#cable smut

[loganbcrnes]

Celebration fuck

Logan Howlett x GN!reader x Cable (Nathan Summers) x Victor Creed No warnings in this, just horny dirty sex. Reader's ethnicity and body type etc is not mentioned, but Cable does call reader Sweetheart. I didn't think i needed to mention this, but i will anyway, this involves Logan/Cable and Cable/Victor as well. Not beta'd Enjoy!

The 3 men were doting on you, feeding you lots of different expensive chocolates. Tonight was your 2 year anniversary of being together so the four of you decided to do something special together. It was after a tough mission with the X-men. Victor thought it’d be a nice idea to have a small romantic getaway at a cabin in Canada, you immediately agreed as you have always loved the mountains.

Nathan walked over to the stereo and put on some soft romantic music. You didn’t like to drink alcohol often, so Victor made some sweet fancy cocktails for you. After severely bottles of root beer and liquor later (even though the 3 men couldn’t get drunk) they felt more at ease.

——

Nathan collapsed onto the couch and tore his shirt off. “Fuckin’ hot in here”. He said as he scratched his burly chest a little.

Victor was a little bit giggly, he always got like this after a dozen drinks, you were beginning to think that alcohol does have an affect on them, because a man like Victor doesn’t just giggle.

Logan remained composed, but his mind was swimming like mad. H ewas horny as hell, the build up to this moment was slow. He wasn’t complaining, it’s nice to have some build up to the main event, but now he was beginning to become impatient.

Already shirtless, Logan went over to you and coaxed you to undress as far as you were willing to go, which ended up being your underwear. It was some fancy underwear you only kept for certain occasions, this being one of them.

“Well now, don’t you look so sweet looking”. Nathan said, licking his lips.

“Well, why don’t you come and have a taste then?”. You asked. You leaned back on the big couch in the living room, spreading your legs a little.

“Mmm, damn right you do, Baby. I’ll let Logan have a go first, you know I like having the sloppy seconds”. Nathan winked. You chuckled at his comment.

Logan shook his head at the comment and pulls you into his arms, placing his giant hands onto your ass. You both moved in an almost slow-dancing fashion as the soft melody of music sang in the background. Logan was a passionate and rough lover, his intense desire to give pleasure to his partner. Most people assume, he just fucks for his release, and leaves without a thought for the other person, but it simply isn’t true.

With the years of experience, it’s taught him that the best kind of sex is with a person he trusts and where both parties are experiencing pleasure. It should be the bare minimum, but it isn’t for a lot of people. You have never had sex with them where you were left unsatisfied.

Logan began sniffing up the side of your neck as if starving for your flesh. He greedily squeezed your ass, and then shoved you onto the enormous couch and climbed on top of you, pinning your wrist to the side of your head. He started licking and sucking on your neck, leaving marks that will show for the next week, but you couldn’t complain. The sensitive places gave you so much pleasure. His ran his hands all over your body, feeling every curve and muscle as they tensed and relaxed under his touch.

Your nipples stiffened from the cool air, Logan drifted downwards to lick at your armpits and inhaling your scent. You felt a growl against your sensitive skin. He moved towards you nippled and continued to suck on them. You wore a look of pain and bliss as they continued his actions on your nipples.

“Filthy lil’ slut, ain’t ya?”. Cable said. You weren’t sure if he was speaking to you or Logan, but you released a moan anyway. You looked to your right to see cable with his legs spread, soft squelching sounds coming from him as he stroked his cock quickly. Logan drifted even further downwards towards the area you want him to be at the most. He kissed your thighs, his big hands squeezing the fat, while holding them open. You down at him, his huge body in comparison to yours, you felt so dominated and taken care of. All of your worries slipped away whenever you were with them, because it meant you could count on them.

Logan looked up at you as he dipped down to lick and suck on your hole, You threw your head back, the pleasure building up as he licked the sensitive areas. “Mmm, taste so sweet, darlin’. Can’t get enough of ya’” Logan mumbled as he continued with his tormenting actions.

“Slow down, Sport. Don’t want it all to end so quickly.” Nathan said while he grabbed Logan’s ass and gave it a squeeze and played around with his balls from behind. Nathan leaned down to kiss Logan’s back. “Fun watching you two play, but I want to shove my face in your sweet ass Lo’ while Victor here can have a turn fucking Sweetheart over here.”

Logan paused his actions, and turned around to look at Nathan. “Fine”, was all Logan said, he turned to give you a kiss, while they moved to the other side of the couch, to give Victor space with you.

Victor walked over to you, his cock swaying, you looked over his body, the hair on his chest going down to his pubic area, it was dark and coarse. You spread your legs even further apart as you grabbed the lube from the small table beside you. “Gonna have some fun with you, Frail.” Victor smirked, as he sat in between your legs. He grabbed the lube and spreads a generous amount onto his fingers.

“Ready?” Victor asked as he positioned his finger to your hole. You nodded and pressed yourself toward his finger. Victor’s finger slipped easily into your sex. Your head fall back onto the couch with a moan. Nathan grabs an extra pillow to put under your head so you can see everything that is happening.

“Fucked this pretty hole this morning, Sweetheart will be nice and open for you.” Nathan said. Victor growled as his finger spearing in and out of your body rapidly, getting you ready for his thick canned shaped cock.

“Mm please, I’m ready”. You said, grabbing onto Victor’s thick biceps. Victor pulls out his fingers with a squelch. He started adding more lube to his cock, slicking it up so you’d be wet as possible.

“Look at you, such a good little cockslut” You hear Nathan say. “So eager…”

You turn to face Logan and Cable and watch as Logan is on his hand and knees while Cable is eating his ass. You moan at how hot the scene is, not being able to stop staring.

Victor aligns his cock at your sex, He places a hand on your check so you would look at him. “Ya’ ready?” he asked. You nod and wrapped your arms around his neck and bring him down to a kiss.

Victor’s cock head nudges at your rim, You cry out as it enters you, back arching off the couch. Victor keeps going until he’s fully in. “God, you feel fuckin’ amazing, Frail” Victor said, with his eyes closed. Victor began to move his hips, pulling out until the head is only inside of you and then thrusting back in.

“You’re doing so well, Sport, make sure they cum first.” Cable said somewhere in the room. Victor began to increase his movements, the sound of wet slapping skin filled the room with the stench of sex. Which made you even more hornier. You grip Victors shoulders as he slams into you, holding your thighs to the side of your head. Getting deeper and deeper.

Victor fucked you hard. Using your body like a rabbit in heat. You moaned, rocking as you took every thrust. You watched as Victors muscles clenched at each thrust, his chest hair becoming sweaty and wet. Excess lube kept squirting out of your already fucked out hole, causing the couch to become wet.

“Jesus, fu-ck”. You screamed out, all you could do is lay there and take the fucking. Victor’s exponential

You look down at where his cock was disappearing into you, his pubes brushing against your sex with every thrust. It was so hot, you felt like you have left the planet, the pleasure building up to the point your close to coming. “Fuck, fuck, fuck. I’m close, please!, oh God”. You continues to scream.

“Tell me how it feels, Kitten.” Victor said, not slowing down his pace.

“So good! Oh, God, aah—ha—ah, fuck, it’s oh, so good!”.

“You want it harder, Frail?” Victor asked. “’Cause y’know I like it hard”.

Tears streamed down your face, every inch of your body quivers like a leaf in the wind. “Yes!, yes, yes”.

“Alright, Frail, you asked for it.”

And then Victor starts to increase his thrusting. Without missing a beat, he starts to pound into your body, getting deeper and deeper, you never thought was possible. His thick cock stretching your hole wide open sloppily,

With every slap of skin on skin, a moan breaks out of your mouth. You turn your head to see Cable fucking Logan. Logan has always been loud in bed, but when he’s the one getting fucked, he’s even louder. You love the sounds he makes, low toned moans, sprinkled in with some light moans, and a whole lot of growling.

Cable noticed you staring and smirks. “Can’t wait to watch Logan fuck your greedy hole after this too, Sweetheart.” Nathan says as he grips Logan’s hips tighter as he goes harder.

You moan loud as you feel yourself come towards the end. The fiery pit in your stomach building up until it explodes. You cum hard and when Victor pulls out, your cum dribbled down onto Victor’s cock. Victor growls as he slides into you again, reaching for his own high. When that comes, hot cum shoots inside you, filling you up to the brim. A man like Victor cums a lot. It goes on for about 30 seconds and you both catch your breath.

Once Victor has emptied his balls inside of you, he slips out. “Fuck”. He groans. He drops to the side, while you catch your breath. You roll onto Victor and pull him into a kiss.

Victor pushes you to the side and gets up. He looks down at you, “Always look so good when you’re fucked out, Frail.” Victor smirked and leaves to go clean himself. You feel empty as you lay there. Watching Cable and Logan calm down from their own overwhelming orgasms.

After a couple of minutes, Victor cleaned you up a little, so Logan could have his turn. “Ya’ lookin’ pretty, Bub.” Logan said to you in an extra gravely deep voice while sitting down beside you. He patted his knee so you could take your place in his lap.

You wrap your arms around him and nudged your face into his neck. Inhaling his sweaty musky scent. Logan spanked your ass. You both make out for a few minutes, until you began to get aroused again. Cable takes a place beside you. “Feeling good?”. Cable checking in with you.

You nod. Couldn’t form any words due to how fucked out you already were, and it was only the beginning. Cable chuckled as he began to insert his finger into your wet hole. “Did you break them? Looks like you could’ve fucked them unconscious”.

“Don’t worry about it.” Victor said, filling a glass with some scotch. “Not the first time that’s happened”

Victor is right, you’ve lost count how many times you went unconscious due to how overwhelmed you were. They stopped immediately of course, but it was always a good laugh afterwards. The sex was that good.

“Logan…” You whine. You reached down to grab his thick cock, wanting to be be filled once again.

“Yeah, Kitten. I know, ya’ just want to be filled with cock all the time, don’tcha?” Logan chuckled, as did the other two men. You whine, hiding your face in Logan’s neck.

“You heard them, Lo’. Nathan smirked. “Hop to it.”

“Don’t gotta tell me twice.”

“Aah-ah!” is the noise that leaves you mouth a few moments later when you feel Logan’s cock enter you.

It still aches a little, though not as sharply. It soon goes away once Logan sets a slow rhythm.

“Are they still tight?” Victor asked. You hear him on the other side of the couch.

“Fuck, yeah still tight. Feels fuckin’ amazing.” Logan moaned. His head falling back against the couch.

“Doing so well, Patch. Ya’ better fill them up. I wanna eat them out after this.”

“Cause’ ya’ do, gross little shit.” Logan grunts and Cable chuckles at the remark. Knowing fully well, Logan can be just as gross.

You claw at Logan’s shoulders. “Please, fuck me, fuck me!”. Whine desperately.

“Your wish, my command, and all that…”

Logan grips your hips and began thrusting into you. His balls slapping against your ass as he quickens up the pace.

“Fuck, fuck. Ahh!” you moan as your head falls back. It’s so easy to fall back into incoherency. It’s so easy to disappear out of your head and onto only your body. No thoughts, head empty. Leaving only sensation and the burning desire to reach your high.

All you can do is sit there while Logan penetrates into you. His hips meeting your ass as his big balls slap against them. He switches position by laying back onto the couch. He forces your body up and down onto his cock, the squelching and wet noises would make you blush if you weren’t so fucked out.

“Look at that. Baby all gone again.” Nathan chuckles, squeezing his cock.

“They fucking love it.” Logan said.

And you do. Its amazing. Your skin itching to burst, your body feeling heavier heavier as the sensations overfills you.

“Fuck look at you. All gone, but still squirtin’ like that.” Logan said.

Oh, does that mean you came again?

“They’re perfect, aren’t they?” Logan said, as he continued fucking into you.

“Sure are, Sport. Now hurry the fuck up, I want my turn before they pass out completely.”

“Don’t worry about it. They’ll stay awake. Plus ill show you idiots how to really fuck their throat next time.” Logan said, as he squeezed your ass while he thrusts up into you.

“Well, you now have my attention.” Nathan mumbles.

“Shut up, Logan. Less talking, more fucking. Before we all die of old age.” Victor rolled his eyes.

“Yeah, yeah. Excuse me for enjoyin’ myself.”

Logan changed positions once again, he repositions your legs over his shoulder and began to thrust. He watched as his cock disappeared into you, wet noises fill the room once again. The air was thick and hot.

Victor came over and kneeled down in front of the couch. He began sucking on one of your nipples while he played with the other with his fingers. You arched your back at the intense pleasure that ran through you. Your nipples being so sensitive.

“Mmm, lemme use that pretty mouth of yours.” Cable said. He patted your cheek to open your mouth wider. He kneeled over you so he could slip his cock into your wet mouth. His balls barely nudging against your eyes “That’s it. You know how I like it.”

You reach your hands up to fondle Nathans fat balls as he sped up the speed.

“Fuck, that’s hot as hell. Love being used like this dontcha?”. Logan growled out. You could tell he was close to the end, because the speed of his thrusts were shortening.

Cable began caressing Victors hairy chest, bringing him in by the neck to kiss him.

You continued to lick and suck around Cable’s cock. You fucking loved having their cocks in your mouth. To feel the heaviness them, swirling your tongue as you watched them squirm in pleasure. The feeling was incredible.

“Shit, I’m close, Baby. Where do ya’ want it?” Nathan pulled out so you could answer.

“My mouth, face whatever.” You kept on rambling, unable to form any cohesive sentence. The three boys chuckled at how pathetic you looked.

“Sure thing, Baby.” Nathan began jacking off, wet sounds filled the room, until he spilled his release over your face and tongue. The taste of bitter salt filled your senses. You hated the taste, but you were so far gone and incredibly horny, you didn’t care.

Cable threw his head back with a groan. “Fuck, I will never get tired of this.”

Logan finally reached his release, you could feel the cum covering your wet walls. You moan when Logan slips out, he watches as the cum drips out of you.

Logan sat back against the couch, he reaches for a cigar and lights it up.

“You good, bub?” He asks. You nod your head in response, unable to form any words. Your throat feels so raw from the blowjob.

Nathan came over to your side, he wipes you down with a warm towel. Afterwards he offered from fruit to fill your stomach a little.

“So, how was that for an anniversary?”. Nathan asked. He grabbed himself a cold beer from the table and sat beside your head.

“I could definitely get used to this every year”. You responded, on the verge of falling asleep. All you could hear were your boys chuckling.

[dinogoofymutated]

NSFW! Cable/AFAB!Reader

Alright! Last time this one will be posted lol. Thanks everyone for being patient with me, I know Cable isn't exactly a fan favorite compared to the other characters I write for on this blog, so I appreciate everyone being cool while I've been finishing this :) If you'd rather read the SFW version, You can find it here :) also, This fic has come callbacks to the previous cable fics I've written, So I'd recommend you read/Reread that one first! TWS: MDNI!!! Jealousy, creepy men, we choose the bear and the bear is Cable. Slight miscommunication, but healthy talks happen. PNV sex, fingering, dirty talk. Usage of pet name "pretty girl". Raw sex, wrap it bf u tap it guys.

    The bar is busier tonight than you’ve ever seen it. It’s humid, stuffy, and overly loud with all the warm bodies packed into the small space. You’ve never been one for crowds, but you know for a fact that Cable is certainly not a people person.

    The two of you had been crammed into a corner booth for about an hour and a half, originally having come to the bar to meet a contact that never ended up showing. Normally, the two of you would have gone home by now. It was your idea to stay and get something to eat, wanting to at least make some good with the newfound downtime. 

    You were comforted by the feeling of Cable’s keen gaze keeping an eye on you as you wove through the crowd, finding your way to the bar. You hold back a smile as you sit down, ordering some drinks for the two of you as you wait on the food. Eventually, you glance back at Cable and find him still staring at you, making eye contact as you send him a smile. You’re not surprised, but you raise a playful eyebrow at him. Cable, ever the protective grump, rolls his eyes at you in response, but you still spot the small smile he gives you when you send him a wink.

