And it's been a good distraction, especially with all the stress at work.”

“That’s good to hear,” she says, her gaze flitting towards the box. “But what’s up with the crib?”

Taking a deep breath, you began to recite the rehearsed explanation about your mother wanting to gift you a crib, how it seemed redundant to have two, and how—but Natasha cuts you off with an amused chuckle.

“Come on, Y/N,” she grins, shaking her head. “I’m not buying that crap. Just tell me the truth. I won't be offended.”

“Alright,” you start, dropping the facade. “Wanda's been finding it hard. The crib... it’s like this looming symbol of expectation and pressure for her. We’ve been trying for months and it's been weighing on her. And, honestly, on me too.”

Natasha’s eyes soften at your admission. “I can’t even begin to imagine how tough this must be for both of you,” she says. “But let me ask you something, Y/N. How do you feel about all of this? Not just the crib, but Wanda not being able to get pregnant?”

For a moment, you appear deeply engrossed in thought, gazing at the box and the unfinished crib, then your eyes shift back to meet Natasha's. “It's difficult. Every month, there’s this hope, this expectation. And when it doesn’t happen, it’s... crushing. Not just for Wanda, but for me too. I watch her go through it every time and it kills me that I can't do more to help. That being said, I don’t blame her, nor do I see her any differently. I love her, no matter what. But it's hard to watch her go through this pain.”

“Does she know that?”

You’re about to say yes but then your most recent argument with Wanda stops you.

Don’t you ever leave me. I just want to make you happy.

It’s clear that you haven’t been telling her enough. Maybe a part of you doesn't want to admit that there's a twinge of disappointment, or that you've started to believe you could be the one to try in her stead. But you haven't shared any of this with Wanda. In keeping silent, you mistakenly thought you were reassuring her. Wrapped up in your career, you've been blind to the emotional strain it's placed on your wife, how it's shaken her self-esteem and her trust in your love.

Maybe you'd been too caught up in your own head, too busy trying to protect her, and in doing so, inadvertently pushed her away.

“I mean, I thought she knew,” you say with a shaky sigh. “But maybe I haven't been clear enough. I've been trying to maintain a positive outlook, you know? But I think I messed up.”

After a pause, Natasha rises and offers, “Want a beer?”

You nod, then lean back, exhaling audibly. “I'm even thinking about... you know, maybe I should be the one to try. But I'm scared it'll seem like I've given up on her.”

Natasha's eyes widen slightly as she hands you a cold can of beer. “Whoa, that's big. But just, when you talk to her about it, make sure she knows it's 'cause you two are in this together. Not 'cause you think she can't. And is…that what you want?”

“We want kids, Nat.”

“But does it have to happen now?”

You pop open the beer and take a deep sip before responding. “I mean, I don't think either of us envisioned it would be this hard. It's just... We both felt ready, you know? And after all the effort and disappointment, it's not easy to just push pause.”

“I don’t know, Y/N… Sometimes life throws us curveballs, and we've got to decide if we want to swing or wait for the next pitch.”

“You've been hanging around Clint too much.”

Natasha grins. “Maybe. But seriously, what's the rush? If the universe is telling you something, maybe it's worth listening.”

You look down at the beer can, condensation slipping down its side. “I just hate seeing her hurt. Every negative test, every failed attempt, I can see how much it's breaking her.”

“Then talk to Wanda,” Natasha says. “Ask her what she wants. Stop making assumptions and trying to fix everything.”

The thing is, you don't want to give up. That's probably why you're so nervous about mentioning to Wanda the idea of pausing and rethinking things. You've been self-centered for too long, and as much as Wanda wants to make you happy, you need her to be happy too.

“Thanks, Nat. It means a lot,” you say, rising from your seat. Just as you're about to reach the door, Natasha's voice stops you.

“I'll hold onto the crib for when the time's right, okay?”

-

You are startled awake from a light slumber by the sound of soft moans beside you. As your eyes flutter open, you see Wanda, her hand moving frantically under the sheets. The sight sends a warm thrill down your spine, but you notice her face turning a shade redder as she realizes you've woken up.

“Oh, I-I didn't mean to wake you,” she stammers, trying to pull the sheet over her actions, but you catch her wrist gently. It hurts a bit to realize that Wanda tried to hide her actions from you. It's in this moment you recognize you've been neglecting her physical needs as well, and you can't remember the last time you made love to her in earnest.

“Hey, it's okay,” you whisper reassuringly, your sleepy eyes now more alert and focused on her flushed face.

You reach over to the nightstand and turn on the lamp. Now, with better visibility, you can see the sheen of sweat on her forehead, her lips slightly parted as she bites down on her lower lip to stifle any further sounds.

“Sorry,” she mutters again, looking away shyly. “I didn't think I'd wake you.”

“No need to apologize,” you respond softly, your heart pounding against your ribcage. “Can I... can I help?”

Wanda nods her head bashfully, her breath quickening. You smile inwardly; you've lost track of how many times you've done this to her, to each other, yet there’s still this little dance you do even though you both know what it’s going to look like within the next hour.

You can tell she's probably expecting your fingers, which is why when you maneuver yourself down to the foot of the bed, her eyes widen with a blend of surprise and arousal.

You settle between her legs, taking a moment to admire the goddess before you. As you slowly slide off her panties, you take the opportunity to press tender kisses along her trembling thighs.

“You're so beautiful,” you murmur against her skin, feeling her shiver under your touch. “You smell so good, so delectable.” She whimpers softly as you continue, “You've been such a wonderful partner, Wanda. You complete me in every way.”

Wanda is enough. Whether the path to pregnancy is smooth or rocky, what matters most is this—the life you share together, the bond you’ve formed over the years. You'd rather have her happy and content, than stressed and miserable over what might not be.

Without further ado, you delve into the act of worshiping her with your tongue, making her gasp and clutch the sheets beside her. Her name falls from your lips like a prayer as you navigate through her soft folds, each stroke of your tongue eliciting a beautiful melody of moans and sighs from her.

You don't consider yourself particularly religious, but you send a silent thanks to whoever might be up there, that you get to experience everything with this woman—for better or for worse.

-

“Branch manager? But I thought—”

“You need the experience, Y/N, so I can properly recommend you for an AVP position,” Scott says, adjusting his tie—a habit you've observed he resorts to in awkward moments.

You blink in surprise, trying to process the unexpected turn. “Scott, that's... I'm honored, truly, but I was under the impression that the AVP position was nearly within my grasp.”

He exhales, avoiding direct eye contact. “Look, Y/N, you're incredibly talented, and everyone knows it. But there are some procedural checkboxes we need to tick, and having branch managerial experience is one of them.”

“But there must be some catch to this 'promotion', right?” you ask.

Scott shifts uneasily in his chair before replying, “Well, there is a trade-off. You'll be temporarily relocated to Westview, New Jersey.”

“Westview?”

He nods, “The branch there needs significant improvement, and the higher-ups believe you're the best person for the job. They would be immensely grateful for your expertise.”

Swallowing the sudden lump in your throat, you inquire, “How long do I have before the move?”

“Less than a month,” he admits, sounding apologetic.

The prospect of relocating, even temporarily, is daunting, especially given the current circumstances at home. You haven't even touched on the idea of perhaps pumping the brakes on conceiving with Wanda, and now this added responsibility looms ahead.

-

You push open the front door of the apartment, immediately hearing Sparky's playful barks. Wanda is lounging on the living room couch, a bowl of green salad in her lap. She's back on her restrictive diet, you note, and she looks more refreshed than she has in weeks.

Attempting to be discreet, you try to slide the platter of sushi behind a cushion, but Wanda's observant eyes catch the movement. “Is that...sushi?”

Ah, there it goes—your surprise. “Um, yeah,” you mutter, bringing the platter around, “I thought maybe we could enjoy something different tonight.”

Her eyes dart between the sushi and your face, the question clear in her eyes. You sigh, deciding to cut to the chase. “I think maybe we should...take a break from trying. Just for a little while.”

Wanda looks stunned, and before she can say anything, you continue, “It’s taking a toll. On both of us, but especially on you. And with this new opportunity at work, which requires me to relocate temporarily…”

She’s silent for a beat, and then you see her eyes well up with tears, the dam breaking as she cries softly. It's a quiet cry, one of acceptance and understanding, but it still breaks your heart.

You pull her into a hug, letting her tears soak through your shirt. “Hey, it’s just a pause. And it’s a chance for us to enjoy things we’ve missed,” you say, holding out the platter of sushi toward her.

She looks at the platter and then at you, her tears mingling with a soft smile. “I've missed sashimi,” she whispers, her voice cracking.

You smile back, wiping away her tears. “And I've missed seeing you enjoy it,” you reply tenderly.

With a small sigh, she picks up a piece, enjoying the flavor that she's missed for so long. You both know that this pause doesn’t mean giving up—it's just a small detour. You’re looking forward to a new chapter with the move to New Jersey. Who knows, maybe if things in your career stabilize, you can discuss with Wanda the possibility of you being the one to carry. It's a delicate suggestion, for sure, but deep down, it kind of feels like that might be the way things should go.

But still, you can't help but ask—

“Hey, we're okay, right?”

Wanda seems to search for words for a moment before answering. Her eyes, now clear, meet yours with a fondness that's always been there.

Her hand reaches out to hold yours, and you latch onto it, feeling your need for her to stay grounded.

“We’re okay.”

-

A/N: Yeah, we all know what happens next...

[mellowswriting]

nothin' in the world belongs to me but my love

pairing || Joel Miller x f!Reader

word count || 3k

summary || Joel wakes up to the pretty sight of you in his bed and he just can't help himself.

content || SMUT, somnophilia (wake-up call via Joel Miller's fingers), fingering, some intercrural sex, rough sex, p in v, unprotected sex (don't be silly wrap ur willy), possessive and pussy-whipped Joel, the perfect balance of soft and rough

a/n || i'm BACK baby 🤠 and of course I'm returning with my patented balance between soft and sweet domesticity and feral rough sex

Joel Masterlist | Main Masterlist | Library Blog

Joel wakes to a warm slice of sunrise cutting through the curtains and blazing against his face. His face scrunches in irritation as he rolls away from the intrusive light - right into you. The two of you drifted apart as you slept but he finds his place against you with practiced ease. Your warmth soaks back into him and the annoyance slips away into oblivion. It feels right with his arm curled around your waist and his chest flush against your back.