    “That beer for me, Beautiful?” The voice of a stranger cuts through your thoughts, and to be honest, you don’t even think he’s talking to you until you realize how close to you he is. He’s sat on the barstool next to you, leaning towards you like he can’t quite catch his balance. You make a face at him, nonchalantly moving Cable’s beer closer.

    “Last time I checked it wasn’t.” You say curtly. The man has a smile hiding behind his pout as he leans a little closer to you, oblivious to the way you casually recoil from him.

    “Oh c'mon, don’t play hard to get. I’m chill!” You can tell this guy is most definitely drunk, and you find yourself trying not to roll your eyes at him. If only he knew what kind of trouble he was in.

    “Sure you are. But believe me, my Husband is not.” You tell him. You're not married, but to be honest, you knew this guy wasn't going to leave you be if you left him with some vague label. Didn't matter anyway, however, the stranger laughs in your face, and his breath smells like alcohol and cheap cigarettes, a nasty combo that repulses you. You point back at the corner booth where the cable was sitting just a few minutes before, hoping that he’d at least back off at the sight of the six-foot hunk of muscle you call a lover. Unfortunately, He doesn't. 

    “What Husband?” The man says mockingly, and when you look at the booth you find yourself pointing at an empty seat. The sight lights a small flicker of anxiety in you, and your face falls as the man sets a hand on your shoulder and squeezes. It’s not there for long before the weight suddenly disappears. You snap your head around, feeling relief when you see the man’s wrist caught in Cable’s literal iron-clad grip. 

    “This Husband.” Cable grunts. 

    All of the blood drains from the stranger’s face in an instant, but it doesn’t take long for the attitude to come back. He tries to yank his arm out of Cable’s grip, but Cable’s arm doesn’t move an inch. To be honest, the sight kinda made you blush a little. Sure, you had seen Cable’s strength many times, but this… well. This was different. The guy starts to yank a little more aggressively, and all Cable has to do is clench his hand for the asshole to yelp and give up. You set a placating hand on his shoulder, and Cable glances back at you. His gaze softens, and he sighs before letting the guy go.

    “What’s your problem, man?” The stranger spits as he holds his bruised wrist. You had already gathered your things and was getting ready to get the hell outta dodge, giving Cable’s shoulder a hard pat as you desperately try to keep him from getting in a barfight. Cable is ignoring the guy, walking close behind you as you start to walk away.

    “ -s’ an ugly bitch, anyway.” The stranger mumbles under his breath, but not nearly as quiet as he should’ve. Cable stops in his tracks, wheels around, and slugs the guy with his left arm. There's a sickening crunch and the bar goes silent as the drunken stranger is violently knocked from his seat. Your first instinct is to scold Cable, but the guy had it coming anyway. You look around, and with every eye in the bar squarely on you and Cable, you decide you’ve definitely stayed past your welcome.

    “Ohhkay. Yeah, let’s go.” You tug on Cable's arm, practically dragging him away at first. You weren’t worried about the drunk, that guy sure as hell wasn’t getting up any time soon. To be honest, you were more concerned with the fact that you could never meet someone in this bar discreetly ever again. Yay. 

    The drive back to today’s apartment is silent, and you’re thinking too much about Cable, honestly. He’s not necessarily talkative himself, arms crossed in the passenger seat as he looks out the window. You send a nervous glance his way. You had called him your husband, and although it felt right in the moment as you tried to get another man off your back, you didn’t think that Cable would actually hear you. And boy, did he hear you. Sure, he responded… like he did. The memory of it almost makes your stomach flutter. Part of you wants to be absolutely delusional and just revel in the fact that he inadvertently called himself your husband, but what if he felt forced into it? What if he only said that so that you wouldn’t be caught in a lie? When you think about it, that had to be it. I mean, he was being overprotective in the first place, but he was just trying to defend you from unwanted attention. God- you just wish you could pull your thoughts together. Pick up the confusion and chuck it out the door.

    You drive on autopilot, and before you know it, you’re already “home”. Nathan splits off from you, going to change probably. The fact that he hasn’t really looked at you yet makes you even more anxious, but to be honest, you probably wouldn’t have noticed if he had. He wasn’t usually affectionate when he was high-strung, and you knew that, but still. You can't seem to let it go.  You’re curled up on the couch when Nathan joins you, fresh out of the shower and already in casual clothes. He gives you a little space as he sits, like he doesn’t want to startle you. He’s still as stoic as ever, but at least he doesn’t look angry. You’re itching to say something, to speak, and he can tell. 

    Nathan could feel your anxiety since the car, and no matter how badly he wanted to know why, he could tell that you needed a moment to get it out. He crosses his arms with a sigh. He didn’t consider himself a jealous man, but when that idiot at the bar started talking to you he just couldn’t stand it. He knows he blew your cover big time with that punch, but there would always be another crusty bar to go to. In all honesty, he was more concerned with your change in attitude. You receded into yourself in-between the bar and the car, and he didn’t want to know if he was the reason why. He wonders if he overstepped.

    “Sorry, by the way.” You finally manage to say. Nathan cocks an eyebrow at you.

    “For what?” He asks. You look away nervously, fiddling with your fingers.

    “For when I called you my husband back there. I know we’re certainty not… well, I was just scrambling and needed something concrete- and calling you my boyfriend felt weird so-” 

    “Take a breath.” You’re surprised as he cuts you off, feeling a little stupid as you try to collect yourself. There was so much you had been through, so much that you had learned how to handle, but this?? Why was it so hard to communicate feelings like this when you normally can communicate with him so easily on the battlefield? He was probably tired of your rambling.

    “You don’t have to explain yourself to me. I get it. We wouldn’t have even had a problem if the guy had taken a hint.” Nathan says, pissed off at the thought of the guy putting his hands on you still. You glance at him, a confused look on your face as you lean back on the couch.

    “So…?”

    “So, don’t apologize. It’s not like I actually…” Nathan stops for a moment, and your heart skips a beat. “I didn’t mind it” He finishes.

    “Oh?... Oh.” You say, slightly taken aback. Nathan is flushed red, staring straight ahead as he avoids looking at you.

    “So we’re okay, right?” You ask.

    “Of course we are,” Nate responds immediately, without even thinking. He looks over at you finally, still blushing a little. You relax at that, having a bit of deja vu. You realize that one of you had moved closer during the conversation, and your sides were pressing together. Nathan’s hair is messy, the gell having washed out during his shower. You always liked how fluffy it was like this, and to be honest, you can't help but reach up and run a hand through his hair. He huffs at the action, a ghost of a smile on his face as he rolls his eyes at you, but he doesn’t stop you from doing it. He’s a bit too tall for you to comfortably reach, even sitting down. Your arm is getting a bit tired, but you don’t want to ruin a sweet moment like this one. After a minute of you debating what to do, Nathan sighs and pulls you into his lap. 

    “You think too much.” He says, closing his eyes. He brings one of your hands back up to his hair, encouraging you to keep going. You hadn’t expected the action, almost startled by it. Sure, it wasn't like you had never touched him before, but the two of you… you were still getting the hang of things. New changes, familiar feelings. It felt good to be this close to him, and for once you know that you don’t have to worry about your time together being cut short.

    “Does it bother you?” You ask quietly. “When I think too much?” Nathan hums, hands resting on your waist.

  �� “...No. You think more than anyone I’ve ever met. Your mind is always running about something or other. Really, I’d be more concerned if you weren’t thinking.” You notice a slight change in his demeanor during his last sentence, but you don’t comment on it. Instead, you find yourself admiring his face. Your hands shift down from his hair, rubbing your thumbs under his eyes, across his cheekbones. Your eyes drift down to his lips, and you can’t help but lean in and kiss him. He’s surprised for a moment, eyes flickering open and then shut as he cups the nape of your neck and kisses you back. You sigh into him, moving to straddle his legs as his left arm tugs you closer to him by your waist. The cold metal chills you through the fabric of your shirt, his thumb idly rubbing against you. 

    Both of you are out of breath when you separate, caught up in the unbreakable connection between the two of you. You look into his pretty brown eyes, and you want to say it. You want to say those little words so badly. But you know you shouldn’t. There was something about saying it that made everything a little too real, that made everything seem a bit too different. You want to say it, but you don't. You know he knows. You know- you hope he feels the same. It’s all you could ever hope.

    “Of course I do,” Nathan whispers, a look so similar to heartbreak on his face. Your eyes widen, once again not realizing his intrusion into your thoughts. Then again, maybe you were just so used to him lingering in the back of your mind that you didn’t notice anymore. You kiss him again. This one is slower, more intimate, more sensual, and he returns it in the same manner. You’re feeling a little sappy, but content just the same. Nathan finds himself in a similar well of emotions, hoping that next time he won't have to remind you for you to know it’s true. 

    Nathan kisses you again, and again. He drags his teeth across your lower lip before smoothing the skin with his tongue. You eagerly open your mouth, goosebumps forming on your skin as he takes the invitation. Both of his hands have moved down to your waist, squeezing the plush skin as the kiss begins to morph into something a little more intense than it originally was. You feel cold fingers start to drift under the fabric of your shirt for a split second before he shifts you to the side.

    Nathan begins to crawl over you, pressing your back onto the couch cushions as he keeps kissing you. He holds himself up with his left arm as the other one begins to slide further underneath your shirt. He’s completely caught up in you and the feeling of you against him. His kisses begin to trail down the side of your neck, and it’s like he knows every sensitive spot by heart. You tangle a hand in his hair again in an entirely different manner than you had done the last time. He shifts his weight so that his other arm has more room to work with. 

    The mood dies a little when your hair gets pinched by something. You let out a yelp of pain, and Nathan immediately recedes from you. You flinch at another tug, realizing that your hair has gotten caught in his metal arm. Nathan is wide-eyed as he leans up, untangling himself from you so that he can carefully tug your hair free. You sit up as he does, rubbing your sore scalp. He raises a hand like he wants to do the same but doesn’t. He makes a sour look at himself and his arm before he begins to lean away from you completely.

    “Sorry, I’ve overstepped,” Nathan says. Your stomach drops to your feet as you scramble to grab a hold of his shirt, keeping him close to you in a bit of an awkward position.

    “No!” You say, a little louder than you intended to. Nathan looks a you, more confused than surprised, like he couldn’t fathom why you were holding onto him, why you wanted him to continue.

     “I… I’m fine with… just-” You’re struggling to say it, flushed beet red at just the thought of what you’re trying to say. Eventually, you huff and give up, fingers playing with the fabric of his shirt. You tug on it a little, but Nathan doesn’t move.

    “Don’t make me ask, Nate.” You say. His breath hitches. You bite your lip and his eyes catch on the sight. He catches himself before he gets a little too distracted, and glances away for a moment before making a decision.

    “Okay. But we're not doing this on the couch.” Nathan grumbles. He stands, pulling you up with him as he does so, and you can’t stop yourself from tugging him down for yet another kiss. He has to bend down to meet you, a little too tall to kiss you comfortably. It’s not much of a problem though, especially when the man you're kissing is strong enough to lift you into his arms like you're weightless. The kiss only breaks for a second as he lifts you up, encouraging you to wrap your legs around him as he walks to the bedroom. You realize just how much warmth had begun to pool at the change of position, feeling a wetness between your legs that you wonder if he can feel. 

    You don’t want to distract him as he carries you, but every time you pull away from his kisses he drags you back to him, biting and sucking on your lips in faux annoyance.  It’s like he already has the apartment mapped out in his mind, barely needing to look to navigate through it all. He doesn’t bother closing the bedroom door when he gets there, plopping you down on the bed before he’s crawling over you again, kissing your neck and collarbones as his hands drift underneath your shirt. His hand is rough and calloused compared to the plush skin he finds there, the metal of his other one cold and smooth. You swear it leaves a trail of goosebumps in its wake. 

    You clench your thighs together as he touches you, not quite used to the feeling. It’s been a while since anyone has touched you like this, and you find yourself completely overtaken by Nathan. He nips at the skin of your neck, and you gasp at the feeling. He continues to suck and lick at the spot, and when he’s done, he starts another one. You wonder if the man at the bar would have still approached you if you had been marked up like this before, wearing a purple, tender kind of jewelry that you’d only let Nathan give to you. You try to project the thought on purpose, hoping that he’ll pick it up. You think about everywhere else he could mark you, and Nathan curses as he sees the images in his mind as clearly as they appear in yours, a hand thumbing at your bra before it slides under you to unclip it.

    Nathan leans back as he takes your shirt off, the bra coming with it. You try not to shy up as he openly admires your breasts, watching as your nipple pebbles when he brings his cool left hand up to caress the skin. His eyes catch your own as he leans down to your chest, kissing a trail from your collarbones to the peak of your left breast. He sucks and nips at the soft, squishy skin, taking the nipple into his mouth after he had his fill. You let out a small noise of pleasure, gasping at the feeling of his tongue against the sensitive nub as his other hand lovingly caresses the other.

    Your hands wander up and down the expanse of his back, sliding under his pajama shirt. Nathan shudders as you gingerly slide your fingers over his scars, and the torn skin that marks the difference between man and machine. Your fingers follow the seam of scarring delicately, caressing the skin. You feel how his skin prickles, and wonder about the extent of his sensitivities before he nips a little harshly at your nipple to catch your attention. You wince at the feeling before he smoothes it over with his tongue. He kisses your breast one last time before he moves back to your lips. 

   You lean into the kiss with a hum, inviting him inside of your mouth as his hands trail down to your waistband. His thumbs hook underneath the fabric before he starts to pull it off of you, underwear included. He breaks from the kiss, wiping the trail of spit that connects your mouths. He leans back onto his knees, kissing down your stomach as he slides your pants off completely. His shirt is next to go, revealing the strong muscles that lie underneath. Your eyes trail down to the bulge in his pants, a certain kind of warmth forming in your chest as you realize that every part of him is intimidating. You feel yourself clench at the thought, spreading your legs shyly, inviting him to touch you where you want him the most.

    It’s like something in Nathan's snaps as he takes in the sight of you. Your flushed face, heaving chest. The marks he’s left across your upper body.

    “Fuck.” He practically growls as he grabs ahold of your thighs, dragging your core flush to his hips and grinding into you smoothly. You can’t help but moan in both pleasure and surprise at the sensation of his soft pajama pants pressing into your bare lips. He feels good against you, his hardness hot and aching to be inside of your warmth.

    “Please,” You gasp. “Please, Nate. I need you.” He curses again at the sound of your voice, his hips jerking into your own. 

    “Not yet. Beautiful.” He rumbles, Struggling to pull himself away from the steady grind. “-Can’t yet. Don’t want to hurt you.” You whine when he stops moving, and he leans forward to kiss you. You twitch at the feeling of his thick fingers sliding through your folds, collecting the wetness he finds there. Nathan groans, knowing just how much you want him from that simple action. He teases you, sliding the pads of his fingers down from your clit to the slit below it, circling your entrance before doing it all over again. You don’t have to say a word for Nathan to know you’re complaining. He chuckles at you, before slipping a finger inside.

    It’s thick. You knew it would be, but feeling it was entirely different. You break from the kiss with a moan as he curls the finger and catches that spongey spot inside of you. He moves his kisses to your cheek, and the spot below your ear as he has one arm keep your hips from jerking. He’s slow and thorough as he prepares you, a second finger sliding in with ease when he deems you ready for it. You knew he was good with his hands, but this was giving you a whole new definition of the phrase. The wet noises coming from you are almost embarrassing as he fingers you, hand absolutely soaked from your wetness already. He uses his other hand to start rubbing your clit, and the pleasure almost becomes too much.

    “Nathan.” You whimper his name, pleading with him. You needed him, badly. You didn’t want to cum yet, not without him inside of you, not without hearing his low groans and moans as you take him exactly like you were meant to. You clench around his fingers at the thought, and he hums as he pulls them away. 

    He pulls you up, switching the position so that you’re on top of him. You don’t hide the fact that you’re watching him as he finally takes off his pants, his cock slapping against his lower abdomen as it slips out of the waistband. You wait till he’s fully kicked them off before you begin to stroke him, twisting your hand at the head of his cock. He groans out your name, and another plume of fire lights inside of you as he does so. You really liked how that sounded, falling from his lips. 