His nose trails up the back of your neck. He rememorizes each ridge of your spine. A long, content sigh fans against your skin and his arms tighten around you. These soft, quiet moments drag in the most peaceful of ways. Joel kisses the base of your spine, his lips lingering as sleep begins to fade. He can’t help it. The temptation of a few more hours is nothing in the face of your sleeping form. With your scent surrounding him and the taste of your skin on his tongue, nothing else exists.

Here, in these moments, he’s just yours. You are just his.

He can’t resist the siren song of so much warm, soft skin. His hands slip beneath the old shirt you stole from him. His palm flattens to rest low on your belly and drags up, up, up until he brushes the underside of your breast. Even in sleep, your body blossoms at his touch. You lean back into him, into his wandering touch. Opening yourself up to him, begging for more without a word. It ignites something hungry in him, something sinful and desperate and aching.

Joel grabs a handful of your ass and squeezes gently. Your back arches just so, falling into the perfect angle that pushes your ass into his cock. A low rumble rolls through his chest, desire stirring low in his belly. He shamelessly presses his cock between your soft thighs and a shudder wracks his body as he feels you. Warm and wet, lingering from the good fuck he gave you last night. He rocks his hips slowly and he can feel you getting wetter. It's almost impossible to resist the impulse just to pin you down and fuck you awake.

“Sweetheart,” He whispers against the shell of your ear, his voice rough and thick with lust. He kisses that sweet spot just below the curve of your jaw and you hum a sleepy little sound. “There’s my girl…”

“Joel…?” You murmur his name softly as you emerge from sleep, right into the warmth and pleasure of his touch. Joel doesn’t answer the question inherent in your tone. He’s too busy sucking a mark into your neck and wedging his hand between your clenched thighs. He cups your cunt with slick fingers, putting just enough pressure against your clit to make you gasp. Whatever questions were about to tumble from your lips are overcome by a moan that damn near makes him snap.

Fuck. Joel just wants to ruin you. He wants to hear you cry out his name until you’re voice disappears. He wants to see that perfect body tremble from the pleasure-pain of overstimulation. He wants to watch your expression melt into that dazed, post-orgasm smile that never fails to send him reeling with how much he loves you. His arm tightens around you possessively, as if he doesn’t already have you in every way that matters.

You reach back and card your fingers through his hair. Joel shivers at the touch. God, it’s so good. His hips jerk harshly as your grip tightens at the back of his head. You tug his head back and he doesn’t bother holding back the guttural sound it evokes. He knows how much you like to hear him. The two of you move in synchronicity, too familiar with this little dance to need words. He gives you space to shift onto your back but he’s quick to crowd back to your side.

He tugs the sheets back with a sharp flick, too anxious to get his eyes on your body as he pleases you. He helps you pull the stolen shirt from your body. The seams pop under his eagerness. The moment the shirt disappears onto the floor, you drag him into a hungry kiss that makes him lightheaded with an intoxicating mix of fondness and lust. Your fingers wrap around Joel’s wrist and guide his hand between your spread thighs.

“Needy…” Joel murmurs against your lips amusedly.

“Says the one who woke me up with his cock between my thighs.” The sarcasm melts from your voice as his fingers teasingly stroke along your cunt. A pleased sigh falls from your lips and Joel preens. He lives and breathes for those sweet little sounds. You kiss him again, this one slower and a little messy, but no less starved. His tongue glides along the seam of your lips and your mouth opens for him eagerly. It takes two fingers sinking into your cunt for you to break away with a breathy, “Fuck, Joel!”

You grind down into the cup of his hand, your head tossed back into the pillows. Joel watches you sink into the crashing waves of pleasure, his eyes alight with his own wildfire of lust. His gaze trails up the line of your exposed throat, over the curve of your lips and the crease of your brow. He lets his palm bear down at the crest of your cunt and he revels in the cry it draws from the depths of your chest. All rough and almost feral, and he can’t get enough of it.

He wants more. He wants it all, everything all at once. Every goddamn inch of you is a temptation that beckons him, a siren song of heaven and desire. Greed and impatience flare in his chest and… fuck it. Why decide when he can just keep you? The animal that lurks in the back of his mind purrs at the thought of keeping you here, pinned beneath him at his mercy. Joel’s touch never leaves your body as he moves to kneel between your thighs, all too ready to make you beg for him.

You writhe and whine as he curls his fingers, and Joel can’t help the sly grin that grows on his face. He knows you too well; the last few years of his life have been spent right here in this bed, memorizing every sensitive spot your body has to offer him. Every little sigh, every whine, every twitch of muscle. He knows it all too well. You cry his name and - as much as it fucking kills him - he stops. You make a broken little sound, your walls spasming around nothing as his wet fingers squeeze your inner thigh. God, he thinks. What a perfect little slut. Before you can start squirming, he grabs your jaw and forces your attention on him.

“What’s wrong?” Joel whispers tauntingly, stroking your cheek with his fingers. He slides the head of his cock along your slick folds, teasing it against your clit. You just whine his name and give him those big, begging eyes that almost always make him give in. “Gonna let me fuck you, pretty girl?”

“Please,” Your voice trembles so sweetly. Joel tuts at you, his eyebrows furrowed in an obvious demand for more. It’s so cute to watch you struggle to form coherent words with the head of his cock barely dipping into you. Your hips rock beneath him and you whimper with every glide of his cock against those sensitive spots. You pull him down by his neck and kiss him so softly it almost feels out of place. So lovely in the midst of pure obscenity that it leaves him dazed. Your lips brush his as you whisper, “Fuck me, Joel.”

Those three words snap him out of the hazy fog of your sweetness. Joel surges down and captures your lips in a short and bruising kiss, drinking in your gasp as he finally sinks into your cunt. There isn’t a second to adjust to the stretch of his cock before he’s buried as deep as your body allows. Molten pleasure sinks into his body with every rhythmic pulse of your cunt. His hips grind against you, trying in vain to force himself deeper. You sob out a broken sound that has him bearing his teeth, growling out some indecipherable curse.

His eyes almost flutter shut at the pleasure but he forces them open, just to take in the sight of you pinned beneath his body, speared open on his cock. The way you look at him… Never has he felt so coveted, so desperately wanted in the most basic of ways. The pure desire in your eyes only fuels the possessive fire that burns hot in his chest, a vicious cycle he can’t get enough of. He circles his hips and grinds deeper again, just to watch the way it makes you writhe. You throw your head back into the pillows with a broken sound - and Joel finally breaks.

The pace he sets is relentless. It knocks the very breath from your lungs and you wail, far too loud for this sleepy neighborhood. His palm clasps over that filthy mouth of yours and every muffled cry sends his ego soaring.

“Quiet, baby,” Joel murmurs in your ear, playfully biting your earlobe and savoring the yelp it draws from you. “Can’t have the neighbors knowing what a desperate little slut you are, now can we?”

You sob his name behind the weight of his hand but he doesn’t let up. The wet squelch of your cunt fills the room, easily heard now that he’s quieted your dirty little mouth. It drives him crazy - you drive him crazy. So wet, so eager for him to make a mess of you. Joel straightens up, his pace never faltering, and he groans at the sight of his cock splitting you open. Everything glistens with your wetness - your thighs, his groin, all the way up to his lower belly. His free hand parts your cunt, holds you open so he can spit right on your clit, and you moan. He can’t help the cocky grin on his face.

Joel knows the power he holds over you - and he revels in it. He knows how to handle this perfect body, how to curve his hips just so to make you convulse around him. He drives into you so harshly that your entire body jerks with it. Your nails bite into the muscle of his shoulder, leaving little red crescents amongst the innumerable scars that litter his skin. Every little curse and cry he draws from you is addictive. Fuck the neighbors. He needs to hear you, to taste your sweet little sounds right from the cup of your mouth. His pace slows just enough to make sure you’re coherent enough to really hear him.

“Are you gonna be a good girl if I move my hand?” Joel murmurs. You nod emphatically and those big, begging eyes send a thrill through his body. You draw in a deep breath the moment he releases you. It leaves you in the form of a delicious, breathy little moan. “That’s it, baby. Feels good, don’t it?”

“So good, so fuckin’ good,” You’re a goddamn mess, your voice all heavy and slurred and lilting with his every thrust. “Please don’t stop… I-I, fuck!”

You don’t have to say it for him to know just how close you are. Your orgasm simmers just below the surface - he can feel it in every quiver of your cunt, in the slick that soaks into the hair at his groin. Part of him wants to prolong the torturous pleasure, to keep you hanging on the precipice until you’re wrecked. But he knows there will be time for that later, once he’s already made you come on his cock and his fingers and his tongue. Again and again until you’re crying and soaking the sheets.

But for now… he gives you what you want. His strokes grow sloppy, the finesse of his movements disappearing as that feral part of him takes over. Every thrust of his hips buries his cock all the way against your cervix and he just knows it hurts so good. Your nails scrabble down his chest, leaving little red trails in their wake, and Joel growls at the slight sting. You take it beautifully and Joel adores it. He adores how much you crave his brutality, how you demand the intensity only he can provide. You don’t shy away from the grip that’s sure to leave bruises on your hips and thighs. No, you lean into it, beg for more, more, more.

You claw him closer as you choke out his name and Joel gives in without hesitation. There isn’t a breadth of space left between you as he draws you closer and closer to that devastating release. Joel drinks in your pleasure, watching you with that manic light burning in his eyes. Your brow furrows and your body locks up as tight as a bowstring. He brushes the stray hairs from your face, his hand coming to rest at the crown of your head. He holds you tight, an assertive presence that never fails to make you feel so safe.

“That’s it, pretty girl.” Joel’s tongue flits out and licks up the salt of your tears. You shiver at the filth of it. “Come for me.”

That soft command drags you over the edge. Your back arches like lightning dances down your spine and your cunt spasms - and suddenly everything is wet and hot and it feels like the world is collapsing in on him. He can barely hear the sound he wrenches from you over the rush of blood in his ears. His hand slams against the headboard, a rough sound ripping through his chest at the feeling of you locked so tight around him. For a split second, he thinks he can hold out against the barrage of pleasure - but then you go all limp and pliant and you sigh his name - His orgasm snaps through him and he fills you, sinks into your cunt over and over until it spills from your twitching hole. He murmurs your name low in your ear as his full weight sinks into your body.

It’s bliss - pure bliss that sings through his veins and settles into his bones. Joel buries his face in the crook of your neck and wraps his arms around you. Nothing exists but the low hum of pleasure that thrums through his body and you. The trail of your fingers tracing lazy lines along his shoulder. The easy rise and fall of your chest with every breath you take. The low pulse of your cunt around his softening cock. He drags sloppy kisses along your throat as his mind slowly emerges from the fog of pleasure.

Joel only manages to drag himself away from the comfort of your body with the knowledge that it won’t be for long. He returns a few moments later, arms full of everything he needs to take care of you.

“Look at you,” Joel murmurs as he drags a warm, wet cloth along your skin. He carefully cleans you up, shushing your winces and whines as he goes. “My gorgeous girl… you did so good for me, you know that?”

“Oh, I try…” You say teasingly. You let him coax the water down your throat, his fingers propped under your jaw as he tips the bottle at your lips. You snag his wrist before he can pull away fully and draw it up to your lips. The warm kiss you press to his sensitive skin makes him shiver. “I love you.”

No matter how many times he hears you say those words, it never fails to draw him up short. He can’t help the flush that heats his cheeks, blushing like a damn teenager at the attention of a beautiful girl. His thumb brushes a stray drop of water from your chin. There’s a gentleness in the way he handles you. Something he thought was long gone, a flicker of the life of before. Yet here he is. The woman he loves in his bed, leaning into the cup of his palm, whispering those sweet words to him.

“I love you, too,” Joel whispers.

You give him that blinding smile that could outshine the sun itself. You press up on your knees and kiss him, the warmth of your palms soaking into his cheeks. Joel’s hands slip down to your waist to pull you closer. He can feel you smiling into the kiss and it only stirs the desire that still simmers in his belly. You give him one last kiss before pulling away and moving to climb off of the bed - but Joel has no intention of letting you go. His hands snag you around your middle and pull you back into him.

“Wh- Joel!” You laugh, all bright and pure, and it makes his cock twitch in interest. He manhandles you down onto your back and straddles your thighs, trapping you beneath his weight. You wriggle beneath him, a halfhearted attempt to get loose. “What are you doing?”

“What are you doing?” He counters. It’s far too easy to capture your wrists and pin them into the sheets. His cock ruts against your belly and watches your lips part at the feeling. He presses a line of kisses along your jaw and down your throat. Your pulse flutters beneath his lips as he murmurs low against your throat, “You think I’m lettin’ you leave?”

You make a dismayed sound tinged with amusement, but it morphs into a breathy moan when the blunt edge of his teeth digs into your neck. The fight fades from you as his teeth and tongue work another mark into your skin. He makes sure to leave it high on your neck, too high to be covered by any shirt. Pretty little bruises for everyone to see just what you are - his girl. He sits back just enough to get a look at that pretty face.

“Oh, sweetheart,” Joel grins down at you, all cocky and self-assured. “You ain’t leavin’ this bed til I’m done with ya.”

[lupinmoonlight]

helloooo i am so grateful to have found your page🥹 i’ve recently become hyperfixated on lupin again & your fics are a godsend!!

small request: (of age) student often visiting lupin for office hours although she doesn’t need any help; lupin secretly infatuated w her since the start of term, he’d been imagining her in various ways while he was alone & playing w himself; fluff & intimacy & smuttttt

i know you’re super busy so feel free to get to this whenever u can or even want to, love! thank you!!

Tea, Professor Lupin?

Masterlist AO3

Summary - You always found an excuse to visit Professor Lupin in his office hours. After a cup of tea one evening, you end up straddling him, grinding yourself against him. This is the beginning of many more encounters, until one afternoon he can't take it anymore and has you against the wall of his office. (2,229 words)

Warnings - teacher/student, age gap, biting, marking, making out, grinding, dry humping, rough sex, unprotected sex, my grammar (english is my second language), not proof read.

Notes - Thank you for your kind comment Anon! I had a lot of fun with this one. I don't even know if it all makes sense but I hope you enjoy! Little surprise at the end!

Remus Lupin sat in his quarters, a parchment lying forgotten in front of him, quill dried from lack of use. His mind, usually focused, was a mess of conflicting thoughts, of forbidden emotions, all centered around one person: you. Merely thinking your name sent a rush of heat through his loins. 

It was a torturous loop, playing over and over in his mind—the way the light from the window caught your hair, turning it into a shimmering halo; the way your lips parted slightly when you were lost in thought; the curve of your collarbone peeking out from the neckline of your school uniform, leading his gaze to places it shouldn't wander.

He remembered the way your skirt would hitch up slightly when you sat down, revealing just a bit more of your thigh, nothing inappropriate, but enough to stir a feeling within him—a reminder that he was, after all, a man.

Taking a deep breath, he closed his eyes and there you were, that demure look in your eyes, the slight flush on your cheeks, your skirt hiked up around your waist exposing the pale skin of your thighs. In his mind, you were kneeling right before him, looking up through long lashes, waiting for his command. The imagery was so vivid, so erotic that he could feel your breath on him. 

He shifted uncomfortably in his chair, painfully aware of the growing tightness in his trousers. He palmed himself, pressing down on the hard ridge beneath, trying to alleviate the tension. But the contact only made it worse. A low groan escaped his lips as he decided to give into the sensation. 

There was no turning back now. The need for release, the burning desire, became overpowering. With trembling fingers, he unbuttoned his trousers and slid his hand inside, palming the warm, hard length of himself. He freed himself from the confines and began stroking, starting at the base and moving upwards, his thumb brushing over the sensitive tip. The sensation made his hips jerk in response and he couldn't help letting out a low curse. 

His thoughts spiraled further into fantasy - your soft moans, the fluttering of your eyelashes as you looked up at him, your lips stretched around him. A breathy "fuck..." escaped his lips as he felt himself nearing the edge. 

The tension coiled tightly in his lower belly, building with every rhythmic motion of his hand. His grip tightened, and he quickened his pace, driven by the impending climax. And then, with a final, desperate thrust into his own hand and a barely suppressed shout, he came, warmth spilling over his fingers in thick, pulsating spurts. His heart pounded in his ears as he tried to catch his breath, a lingering feeling of guilt for letting his mind wander like that. 

He told himself it was the last time he would give into such forbidden fantasies, although he knew his resolve was not very strong. Because you were his weakness. Every day you were his weakness. 

Every office hour you were his weakness. You would show up, knowing you absolutely did not need help with anything. Your intentions were not exactly pure; it was more about the man behind the desk than any lesson he might teach. You just wanted to be with him. To see him. To feel his gaze on you. So here you were again, hesitating at the door before knocking softly. 

"Come in," he called. 

You entered, your eyes finding his immediately. "Professor Lupin," you began with feigned innocence, "I was wondering if I might use your office to study? It's so quiet and calm here." 

He looked up, a soft smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Of course, Y/N," he replied, gesturing to a small desk by the window. "You're always welcome here."

You settled into the seat, trying to focus on your textbook, but acutely aware of the intensity of his gaze. Every so often, you would catch him stealing glances in your direction. His eyes would travel, lingering on your legs when they shifted or the curve of your neck when you leaned over your books. 

For Remus, the ritual became a torturous loop. The simple act of you being there, so close yet so far, tormented him. He found himself lost in his thoughts, the pages of his book becoming a blur. The tightening in his trousers a cruel reminder of the tension in the room. 

As the weeks went on, your interactions grew less formal. You would often arrive without a pretense of studying, and your conversations flowed easily. So much that one evening, you walked in without knocking, a playful grin on your face. "Professor," you teased, "I thought I might stop by for some tea and company." 

Remus chuckled, setting aside his paperwork. "Dropping the excuses, are we?" he responded, warming to your presence. 

You shrugged, your face glowing in the light of the fireplace. "Perhaps. I've come to appreciate our little talks." 

He summoned a pot of tea and poured you both a cup. "So have I," he admitted, his eyes searching yours. You both settled on the couch, the warmth of the fire creating a cozy atmosphere yet there was an undeniable tension. 

In the midst of your conversation, you drew nearer to each other, perhaps unconsciously, your knees brushing every now and then. Remus's every breath became a battle against his own desires, the proximity testing his resolve. 

He shifted uneasily, the close proximity awakening a forbidden hunger. "Y/N," he began, voice slightly raspy. "It's getting late. Perhaps you should head back to your dorm."

Your gaze moved from his eyes to his lips, your voice soft and innocent as you murmured, "But Professor...I don't really want to leave." 

He swallowed hard. "I don't want you to leave either," he almost whispered, every word heavy with the unspoken desires. "But I wouldn't want you getting in trouble..." Even as he spoke, he found himself leaning in, the pull impossible to resist. You were so close now; your breaths intermingled. 

You had every opportunity to pull away, but you didn't. And then the distance between you vanished as his lips met yours. The initial contact was tentative, a gentle exploration, as if he was asking permission. But the restraint soon faded as the kiss deepened, rapidly transformed into one of burning need. 

In an impulsive move, you swung a leg over, straddling him. You could feel his very evident arousal against you, making him groan as you began to move. 

"We shouldn't-" he managed, his voice thick with lust. But his protests were silenced by another deep groan, spurred by the rhythmic pressure of your movements against him. His hands, once hesitantly placed at your sides, now gripped your hips with a possessive fervor, guiding you as you continued to grind against the hard ridge of his length. 

Your moans and whimpers were intoxicating. His mouth trailed to your neck, biting and sucking on the delicate skin, tasting your warmth, leaving a territorial mark on you. The pace of your movements increased until you were unable to hold back anymore. He felt your body tense, a telltale sign of your climax, and his control slipped away rapidly. The soft whimper in his ear was all it took to push him over the edge. His hips jerked involuntarily as a sticky warmth seeped through his trousers. 

You stayed like that for a few moments, foreheads touching, catching your breaths and coming to terms with the line you'd just crossed. Remus looked mortified. "I...I'm sorry," he murmured, a hint of embarrassment in his voice. "This shouldn't have happened. It can't happen again."