    He’s just as thick as you thought he would be. Your hand can't wrap fully around him, red and straining. His cock twitches as you run your thumb across the slit, collecting the precum that was beading there. You're addicted to the noises falling from his mouth, giving him a slight squeeze to hear him moan again. 

    Nathan grabs your wrist gently when he's had enough, face flushed and breathing heavily. He helps you angle your hips over him, lining himself up with your slit. The head of his cock notches against you, and both of you want so desperately for him to be inside. There's a quiet - schlick- as he slides through that first ring of muscle, both of you moaning at the feeling.

    You take it slow while you're taking him in, circling your hips as You lower yourself down slowly. Fuck- this feels so much better than his fingers. You rest your head against his chest as you struggle to take him, even as wet as you are.

    His hands comfortingly slide up and down your thighs when he bottoms out. You take a moment to collect yourself, feeling a slight pinch with how deeply he fit inside of you. Nathan gives you time, pulling you into another breath taking kiss as you adjust.

    When you're comfortable, you begin gently rocking your hips against his own, feeling Nathan sigh against you. You're grinding your clit against his pelvis each time you rock, enjoying the added pressure against your sweet spot. You begin to work yourself into a pace, reveling in Nathan's groans as you bounce on top of him. 

    His cock is hitting all the right spots inside of you, his hands now gripping the flesh of your ass as he thrusts up into you with each stroke of your hips. He feels so unbelievably good, hot and heavy inside of you. 

    You desperately try to keep up as his thrusts pick up the pace, wanting all of him and more. But your thighs were staring to get sore, and your knees aching from the position. You tuck your head into the crook of Nathan’s neck, balancing yourself on him as a means to catch up, but you just can't. You slow your hips, catching your breath as Nathan continues to trust his hips. He's trying his best to slow down for you, absolutely lost in the feeling of your soft skin and wet cunt.

  “Come on, pretty girl. You can do better than that.” Nate says, making you moan in surprise as he gives you a particularly sharp thrust. You shake your head, pleading with him to just roll you over, take you at whatever speed he would like. He's hesitant at first but you're kissing his neck, nipping and sucking at a spot he doesn't remember being so sensitive.

    “Please, Nate.” You whisper into his ear, and he shivers, body stiffening under you. “Please,” 

    In less than a second, you're under him, legs on top of his shoulders as he thrusts into you wildly. His eyes are hooded, gazing at you lustfully as your breasts bounce with every movement. The sound of skin slapping on skin is loud and pornographic as his balls slap against you with his thrusts, the grunts and moans coming from the both of you not much better.

    Nathan brings a hand down to rub at your clit as his hips begin to stutter, closing in on his pleasure. Your hips jerk as he does so, quickly reaching that peak of white-hot pleasure yourself. He moans your name as your inner walls clench, back arching as you get closer- closer- so close-

    You call out for him when you cum, his hands holding you still by your hips as he ruthlessly fights to reach that peak of pleasure. You're clenching around him as you ride out your orgasm, and it's almost too much.

    Nathan pulls out of you when he cums, sticky streams of white splattering on your stomach. He grinds himself against you a few more times, coming down from the pleasure. Your legs have gone limp against him, boneless as you pant and tremble beneath him. Nathan kisses the inside of your ankles before he eases them down. 

    He leans above you, kissing you tenderly as he cleans you up with his shirt, having dragged the clothing into his hands with his telekinesis. When he's done thoroughly wiping you down, he falls beside you. He rolls you onto his side as he holds you tightly. He's pleasantly exhausted, looking at you in a way that you've never seen before. 

    His large hand comes up to rest against your neck, thumb running over the tender spots on your skin. You make a bit of a face at the soreness.

    “Those are definitely gonna bruise, aren't they?” You ask, somewhat weary of the marks now that the sexy excitement has worn off. Nate huffs a laugh.

    “Yeah.” He affirms. You pout at him as he brushes the hair out of your face, sighing in exasperation. To be honest, you didn’t mind it too much. Certainly not enough to be mad at him for it. 

    “Did you mean what you said earlier?” You ask, closing your eyes as you snuggle into him. Nathan’s hand rubs your back soothingly as you start to drift off.

    “Hm?”

    “Did you mean it. When you said you didn’t mind me calling you my husband.” Nathan is silent for a moment. You don’t quite have the energy to read into it like you would have before, but you're relieved when he speaks up.

    “...yeah” You smile at his answer, pressing a chaste kiss to his chest as you begin to fall asleep, content and wrapped in his arms.

[mikyapixie]

90's-esque swimsuit special!!! Krakoan edition!!!

By Josh Cassara

I think Wolverine is naked!??!

[wagemama-ningyo]

Join my 18+ CablePool discord

[casquecest]

Why is Sirius the best character ever? Why do I love him so much?

[tallysgreatestfan]

They still use their last names for each other, both of them, while fucking. Peak coworkers to lovers.

[femmeroll]

okay i fear i enjoyed writing about older!sevika too much so here’s more i guess!

sevika x fem reader

cw: fluff and a tiny bit of smut, age gap, modern setting, sexting, sevika is old bless her heart

older!sevika is so bad at technology it’s insane. she’s gen x, okay! she didn’t grow up with it like you did! it takes her forever to figure out apple carplay in her truck. once she does she plays the playlist you made her every time she drives.

she has no profile picture on spotify and her username is ‘Sevika123456’. you’re her only follower.

older!sevika gets so awkward when you take pictures of her. she’ll turn her head away or cover her face whenever you get your phone out.

“baby, no pictures please. i don’t wanna be on your snapchats or whatever.”

“it’s just for my camera roll, sev, relax. smile for me, handsome. so cute!”

older!sevika has a framed picture of you two in her office at work. (thank you to my friend who said modern sev would be a psychologist bc im obsessed)

one of her clients asks about ‘the girl in the picture’ after a session. she goes twenty minutes overtime gushing about you to her client who literally doesn’t care at all.

older!sevika still has cable and refuses to get rid of it. CNN is the default channel of her tv. she doesn’t understand paying for a million streaming services even though she pays for like…so many channels that she doesn’t even watch.

“look, sweetie. i recorded all the episodes of your favorite show for you. can netflix do that?”

“yes, sevika. netflix absolutely does that.”

older!sevika doesn’t understand any of your niche internet references. if you’re hopelessly chronically online like me, you are constantly quoting the most random shit.

she tried on a suit for some event for you once. you looked at her and said “who is the diva?” and poor sevi was so confused :( she has no idea what all that means.

older!sevika has a piece of masking tape over her laptop camera because she’s convinced that the government is watching her.

when she gets an add for something online that she was talking about the day before, she’ll immediately tell you that the government heard her.

older!sevika freaks out when you start sexting her randomly. she’s hella confused at first but sorta gets it after a while.

‘i’m touching myself thinking about u sev :/ i miss ur body so much’

‘Wow! 🔥🤤 I will be home soon.’

‘were the emojis really necessary’

in conclusion older!sevika has my fuckin heart🤍 i’m so in love with her it’s insane

[kadoodles-on-ao3]

Hello Yes I Am Not Dead

Just busy. Very very very busy. So busy I'll have to make this quick (well... quick by my standards at least lol), but I wanted to apologize and just post something to avoid leaving anyone in the dark:

I haven't had any time to write, literally at all :( That plus how big (both in terms of impact and amount of work) the next chapter for How To Be [Overtaken] By A Woman is going to be means that's on hiatus for a while. Hopefully I can work on it (and Constellations are Relative!!!! Every day I feel awful about not having the next chapter ready for that!!!! It's such a fun story with so many cute moments I want to share it aaaaaaaa) before the end of the year, but no promises.

Similarly my release date for my voice line project is in limbo. I need to retest everything as well as remake the doc itself, so I won't even bother trying to say a release date for it lmao. But I'd like it to be on some anniversary of 1, whichever one lines up best with the project being done. It must be perfect.

Additional XC project I want to do: another fan resource that has all the descriptions and location info for all of the collectibles in one excel doc!

I'd like to get back to cataloging the Shulkelia fanart I have again at some point too!

Lastly an update on my FFXIV crossover: I have most of the info all organized and ready to go since I hammered it out months back, I mainly just need to get nice pics of everyone and then upload everything both here and on Eorzea Collection then it'll be done! For reference, here's why this took me so long to complete: for every single character listed below (spoiler warning for XC in the image btw!!!) I have two separate glam lists for them, based on me searching and re-searching through literally every armor option in the game and testing all the closest ones in various combinations until I was satisfied I couldn't get any more accurate to the character. And also I'm doing a write-up for each one about their job/class being fitting for them.

[daryltwdixon]

Daryl Dixon x Reader

Your honor, there are bite marks on my laptop. tags: daryl dixon's slutty little lap, no smut but def naughty, grinding, kissing, dry humping. inexperienced daryl, premature ejaculation, mentions of arachnophobia, alexandria, no use of y/n yes I know I have like 50 other wips to work on but cmonnn masterlist

It started out as innocent as can be, honest to god.

The first time, it was a run gone sideways—one that started with two cars. The Camry you drove had broken down, leaving the only option of cramming into the single bench truck cab with Rick, Glenn, and Daryl. The rain was coming down in sheets, loud enough to drown out any conversation, hammering the truck’s metal roof like an unrelenting drum. There was no choice but to pile in, no time to hesitate, so you climbed in after them, waterlogged and exhausted, and sat in the first lap by the door.

You barely had time to register anything before strong hands slid around you, stiff at first, then settling firm against his own broad thighs. You looked up, blinking between the three men, before realization hit.

You were in Daryl’s lap. 

Rick and Glenn didn’t seem to mind, too preoccupied with the flooded dirt roads, but Daryl? Daryl was rigid beneath you.

All sharp edges and silence, he wasn’t the type to give much away. The most you’d ever shared were quick words on hunts, muttered confirmations on runs, but that was it. He never looked at you long enough to let you wonder if he thought of you at all.

But now… now you were in his lap, warm and close, his body solid under yours, and for the first time, you were thinking about him in an entirely new way. He was handsome, sure. Very handsome, actually. But he never seemed to give any inkling of interest in anyone, really. So you never pushed.

Then the truck hit a pothole.

Your body lurched, and before your head could hit the roof of the cab, Daryl grabbed you. Big hands, rough palms, a reflexively strong grip. The sudden pull forced you to shift against him, dragging across the solid expanse of his thighs, and the feeling of him beneath you hit your stomach like a strike of flint to steel.

He hauled you back down hard, fingers digging in before they quickly jerked away as if he’d been burned by your skin. But the movement had you suddenly very aware of his body under yours.

At first, it was just heat. The firm muscles of his thighs, his body wound tight as a steel cable. But then the truck jolted again, another deep rut in the road, and this time, it sent you rolling forward, your hands pushing up into the dash to keep yourself steady.

And that’s when you felt him.

Thick. Heavy. Hard beneath you.

A sharp breath caught in your throat. Even through layers of damp denim, even with your own clothes separating you, there was no mistaking it.

Your stomach flipped, thighs tightening instinctively, trying not to react, but your body betrayed you—your fingers twitched against the dash, a slow, creeping warmth settling between your legs.

Daryl was fighting it—you could feel that too. His fingers moved, palms rubbing against the side of his own thighs, but he didn’t push you away. His breath turned uneven, hitched like he was trying and failing to keep quiet. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw his head tilted back against the window, jaw clenched so tight it might crack. Every muscle in his body was locked up, like he was willing himself to stillness, willing himself to not react to the feel of your ass against him.

Another bounce knocked you forward, and when your body shot forward again, you had to push your palms flat onto the dash and into him to keep yourself steady, an unintentional drag of your hips that made his breath punched out of him. The sound he let out was barely audible over the rain–a deep, guttural noise stuck somewhere between discomfort and something far more dangerous.

A slow, unbearable heat curled in your stomach, spreading low, making your breath shaky. Your body was already acting of it's own accord, your thighs clenching on instinct, your pulse hammering so loudly you swore it would give you away. You squeezed your eyes shut, willing yourself to breathe through it, to ignore the way this felt, the way your hips itched to move just a little more, just to test—to see—

And then his lips were near your ear, his voice barely more than a gravelly rasp, thick with something like desperation.

"Quit squirmin’."

A soft, helpless little whimper slipped from your lips.

You clamped a hand over your mouth immediately, but it was too late. Daryl had heard it. You knew because his whole body jerked beneath you, his hands suddenly at your waist, squeezing so tight it almost hurt. His breath came out sharp and unsteady, his thighs twitching under yours, like every muscle in him was coiled so tight he was about to snap.

When the truck finally rolled to a stop at the gates, you bolted.

You didn’t even look at him, didn’t dare risk seeing what was in his face—shock, confusion, regret, want—whatever it was, you couldn’t face it. Your heart pounded as you threw the door open, practically jumping off his lap, ignoring the way your legs trembled when your feet hit solid ground.

But later—in the solitude of your room–you found yourself lying in the dark, breath heavy, fingers slipping between your thighs as the ghost of that feeling came back with a vengeance.

The second time it happened, it also started out innocent, thank you very much.

For someone who had survived this long into the apocalypse, you sure were damn afraid of spiders. So afraid that when you and Daryl were paired up for a run, you’d nearly died when a nest of them made themselves known. One second, you were reaching into a cupboard for an old can of green beans, the next you were screaming, stumbling back, and then—out cold on the floor.

Daryl had freaked. He’d never seen someone just faint before, not outside of blood loss or injury. He crouched down fast, tapping at your cheek, muttering your name, but you were completely gone. Before he could even process that, a sound outside made his stomach drop—low, guttural hisses, the unmistakable snarl of the dead, drawn in by the sound of your scream.

He didn’t have time to wait for you to wake up.

So, in the most awkward, uncomfortable way imaginable, he scooped you up, hauled you onto his bike, and realized real fast that an unconscious person wasn’t exactly great at holding on. You were too slack, too limp—one wrong turn and you’d slide right off.

Daryl swore under his breath, already sweating at the thought of what he was about to do.

Before he could think too hard about the repercussions of it all, he repositioned you in his lap, facing him, legs hooked around his thighs, arms lightly folded in front of you and against his stomach. His arm curled around your back, holding you upright, while his other hand gripped the handlebar. It was awkward as hell trying to steer while keeping you from slumping sideways, but he managed.

Then you started to stir.

At first, it was subtle—your fingers twitching against his chest, a faint murmur against his shoulder. He prayed you’d stay out just long enough for him to get back to camp because if you woke up like this…

But of course, that would’ve been too easy.

A slow, unconscious shift—your body adjusting, pressing closer, your hips shifting forward right against him.

Daryl tensed so hard he thought he might snap in half.

His arm around your back locked up, his grip on the handlebar nearly crushing it. He forced his focus on the road, on anything but the slow friction against his lap. But then you sighed—soft, barely there, breath warm against his neck—and fuck, he felt it. The heat of you, the lazy drag of your hips as your body instinctively sought comfort.

His jaw clenched so tight his teeth ached.

This was not happening again.

But it was.

And it was so much worse than the truck.

Because now, you were asleep. Unconscious. And your body was doing things that you weren’t even aware of, things that made him ache in ways he didn’t know how to deal with. His skin burned, his breath turned shallow, and goddammit, he was getting hard. Again.

Daryl felt like the worst person alive.

This wasn’t supposed to happen—he wasn’t supposed to react to you like this, not when you weren’t even aware of it. But every little shift, every unconscious roll of your hips, every soft breath against his neck was making him suffer.

By the time you finally started to wake up, Daryl was already gone—face burning, heart racing, his body so tense it felt like a live wire. He didn’t even realize how hard he was gripping you until you let out a small noise, your fingers flexing against his shirt as your lashes fluttered.

As you stirred, instinctively clinging to him, your arms beginning to wrap around his middle for better support, your body pressed closer. He felt your hips shifting just enough to grind against him, forcing another sharp twitch beneath his jeans.

Daryl went rigid.

Your body tensed against him as awareness settled in, your breath catching for just a second. Daryl knew the exact moment you realized where you were—what you were sitting on—because you stiffened, fingers gripping at his shirt, but you didn’t pull away.