You looked at him, a mischievous smile playing on your lips. "No, it shouldn't," you replied sarcastically. And that's when he knew he had corrupted you, or perhaps you had corrupted him. It didn't really matter anymore because every evening, the ritual repeated. The pretext of "tea" had become a thinly veiled excuse for the intimate encounters that transpired between the two of you behind the closed door of his office. 

Remus was not even trying to dissuade you anymore. More often than not, he would pull you into his arms as soon as the door clicked shut. Your lips met, and the world outside disappeared. A light bite on your lower lip would elicit a whimper, and his mouth would quickly travel to your neck, where he discovered you were more sensitive. He reveled in these moments, intoxicated by the power he held over you. He loved marking you, a visible claim that you were his, although he knew he had no right as your Professor. 

There were nights where your need for intimacy transitioned from the physical to the emotional. He would be sprawled out on his office couch, and you would nestle yourself on top of him. His fingers would thread through your hair, and he would lean down to press a gentle kiss on your head. "How was your day?" he would ask. 

"It was okay. Potions was...intense," you murmured, the hint of a smile playing on your lips. 

Remus chuckled lightly. "Snape still giving you a hard time?"

You shook your head, your fingers dancing over the fabric of his shirt. "No, not really. I think he's just...Snape." 

Remus laughed softly. "True. That man is an enigma." He paused, his fingers stilling in your hair. "Y/N, we...we need to talk about this," he began, his voice hesitant, "about us." 

You lifted your head, your eyes meeting his, filled with a mix of fear and hope. "I know," you whispered.

He sighed, pressing another gentle kiss to your forehead. "It's just...our positions...it's complicated. I should've never allowed myself to act on my feelings. I had no right."

You shook your head, a silent tear rolling down your cheek. "But Remus, I feel safe here, with you. I want to be with you." 

He pulled you closer, his arms wrapping around you tightly. "I feel the same way," he admitted. "But we have to be careful." 

You nodded, burying your face in his chest. "I understand."

Yet, his actions never followed his words. He would eat you alive with his eyes every class, touch himself to the thought of you at night, or pull you aside in the corridor to steal a kiss in the middle of the day. 

The sight of you, there in the hallway, acted as a siren's call. It was different this time. His gaze was not soft and playful. It was predatory and it went straight to your core. Without a word, he snatched your wrist, his grip firm, and pulled you along towards the closest room- his office. 

"Remus? What's going on?" you began, a bit surprised. 

"You," he growled, pressing you firmly against the wall. "I can't get enough of you," he breathed against your neck, his fingers working with a frenzied haste to lift your skirt and push down your panties swiftly. You gasped, sensing the barely contained need in his every movement. 

With a groan of frustration, Remus quickly undid his trousers. His erection was painfully hard, and he pressed it against you, savoring the wet heat and intimacy of the contact. "You feel that?" he whispered harshly, grinding against you. "This is what you do to me." 

You could barely respond, your breath hitching as you felt his tip rub against your entrance. "Please, Remus," you panted, your nails digging into his shoulders, back arching against him. 

He didn't need any more encouragement. With a sharp thrust, he entered you, burying himself deep as your legs hooked around his waist. 

"Fuck, Y/N," he grunted. "You feel so good." Every thrust was hard and frantic, the slap of your bodies echoing in the confined space. 

You clung to him desperately, your body rising to meet each of his powerful thrusts. The pleasure was almost too much, and soon you felt that familiar pressure building. "Remus," you whimpered, your walls clenching around him as you reached your climax. 

Feeling you tighten around him was his undoing. "Fuck..." he cursed again, thrusting even more relentlessly. "Gonna fill you up," he rasped. "Take it. Take all of me." 

Without further warning, he buried himself to the hilt, holding himself deep inside you as his release overtook him. You cried out, the intensity of his climax and his depth almost too much to handle. Each pulse of his length seemed to go on forever, filling you completely. 

Finally spent, he rested his forehead against yours, both of you panting heavily. He remained inside you for a moment longer, the soft pulsing of his length a lingering testament to what had just transpired. Slowly, he pulled out, his seed trickling down your thigh and onto the polished wood below, only for it to vanish with a flick of his wand. 

In a daze, you felt your panties being pulled back up. Moments later, you were back on the familiar couch, his arm wrapped protectively around you. 

Floating towards you were two cups of steaming tea. Remus looked down at you, his eyes still dark but with a hint of mischief. "Tea, Miss Y/N?" he teased. 

You smirked, taking the offered cup with shaky hands. "Why, thank you, Professor Lupin." 

[killerplink]

✨AKI'S LUNCH BREAK✨

(this is the short version, but I made a longer one on AO3, and you can find it here, besties 🥹)

Aki hadn't planned for this when you walked into his office, all sweet smiles and soft giggles, holding up the lunch he'd forgotten at home like the perfect girlfriend you are.

"You're such a good girl, baby," he'd said with that soft look he reserves only for you, his tone affectionate.

But now? Now, you're on his lap, your back on him, sundress bunched up around your waist, and his cock buried deep inside your sopping cunt.

The sight of you—so innocent, so pure to everyone else—riding his dick like you were made for it has his head spinning. His sweet girlfriend, the one who everyone thinks is too precious to even raise her voice, now has her hands braced on his desk, her body trembling as she takes him so greedily.

"Fuck," he thinks, his hands tightening on your waist, guiding your movements as you bounce on his dick.

He can't look away from the obscene way you stretch around him, your slick dripping down his shaft and pooling at the base of his cock.

"Sweetheart," he murmurs, his voice thick with lust, "did you come here just to spoil me, or was this part of your plan all along?"

You whimper, your walls fluttering around him, and he smirks, his fingers digging into the plush curve of your hips.

"I think I know the answer," he says, his tone smug. "You couldn't wait, could you? Couldn't wait to feel me stretching this tight little pussy."

His words have you gasping, your head dipping forward as you grind down on him, his cock hitting that spot deep inside you that makes your toes curl. He feels so big, every thick vein and ridge dragging against your slick walls, leaving you breathless and aching for more.

"Look at you, baby. Taking me so well. So tight, so wet."

You shiver at his praise, your nails biting into the edge of his desk as you try to keep up with the pace, your thighs burning from the effort.

"Did you bring me lunch just so you could end up like this?" he asks, his tone laced with amusement. His thumbs rub soft circles into your skin, a contrast to the rough drag of his dick against your most sensitive spot. "So sweet and innocent, but look at you now. You can't even stop yourself, can you?"

You moan, your body trembling as his words send another wave of heat pooling in your belly. Your pussy clenches around him, and he groans, his hips snapping up to meet yours, driving his dick deeper.

The wet, obscene sounds of him fucking into you fill the office, each thrust sending a fresh wave of slick down his length. You can feel the mess between your thighs, the way your arousal coats him, making it so easy for him to slide in and out of your desperate, needy cunt.

"You're so fucking tight," he mutters, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin of your neck. "Can feel how close you are, baby. You gonna cum on my dick again?"

You nod frantically, your nails digging into the edge of his desk as your climax builds, white-hot and overwhelming.

"That's it," Aki groans, his grip on your waist tightening as he thrusts up into you harder, faster, chasing his own release. "Cum for me, sweetheart. Show me how much you love being stuffed full of my dick."

You shatter around him, your body arching as your orgasm crashes over you. Your walls clench and flutter, milking his cock as he groans, his hips slamming up into you one last time before he spills inside you.

His release is hot and thick, filling you so completely you can feel it dripping out of you, mingling with your slick. Aki doesn't stop, his cock twitching as he fucks his cum deeper into you.

The sensation makes you whimper, your body trembling as he holds you there, letting you feel every pulse of his dick as he empties himself inside you. His hands are gentle as they slide up to your waist, holding you close, grounding you in the aftermath of it all.

For a moment, the office is quiet, save for your ragged breathing and the soft hum of the AC. But then Aki moves, his hips shifting, his cock sliding through the mess of his cum and your slick.

You gasp, your body jerking as he thrusts into you again, his movements slow but deliberate, hitting that same perfect spot that has your toes curling.

"Aki," you whimper, your voice trembling, but he doesn't stop.

He's gentle, careful, his hands stroking your sides as he fucks lazily into your oversensitive cunt, drawing soft, broken moans from your lips.

You know you're leaving his office a mess, his cum dripping down your thighs, soaking into the fabric of your panties. But you can't bring yourself to care, not when he's holding you like this, fucking you through the lingering waves of your orgasm, his breath warm against your neck.

[daryltwdixon]

The Heart of Us: Chapter 16

notes: im telling you sometimes I think if I had access to Daryl Dixon every day id jump his bones every chance I got so that's what we're doin

warnings: slightly NSFW

You wake to the soft gray light of morning filtering through the curtains, Daryl’s warmth pressed tightly against you. His head rests on your chest, the scruff of his jaw brushing your skin with each slow, even breath he takes. One arm is wrapped firm around your waist, the other tucked beneath you like even in sleep, he’s afraid to let go.

Your fingers move instinctively, brushing through his messy hair. He stirs, nuzzling closer, his face burying deeper into you. The weight of him is grounding, comforting. You don’t want to move, don’t want to disturb this quiet, fragile cocoon you’ve found together.

Then his lips graze your skin—soft, hesitant, against the curve of your breast. Heat stirs low in your belly as his breath hitches, his grip tightening. You feel the change before his eyes even open—the flex of his fingers, the subtle press of his body aligning closer to yours.

“Morning,” he mumbles, his voice low and raspy with sleep.

“Morning,” you whisper back, your voice catching as his lips brush your skin again, more deliberate this time.

His eyes blink open, lazy and hooded as they meet yours. There’s a softness there, a quiet yearning that tightens your chest. You trace your fingers along his jaw, tilting his face up toward yours.

“You’re already thinkin’ about somethin’,” he mutters, his voice rough as he shifts slightly over you.

“Maybe.” A small smile tugs at your lips, teasing but inviting.

That’s all it takes. His lips find yours, soft but insistent, and his weight presses down as he moves fully over you. His hands roam, tracing the curve of your waist, slipping beneath the blanket to brush against your thighs.