If anything, you leaned in. His entire body locked up, his grip on the handlebar going white-knuckled as the warmth of your breath brushed against his neck. The hum of the bike beneath him did nothing to drown out the pounding in his ears, the way heat licked up his neck as your lips barely skimmed the sensitive skin on his throat. He felt you move against his lap too, a gentle rocking of your hips against him. His stomach flipped, his fingers twitched, and for a split second, he froze, completely unsure of what to do, how to stop this without making it worse.

“Stop,” he muttered, voice rough, barely above a breath.

You didn’t.

The vibration of the bike only made it worse. He was so goddamn tense, his entire body fighting against the instinct to react. He was barely breathing, just trying to focus on the road, but it was impossible with your mouth teasing at his skin, the warmth of your body curled into him, the weight of you pressing down in a way that was too much.

It was all he could do to hold you still against him.

"Stop," he said again, but this time it was louder, less like an order and more like a plea. 

Your lips lingered for a second longer before you finally pulled away.

Daryl exhaled shakily, heart hammering, body strung tight, but he still didn’t push you off, didn’t pull his bike over to switch places and get you off of him. He just sat there, stiff and locked up, trying not to let his hand shake where it pressed into your back.

But then when you pulled away, finally listening to his pleas and he looked down at you for a moment, he saw the flicker in your expression—the way your gaze dropped, the way your lips pressed together, the way your hands loosened their hold on him like you suddenly weren’t sure you should be touching him at all.

His chest ached instantly, sharp and unexpected. That wasn’t what this was. It wasn’t that he didn’t want you—it was that he did. So badly it scared the hell out of him. But the way it had happened, the way he had put you in this situation. You hadn’t been fully aware, hadn’t made the choice, and the last thing he wanted was to take advantage of something your body did before your mind had caught up. And the way you hesitated now, the way you pulled back, made something in him panic.

"Sorry," you murmured, voice softer now, any sense of teasing completely washed away.

Daryl swallowed hard, but his throat felt tight, his jaw locked up so bad he thought it might snap. He wanted to say something, to explain, to tell you that this wasn’t about not wanting you.

But he couldn’t.

All he could do was keep his grip firm on the handlebar, eyes locked on the road ahead, his arm still braced against your back as he forced himself to focus on anything but the way his body ached for you to come back.

Now…the third time it happened…you couldn’t say it was all that innocent.

The Alexandria watchtower stood separate from the rest of the town, white and quiet, a lone structure overlooking the entrance. It was meant to be a defense point, a place for vigilance, for keeping the people inside safe.

Right now, it felt like a goddamn confession booth.

You sat on the window ledge taking first watch with your arms draped over your knees, the darkened treetops sway in the night breeze, pretending not to notice how tense Daryl was inside behind you up against the opposite wall. You had been up there for nearly an hour now, and he had barely said a word outside of the occasional grunt, playing with an arrow in his hands like it was the most interesting thing in the world.

You knew why.

You had been avoiding each other even worse since the bike incident—both of you too flustered, too unsure of what the hell to do with yourselves. But it wasn’t sustainable, not in a place like this, where the community was small and jobs were assigned. The universe—or more likely, Rick—had decided it was time for you to deal with it.

So here you were.

You sighed loudly, twisting around to face him.

"I'm sorry," you said, tilting your head back against the window frame, eyes drifting to the ceiling.

Daryl stilled across the small room, the moonlight catching in his hair, but his features remained shadowed, obscured in the dim glow of the lantern that sat on the floor nearby.

“Fer what?” he finally asked, twiddling the arrow between his fingers, rolling it absentmindedly. 

“For everything,” you said, a humorless laugh making your shoulder shake.

His eyes finally flickered up to you, uncertain, but it was enough for you to want to keep explaining yourself. You felt stupid, so so stupid.

“I mean it,” you said, hands pushing against your cheeks, trying to scrub the redness already creeping up your skin, “It won’t happen again. Even if we get stuck in a crowded truck together, even if I faint from another god damn spider attack. I swear to you, Daryl, I will stay far away from touching you,” you glanced at him, and trying to ease the tension, you added: “Next time I’ll just sit in Rick’s lap,” 

Daryl’s eyes flickered away for a long moment, something ghosting through them that he was clearly trying to push down. His gaze shifted toward the corner of the room, where nothing but overturned boxes and dust sat in the dark, like he could find the right words buried somewhere in the silence.

You let out a slow breath, thinking that was it, that he’d let the conversation die the way he always did. But then, suddenly, he spoke up.

“Don’t.”

Your brows furrowed. “Don’t what?”

His jaw tensed, fingers flexing as he set down the arrow, “Don’t sit on nobody’s lap.”

The words came out gruff, like he hadn’t meant to say them, and the way he turned his head slightly, like he was bracing himself for your reaction, made something in your chest tighten.

Silence settled between you again, heavier this time. The only sound was the wind rustling through the leaves below, the distant hum of Alexandria behind the walls until he spoke again.

“…I liked it.”

Your breath caught in your throat.

Daryl shifted, uneasy, fingers finding his mouth, chewing weakly on the skin of his forefinger like he was regretting opening his mouth. “When you… did that,” he mumbled, gaze flickering toward you before dropping again. “I liked it.”

Your stomach flipped. You studied him, the way his shoulders curled inward slightly, the nervous twitch of his fingers, the pink creeping up his neck. He was avoiding your gaze, embarrassed, like he expected you to laugh, to brush it off, to tell him he was imagining things.

But you didn’t.

Instead, you pushed off the ledge, moving slowly, deliberately, making your way over to him. When you knelt down in front of him, his breath hitched, his fingers clenching, his entire body going still.

You reached out, fingers brushing over his jacket, trailing up toward his shoulder. His breath shuddered, his muscles tightening beneath your touch.

“You liked it?” you murmured.

His throat bobbed as he swallowed. “Yeah.”

You bit your lip, tilting your head. “Which part?”

Daryl’s eyes darted to yours, filled with something uncertain, something hesitant. “What do ya mean?”

“Tell me,” you said, voice softer now, a little breathless. “Which part you liked.”

He didn’t answer right away. His skin was growing pink even in the dim light of the tower, the tips of his ears burning as his fingers twitched against the floor He was looking everywhere but at you, like he was trying to will himself out of this conversation.

You took that moment to shift forward, climbing into his lap without hesitation. His breath stopped, his body going rigid beneath you, hands jerking up before he forced them back down like he didn’t know where to put them.

Your thighs bracketed his hips, your hands settling on his shoulders, feeling the tension coiled beneath his skin.

“Did you like when I sat on your lap in the truck?”

Daryl felt like he wasn’t even breathing beneath you, his hands splayed beside him, fingers curling against the wooden floor as if itching to touch you. His eyes finally caught your gaze and stayed there, flickering between hesitation and something deeper, something you knew he was fighting against.

His voice was barely a murmur, thick and hoarse when he answered.

“…Yeah.”

A slow smile curled at the edge of your lips, and you leaned in, close enough for your nose to brush against his.

“What about the bike?” you whispered.

Daryl swallowed so hard you heard it. His hands finally moved, gripping your thighs where they rested against his, unsure but there, fingers flexing as if he was testing his own restraint.

“…Yeah.”

You could feel the heat of his breath against your mouth, the tension so thick it was dizzying. His body was wound so tight, his grip tightening slightly on your thighs, his entire frame burning beneath you.

“Daryl,” you breathed.

His fingers dug in slightly. His eyelids were heavy, his mouth parted like he wanted to say something but couldn’t force the words out.

Then his blue eyed gaze dropped to your lips.

Something in your chest tightened, anticipation coiling low in your stomach as you leaned in, testing, waiting to see if he’d stop you again, if he’d push you away like before, tell you no in that reluctant way that left you aching even worse than before.

But this time, he didn’t.

This time, your lips brushed against his and he sucked in a sharp breath, his hands flexing hard against your thighs, fingers gripping like he was trying to ground himself. Then his lips molded to yours, hesitant at first, like he was still trying to figure this all out. 

But the moment you let out a small, contented sigh against his mouth, he made up his mind. 

Daryl grabbed at you, rough palms sliding from your thighs up to your hips, and pulled you into him in one desperate, instinctive movement. You gasped softly, fingers tangling into his hair as your body pressed flush against his, the warmth of him searing through the fabric between you.

The pure thickness of him beneath you, solid muscle and broad strength, sent heat rushing through your veins, and then—fuck.

You felt him. Hard, heavy, and pulsing between your legs.

Another shaky whimper slipped from your throat, muffled against his lips, and Daryl groaned at the sound. It was deep, wrecked, vibrating through his chest like he was a man starved of this for far too long. When his mouth parted, panting from the overwhelming friction, you seized the moment, sliding your tongue past his lips to meet his. The taste of cigarettes and something undeniably him flooded your senses, warm and intoxicating, making your head spin.

The friction. The push, the pull, the way his body fit against yours—it was maddening. You rocked again, just enough to feel the way he twitched beneath you, just enough to make his hands clench as they reached back to grip your ass, his hips jerking up in response. The sharp, choked noise he let out sent heat flashing down your spine, turning your thoughts into nothing but molten, aching need.

You ground down on him harder, the steady roll of your hips chasing that friction, the ache building between your legs as his hands dug into your denim clad flesh, guiding you into him like he couldn’t help himself. The obscene noises of lips and tongues and heavy, desperate breathing filled the still night air, drowned only by the distant rustling of leaves outside the tower.

Daryl was unraveling beneath you.

His lips only parted from yours to move hungrily against your neck, dragging over heated skin, sucking at the sensitive flesh beneath your jaw. Every press of his mouth sent shivers racing through you, made your fingers clench tighter in his hair as your hips rolled against the hard length straining beneath his jeans.

The brush of his scruff against your throat had you moaning, a sound that made his hands twitch where they held you, gripping tighter, pulling you down against him like he was chasing it.

You weren’t even thinking anymore.

Not about Alexandria, not about the watchtower, not about anything except how good he felt, how his hardness was aching perfectly beneath you, rubbing just right against the throbbing need building at your core.

Daryl sucked in a ragged breath, dragging his mouth back up to yours, capturing your lips again like he was ravenous for it. His tongue met yours in a messy, desperate tangle, his hands flexing against your hips as he rocked you down into him, his groans spilling into your mouth, his whole body trembling with the effort of holding back.

You could feel it. The way his muscles were wound tight, his hips bucking beneath yours, his breathing turning ragged, uneven. He was so close. He was overwhelmed, so overstimulated, so completely lost in the way you were moving against him that he didn’t even realize he was chasing it, rutting up against you like he needed it.

And then you rolled your hips again, slower this time, more deliberate, grinding down just right, and Daryl broke.

His whole body seized beneath you, hands clenching at your ass as his hips stuttered up into yours, a wrecked, choked noise tearing from his throat as he came apart. His muscles locked up, every part of him going rigid as the pleasure overtook him.

You pulled back just enough to watch his beautiful face scrunched up, long, greasy hair pushed back just enough for you to see everything—the deep crease in his brow, the way his mouth fell open on a desperate, shuddering groan, the sheer helplessness of it as he twitched beneath you, his release spilling warm under his jeans. His grip on you was bruising, fingers digging in so tight you knew you’d be wearing the marks of him tomorrow.

His chest heaved beneath your palms as you released his long locks from your hands, his whole body shuddering through the aftershocks as reality slowly returned to him. When his eyes finally blinked open, dazed and so beautifully wide, his sweat-slick face somehow managed to flush even redder.

“I—I’m sorry—”

You didn’t let him finish.

Your finger pressed against his lips, silencing him as you tilted your head, watching him freeze beneath you again, all flustered and wrecked, like he was seconds away from bolting if you let him. His wide, desperate blue eyes stayed locked on yours, waiting for something, bracing for the worst.

But you just grinned.

“Don’t—” you began, voice full of warmth and maybe a little teasing, “Don’t ruin the single hottest thing I’ve ever witnessed in my entire existence.”

Daryl didn’t find it amusing. If anything, he went even redder under your gaze, his entire body tensing as he turned his head away, looking anywhere but at you. Like if he avoided your eyes long enough, maybe the last few minutes would magically undo themselves.

“Hey,” you murmured, reaching out to grip his chin, forcing him to look at you. His skin was burning under your touch, his breath shallow, his pupils still blown from what had just happened. “I’m not done with you yet,”

Daryl swallowed hard, his jaw shifting under your fingers. “But I—”

“You just got to have your fun,” you cut him off, voice dipping lower, slower, as you leaned in, letting your mouth brush against the outline of his lips, ��What about me?” You rolled your hips against his lap, slow and teasing, making him shudder beneath you. “Gonna leave me hangin’, Dixon?”

Daryl’s hands slid up, moving with more intent, his palms splaying over your ribs, fingers flexing just beneath your breasts. He wasn’t just reacting anymore—he was choosing this. He looked up at you, eyes dark, lips parted, voice just barely above a whisper.

“I wanna…” He hesitated, his brows furrowing like he was trying to find the words, trying to ask for something without knowing how. But then, his hands moved to your back, gripping you firmer, like he was realizing what he wanted even as he said it.

“I wanna make you feel good.”

Your breath caught in your throat.

Daryl swallowed, his thumbs skimming over the soft skin beneath your shirt, his gaze locked onto yours, searching. “Tell me how,” he murmured, his voice raw, thick with something desperate. “Show me what you like.”

Something hot and deep coiled in your stomach at the way he said it—so eager, so earnest, his hands shaking slightly like he was aching to touch you but needed you to let him.

“You sure?” you murmured, voice barely more than a breath.

His grip tightened. “Yeah.”

You smiled, slow and wicked, leaning down to kiss him—soft at first, then deeper, hungrier. His breath hitched, and when you rolled your hips again, this time he wasn’t just taking it.

This time, he was meeting you halfway.

[dinogoofymutated]

Soooo. Hypothetically. Let's say this was A time loop fic. Hypothetically, what would the end goal be. Like, would it be silly?? Serious?? GIVE ME IDEASSSSS

GOOFY NEW CABLE FIC???

POSSIBLY I HAVE TO PLAN THE DETAILS

[whocaresstillthelouvre]

Teach Me How To Play Coach Miller

Rating: Explicit. 18+ (Minors DNI) Pairing: Austin Joel Miller x Female Reader Word Count: 3,275 Summary: You're home alone, relishing a lazy day when your hot neighbor knocks on your door. Seems his TV is out and he really wants to watch the Rangers game. You know nothing about baseball... maybe he can teach you a thing or two? Warnings: smut, porn with very little plot, age gap (reader's college aged, Joel's in his 30's), oral (f & m receiving), unprotected p in v, riding, baseball terms, Joel's a filthy liar but it benefits all of us, mentions of voyeurism and masturbation, big balls Joel Miller in gray sweatpants, no use of y/n, not beta read.

Masterlist

---

It’s another famous hot September afternoon in Texas. Too damn hot to do anything besides walk outside, roll your eyes at the sweltering temperature, turn around and walk back inside. The thick humidity and overbearing heat makes your skin slick and clothing stick in all the wrong places– or maybe the right places– it depends on who’s looking. 

A ring of the doorbell interrupts your lazy day movie marathon. The house is yours for the weekend, your roommates are all gone for a festival and your coursework is all done, so naturally you’re laid on the couch taking a reprieve from the overbearing temperature.

Another ring.

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” you grumble. 

You open the door, your knees buckling at your bad luck.

GOD DAMNIT. OF COURSE IT’S JOEL MILLER. *THE* JOEL MILLER. The hot DILF you and your roomies all lust after. The broad, golden skinned GOD of a man that you all argue over who’s going to get to bed one day. 

“Joel? H-hey,” you say, attempting to hide your embarrassment over how you look. It’s 4 PM and you’re still wearing what you woke up in… an oversized Rangers shirt of your ex-boyfriend’s over a pair of lace boyshorts… it’s too freakin’ hot for actual clothes. 

“Afternoon–uh–so my cable box just stopped working and it’s the clenching game for the playoffs,” he nervously huffs, putting a hand to the back of his neck. “I know it’s crazy to ask, but can I watch the game on your TV?” He lifts a six pack of beer enticingly, “I brought this as payment.”