You tug at his shirt, pushing it up until he pulls back just enough to shrug it off. The fabric falls to the floor, forgotten, and your hands are on him immediately—tracing the lines of his shoulders, the hard ridges of his collarbone, the scars etched across his skin. Each touch seems to draw something from him, his breath hitching, his muscles tensing under your palms.

“Stop,” he mutters, his voice low but wavering, his lips twitching in a faint, reluctant smile.

“Ticklish?” you tease, your fingers lingering along his ribs. “Good.”

He growls under his breath, his hands firm on your waist as he pulls you closer. There’s tension in his grip, restraint in the way he moves, like he’s still learning how to let himself have this. You lean in, your lips brushing his jaw, his neck, tasting the salt of his skin as he exhales a shaky breath.

“C’mere,” he grumbles, his voice thick with need as he shifts, settling fully between your legs.

His kiss is slow, deliberate, the kind that leaves you breathless. His hands explore, rough fingers brushing the bare skin beneath your shirt. The sensation sends a shiver down your spine, your body arching into him as your hands fumble with the waistband of his jeans. He pauses for a moment, his forehead pressing against your shoulder as he breathes heavily, grounding himself.

“Daryl,” you murmur, your voice soft but urgent.

That’s all the encouragement he needs. Clothes fall away in hurried, clumsy movements, and his lips follow the trail of exposed skin. He takes his time, his kisses lingering on every hollow and curve, each touch reverent and deliberate. When his lips find your center, the world disappears, leaving only him—his name spilling from your lips as he unravels you piece by piece.

When he finally moves over you, his hair falling into his eyes, you see something raw and unspoken in his gaze. You reach up, brushing the strands back, your fingers tangling as you pull him down for a searing kiss. He enters you slowly, a quiet groan escaping his lips, the sound mingling with your soft gasp.

The rhythm you find together is unhurried but consuming, every movement a quiet promise. His lips find your jaw, your neck, your shoulder, and the way he says your name—rough, breathless—leaves you undone.

When it’s over, his weight presses into you, grounding you. His forehead rests against yours, both of you catching your breath in the quiet. His hand moves absently over your hip, tracing lazy circles against your skin.

You close your eyes, letting his presence chase away the lingering chill of the morning. But the quiet between you grows heavier, the edges of reality pressing in.

“I wish you didn’t have to leave,” you murmur, breaking the silence.

Daryl shifts, his brow furrowing as he looks at you. “Ain’t nothin’ out there that won’t wait,” he says, his thumb brushing your side.

You bite your lip, the ache in your chest deepening. “I know. But I still wish I could come with you.”

His gaze searches yours, a flicker of guilt crossing his features. “Won’t be long,” he says, like it’s that simple. But it never is.

Your mind drifts to last night—to Rick. His drunken voice, the way he’d cornered you, his words slurred but heavy with meaning. The kiss had come out of nowhere, clumsy and desperate, and you’d pushed him away immediately. The regret in his eyes had been instant, but it didn’t make it easier to forget.

The thought of facing him now makes your stomach twist. You exhale softly, your fingers tightening against Daryl’s back. “It’s not that,” you say finally. “I just… don’t want to deal with everyone. Not today.”

He studies you for a long moment, his jaw tightening, but he doesn’t push. “I get it,” he says simply. “Ain’t gotta explain.”

He leans down, pressing a lingering kiss to your lips, soft and unspoken. When he pulls back, his eyes flick to the clock on the nightstand.

“Shit,” he mutters, sitting up and running a hand through his hair.

You prop yourself up on your elbows, watching as he swings his legs over the side of the bed and grabs his jeans from the floor. He moves with that quiet efficiency he always has, pulling on his shirt and lacing up his boots without a word.

You feel a pang of something—disappointment, maybe, or just the weight of knowing he’s about to walk out the door again.

He glances back at you, his expression softening when he sees the look on your face. He leans down, cupping your cheek as he presses one last kiss to your lips.

“I love you,” he murmurs against your skin, his voice rough but steady.

“Love you too,” you whisper back, your hand lingering against his wrist as he pulls away.

Daryl straightens, grabbing his crossbow from where it leans against the wall. He gives you one last look before heading toward the door, his boots heavy against the hardwood floor.

You hear the creak of the stairs as he heads downstairs, and the sound settles over you like a weight. You lay back against the pillows, the quiet of the room feeling far lonelier now than it did just a few moments ago.

➳

Rick

In the second bedroom across the stairs, Rick Grimes stared blankly at the speckled ceiling above his bed. The early morning light filtered through the slats of the closed blinds, dust drifting lazily in the sunbeams. The faint warmth of it on his skin did nothing to ease the throbbing in his head.

His throat was dry, raw, like sandpaper with every breath he drew. The pounding behind his eyes wasn’t just from the hangover, though the bitter tang of last night’s beer still clung to his tongue. No, the ache in his skull came from something deeper, something worse—the weight of his own regret.

He squeezed his eyes shut, willing the pulsing pain to stop, but it only seemed to grow stronger as fragments of the night before flickered across his mind. Her face. Her voice. The way she’d looked at him, startled and furious, after he’d crossed the line.

Rick groaned quietly, his hand dragging across his face, the stubble on his jaw scratching against his palm. He could still feel the heat of the moment, her arm slipping from his grasp as she shoved him away. The memory made his chest tighten, his stomach churn with a sick kind of guilt that no amount of sunlight could chase away.

He’d screwed up. Royally.

He was a man of morals—a man who held himself to a certain standard. At least, that’s what he kept telling himself. Some days, he almost believed it.

He wasn’t sure when it had started, this gnawing feeling just beneath the surface. Maybe it was the walls, the illusion of safety they cast. People had started to breathe again. Rick wished he could say the same.

That was the problem with walls. They gave your mind too much space to wander, too much time to pick apart the things you’d shoved deep down while running for your life. For so long, it had been about survival—about keeping them alive, about staying ahead of death. There hadn’t been room for anything else.

But here? Here, the world slowed down just enough to let the cracks show. And in those cracks, his thoughts crept through—uninvited and unwelcome.

He told himself it was nothing. That he was just tired. That he was still adjusting to this place, to the idea of normalcy. He told himself that every time his eyes lingered too long, every time he found himself drawn to her voice—her sarcastic remarks, her quiet truths. His mind would scream that it wasn’t like that. That it couldn’t be. He wasn’t that kind of man. But then he’d look at her, their eyes meeting in a shared understanding, of everything that they–the group, and just him and her–had been through. It was rare and fleeting, and his chest would tighten in a way that made him question everything he thought he knew about himself.

It wasn’t just that she was beautiful. No, it was more than that. It was the way she moved through this broken world like she was built for it, like she belonged to it. Or more…how it belonged to her.

Y/N.

It shouldn’t have surprised him, not really. She’d always had a way of lingering in the back of his mind. Back when Shane was alive—when Shane couldn’t seem to leave her alone. Rick hadn’t paid much attention then, or maybe he hadn’t wanted to. He’d told himself she was just another piece of Shane’s mess. Another reminder of the man Shane had become in the end.

But when he saw her in Daryl’s arms that night in the field, lifeless and bloody, something shifted. Something in her—and something in him. Maybe it wasn’t even romantic feelings, not at first, but it changed him. It changed the whole group.

He had expected her to cry, to kick and scream at the world after that night. But she hadn’t. She’d gone inward, pushing everything down for their survival. She didn’t break. She bared her teeth like a wolf, standing tall against the world that tried so hard to crush her. If anything, she’d become stronger—fierce, sharp, like a blade honed by the chaos around them.

There was a ferocity to her now, one that hadn’t been there before. It wasn’t loud or reckless—not anymore. Instead, it was quiet and purposeful, an unyielding determination that Rick couldn’t ignore. She didn’t flinch when things got hard, didn’t hesitate when someone needed to take the lead. And when it came to the group, she protected them fiercely. Rick respected that about her, even if it unsettled him sometimes. Even if it reminded him a little too much of Shane.

But she wasn’t Shane. That much was clear.

Shane had been consumed by his own darkness, driven by rage and desperation until it swallowed him whole. Y/N, though—she’d taken that same darkness and turned it into something else. She carried it with her like a weapon, wielding it with precision and purpose. It was as if the world had tried to break her, and instead, she’d learned how to break it.

Rick found himself watching her more than he should. The way her eyes never stopped moving, scanning for threats even when everyone else was letting their guard down. The way she always kept one hand near her knife, like she didn’t trust the peace of Alexandria any more than he did. She wasn’t like the others here, wasn’t fooled by the fences and the false promises of safety. That was something else they had in common.

But then, when he saw her with Daryl…

That was when the guilt settled in, heavy and unshakable. He’d heard her thrash in her sleep for months and saw the emptiness in her eyes during the rare moments her guard slipped. But Daryl was always there, always ready to hold her, whispering things Rick would never hear.

Daryl.

Shit.

His brother in every way that mattered. Rick couldn’t do that to him—wouldn’t. No matter how much the thoughts lingered in his mind all day, no matter how often his gaze drifted to her when he thought no one was looking. She belonged to Daryl in ways Rick didn’t dare question, and that should’ve been enough to silence it.

It wasn’t.

With a heavy exhale, he swung his legs off the bed and headed to the kitchen, bracing himself for the day ahead.

[goodeapple]

unravel me (aemond x baela x oc)

The dragon must have three heads...

pairing : Aemond x Ysilla (Rhaenyra'sDaughter!OC) x Baela

warnings : it's a three for all (ffm), breeding, tongue twister, under negotiated/undisclosed kinks

word count : 2,000+

title from "Unravel Me" by Sabrina Claudio

“So good for me, my love.” Baela whispers against her cheek, and her tone is so pretty and praising that it sends Ysilla whining, and she burrows her face into her cousin’s naked shoulder. Soft hands slip over her back, fingertips dancing up the curve of her spine like a snake in the sand. Wisps of Baela’s curls tickle her face, the moonlight strands pecking her with a million tiny kisses. 

A brush of lips at Ysilla’s right shoulder signals the last piece of her puzzle notching into place. 

The sound that builds in Baela’s chest is more that of a rabid beast than a Velaryon Princess. 

“She's mine.” Baela snarls, pure dragon, and yanks Ysilla closer to her.

Their breasts meld, their skin sticky from the summer heat that refuses to break, even though night has fallen and blanketed the scorched earth below. Baela clutches her tighter, rolling Ysilla forward along the thigh squeezed between her legs. Ysilla’s breath hitches, eyes glassy, and she rocks her hips back and forth, grinding her wet cunt along the smooth ridge of it. 

A snicker, mean in sound and careless in its release, is an answer Baela does not want to hear. 

Aemond curls his hand around Ysilla’s ankle and with one good, strong tug, he rips his niece away from the other girl, splaying her out on her belly, her legs suddenly dangling off the side of the bed. Ysilla gasps, startled at the new position. She feels him press up behind her, the linen of his trousers soft and thin. Her arousal starts to soak through the fabric, and she tries not to arch back into the bulge she feels nudging apart her folds.

“Let’s not talk about who this one belongs to, girl,” Aemond brings both of Ysilla’s wrists behind her, securing them with one hand at the dip of her lower back, spacing her feet further apart so she’ll be a bit more stable for what’s to come.

“Because when it’s my cock inside of her, she loses all fucking thought.” 

Baela glares at him with enough hatred to fuel a thousand fires. Ysilla stares, drinking in her cousin’s state as if she is a cool drink. She was made by the Gods themselves, Ysilla swears it. Long, powerful legs that climb to muscled thighs- rider’s thighs before the curvaceous flare of her hips demands devotion. Then, up to a tapered waist before her chest blooms with beautiful, bouncy breasts that Ysilla always seems to find in her mouth. All of her gorgeous, heavenly body wrapped up in smooth, lucious sunloved skin that seems to glow and whisper take me, take me, take me into your den and keep me. It’s one of the many reasons Ysilla asked for her hand, even though her other was already entertwined with Aemond’s. 

Through all of that, the pinched look on her sweetheart face detracts from Ysilla’s happiness. How many times must they go through this? 

“Enough you two, I’m tired of hearing your- nnngh.” Ysilla cuts herself off with a guttural groan. She’s so wet, absolutely dribbling with want from Baela’s sweet touch that Aemond slides inside of her without any resistance. He drags her back and forth off of him, her trapped arms easy for him to loop his own through and puppet master her through their coupling. The bedspread crinkles under their movements and the softness scrapes at her nipples that sends bolts of overstimulation streaking through her tendons. He finds that perfect spot inside of her, as if his cock is a compass determined to find her pleasure, and drives the blunt mushroom head of himself straight into it overandoverand over again.

Ysilla screams, smothering her face into her sheets. She shoots up onto the tips of her toes, her peak washing through her like a tidal wave but Aemond doesn’t pause in his pace, fucking her through it brutally, her walls fluttering weakly at his assault. He’s trying to prove a point, even if it’s at her cervix’s expense. But Ysilla can’t bring herself to mind, her brain a puddle sloshing between her ears. 

“Baeeee-la,” Ysilla slurs. It’s hard to think, to talk, to breathe while Aemond does his best to fuck her stupid. Her paramour looks at her, the venom in her beautiful brown eyes dissipating to make room for tenderness and she sits up straighter, giving over her full attention. 

“Yes beloved?” Aemond growls at the name and Ysilla manages to curve her leg around his calf, stroking up and down the muscled limb. He’s such a boy- never knowing when to share.

“You didn’t… finish earlier…” Ysilla manages to croak out, biting at her lip as Aemond drags himself through her walls in a way that makes her ache. Baela gifts her a small smile, at the ready with a dismissive shake of her head. 

“No, no.” Ysilla answers before she can be told. She twists around, giving her lover a pleading glance. His skin is slick, glistening like his bejeweled eye. Scars and muscle weave a story Ysilla knows every word to, her husband a man just as complicated as he is handsome. Aemond nods, unlacing his arms from hers only to circle one around her hips. He always needs to be touching her. Ysilla slithers up his body, enjoying every ridge and dip along the way. 

“You’re doing so good for me, sweet boy. Taking such good care of me. How I love you so.” Aemond blushes, she can tell from how hot his face feels where he presses it to her neck. Ysilla drops a kiss beneath his ear, stroking the arm around her lovingly. He reaches up to cradle her breast in his hand, and he plucks and pulls at her nipple in a way that has her gushing. 

“Come here, ñuha prūmia." Ysilla lets her eyes fall heavily onto her lonely lover, her voice deep and thickened. It’s constant work, to spread her attention (her admiration, her desire) between her husband and wife. Their hers but not each other’s, not even with all of Ysilla’s begging and pleading. She only pokes them enough when the time is right, careful about toying across their battle lines. 

Baela blinks, unable to tear her stare from the veiny, pale hand swallowing up her wife’s tits. Aemond is so much bigger than both of them, so much stronger, it’s a bit intimidating. Sometimes, when Uncle and Niece get lost in each other, her rage dims into something more… warm. The intimidation into something a lot like yearning. Baela doesn’t entertain that feeling. 

The dragonrider comes back to herself, seeing an expression that’s far past pleading spelled out on Ysilla’s face.

“Now, Baela.” She blushes, a perfect cherry tint to her umber skin and Ysilla is so fucking hungry for her. Baela crawls forward and while Ysilla loves her face as much as the rest of her, the swing of her breasts is hypnotizing. She’s finally close enough, the sweet mint on her breath wafting over Ysilla’s face and the Princess finds her fingers and laces them with hers.

The girls’ lips brush, demure and proper, something barely considered as a kiss. Baela frowns, trying to stomp down her jealousy as Ysilla breaks away to gasp out a cry. Being made to share her wife with a man who she knows to be undeserving of her drives her to madness. Having to witness him bedding her is like salt in a wound and some days, the only thing stopping her from tearing through The One-Eyed Prince with her teeth is the pleading purple eyes of her ābrazȳrys. 

Baela could- no, can make Ysi cum harder, moan sweeter, love deeper than he could ever hope to. Spitefulness bites at her heart, and her voice crawls up her throat, forming into would you like me to leave you two alone? until Ysilla rolls her head forward and lets the longing in her eyes drip over Baela like hot wax. 

“Spread your legs for me, Bae.” Baela sighs happily, her girl’s attention back to where it should be. She settles back on her elbows, butterflying her knees apart and offering herself up on a platter. Who is she to deny her Queen? 

Ysilla dives in, all tongue, lapping her cream with a hunger reserved only for their bedchambers. Baela drops her head back, a ragged gasp ripping from her throat. Her hips swivel off the bed, rising to fuck Ysilla’s eager tongue. She can’t help it, when she reaches up to cup her own breast and rolls the plump weight in her skilled hand. She tangles her fingers in Ysilla’s roots and pulls, slanting her face harder into her soaked cunt.

Aemond moans and it’s such a nice sound, Ysilla will try to have him make it more often. He’s rutting into her, animalistic and fevered, spurred on by the sinful painting his wife and her lover make right before him. Ysilla slips a hand between her legs, caressing her clit in a way that sends her spasming and her husband groaning. She lets her slick pool over her fingers, getting them nice and drenched before tearing away from herself, and sliding them into Baela’s tight hole.

“Ysi!” Baela gasps, hips bucking wildly and if it were just the two of them, Ysilla would climb on top of her and ride. “Ysi, fuck, don’t stop!” 

Driven by nothing more than greed- rocking back into Aemond, pushing her face forward against Baela, Ysilla drowns herself in the scent/feel/taste of them, feral and needy and endlessly ravenous.

“Silli, iksan jāre ribazmoqitta kesīr.” Aemond curses into the back of her neck before he lifts her up, hunching over her back and fucking into her like she’s a ragdoll, like she’s just a hole for him to dump his cum into, like she’s a Dornish slut busy with her Velaryon consort- fuck!

His release takes him by the throat and squeezes. He thrusts deeper, however possible that may be, his spend sloshing from her juicy walls as he burrows into her womb. Aemond collapses onto her back. His heavy breaths at her neck and the weight of him on her is a comfort, keeping her pinned so she doesn’t float away from her body. It keeps her focused too; she still has a job to do. Her jaw aches but she fights through the burn with gusto, her focus unwilling to waiver. 

Aemond’s left hand joins her hold on Baela’s leg, his pale fingers digging into the dark flesh. They’d look so good together, so right. They’d fight before they’d fuck, or maybe both at the same time. Baela’s hand wrapped around Aemond’s narrow neck, choking him out as she bounced on his lap. His hand striking each of her ample cheeks, the buttery globes quaking before he snaked his long fingers to the dripping honeypot purring between her thighs. Ysilla wraps her lips around her cousin’s pretty little pearl and sucks, long lost in the haze of her fantasies, curling her fingers up to press at the spongy spot that undos all of Baela’s ties. 

Baela shouts, back bowing and head flying back, her curls waterfalling off her shoulders. She searches blindly for Ysilla’s wrist, desperately yanking her hand still when she finds it, guiding herself through her own peak and humping her wife’s fist to draw out her tremors. Ysilla flicks her tongue over the wiggling flesh, reveling in the sharp rise of her wailing.

Aemond’s thumb strokes Baela’s quivering calf as his other goes to strum at Ysilla’s button like she’s a harp string. The Princess shudders, finally giving herself over to euphoria, cushioning herself between both halves of her world. 

Baela flexes her toes, her whimpers dying out, deep rattling breaths taking their place. Aemond hums, sated and sound, edging Ysilla up the bed so that they can both curl up and rest. Baela presses the sole of her heel into his forearm to stall his movements, in a way that’s not quite as threatening as it appears tender. He drums his fingers down her leg, before pinching at her ankle. Ysilla watches and smiles, peppering kisses along the silky skin of Baela’s inner thigh. She pulls out her fingers gently, making sure to go nice and slow, letting her feel every inch that pulls out of her. Her wife shivers, crossing her thighs, perhaps suddenly aware of Aemond’s heavy eye getting quite the view of her womanhood.

Ysilla lets herself be selfish, happy that Baela is still lost in the clouds before she turns to her husband. Grinning slyly, she feeds her fingers into Aemond’s mouth, his hungry tongue swirling around them and sucking ravenously. 

Se zaldrīzes ēdruta emagon hāre heads. 

.

.

.