“Oh,” your eyes widen in surprise. Joel Miller… on your couch? Yes! Joel Miller on your couch! You open the door wider and step aside to let him in. “Of course, make yourself at home.” 

He walks into your house… this is a dream come true, he’s in GRAY SWEATPANTS and they hug his thick body perfectly. 

You take a precursory look around your living room, silently thanking yourself for picking up the house yesterday. Now the hunk of a neighbor you’ve touched yourself to while watching him mow his lawn is closer to you than he’s ever been.

You quickly stroll over to the coffee table, picking up the remote and handing it to him. 

“Thanks for this, appreciate it sweetheart,” Joel says, sitting on the couch, taking up a whole cushion with his broad body. 

Ohhhh, sweetheart. His eyes darken at the sight of your breath hitching, before his eyes gaze lowers to your bare legs. 

“Yeah, o-of course,” you nod, feeling very underdressed with your handsome neighbor taking a seat on the couch you were just laid out on a few minutes ago. “I’ll go get an opener.”

Joel turns the game on and settles his back against the couch cushions, “Thanks sweetheart.” 

__

The ceiling fan chains clang against one another, it only does this on high, it drives you crazy but the soft breeze it sends down is worth the annoyance. Your skin’s too overheated sitting only a couch cushion’s length away from Joel. Your foot nervously taps against the carpet while you try to focus on the book you’re reading. You’re overwhelmed by his presence, hearing his lips form around the beer bottle and taking a swig, the movement of his body against the couch cushions, the smell of wood and coffee he’s brought into the house. You sigh, turning your attention to the game, maybe today’s the day you’ll learn about America’s pastime. 

“Why is it called a shortstop? Do they have to be short?” You ask putting your book down. 

“No,” Joel chuckles, “s’just what the position is called.” 

“Ah, and every team has one?”

“Yes,” he shakes his head, “what exactly do you know about this game, sweetheart?”

“Um, I know I like their tight pants.” 

“Oh really?” Joel looks over at you, crooking his eyebrow up. 

“Yep, and the guy throwing the ball is really tall and cute.”

“That’s called a pitcher sweetheart,” he shakes his head at your ignorance.

“And he throws to the…” your finger taps your cheek while you mock contemplation, “catcher?” 

“That’s right,” he nods, his voice dropping an octave. “What else do you know?”

“I know there’s bases and home runs, adorable mascots and Cracker Jacks.”  

“What bases?”

“Hmm. First base, second base, third base, and home.”

“Good girl,” he grins, “you’re a smart girl.”

“I know I am,” you smugly smile at him. “First base is kissing. Second base is above the waist, third base is bel—“

Joel’s laugh cuts you off. “Is that right? Seems you know all about baseball, you’ve… ‘played baseball’ before?” 

“Mm,” you lean towards him, “I like playing baseball… I just haven’t in a few months… you know besides practicing with myself.”

He shakes his head, a devilish smirk lights his face as he angles his body towards you. “You practice a lot?”

“Yeah, especially when my hot neighbor is outside mowing his lawn and he gets all sweaty. My bedroom window looks right out on his lawn.” Joel’s eyes widen at the realization that you’re talking about him. “Sometimes he lifts the hem of his shirt and wipes his brow, I get to see a peek of his stomach, it’s super hot.”

“Funny,” he puts his beer bottle down and licks his lips. “I have a hot neighbor too. I’ve, uh, ‘practiced’ before while thinking about how good she looks running in her tight shorts and tiny tank top.” 

Your core begins to pulse at his words, desire lights inside your body. Joel Miller has noticed you *and* gets off to the thought of you?! And now, he’s on your couch, sending you a lascivious look. Let’s ball. 

“Can I play?” you ask, head tilted with a smirk before scooting closer to him.

“Yeah?” his eyebrows crook up. “You want to play with an old man like me?” 

You nod. “Put me in coach.”

“Batter up baby,” he growls, grabbing and lifting you to straddle his lap. You’re thankful for your measly lace panties, less layers between you and Joel’s dick. “You wanna show me first base?”

You gulp, pouty lips agape begging to be kissed by Joel Miller. “First base,” you nuzzle your nose against his, “is kissing.”

“Mm,” he nips at your bottom lip, “then kiss me, pretty girl.”

You pull away, angling your head to look at the TV. “But what about the game?”

“They’re losing by four,” he grabs your chin, turning your head back towards him. “Plus, I don’t think it’s possible to care about the game when a pretty girl like you is on my lap.”

Leaning forward, you plant a soft kiss and suck his plush bottom lip into your mouth. Your heart flutters inside your chest when his mouth opens inviting you to lick into it as he lifts the hem of your shirt. 

You swipe his hand away, “Not at second base yet.”

“Fuck,” he pants. “Been wanting to see you since you moved in last year.”

His confession rolls through your body, sending waves of want through your limbs. You want to rock your hips against him, you want to feel your bare skin against his, you want to feel him inside you, but you also love the game you’re playing and it’s not just every day your hot neighbor comes over to watch a ballgame and winds up with his tongue in your mouth.  

You deepen the kiss, moaning against his lips as your tongues collide and explore each other’s mouths. Raucous shouting of the announcers on the TV interrupts your makeout session.

“Mmph, will you look at that? Rangers just hit a grand slam ’n tied the game. You wanna celebrate now?” Joel grabs the hem of your shirt and angles his eyebrow up.

“Show me second base Joel.”

Your shirt is lifted and tossed aside, your nipples pebble under the cool fan air and Joel’s attention. He stares, eyes wide in astonishment as he takes your bare chest in. 

“Second base is above the waist stuff,” you direct. His large, calloused hands mold around the weight of your flesh. 

“Mm, knew you’d be soft,” he rasps in awe. His touch drives you crazy, just an hour ago, you were dozing off on the couch to Romy & Michelle’s High School Reunion, now Joel Miller is holding your tits in his hands. He rubs the tips of his thumbs back and forth across your nipples. “Can I use my mouth on you baby?” he asks, his gaze moving from your chest to your eyes pleadingly. 

“God yes,” you pant, rising up to bring your chest to his mouth. He clasps his lips around your nipple, sucking and pulling, swirling his tongue around the peak before letting it go with a pop. Your back arches, your weight settling firmer against him when he nips his way across your chest, taking your other breast into his mouth and suckling. Your hands snake underneath his shirt and run across the plush of his stomach petting your hands across the smattering of hair across his belly. 

Joel buries his face between your breasts, breathing you in and groaning against your skin, his hands grab your hips and push your body firmer against his half hard cock still clad in his sweatpants.

He’s fully dressed, your teensy pair of lace panties do very little to stop your cunt from dripping onto the light gray fabric of his sweatpants. Your hips begin to grind against the shape of him, begging for contact. He ruts his hips up to tap against your core pulling a moan from you. 

He snickers teasingly, “We goin’ to third base already baby?”

You whimper a measly yes, rocking yourself harder against him. Fuck the pace of game, it’s going to be a quick one. You’re so needy for him, you can’t believe this is happening with Joel “hot dad” Miller. Your roommates are never going to believe you. 

You reach for the hem of his shirt, bunching it up before he chucks it off and throws it across the couch. You lean back, eyes widening at the sight of him. Good LORD, he’s perfect. His skin glows in the late afternoon light beaming in from the front window. His shoulders and arms are toned from all of the manual labor you always watch him accomplish. Your hands roam his soft muscles, exploring the plains of his body. He’s the whole fucking package. He looks at you with a smug smirk while you take him in. 

You want to taste him and see if he tastes like the sweat and sunlight. Your lips find his collarbone, licking and sucking, tasting the slight salt of the sweat the heat leaves on everybody’s skin on days like today. Delectable.

His throat groans against your tongue, he shivers underneath you, you’ve never wanted someone so badly before. 

“Fuck me,” you plead against his skin, “please.”

“Not yet, not yet baby, we’re still at third, you’re still learning all about baseball. I need to enjoy a game as sweet as you,” he implores, sliding a hand between your legs and petting your soaked panties. “This all for me?” 

“Yesss,” you hiss, licking your way up through his scratchy beard to his mouth. 

You gasp against his lips when he slides a thick finger inside. He chuckles a deep breath against your mouth, “So fucking wet aren’t you pretty girl?” 

Your only answer is a garbled moan and a clench around his second finger that stretches you. 

His fingers languidly fuck you while his thumb teases soft circles against your clit, you’re writhing from his touch, breathing mews into the air. He licks into your mouth swallowing every shattered breath that escapes from your throat. So many nights you’ve fallen asleep to the thought of this moment laying alone in your bed, gazing out the window at the Miller household. What would Joel Miller’s overworked hands and plush mouth feel like against your body? Well, now you know, and it feels even better than you could have ever imagined.  

He licks his way down to your neck, asking “Can I taste you?” against your skin. 

“Yes,” you cry out. 

Joel lifts you with a grunt and lays you down against the couch cushions. He stands over you, running a hand across your body, mapping his way from your breasts down your stomach to the trim of your panties.

“You’re gorgeous,” he muses, his eyes turning black as he pulls your panties down, exposing your pussy to him. You spread your legs open encouraged by the possessiveness of his stare. He tosses your underwear behind him before settling on the couch between your legs with a deep growl. Your legs are lifted over his shoulders. “Fuck,” he sighs, planting a kiss against your thigh, “you’re so fucking hot. Let’s get to third base sweetheart.”

His eyes flutter shut at the first taste of you when he parts your folds with his tongue. Everything about Joel Miller is wide- his fingers, his shoulders, his chest. Right now, his wide tongue is driving you crazy as it swirls against your clit. He devours you, licking and laving all over your drooling pussy, drinking you down and savoring you like you’re his last meal. His eyes stay on your face the whole time, watching you fall apart against his mouth. Your fingers wrap around the dark waves of his hair pulling him in closer, hips undulating against his mouth getting yourself off on the feel of the bristle of his beard against your sensitive flesh. His tongue flattens and runs up and down the shape of you before he dips two fingers into your entrance and buries them knuckles deep. Your back curves at the overwhelming sensation of his tongue on your clit as your soaked walls clench around his thick fingers. 

“Mm, close,” you whimper while your feet thud repeatedly against his strong back. He nods against your core, dark brown eyes still focused on your face. Your heart races at the way he watches you under his thick eyebrows creased in concentration. Of course Joel Miller is good at eating pussy, he’s a hard worker. You wail his name out when you orgasm against his mouth, your body tightens as you flood his fingers and throb for him. He kisses your swollen clit gently, letting a deep moan and chuckle out while you spasm underneath him. 

Joel’s face glistens with you when he lifts his head up, “Welcome to third base.” 

“You haven’t gotten here yet,” you arch an eyebrow and lick your parted lips, still panting for air.

He kisses each thigh with a loud smack before getting up. 

He looms over your blissed out body on the couch and yanks down his pants and boxers, a gulp rolls down your throat at the sight of him. So fucking thick and engorged with a sweet drop of precum rolling down his shaft.

“Wow,” you gasp, rolling to your side to bring yourself eye level to his twitching cock. Your eyebrows rise in awe when he wraps his hand around himself and strokes.

“Yeah?” his voice smolders through you. 

“I’ve thought about what you looked like naked, and now that I see it… wow.” You can’t believe the confession just left your mouth.

“Funny,” he collects a drop of precum on his fingertip and rubs it against your bottom lip,” I thought the same thing.”

Your tongue darts out to taste him, salty, bitter, so fucking manly. You want to taste more of him. 

You bring your lips to the crown of his cock, kissing the tip and running your tongue along the length of his shaft. He gasps, leaning forward to rest his hands on the sofa back. 

“Fuck sweetheart, that’s good,” he drawls when you suck him into your mouth engulfing the thick length of him in the wet heat of your mouth. 

You cup the heft of his balls in your hand… thick cock, big balls, of course Joel Miller has big balls. 

“You’re good at this sweetheart, really fucking good,” he huffs, rubbing his thumb against your cheek as you hollow them and suck him to the back of your throat. 

Your eyes flutter up to watch Joel snarl down at you while his hips buck into your drooling mouth.

“Can’t keep lookin’ at me like that sweetheart, or else we’re not going to get to homebase.”

Your pussy clenches at his words, begging to be filled like your mouth. It’s as if Joel can read your mind, his hand lands in between your thighs and begins petting your aching cunt. 

“Feels like she needs to have my cock in her, doesn’t she?” he says, tapping his fingers against your entrance. “Think maybe we should get to homebase?”

He pulls his cock out of your mouth and lifts you off the couch into his arms, he’s so fucking strong. 

He leaves a searing kiss on your lips before settling on the couch, still holding you close to him. 

“You ready for homebase?” he asks, gazing into your eyes. 

“Put me in coach, I’m ready to play,” you smile, giddy at the anticipation of getting fucked by Joel Miller.

“Go ahead sweetheart, fuck me,” his drawl drips in arousal as you slowly sink yourself down on him, gasping at the feel of his thick cock stretching you. 

Your hips rock back and forth to adjust to the size of him spreading you open. 

“Knew you’d feel so good sweetheart, knew it as soon as I saw you,” he says, peppering kisses across your face and neck. “So pretty, so soft, feels so fucking good.”

Joel Miller always seemed too intimidating, too closed off, too attractive to ever be interested in a neighbor much too young for him, and yet here he is ignoring the baseball game he wanted to watch, instead burying his cock into your pussy.

You ride him, your pace turning more frenzied and desperate the more he chants your name.

The ticks of the fan chains clanging against one another accompanies the sound of your pussy bouncing up and down on his dick. Hips meeting hips, skin hitting skin, breath gasping breath, chain knocking chain. Your fingers wrap around his curls pulling his head up to kiss you. Your breaths puff against his, you can’t hide the blissed out smile that lights up your whole face as he pounds into you.

Your body begins to tingle and quiver when his cock hits the gushy spot that makes you see stars. 

“That’s it baby, that’s it,” Joel grits against your neck biting and sucking, marking you with his mouth and owning you with his cock. 

You scream a choked sob when your orgasm lights through you, your walls clutch Joel’s cock as you come undone. He grips you harder, pushing you into his chest and holding you as close as he can with his tense muscles as he lifts you and pulls out painting your pussy lips with his cum. You collapse against him, gasping for air against his sweaty skin, darting your tongue out to lick some of the sweet salt so you can always remember the taste of playing ball with Joel Miller. 

“Can I tell you something?” Joel asks, his voice radiates through your ear resting against his chest. 

“Hmm? Yeah,” you sigh.

“My TV still works,” he sheepishly says. You sit up at the shock of his words. “I just really wanted to watch the game with a pretty girl.” He sends you a sultry, guilty smirk that you cover with your lips. 

___ Tagging people who showed interest in my WIP a couple weeks ago for this. Along with my camp coven friends who helped.

@luxurychristmaspudding, @sizzlingcloudmentality, @sawymredfox, @magpiepills, @yxtkiwiyxt

@beefrobeefcal, @ace-turned-confused, @yopossum, @mothandpidgeon, @bitchesuntitled

@maggiemayhemnj, @jennaispunk, @timelordfreya

[eurekavalley]

Once again, Karina Longworth's dissection of eroticism in mass media in the 80's and 90's is hitting like a therapy session (this time: the Red Shoe Diaries and surrounds, also briefly touching on 90210, Dawson's Creek, Ally McBeal, and the tension between David Duchovny's role on RSD and TXF).