ñuha prūmia  .  my heart

ābrazȳrys  .  wife

iksan jāre ribazmoqitta kesīr  .  I'm going crazy here

se zaldrīzes ēdruta emagon hāre heads  .  the dragon must have three heads

[thatgirlmendo]

Until the Quiet Takes Us - Ch. 4

Summary: Joel returns to Austin and on the way comes across the reader after she had a run in with raiders. They left her for dead but he takes pity on her and promises to stay by her side until she recovers… he didn’t anticipate enjoying your company quite as much as he does…

Pairing: joel miller x female reader

Word Count: 2000ish

Content Warnings: slow burn, age gap, mutual pining, accidental touches, domestic fluff Joel Miller repression Olympics, emotional tension, post-apocalypse, softness, survival companions, longing, self pleasure (for the reader), p in v - finally

The morning was crisp, the sun burning off the last of the mist as Joel slung a pack over his shoulder.

"Supplies are low," he said, voice rough from sleep.

He didn’t look at you when he spoke - his eyes were fixed on the horizon beyond the broken windows. "There’s some houses up the ridge. big ones. Figure we’ll see if there’s anything worth bringing back.

You tucked your jacket tighter around your shoulders and pushed to your feet, ignoring the stiffness in your legs.

"I’m coming with you," you said before he could even argue.

Joel hesitated, you caught the flicker of it in his jaw, the tension in his shoulders, but he just grunted, adjusting the strap of his rifle.

"You get tired," he muttered, "you say so."

It wasn’t a question.

It wasn’t permission.

It was a command disguised as care, and it curled something warm and dangerous low in your belly.

The walk was slow going. The world had long since gone quiet, but Joel still moved like something dangerous lurked just beyond the trees.

His body tense - always half a step closer to you than necessary. you found yourself matching his stride - letting your shoulder brush his arm now and then - feeling the heat of him bleeding through your jacket.

Joel didn’t say anything about it. But you caught him once - his gaze dropping to your mouth when you laughed low at a joke he made without meaning to. He looked away fast, like the sight of you hurt.

The first house you came across was bigger than you expected. Two stories, grand old windows shattered in their frames, ivy strangling the walls.

It would’ve been beautiful once. Joel pushed the door open carefully, the hinges groaning in protest.

You followed him inside, the air cool and stale, dust motes dancing in the shafts of sunlight.

Nothing moved. Not a sound but your own breathing. Joel swept the first floor fast - so methodical, precise - and then the tension in his shoulders eased a fraction.

"It’s clear," he said.

You tucked your knife away and let out a slow breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.

Searching was slow work. You moved through the kitchen first. Drawers sticking, shelves sagging under the weight of dust and time. Joel stayed close, a little too close at times.

You felt him at your back constantly, the heat of him, the brush of his jacket against yours when you shifted wrong. At one point, you reached up to open a high cabinet stretching onto your toes

and stumbled backwards.

Joel caught you without hesitation

hands firm on your waist, pulling you steady against his chest. You froze. And So did he. Your back pressed to his front, the rise and fall of his chest hard and fast against you.

You could feel every delicious inch of him.

The rough scrape of denim, the warmth of his belt buckle grazing the small of your back. Joel’s hands flexed once on your hips before he yanked them away, so fast, almost violently.

"Careful," he muttered, voice slightly strained. You turned, slowly, deliberately and caught the raw, hungry look he tried to bury.

You couldn’t help but smile to yourself - a small curve of your lips he almost didn’t catch. You brushed the dust off your shirt. "I’m just fine," you said sweetly. Joel cursed under his breath and turned away, the muscles in his back tight under his jacket.

Upstairs, the house opened into a wide master bedroom, the bed frame broken, sheets shredded and rotting under the skylight. You moved to the closet, small, cramped - the door dragging open with a groan.

Inside, dust-choked suits and dresses sagged from broken hangers. Outfits from a better time. You sighed, running your hand over what must have once been a very grand dress. About to leave - but something caught your eye. Tucked against the back wall was a battered metal lockbox.

You dropped to your knees, trying to work it free. Joel appeared in the doorway behind you, his looking shadow falling over your bent form, and for a second, neither of you moved. You felt his eyes on the exposed sliver of skin at the small of your back, felt the way his breath hitched, as his eyes roamed your form, and you shifted your hips slightly on purpose.

Joel made a low, sound deep in his chest and then it was over, he bent down beside you, pulling the box the rest of the way out and wrenching it open with a sharp twist of his knife.

Inside, a miracle, cans of food.

Some are still good.

A few bottles of water.

You grinned, triumphant, holding one up.

"See?" you said. "I’m good for something."

Joel didn’t smile back.

He just stared into you, something raw and wrecked flickering behind his dark eyes. His mind replaying the scene from before - images of you bent over for other reasons danced across his mind.

"You’re good for a lot more than that," he said, so low you barely caught it.

You swallowed, hard, and looked away before you did something stupid.

Like kiss him.

Like beg for his touch.

———-

By the time you made it back to the house you were now affectionately calling “our” house, the sun was sinking low, painting the lake in fire and gold. Joel was quieter than usual. He seemed more careful.

He barely looked at you, but when he did, it was like being set alight. You settled by the fire, just close enough to share the warmth. Your knees brushing once, twice, under the thin blanket he had tossed over both of you.

Joel’s hands stayed clenched in his lap.

You felt his thigh warm against yours, the tension in his body vibrating like a live wire. He prayed you could not feel it.

You shivered once, and Joel mumbled something softly under his breath, dragging you half under his arm, tucking you against his side.

"Stop fightin' it," he muttered. "You’re cold."

You didn’t argue. You just let yourself lean into him, feeling the solid weight of his body, the steady thud of his heart under your ear.

You let your hand drift -

fingers brushing lightly against his ribs under the jacket - and you felt him go still.

So still, you worried maybe you had gone too far. You pulled back slightly but Joel caught your wrist, rough but careful.

He didn’t say anything.

Didn’t look at you.

Just held you there for a moment longer

your pulse flutters wildly against his fingers.

The fire crackled low.

The night pressed in soft and heavy.

Joel shifted, his face inches from yours now,

his breath warm against your cheek.

You stared at each other — the air electric, the whole world willing you both to lean in closer.

Joel’s hand lifted, slow, tentative, almost like he was going to reach out to touch your face. But at the last second, he jerked back, cursing under his breath, and shoved himself to his feet.

"Gonna... uh - check the perimeter," he muttered, voice course and deep with something that could only be described as desire.

The door swung shut behind him, the cold rushing in his place. You sat there, your heart hammering, skin aching for his warmth, his touch.

———

The fire was low, barely coals, by the time Joel came back.

You heard him before you saw him, the heavy crunch of boots across broken gravel, the rough scrape of the door dragging open.

He moved like a man walking slowly, stiff, silent, shoulders squared against something only he could see. You watched him, your heart immediately hammering, mouth dry, as he dropped his pack by the door and crossed to the fire without a word.

He crouched low, feeding the flames with deliberate care, but you caught the way his hands trembled slightly. Caught the way he didn’t look at you.

Like if he did, he'd lose whatever fragile grip he still had. You shifted closer, the thin blanket slipping down your arms.

Your knee brushed his thigh where you sat beside him.

Joel froze.

He didn’t pull away.

Didn’t move closer either.

You let the silence stretch, tight and trembling. Then softly but sure — you said:

"I'm not made of glass Joel. You’re not gonna break me."

His head snapped up,

eyes flaming almost furious.

Not at you.

At himself.

At the goddamn world for putting you in his path.

"You don’t know what you’re sayin’," he quietly said, voice fraying at the ends.

But you did. You knew exactly what you were saying.

You smiled, small but gaining confidence, you knew he wanted you too. You reached out and brushed your fingertips lightly against the back of his hand.

Joel exhaled a low, broken sound, it was more surrender than breath and then he moved.

It was all so quick. One second you were sitting.

The next - you were pinned hard against the wall, your back slamming into the cold stone with a jolt that almost knocked the breath out of you.

Joel stood directly in front of you, all heat and muscle and trembling restraint. His body a wall against yours.

His arm braced above your head, the other hand clamped low around your waist, fingers digging in hard enough to brand your skin.

You gasped - shock and desire lighting up your nerves. Joel made a guttural sound low in his throat.

His forehead dropped to yours, heavy, rough, his breathing hard.

"Darlin'," he said - low and wrecked, like it tore out of him without permission.

"You don’t got a fuckin' clue what you're doin' to me."

The words hit you low and deep.

A shiver running through your body so sharp it almost hurt. You clutched at his jacket, fistfuls of worn fabric bunching under your hands, needing something to hold onto. Cling to.

Joel felt your desperation

and something in him snapped the rest of the way.

He kissed you.

It wasn’t gentle.

It wasn’t soft.

It was hungry and desperate .

Violent in the way a drowning man reaches for the surface.

Joel’s mouth crashed into yours, teeth clashing, hands scrambling, dragging you up onto your toes so he could slot his hips tight against yours.

You gasped into him, the sound sharp and needy, and Joel swallowed it up greedily, tilting your chin up roughly to deepen the kiss.

He kissed like he was furious.

Like he hated how much he needed it.

You kissed him back, just as desperate, arching your body into his chest, feeling every hard line of him through his clothes.

The heat of him.

The strength.

His hands gripped your hips in a bruising, reverent way. He pinned you up against the wall like he couldn’t get close enough.

You whimpered softly into his mouth, a sound you didn’t mean to make, and Joel cursed harshly, tearing his mouth from yours just long enough to breathe.

But you weren’t done.

You chased his warmth, his touch.

hands fisting in the front of his jacket

and dragged him back down.

This kiss was slower, but no less desperate, this one was sweeter underneath.

Full of all the things neither of you could say yet.

Joel groaned into your mouth and pressed you harder against the wall, one thigh sliding between yours, holding you open.

The friction was maddening

hot and electric

but you didn’t pull away.

You pulled him closer.

And Joel

God help him

he had to let you.

When he finally tore his mouth from yours again, he was breathing hard, forehead pressed to yours, hands still trembling where they cupped your waist.

Raising one hand to slowly caress your face.

"You deserve better," he rasped - voice gutted, almost pleading. "Better than me."

You shook your head. Dragging your fingers up to tangle in his hair - tugging gently until he met your gaze.

"I don’t want anything else ," you whispered.

Meeting your eyes he nodded slightly and kissed you again.