[hoshifighting]

Can you pleaseeee do staff joshua?

staff!joshua

WARNINGS: smut, figurine malfuncion, getting caught fingering, mentions of penetrative sex, limping after sex, dirty talk.

staff!joshua who was basically an angel in a designer hoodie, swooping in like he was born to save the day. he’d been recommended by an artist friend who was finally leaving the chaos of tour life behind, and, honestly, you’d had your doubts. you weren’t looking for another “helpful” stranger who’d end up tangled in the cables backstage or handing you the wrong mic.

you remember him showing up that first day, eyes bright and wide like he was taking in every damn inch of the chaos with some kinda awe. it was… annoying, actually, because who the hell has that much enthusiasm? the whole team couldn’t stop talking about him, whispering like he was some savior sent from above. you’d watch from across the dressing room, pretending not to notice, like, “oh sure, he’s cute or whatever,” but then he’d catch your eye and smile.

staff!joshua who somehow found himself in the middle of the most last-minute disaster ever. the accessories box—the one holding all your necklaces, rings, and that one choker that practically defines your stage look—got left at the hotel across town, hours away. designers scrambling, panic in the air, your manager about to lose it. you’re standing there, just praying that the team doesn’t fully spiral, and then joshua steps in, calm as you like. he asks for a spare box of beads, like it’s no big deal.

he actually sits on the floor, in the mddle of the dressing room, legs crossed like he’s chilling at some park, and starts putting together these bracelets. fast. you remember being half-stunned, watching him loop bead after bead with ridiculous speed, like he’s been doing it his whole life. and they weren’t just some random bracelets either—they actually looked good. he handed them over, “here you go, should work in a pinch.” like, who does that?

staff!joshua who ended up with half the crew wanting to know where he learned to make accessories like that, and he just shrugged, all humble, “oh, just a thing i used to do in high school.” as if that made sense.

next show, next country, you look out and see rows and rows of fans with identical bracelets. like, those beads? they’ve become a thing. suddenly, everyone wants one, and your socials are blowing up with people asking where they can get cute and colorful bracelets. you’d joked with him after, “might as well start selling these on the merch table,” and he’d laughed, soft and shy, scratching the back of his neck like he wasn’t used to the attention.

staff!joshua who, honestly, makes you wonder if he’s real, he’s always got everything covered, it’s late nights and early mornings, but somehow, he’s always there, making sure you have your coffee just the way you like it, that your schedule isn’t packed to the point of breaking. he’s the one who keeps track of your favorite snacks and stashes them in your backpack, knowing you’ll dig around for them at some ungodly hour.

staff!joshua who insists on walks when there’s downtime to make you less tense, taking you through narrow city streets, where he points out little cafes he researched beforehand, claiming it was just “a lucky find.” he laughs off your suspicions, saying, “it’s just a coincidence,” but you know he’s been studying maps like a tour guide, making sure you get to see more than just hotel lobbies and dressing rooms. he’ll hold your things so you can snap photos or just take in the sights, occasionally stepping back to give you a moment. always there, hovering just close enough to shield you if a crowd forms or if you need a break from everything.

staff!joshua who’s not just watching out for you but keeping an eye on every single person who shows up at airports or outside venues. he scans the crowd with that gentle look in his eyes, like he’s really seeing each one of them, making sure no one’s fainting or overheating. if he notices someone looking a bit off, he doesn’t hesitate, signaling to security or even paramedics to help them out, all while giving them this reassuring smile that somehow calms them down.

staff!joshua who knows when fans come up to you during your downtime and sees that look in your eyes, the tiny hesitation. he’ll lean over, voice soft, asking, “do you want to?” like it’s totally up to you, and it’s cool either way. if you’re not feeling it, he’s got the most polite, warm way of explaining, “i’m so sorry, but it’s y/n’s break right now.” no harshness, no impatience—just enough kindness that no one feels brushed off. but if you nod and say yes, he’s right there, practically crouching to make sure the angles are perfect, even telling the fan how to hold the camera for the best lighting. he gets the shots that’ll probably be framed on some bedroom wall or locked screens forever.

staff!joshua who goes from quietly fussing over your needs to casually slipping into a role that makes every fan interaction feel like the best one of their life. he’s got this way of making them feel comfortable, throwing in a gentle “don’t be nervous,” or even laughing softly to ease the anxiety.

staff!joshua who, without you even realizing it, has gone from that fresh-faced kid with the soft smile to a full-on bodyguard. he’s bulked up over time, muscles straining against the sleeves of his shirts, and when he’s guiding you through a crowded airport or weaving through backstage chaos, you catch more than a few fans sneaking glances his way. he doesn’t seem to notice—or maybe he does, but he brushes it off.

staff!joshua who makes it a point to be in the hotel gym at whatever strange hour you decide to work out. he’s on his own schedule, of course, but he’s catching your attention even mid-workout. he doesn’t say much about it, but you know he’s thinking about your safety, wanting to be strong enough to keep you shielded with his... big chest.

staff!joshua who tries to stay professional when your hand naturally drifts to his arm. it’s like a habit now; his biceps have become your security blanket, something to hold onto when you’re being rushed through a crowd or stepping out of a car in sky-high heels. he’ll give you a quiet amused look, lips pressing together like he’s trying not to smile, but he never says anything about it.

staff!joshua who feels the burn of your touch whenever you steady yourself by pressing your hand against his muscular chest. maybe it’s to fix a shoe strap or straighten your skirt, his breath hitches every time, it’s like a test of his equilibrium, and you can tell he’s struggling to keep himself in check, especially when he catches your smirk.

staff!joshua who’s always one step ahead, guiding you with a gentle but firm hand on the small of your back when you’re navigating a crowded room.

staff!joshua who instinctively stands between you and the flash of cameras, positioning himself just enough to cover you from the harsh lights and endless stares. he doesn’t need to ask; he just knows when to move, leaning close “just stay behind me”

staff!joshua who never complains when you tug at his sleeve for attention, even if it’s the fifth time that hour. attentive look, ready to listen to whatever you need, whether it’s fixing a wardrobe mishap or finding the perfect hiding spot when the crowds get overwhelming.

staff!joshua who’s confused when you grab him and pull him into the wardrobe corner, pointing at the zipper like it’s some life-or-death situation. his face goes a little pink as he takes in the view—your tits all squished up, struggling against the fabric, and his hands practically itching to fix it. “are you sure?” he mumbles, glancing from you to the zipper and back, but there’s no time to pause; you’re due on stage any second.

staff!joshua who keeps his eyes fixed on that zipper, swallowing hard as he tries to get a grip on himself and on the stubborn thing trapping you. his fingers brush against your skin, and you feel him tense up, his breath quickening just slightly. he’s so close you can smell his cologne, fresh and warm, mixing with the backstage chaos, and it’s making it way harder for you to focus on anything else. “just… stay still..” he mutters, his voice a little shaky.

staff!joshua who practically loses it when the stylist finally throws up her hands and says, “just rip it off, joshua! we don’t have time.” his eyes go wide, panic flickering over his face, but then he nods, taking a deep breath. he plants his hands on either side of the fabric, his biceps flexing under his shirt as he grabs hold and gives one solid yank. there’s a loud rrrriiip, and the zipper splits apart, fabric tearing away like it’s nothing under his grip.

staff!joshua who is definitely not prepared for the way the fabric slips, your tits practically jumping in his face, leaving him blinking, wide-eyed, desperately trying to look anywhere else while you scramble to pull on your next outfit. he’s frozen for a second, like he’s processing what just happened, then quickly steps back.

staff!joshua who always insists on separate rooms whenever you’re on tour, like it’s some line in the sand he won’t cross, because he’s all about “boundaries.” but thank god for that, honestly, because the last thing you need is him realizing just how often your mind wanders to him in the quiet of your room after a show, the adrenaline still in your veins. nights like that, when you’re alone and all you can think about is the way he’s looked at you backstage, muscles tense as he keeps everything under control—never fails on making you horny.

staff!joshua who doesn’t know how many times you’ve slipped into your bed and imagined him there with you, his big hands choking you, slapping your face, his mouth kissing you, sucking you, that quiet and respectful control of his breaking just for you. you let yourself get lost in the thought of him, and in the safety of your own room, you give in to all those bottled-up feelings, whispering his name under your breath, touching yourself, feeling your pulse race as you imagine him actually being there.

staff!joshua who has no clue that some nights, you’re too far gone to even muffle the sounds you make, pressing a hand to your mouth as you cum, breathy little sighs slipping out, like he’s actually there. you always tell yourself you’ll be quieter next time, but every show seems to make it worse, every touch from him leaving a trail of him that lasts long after he’s gone.

staff!joshua who probably wouldn’t know what to do if he ever caught you like that—caught you in the middle of one of those late-night moments, your head thrown back, his name slipping from your lips, no shame. the thought alone is almost too much to handle, but you keep going back to it, night after night, letting yourself imagine just a little more.

staff!joshua who, one night, knocks on your door to deliver something you left behind in the venue dressing room, completely oblivious to the fact that you’re in there, already lost in thoughts of him. you dont even hear the knock over the sounds of your own pussy, and you don’t realize he’s actually come in, quietly calling your name, until you see his shadow across the wall.

staff!joshua who stands there frozen for a second, just staring, his fingers fumbling with the doorknob like he’s trying to make a quick exit but forgot how doors work.

when he finally remembers to turn the handle, ends up pulling it the wrong way, the door making this awkward little squeak as he fumbles to open it again. he’s all flushed and stuttering out apologies, but he’s rooted in place, eyes darting back to you like he’s trying to process what he just walked in on and failing miserably.

your heart its almost jumping from your chest, but you let the duvet slip just a little, the fabric falling away from your legs, exposing the curve of your thigh, the soft line of your hip. his eyes follow it, widening just slightly, his fingers gripping the door handle even tighter.

staff!joshua who, when you tug his wrist gently, doesn’t resist, he lets you pull him closer until he sits by your side, as you whine “joshua… come here,” in that low, inviting way, and something shines in his eyes, like you’ve struck a nerve he’s tried so hard to keep hidden.

staff!joshua who finally presses his lips to your neck, his hand moves up your thigh, fingers fastly pushing the duvet away, leaving you naked. when he finally slides his hand over you, through your damp folds, the feel of his fingers brushing your swollen clit, making your nipples harden.

his thumb presses the clit savoring the reaction he’s getting from you. you can tell he’s testing every little gesture, finding what makes you pant, what makes your hips move toward him.

staff!joshua who presses his fingers in, slipping past the wet folds, to the gummy walls, the first slide inside so warm, so deep, and you let out a moan—that you don't have to hold anymore, afraid that he would hear from the next room—your pussy already clenching around him. he groans softly, leaning over you, his arm flexing as he presses deeper, his other hand coming up to grip one of your wrist up your head, holding you steady as his fingers curl impossibly tight. you can feel the tension in him, the restraint, but the way his fingers move, lets you know he’s not holding back with his touch, at least.

“like that?” he asks, and you nod, swallowing down a shaky breath as he picks up the pace.

staff!joshua who starts to move his fingers a little deeper, making a funny wet sound, until you’re gripping the duvet, your head tipping back.

staff!joshua who, lets out a low chuckle everytime you moan a little louder. “what was that hm? a moan? for me? tell me..”

staff!joshua when he notices you squirming under his touch, about to cum he teases more “so needy... you don’t even have to say it.” he pauses, letting the fingers sink in, as you feel his other hand come up to grip your thigh, holding you as he continues. “what would they all say if they saw you right now?” he muses. “you know, you make it so hard for me to be professional sometimes.”

staff!joshua who, when he notices you clenching your fists in the duvet, laughs softly, a low, wicked sound. “go on,” he whispers, his fingers curling just right. “let me hear everything.”

staff!joshua that after every single time you thought you’d caught your breath, would lean down, “not done yet, sweetheart,” before sending you spiraling right back. destroying your poor swollen cunt after cumming multiple times..

staff!joshua next morning, is already at the hotel breakfast with the crew, sitting perfectly, like he didn’t just ruin you the night before. he watches you walk in, eyes glinting as he sees the way you’re moving—trying to walk normally, but the subtle limp gives it all away.

staff!joshua who has the audacity to pat the empty chair next to him, tilting his head with an innocent expression as if he’s not the reason you’re struggling to walk. “sleep well?” he asks, but you know he's holding back a laugh. you shoot him a glare, but he just raises an eyebro.

staff!joshua who leans in, voice quiet enough that only you can hear, and whispers, “if you need me to help you up to your room after this, just say the word,” his fingers brush against your knee under the table, so subtle that no one else would notice, but it’s enough to remind you of every. single. thing. he did to you last night.

staff!joshua who has no problem keeping that perfect poker face as the morning goes on, answering questions, making small talk with the crew, all while casting you the occasional glance. every time he catches you shifting in your seat, trying to get comfortable, he hides a smirk behind his coffee mug, thoroughly enjoying the sight of you flustered and sore, his own private victory.

[theorist-fox]

Good Luck

Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Reader

Crossposted on AO3.

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Word count: 5.2k

Summary: There’s only so much you can endure for love. Simon’s avoidance takes him one step too far, and this time, there’s no turning back.

18+

CW: angst, arguments, canon typical violence (GSW, surgery, medical talk), a drop of smut.

I listened to this song while writing!

Masterlist 🦊 | In The Walls Masterlist 🦊

The treadmill runs underfoot when it shouldn't. 

You shouldn't be here—when the lights in the base are off, and curfew has clocked in. Not when your side is still aching, and your injury is still mending.

One would think that after ages in the special forces, you'd get used to gunshot wounds. 

Truth is—you never do. It's always the same burning pain that makes you piss yourself and throw up your guts. How you survived is still a big, fat question mark—sniper rifles are made to kill, not to neutralize. If that bullet had hit a little higher, you'd be six feet underground, not doing some cardio in the HQ gym.

Even now, two months after the incident, the stabbing ache in your gut still lingers. Granted, it's not fully healed, so any pain you feel is your fault. But sitting idly, twiddling your thumbs, feels far too passive for you. So, you decide to resort to the simplest training—cardio, light weightlifting—anything that might help the rage simmering in your chest subside.

Because yes—the worst thing festering in your guts, right in the broken sinews and ripped flesh, isn't the mending hole of a .308 round, but a growing anger that's making it hard for your limbs to sit still.

And it's that anger that's slowing down the healing process, it must be. 

You're running—not too fast. No headphones on, because you want to hear your breath panting and your feet thudding against the moving treadmill. You want to taste copper down your throat. 

Overexertion. Salivating tongue. The wonderful ache of sore muscles. 

Alive, strong, fast, reliable.

A friendly reminder that even though there is someone else occupying your spot in the team, you're still as fan-fucking-tastic as ever.

A friendly reminder that their role is only temporary. That when you're back on your feet, you're going to be the fifth member of that task force again. 

Breakfasts with Soap, early morning runs with Gaz, cigars in the evening with Price.

Ghost, on the other hand, can go and fuck himself. Hard. 

You don't blame him, really. Or, well, maybe a little. A smidge. 

Because that's just who he is. You can't blame someone for being who they are—and what he is, is a bastard. 

You should've known the moment you met him, the second he introduced himself as Ghost instead of Simon Riley, all those years back.

Instead of giving in, instead of acting kind, caring, and giving him your time—instead, instead, instead—you should've bit the same way he bit you. Ravaged you. Gave you hot and cold, push and pull, sunk his teeth until the bone, until you were nothing more than a rag doll in the maws of a rabid dog.

Surely, you couldn't have expected him to visit.

You couldn't have expected him to knock on your hospital room door, cuppa in hand, and have him give you his precious, precious time.

What you should've done was expect him to treat you in person like he treats you in bed. 

A whore: warm enough to fit his cock in, wet enough to stroke his ego. You being out of commission for anything remotely related to sex meant you being out of his life—plain and simple. 

A hard pill to swallow, but a true one.

And so, you run. 

You run and stare deadly holes into the wall in front of you. 

You run and ignore how the forming scar on your side tightens at each movement. 

You run and try your damned hardest to focus on yourself: on your body feeling alive even when unhooked from cables and machines, on the fog in your brain finally dissipating, on your chest filling and relaxing even without oxygen pumped in your nose.

Ten minutes turn into twenty, until you can feel your thighs chafe and your calves cramp, but still you push through. Because the alternative, the only other thing that would make your stomach finally loosen, would be to have that bastard within reach. Punch him until he hurts like you did.

Alas, God seems to have heard, for the next thing you know, is that Simon is standing, jaded as always, at the threshold of the gym to your left.

As soon as you spot him in your periphery, you punch the big red button on the treadmill. Your run slows to a walk before you stop completely and get down. 

You don't even look at him as you collect your water bottle from the floor, grunting softly when your injury folds and aches.