Softer this time.

Like he was memorizing you.

Like he was already mourning what he knew he couldn’t keep.

He pulled back eventually, just enough to breathe but his arms stayed locked around you, refusing to let go.

You stayed there, pinned between him and the wall feeling his heart hammer wild against yours, feeling the way his hands still clutched at you like he was terrified you'd slip away.

Neither of you spoke.

There was nothing left to say.

The fire crackled low in the hearth.

The wind whispered against the broken windows.

And Joel..

for the first time in longer than he cared to remember

let himself want something.

Let himself want you.

————

You woke to the smell of woodsmoke and the smell of Joel clung to your skin - you leaned into the blanket hoping to relish in it for a moment more…

Peeking your eyes open you see the night’s fire was little more than ash now, pale morning light leaking in through the broken windows.

He was already up. Already packed. Already leaving.

“Coffee,” he muttered, setting a chipped mug down beside you without meeting your eyes.

Then

“Goin’ out. Don’t leave the house.”

You blinked at him, confused and disoriented, lips still bruised from where he’d kissed you the night before, and sat up slowly.

“Where—”

“Huntin’,” he said. Too fast. Too flat.

And then he was gone.

He moved through the woods like a ghost.

Silent. Sharp-eyed. Rifle in hand. Jaw clenched.

He wasn’t hunting anything, not really, just peace of mind.

He needed to move. Needed to get your sweet voice out of his head. The breathy way you begged for his touch.

Needed to get the taste of you off his tongue. Didn’t work.

Every time he stopped, every time the wind shifted , he couldn’t stop his mind from replaying it all:

The smell of your skin: smoke and soap and soft, warm.

The sound of your gasps against his mouth still rang in his ears like a gunshot.

He closed his eyes.

Bit down on the inside of his cheek hard enough to taste blood.

“Stupid,” he muttered. “Fuckin’ stupid. She don’t know what she wants.”

You were young. You were soft. You were still good.

And whatever happened last night, that hadn’t been for you. It had been him, losing control. Letting himself pretend, just for a second, that he could be touched without ruining the person doing the touching.

He remembered the way you looked up at him dazed, breathless.

The way you pulled him down again, kissing him like you meant it.

That wasn’t real.

That was a girl’s crush.

A warm body in this cold world.

A fantasy. A fleeting moment.

Not real.

You didn’t know what it meant to want a man like him. A man who had done things. Who would do them again? You didn’t know how broken he really was.

And yet…

He could still feel the shape of you under his hands. He could still feel the way your hips pressed up into his, the soft whimper in your throat when he kissed you harder.

He adjusted himself in his jeans with a growl, rough and frustrated.

He didn’t get to want this.

He didn’t get to want you.

———

The silence felt different without him.

Colder.

You paced the length of the room more than once. Trying to convince yourself it didn’t matter how he ran off this morning, it didn’t erase the happenings of last night. That Joel was just being Joel.

But you weren’t stupid. You’d felt it, the way he kissed you like he'd been desperate, the way he held you like he was drowning.

And now he wouldn’t even take the time look at you. You sat back on the bedding and stared at the dying fire. Anger started to build under your ribs, why was he acting like nothing had happened…You were not sad, but burning.

He wanted you. You knew he did. You could tell from how quickly he crumbled.

But he was too scared. Too proud? Too wrapped up in whatever punishment he thought he deserved?

Frustrated you decided if he wasn’t going to do anything about it you were done waiting.

You slipped under the blanket, curling into the spot where Joel had slept. Closing your eyes it still smelled like him.

It made your skin feel too tight.

Made your thighs clench.

You dragged the blanket tighter around your body, your hand slipping low under your waistband. At first, it was slow. Curious. Soft.

You pressed your fingers between your thighs, gasping quietly at the slick heat waiting for you.

But then closing your eyes you sighed, you saw him.

His hand on your waist.

His mouth on your neck.

The way he growled darlin’ like it hurt him to say it.

You moved your fingers faster, rougher, gasping quietly, biting your lip to stay quiet. Praying that he wouldn’t turn up before you got your release that you so desperately needed.

You imagined him over you. Between your legs. Holding your hands down.

You came hard, hips lifting off the mattress, breath shuddering out of you in a broken moan.

“Joel,” you whispered, barely sound, as you came down from your high.

You lay there afterward, flushed and trembling, heart thudding like you’d run for miles.

It didn’t help. Not really. Because now you were still alone. Still aching.

And Joel was still out there, pretending last night didn’t matter.

———

Joel leaned against a tree, hand braced on the bark like it might steady him in his desperation.

His mouth was dry.

His cock ached.

He was hard… again… just from thinking about you.

About the soft sound you made when he kissed you. The way your body fit against his like it belonged there. The way you whimpered his name like so sweetly.

And he knew.

Knew he should go back to camp and say nothing.

Pretend it hadn’t happened.

But when he thought of you back there…his knees almost buckled.

He didn’t get to have you.

But fuck if that stopped him from wanting to.

———

The house was quiet when Joel returned.

Much too quiet. The fire had long gone out.

Your pack sat untouched by the wall. The jacket, the one you always curled into, was still draped where he had left it.

But you were nowhere in sight. He froze, one hand tightening on the rifle strap over his shoulder. His stomach twisted.

The kind of dread he couldn’t name rising slow and cold in his chest. “Hey kid?” he called.

No answer.

He moved fast, checked each room, the back door, the side path. Nothing.

Then, from the shattered window near the hearth , he caught a glint of light off water.

And he saw you.

You were on the dock.

Flat on your back, legs stretched out and bare in the sun, body still wet from a swim.

You wore nothing but a white tank top, soaked and nearly transparent, that pair of cotton underwear that left almost nothing to the imagination.

Your eyes were closed. Head tilted back.

Breasts rising and falling with every slow, sun-warmed breath. Joel went still.

Stone fucking still. The wind rustled the trees.

The water lapped lazily against the shore.

And all he could do was stare.

At the way the sunlight kissed your skin.

At the way your damp clothes clung to your beautiful body.

At the way you looked so damn peaceful, like you had no idea what you looked like, or worse, that you did.

His jaw clenched hard enough to ache.

You were young. Too young.

And so soft. And sun-warmed. Everything he shouldn’t fucking want.

Everything he’d already touched.

Everything he wasn’t supposed to want again but couldn’t stop.

He stared in awe as your hand slid lazily down your stomach, resting just below your navel, fingers tracing light little circles on your sunkissed skin.

It was nothing dirty, and nothing deliberate, but the act itself was his undoing.

Without thinking he dropped the rifle in the corner and made his way down onto the dock.

You heard him before you saw him, the slow, heavy thud of boots on the dock.

“I got tired of waiting after you left me, so I’”

You turned your head lazily, and then froze.

Joel stood above you, his face dark with something unreadable.

His shoulders tense. His hands clenched. His eyes devouring every inch of you.

You sat up slowly, pushing your damp hair from your face.

“Joel,” you said, breathless. “Are you okay?”

“You done waitin’?” he said, low and rough.

Not a question. A challenge. You stared at him.

Wide-eyed. Heart pounding. And then you nodded.

“Yes.”

That was all the permission he needed.

He dropped to his knees. Hands on your thighs, spreading them open.

Mouth crashing against yours like he was starved.

You fell back onto the dock, moaning into him as he pressed his full weight over you, hot and heavy and so fucking good.

His hands roamed, his calloused hands skimming your waist, your ribs, your breasts, not gentle, but never cruel.

When he pulled his mouth from yours, he was panting.

“Jesus, darlin’,” he gasped. “You’ve been killin’ me.”

You reached down, grabbing his hand, and shoved it between your legs, right over your soaked panties.

“Then do something about it.”

Joel groaned, a wrecked, helpless sound, and pressed his forehead to yours.

His hand cupped you harder, fingers sliding through the thin fabric, feeling how wet you already were.

Joel kissed you again, slower now, deeper, and started dragging your underwear down your legs.

You helped, shimmying out of them fast as you could, baring yourself to the warm air, to him.

He pushed your knees wide and settled between them, pressing a kiss to the inside of your thigh.

“Gonna ruin you,” he muttered. “Been wantin’ to.”

“Then ruin me,” you whispered.

He pushed two fingers into you, slow but firm, and you gasped, arching off the dock. Your body was slick, And ready, but both fingers so quickly stretched.

“Fuck,” he breathed. “You’re perfect.”

You clenched around him, hips rolling, riding his hand with soft, breathy little whimpers.

Joel watched your every move, eyes dark, mouth parted, and leaned down to kiss your throat, your collarbone, your chest. Anything he could get his lips on.

He sucked a bruise into your skin just above your heart.

You came hard on his fingers, shivering, crying out his name, and Joel groaned against your skin.

Then he shoved his pants down, rough and fast, pumping his glorious thick cock, a dribble of precum at the tip, you stared wanting nothing more than to catch it on your tongue.

“You sure?” he rasped. “You say no, I stop.”

“I’m sure.” You nodded

Positioning himself between your thighs you pushed inside in one slow, agonizing thrust.

You both groaned — long and low — as he bottomed out .

You were hot and tight and so fucking wet, walls still fluttering from the last orgasm.

Joel barely held on.

“Jesus, baby,” he gasped. “You’re gonna be the end of me.”

He started to move, slow at first, then faster, each thrust rocking the dock beneath you.

You clung to him, nails digging into his back, mouth open in silent moans.

He kissed you through it, hard and messy, like he needed to taste you, needed to anchor himself in your heat.

“Been thinkin’ about this,” he groaned. “Since the fuckin’ creek. Since the first night. You in that shirt all wet lookin’ at me like you’d let me have you.”

“Fuck Joel” you panted. “You just weren’t ready to handle it.”

Joel growled and slammed into you harder, making you cry out, making you take it, all of it.

“I can handle it now.”

And he did.

He knew his knees were going to kill him in the morning…but he had a point to prove. So he fucked you harder, until you came again, sobbing his name, and he followed you with a broken groan, pulling back with a jerk his seed spilled across your lower abdomen.

Afterward, you lay tangled on the dock — his hand in your hair, your body across his chest.

He didn’t speak.

Didn’t need to.

His arm stayed wrapped around you.

And for once, he didn’t run.