You don't even lift your head when you reply with a caustic, "Look what the cat dragged in."

He snorts. How dare he.

"See you got your wit back."

It's been two months since you last heard his voice. 

When you got shot and blacked out, the last thing you registered was his voice roaring over comms—but judging by the distant behaviour he assumed right afterwards, the complete absence during your hospitalization, you convinced yourself that the anguished cry of your name you've heard was imagined altogether.

One last attempt of your brain to find some comfort in the pain.

However, a treacherous shiver still runs down your spine when he speaks. The thickness of his voice, the rasp that scratches a nice spot in your brain. 

You shake your shoulders to get rid of it.

It's only then that you clock his form with your eyes. You tongue your cheek.

"Never left," you say, uncapping your water bottle. "Not that you'd know anyway, mh?"

As you drink, the balaclava shifts at his jaw as if he's running his tongue over his teeth. Thinking which approach to take—tactical and measured or absolutely ballistic and corrosive.

"You shouldn't be 'ere." He drawls with that grating tone that makes you believe he knows something more than you do.

Measured it is.

"Got cleared."

"Doc said otherwise."

"As obsessed as ever, uh?"

How his eyes sharpen tells you you've cut deeper than any razor blade could. A smug smile blooms on your cheeks because small things feel like huge victories when there are too many losses to count.

"You're under my command." He says bluntly, "Had to keep myself updated."

"Normal people would ask."

He tilts his head. "M'sure you gathered I'm anything but."

"Right," you say with a wry grin. "What was the doctor's diagnosis, then?"

"Lucky your liver got out of it intact," he replies, "Exit wound clear, no fragments. Minimal internal dam—"

"Oh no, I know that." You cut in, sickly sweet, like poison more than honey. "I meant yours."

His eyes darken, with a warning glint that should be enough to pierce through your resolve—shame for him that you're bulletproof and sharp like a knife. You don't care if it'll hurt—let it. After all, there is little left to lose, and you're sure that whatever is left will soon be lost.

"Abandonment issues? Does it stem from your childhood? Are you projecting something on me, Simon?"

"Sergeant," he says, lower than a growl. 

"What?" You snap, tongue riddled with bitterness. "Isn't that what's happening? Takin' my life apart 'cause you couldn't sort out yours?"

Simon rolls his shoulders and straightens his neck. He often does it when he wants to appear taller, broader, scarier—though you know better.

And right now, he's just as tense as you are. 

Both of you are teetering on the edge, walking a fine line that could lead to resolution, but you're afraid it won't. Not this time.

Each step he takes bends the thin rope under his weight. You wobble—precarious, afraid, a gust of wind is all it would take for you to fall and lose it all in one breath: the earned, mutual trust, the fragile love—no matter how disjointed and uncertain at times.

Reluctantly, you know that it has been tender, too.

"I'd watch my tongue if I were you,” he says. A measured threat.

Your eyes are sharp, and you don't dare to breathe. The space between your faces is tense—a ticking time bomb, something preceding destruction.

"And I'd stay the fuck back." You scowl. "If I were you."

There's a sneer painting his face; you're sure of it, even if it's out of sight. Something heavy and dark, hidden under fabric. 

"Aye, I have," he says at length. "For two months. But looks like you didn't enjoy that much, did ya now?"

Your brows fly to your forehead. Utter disbelief at the sheer audacity of him. Apparently, today isn't one of those days in which you can take what you dish out. 

Fuck it, you'll live.

"You think this is funny?" You scowl, cocking your head.

You watch his jaw shift, perhaps trying to reply, but you don't give him time. He's had plenty of it and wasted it all.

"You think it's alright, what you did?"

Your teeth grit until your head hurts. 

"Not even a knock, Simon." Your voice rises in volume and anger alike. "Two months. Not a call, a text, a wordpassed through Johnny."

Your chest grows tight, and those vines climb upward, closing in on your throat and head all the same. The pressure in your skull threatens tears.

You'd rather get shot again than cry now, of all times.

You thought he'd carved a path specifically for you. Instead, he was only covering your eyes in gentle kisses and cottoning your ears with sweet words—perhaps some remorse, if he could feel it at all. Treated you like a hungry dog, throwing a bone so you'd turn into a more docile pup, whimpering and asking for pets.

And still, you kept clinging with your fingernails to the scraps of tenderness he offered, even when unsure of their authenticity.

There is no trace of that naivete now embedded in your eyes. You're as hard as he's portraying himself to be.

Simon now studies the switch. He must see the sadness in there, even if it's buried under a thick layer of anger and spite. 

"Figured I'd leave ya to it," he says at last, pressing his thumb between his brows—a subtle gesture betraying his calm facade. "Give ya time to recover."

What a poor fucking excuse.

Oh, you want to make him hurt like he did you. 

Make him feel two months' worth of staring at the plain white door of the hospital room, waiting for it to open. Waiting to see him duck under the doorframe, holding a pack of Marlboros in his hand. 

Make a joke about smoking in hospital rooms and how irresponsible that would be, how insensitive, only for him to tinker with the smoke alarm and turn the orange butt of a ciggie your way. 

Bring you tea. The book you still haven't finished. Tell you about his day. 

More than sixty days spent pining, waiting, hoping like a helpless lunatic, with Johnny's pitying blues glued on the lines between your brows.

"Oh, spare me." You scoff. "At least have the decency to do that much."

His eyes narrow. You inhale, challenging him with your glare.

Fuck, he doesn't have to love you—to even like you—if that's the barrier he wants to put up.

But basic human decency doesn't seem much to demand. Especially knowing that you were so much more before this ordeal began. You were a colleague, a friend. A shag here and there doesn't cancel that. How can occasional sex erase years and years of carefully built partnerships, in and out of work?

How can he so easily change his view of you just because you parted your legs for him?

It hurts when you realize it. When it hits you right in the head like that bullet pierced your side. That you're done giving him excuses, that you're done giving him time.

That it's now or never again.

It escapes your mouth like something strangled, fighting its way out with elbows and fists. Thrashing through your throat, guided by better judgment and self-preservation, even as your heart begs for a moment more. 

"You know this doesn't work, right?" You gesture in the space between you two. "You and I."

That seems to be what wakes him. His eyes look alarmed, even if only for a moment, and it's a flash so brief you're not even sure it happened at all.

"We talked 'bout—"

"Oh, shut the fuck up." You cut in, exasperation showing in the way your voice rises. 

He jolts. Freezes.

You sigh a shaky breath. Your body burns hot, like the feelings brewing at the bottom of a much too-deep pot are finally spilling out. Skin lighting up, all too aware of everything, from the blood rushing to your cheeks to the throbbing ache of your healing wound.

"Yeah, we had that chat—no feelings, no strings attached, or whatever rubbish you tell yourself to sleep at night."

Your heart feels heavier, like someone's poured cement over it, and it's about to be tossed into deep waters.

"Doesn't mean you've got the right to treat me like this." You say in a single breath. "Like I'm not even a person. Like I don't matter unless I'm naked."

Something in him hardens like he's looking at you through his scope: squinting his eyes, steeling his shoulders. You struck a raw nerve, casting him in a light that even he wouldn't dare to face, self-critical as he may be.

Or you're just describing what you see. What he's shown you. Given you. Not who he is.

But how are you supposed to know that? Discern the mask from the man when he guards the latter so viciously.

"I'm not just someone you fuck," you say through gritted teeth. "I'm a person. I'm your sergeant—I'm your friend. I deserve your respect."

You slam a finger to his chest. The impact is not as strong as it is shocking.

Simon stumbles back.

"I had your back long before we started fucking, and when I get shot, you don't even bother knocking?" You exclaim. "You hear how fucked up that is? And you think I'll let it slide without consequences?"

You retreat your hand, trembling like a leaf. It falls at your side limply, surrendered as you are.

"You don't know me if you think that."

You gulp down something heavy stuck in your throat, but your voice remains abrasive and sharp.

"And I don't know why I ever thought otherwise."

You step back, holding his eyes a moment more—daring to bite back at your words. Daring to fabricate an excuse.

But you don't waste energy to gauge his thoughts this time. You have tried—so strenuously— to discover Simon Riley, but there are walls too thick to climb, gates too rusted and too old to be opened.

And, for once, you forgive yourself for having failed.

Simon stands stock still under the yellow lights of the gym, hands curled into fists at his sides, fighting an invisible enemy. A statue of a man, stone cold and so awfully far, far away.

You walk past him, water bottle clutched in your hand so tight you think your knuckles might snap.

The doorway's left behind you. Your steps quicken the farther you get from the gym, watching the light from the door give way to the darkness of a sleeping headquarters. 

You don't hear his steps, and you're unsure whether he's following. Hard to tell—the man's a ghost in more ways than just his name. Silent and prudent even when wrapped in tac gear up to his head.

When you reach your room, you think you're safe from further arguments. No more raising your voice, no more putting your heart through the meat grinder. It's gone and done, and you only want to get in your bed and not think about it until you wake up tomorrow. 

Still, your hands shake. You test for your keys in the tight pocket of your leggings and curse under your breath when you pluck them out and they fall from between your fingers.

When you're about to bend down, cussing further because your side still aches, a hand steals them from your sight. You follow the tattoos up to the face of the owner, even if you don't have to do so to recognize him.

He's not wearing the mask anymore. He has it tucked in a pocket of his jeans; you see the dark cloth peeking from the light blue. His shoulders are slouched, hair tousled and messy, likely due to his fingers running through it. Pale cheeks and sunken eyes, darker underneath, like he hasn't caught a wink in a while. 

A certain sadness in them, too. But that might be what your eyes want you to see—rationally, you would put all that much, much past him.

"Careful," he murmurs, handing the keys back to you.

You snatch them from his hands and practically punch them into the keyhole.

"Sarge—"

"No."

He calls your name.

"No."

You slam the door behind you once you're inside, but you don't hear the closing thud. When you look over your shoulder, you find him holding it open. Without further questions or waiting for you to rebut, he steps inside. 

You glower to deter him. It's useless.

Simon closes the door behind him and leans against it. His hand effortlessly finds the switch at the entrance and flicks it on. 

As you blink to adjust to the sudden light, your eyes naturally focus on him: a mountain of a man clad in onyx with the pale cream backdrop of your door. 

"Out," you bark.

He looks at you with eyes so horribly tired. Exhausted. Upset.

"Fuck's sake, jus' listen."

And his voice is not so different.

Then, there's nothing you can do. 

Those boots have been here without your frank permission more times than you can count. You're aware of the impossibility of redirecting them outside. 

You scowl, fingers tightening around the water bottle in your hand because his nerve could bloody well be the last straw.

But still—

You nod. Jaw locked tight.

"Make it quick."

He spares not a second more.

"Day o' the surgery, after they cut you open," he says. "I came."

He points at his neck. 

"Had a tube shoved down your throat, a thing around your chin to keep ya mouth open."

Then, to his face. 

"Beaten black an' blue, you were—swollen an' all. Reckon it was probably the fall after the shot—dunno, couldn't fuckin' think when I saw ya like that."

He licks his lips. Bows his head as if the floor might lend him the strength he needs to pull himself together.

He looks up again. Dark eyes tender unlike anything you've ever seen, and yet one corner of his mouth is downturned, like he's about to say something he's very disappointed with.

Your body is gelatin. Flaccid. Cotton ears, foggy sight, clammy palms. 

"You looked dead," he swallows something thick. "And I wished you were."

Your bottle slips from your hands and falls to the floor. A metallic thud. Water sloshes back and forth as it rolls on the linoleum until it stills.

Suddenly, you feel like a kid who's looking for her ma. 

There's a sadness so deep and suffocating you can't quite explain it if not by digging up childhood memories—a sense of loss, of being small and helpless and alone.

You fought tears all this time, and now it feels fruitless even to try. It's written all over your face anyway. 

You taste their salt before you feel your eyes swell with them.

"Fuck. You." You tell him, voice hoarse but no less spiteful.

"Wished you were dead—"

He walks to you.

"You're disgusting—"

"Because—"

Closer.

"Don't want to see your fucking face again—"

"I didn't know wha' to do."

Until he stands with his boots bumping your trainers. Until the cold wall touches the sweat on your back.

He holds your face in his hands.

You pull back. He doesn't let go.

"'Cause I don't know, love—" He breathes tenderly, like his voice is not his, while your nails claw at his wrist so he lets go.

He doesn't.

"I don't know how to mourn the livin'," he says, "Only the dead."

He gulps. You fall still.

"You said ya wouldn't put me through that again, but you did," he croaks. "Made it worse this time. I couldn't take it."

He thumbs your tears.

"Would've been easier f'me to bury ya with the others an' let the guilt finish me off."

Simon leans in until his lips brush your forehead. When he realizes you won't fight back anymore, his hands slide to your shoulders, then down your arms.

Gingerly, his fingers twine with yours. He doesn't tighten his hold; he merely tests the thin skin of your knuckles.

You pull back a step, burning eyes drifting up at him through the tears clumping your lashes. Truthfully, you weren't expecting him to cry with you. You don't think Simon can—maybe he's already shed one too many tears.

But his cheeks are glowing red. His eyelids are heavy, eyes cast down to you. He's just as affected as you are, but he shows it differently in those subtle ways you've learned to read.

After fighting the tremble of your lips, you steady yourself. Fingers warm within his own; you don't pull them away. 

"I don't deserve what you did to me."

Your voice is so tight you hate yourself for it, but if you don't speak your mind now, you're afraid you never will.

He shakes his head slowly, never straying from your eyes. 

"You don't."

Leaning down slowly, giving you ample time to move away if you wish, Simon kisses your shoulder. 

You sigh.

"Don't deserve a ton o' the shite I put ya through," he whispers.

His ear is right next to your lips. You're sure that no matter how much you try to control yourself, he'll quickly gather your feelings by the way your pulse thunders beneath his kiss.

So why hide it at all?

"And yet you never apologized for a single one of them."

Simon gulps. A subtle sound, as subtle as the man who made it. 

He pulls back. Smooths back your hair, sliding a hand from your forehead to your scalp. 

You lean into his touch, exhaling a breath that trembles like your hands.

"Never did, did I." He breathes. 

He leans in and presses a kiss between your brows, then down the bridge of your nose, to your cheek, the corner of your mouth. You close your eyes so he can navigate this new level of intimacy he's never initiated nor shown at all.

And then he captures your lips. 

His shoulders soften.

A long, drawn-out sigh from his nose. 

He pushes forward, forcing the back of your head against the wall. His hands travel to your stomach, hesitant and curious. He skims over the thicker patch of fabric, where the surgery scar is mending under soft, fresh bandages. 

A slight hiss in your breath because it still feels sore to the touch is what makes Simon pull back. Just enough to have the tips of your noses graze.

Suddenly, he kneels at your feet. 

Big hands envelop your waist, touch gentle but still present enough to rip the air out of your lungs. His thumb brushes over the bandage, causing you to shift uncomfortably.

You look down. Your eyes touch.

The silence around you cracks when he speaks, softness in his breath.

"M'sorry."

Chest tight and sore, like he just punched it. 

He keeps his eyes on you, not to study your expression but to convey his own. The earnestness you catch in there ripples through you like a shockwave ready to shatter you whole.

He leans in and buries his nose right above your belly button, in the rougher fabric of your shirt.

His thumbs hook at the hem, lifting it up so that his face meets your stomach.

"Tell me to fuck off, an' I will," he whispers to your skin. "Know I deserve it."

He kisses your belly, carefully navigating around your bandaged injury. 

"But fuck," he sighs. "I hope you don't."

His lips travel lower, where the waistband of your legging cinches your hips. His kisses turn open but unhurried, like he just wants to savour what he's denied himself for too long.

You roll your lips between your teeth, unsure of how to behave.

"Fuckin' hope you don't," he murmurs.

Your hands land on his head, then, hesitant and trembling, fingers threaded through his hair. Simon sighs like you took the weight off his shoulders and got rid of it entirely.

His fingers curl at the hem of your leggings. 

Slowly, he rolls them down, and he follows their trail, drawing his tongue and his lips down your thighs to your knee. His hand slips to your shoe, and he helps you take it off. Then to the other. Your socks, your pants, until your legs are bare, fabric tossed aside in a heap on the floor.

Simon never stands up.

He holds you by your hips with a covetous grip, but still soft enough to not hurt, almost mimicking the way his mouth moves over you: with smothered hunger, with gentle greed, one that feels somehow oppositely selfless.

Like he's doing it because it feels good for you and not because he desires to have it.

Simon's nose dips in the crease of your thighs. A kiss there, one to the seam of your labia, one on your mound.

His eyes flicker to you.

The lights in your room are a soft yellow, casting a gentle glow on his kneeling body that feels somewhat wrong, like there's too much being shown under the sun when only the two of you should witness it.

Gingerly, you slide your hand along the wall until you find the bump of the switch. With a flick of your finger, the lights go off.

The room is pitch dark now. Moonlight laps at the lines of Simon's face like it's trying to make him glow despite how dim everything around him is. 

It takes a while to adjust to the darkness, but you finally see him when you do. The downturn of his eyes, the telltale signs of sleepless nights, wrinkles of exhaustion and endless battles fought within himself.

Utter, devastating regret. 

You wonder if he can spot the heaviness in your eyes. The uncertainty, the fear of falling right back into the cycle, a trap of yours and his making. 

He's going to tell you the nicest things, pull you in until you can only stick to him like glue, and then he's going to vanish from your life. Treat you like you're strangers until you'll somehow find yourself wrapped around his finger again.

And then it'll all start over. Again, and again, and again.

You brush your thumb on his temple.

Simon leans into it like a dog starving for attention.

He hooks his fingers at the thin straps hugging your hipbones. Slowly pulls your knickers down to your ankles as he holds your eyes.

Gently, he coaxes your knee to bend, lifting your leg off the floor. He kisses the side of your foot, your calf and upward, until your knee is draped over his shoulder. 

Slowly, his nose nudges your clit. The muscles in your thighs twitch.

You're not wet; you're not aroused. He isn't either, you can tell. Otherwise, you'd have had his face buried between your legs hours ago.

The tip of his tongue draws a stroke there. Like waves, it reaches the base of your skull. Tips you off balance, almost. Makes your head spin.

Another tentative lick. The tender fingers in his hair turn into claws, and you grip it tighter. 

Another, another, until you're breathless and inevitably dripping. Simon collects it with his fingers, drawing circles at your entrance.

The flat of his tongue meets your clit in a tortuously slow dance, holding you still with an arm encircling your thigh. And then his finger slides in. You're forced to bite your cheek, muffling a moan that only manages to break free as a sigh.

But when you look down, even in the darkness, you see his eyes, glossy and charged. But still so very tired. 

Like yours.

Because maybe he's navigating through this exactly like you, and you hadn't considered it—too absorbed in your own heartache to notice his. And maybe he's even more afraid because when you have nothing to lose, and something's suddenly given to you, you don't know how to behave.

And maybe Simon thinks that doing this is the only way to keep you.

You exchange a look that holds more pain than lust, shaking your head at him so, so softly it’s almost imperceptible. And Simon sighs, surrendered—he takes back his hand, his tongue, and sits back on his heels.

Carefully, you unhook your knee from his shoulder. He doesn't put up a fight, doesn't tighten the hold on your leg. Instead, he drops his arm limp on his thigh. 

You slide down the wall behind you until your knees bump against his. Simon's fingers reach out, almost shy, and trace mindless patterns on your skin. 

He's hunched over, head bowed in what you venture might be shame, or perhaps that grief he said he doesn't know how to carry. 

Your hand touches his cheek. Dark eyes look at you through paler lashes with reluctant understanding.

That it's over, isn't it?

"Doesn't feel right anymore, does it?" You offer gently.

His chest swells. Shoulders taut and suddenly straight, like something's hit his spine and forced it upright. 

He tongues his cheek. Looks away.

"Don't think so, no."

Your lips quiver. It's okay, it was bound to happen. 

It should've happened so long ago. You should've taken the leap and pulled away from him much, much earlier—when your heart wasn't woven to his yet.

"Maybe one day," you say in the darkness, thumb brushing his cheekbone. "When we're not so…"

With your free hand, you gesture at yourselves. 

"…Fucked." You finish with a hint of a breathy laugh in between. 

Simon huffs too, and then deflates.

It's long before his hand comes to cup yours on his cheek. He keeps it there momentarily, while finally giving you the privilege of meeting your eyes.

And he looks so tender, even when he gently brings your hand down, away from his face. He holds it as it lands on his knees.

"Eloquent." He remarks.

You scoff. Roll your eyes with a pathetic sniffle. "Obviously."

He shakes his head softly. A big hand reaches up, and he flicks your nose. You scrunch it up, smiling in a way that doesn't feel forced for the first time since you met tonight.

Simon's thumb brushes your knuckles.

"One day," he repeats. "When we're not fucked."

Your smile feels wet and shaky. Tears are staining your cheek, but it's freeing instead of reluctant, this time.

His eyes are gentle, allowing you to peek through the curtain for the first time. Perhaps it's too dark now to see, but you're hopeful one day you will.

"Good luck to us, then." You say softly.

Simon breathes a chuckle. Brings your knuckles to his lips and holds your hand there.

"Good luck, love."

Biggest thanks to @/void-my-warranty for helping me out, you're a gem 🧡

[bkgexe]

if all else fails, i was myself

bakugou x reader ✾ 4.6k

info! no smut sorry gang ✾ tw! trust issues that manifest as issues w physical intimacy/contact, dubcon in its vaguest definition (NOT bkg & reader) ✾ notes! ive been in perpetual writers block for months. is this trite idk. i miss my baby but anytime i write for him im like oops this is gonna be 60k words!!! so here is. a drabble lmao. also big lmao moment this is titled after count me out by kendrick lamar ldskfjdlkjf which was on repeat while writing so uh sorry mr. lamar abt the mha fanfic

katsuki has always known that part of him is wrong.

he’s never liked being touched. every kiss he’s experienced has made him tense as an elevator cable poised to snap. any attempt to go further than that has made him a little ill, made his gut feel like a stack of loose papers being torn to shreds, slow and loud.

it doesn’t help that he’s only ever had three kisses in his life: eijirou at a new year’s party (too many teeth), eijirou again at another new year’s party nearly a decade later (too much tongue), and then his fourth date with kyoka (when he tried to convince himself he just had to push through the discomfort to become normal).

things went further than that. it was a mistake. they both knew it right after it happened��kyoka first, and then katsuki after his head stopped pounding with what if i'm doing this wrong what if she's pitying me for fucking this up what if i don't know how to touch another person correctly what if i was supposed to learn at some point and i missed it how could i fucking miss it will it always be like this because i can't do this again i can't i don't—

“kat," she said after. she looked at him with something only a few degrees removed from pity, and poorly removed at that.

he attempted a halting non-apology. he attempted a real apology. failed at both.

"it's okay, you know," she said. "to not like it."

he scoffed even though he wasn’t entirely clear on what she meant by it, because there was so much he didn’t like. “i like it just fine.”

“if that was liking it, I’m honestly worried about your capacity for enjoying life in general.” it wasn’t a joke. her bluntness was something that'd made katsuki think he could push his boundaries with her. all of her thoughts were laid out plain for him to read, an open-source journal. “i'm just saying you don't have to like it. and you don’t have to force yourself to do things you don’t want to do. don't fuck yourself over for someone else's happiness.”

kyoka still texts him often, checks in, invites him to drinks with their friends. she’s kind. she’s normal. she doesn’t have this weird, shredded thing inside her that makes her balk at the idea of someone’s hand on her skin. that makes her think she's doing something wrong, even if she's not the one that initiated the touch.

when you started your job at the front desk of katsuki’s agency, he never thought that he'd be here, wishing above everything that he could just be normal. just for one fucking day, so he could laugh at your shitty jokes and maybe brush his knuckles across the back of your hand in passing and take you on a date where he could kiss you in his car after driving you home and the thought wouldn’t make his skin crawl, wouldn't tear up his insides to pulp.

because he fucked everything up. he's standing in his empty office where you'd been spending time with him and he fucked it up and hurt you and he's not sure how to unfuck it.

the thing is, he could grin and bear it. he could deal with the odd thing inside him that hates the contact and white-knuckle it through every kiss, every caress. but he’s never been a great actor. he wouldn’t be able to hide that from you.

(kyoka told him, years later, that it’s not that the sex itself wasn’t fine—what made it nearly unbearable for her was the fact that she could tell, only after it was too late, that being physically vulnerable with her pained him far more than he was willing to reveal.)

no one wants to feel like the person they’re with is grinning and bearing it. that they’re white-knuckling it through. katsuki knows this. he knows he’s basically a fucking virgin all but in title at thirty and that he’s got the personality of a dried-out fig you find in your fridge weeks after its last edible moments. he doesn't have much to offer.

but he walked into work one day and nodded at you, curt, a grimace on his face—and you smiled at him so kindly that his stomach twisted.

with you, it wasn't the feeling of something being torn apart. it was different, lighter. leaves wrenched into the sky by a strong breeze. still a kind of tearing, but different—less destructive.

he was wearing a deep carmine sweater his mom sent him in one of her bi-monthly care packages (as if he’s not an adult, and a pro-hero on top of that), and you said, “that’s such a nice color on you. is it new?”

there was that breeze inside his chest, strong, pulling at his bones. “yeah,” he grunted. then slowly, as if remembering how: “thanks.”

it was the attention, he thought at first, that piqued his interest. he wasn't used to it. people always watched him from afar, and he had fans online that were borderline obsessive, but people didn’t approach him. they didn’t say that’s such a nice color on you. they didn’t smile the way you smile.

he’s always had a shallow streak. it’s not like he doesn’t know this. it’s become a little muted over time, a little discouraged by the visible scarring on his face and body from his time in the field, but it’s never fully been eradicated. so it was simple, he thought. you paid him attention and stroked his ego, and he preened like a self-obsessed bird of paradise.

and then you started making these little origami whale sharks.

fucking stupid. it bothered him an annoying amount. you had a bunch at your desk, all different colors and sizes, some taped to your desktop monitor, some hung up with little pieces of string under the desk's storage overhang. you drew dots on the back of each one, a distinct spotted pattern that was unique for each shark. and you made them for everyone but him. eijirou bought you a pack of high quality origami paper and you made him his own fucking school, all with little faces, winking or surprised or angry, their wide paper mouths gaping and empty, the lines of their bodies pressed careful and sure.

he hated it. it was annoying and a waste of company time and he usually didn’t ever use dumb corporate slogans like “a waste of company time” but you were really pushing his fucking limits.

it was definitely just the attention he liked, he told himself, because surely someone doing something as dumb as this would annoy him to no fucking end if he spoke to them.

and then he spoke to you and he was wrong.

he asked why you made the damn things in the first place and you told him, “i like whale sharks. but to be totally honest, i just run out of things to do."

and he saw that as a challenge. you were running out of things to do? rest assured he could find more shit for you to take care of. so he did. tasks that he wouldn't wish on his worst enemy, they were so dull and time-consuming. and you were so achingly competent that it drove him up a fucking wall. you completed everything he asked of you in half the time it would take someone else, and you always reported back with a smile, and you always did good work, and he could see himself having a conversation with you about something other than work but he didn't want to try because he was worried he'd begin to like you as a person.

you're pretty. really fucking pretty. he can see that now, and he sure as fuck saw it then. you're hardworking. you're just likeable, and that's something katsuki had never been. it (reluctantly) impressed him. worse than that, it turned his feelings for you into a sort of interest.

but he knows he's not normal when it comes to things like this.

he tried to distance himself from you because of it, but it turns out that asking someone to do work for you means you do have to speak to them sometimes. and sometimes turned into a lot of times.

sometimes turned into bringing him coffee in the morning, not because he asked you to, but because you're sweet like that. sometimes turned into being the person he bounced ideas off of when he had a board meeting coming up or something otherwise boring and meticulous. sometimes turned into you laughing at his prickly comments rather than going quiet because of them. turned into you saying suck it up, dynamight, this is what it means to be the boss when he complained about doing paperwork.

sometimes turned into staying late with him at the office, getting take out for the two of you to share while you finished filing claims and damage reports and other stuff he hated taking care of by himself. sometimes turned into him asking you to stay late just because he wanted you there. because even when he was quiet, you'd tell him about your day, about things that happened in the office, about how much you like the book you'd both been reading. he loved listening to you talk. felt comfortable enough to tell you things about himself when he'd never felt comfortable doing that before.

sometimes turned into you holding out a piece of fried tofu from your take-out container for him to eat while he was approving time-off forms that he should have looked at much earlier that week, and you being so close that he could notice how good you smelled, and the warmth of your body basically radiated towards him, like all your energy was focused on him, and your smile was small but somehow even more lovely than usual, a secret for him to tuck away and keep, and when you finished feeding him and he had a little sauce on the corner of his mouth and you reached forward to wipe it off for him and your hand lingered there for a moment and your eyes fell to his lips and what if you try to kiss me and i'm wrong and you hate me for it and what if i can't give you what you want and what if i'm not actually what you want what if i've disappointed you already what if—

it was too much.

so he fucked it up. your thumb was so soft against his skin. he reeled backwards in his chair, rolling it whole feet clear of you, and he felt the tearing again, the bad kind, like paper unevenly shredded by clumsy hands, and he had to leave. he had to leave. he needed to leave so badly that it felt like pulling his skin off would be preferable to being in that office with you.

hiding in the bathroom was fucking pitiful. he remembered his breathing exercises. he remembered to ground himself. and when he came back to his office, you were gone.

if he was normal—and he wants to be normal, god fucking damn—he could have stomached your proximity. he could have eaten out of your fucking hand. he could have touched you back like a normal person probably would have and he wouldn't be here, alone, looking at a little purple sticky note you left him that says i finished organizing the pto forms. i hope you feel better!

he doesn't know whose pride you're trying to save with that. as if you didn't leave because he made things so fucking awkward by running away from you when you touched him. when you—maybe, if he was reading the room correctly—were about to kiss him.

and you don't speak to him for days. he doesn't want to push so he doesn't—just watches you out of the corner of his eye whenever you're both in the same room, which is arguably worse. he's not sure. he's just itching to fucking talk to you because he misses it.

he misses you. in a more-than-friends way.

it takes a while for him to realize this. when he does, it hits him like a metal rod up the side of the head. it's fucked up of him to miss you the way he does when he doesn't feel like he can provide you with the things a normal person could. and though he's worked on his patience over the years—worked on understanding that he can't have everything he wants—it doesn't stop him from being selfish and finally pulling you aside to talk.

and baffling as fucking ever, the first thing you say is sorry. "i know i should've talked to you about it earlier. i just—i shouldn't have done that. and i know it. i shouldn't have assumed that—i don't know. that you..."

you look helpless. it's one of the very few times that katsuki has ever felt the compulsion to touch someone. not because he wants the touch, per se, but because he wants to be able to provide comfort. he never figured out how to do that with words. he's so focused on his inability to comfort you that he barely has any idea of what you're actually talking about. instead of doing anything at all, he just stands there like a fuckwad.

"i just want you to know that i would never—like never—have touched you, or tried to... if i didn't think there was like, a vibe?" you shake your head, exasperated with yourself. "god, even that sounds so bad. i'm sorry, i just—"

"wait, what are—?" and then it clicks, because he's been slow on the uptake figuring out his shit when he should have been focusing way more on yours. "there was..." katsuki says, and he fucking hates that he can't find better words for what you were both feeling in his office, "a vibe."

the way your face changes when you're flustered is one of katsuki's favorite things, but it's not as enjoyable when he feels just as flustered as you look. "i—oh? so... so you—?"

his ears feel like they're being attacked by two heated straightening irons and he knows they're red as hell right now. he's gonna have to say this plainly even though he'd rather get his teeth pulled out one by one with a pair of pliers. "it's not you."

your expression loses any sort of hope it once held. you press your lips together and sigh, maybe a little exasperated. he's doing his best here but he knows his best is shit. "i can handle a non-cliché rejection," you tell him. "honestly, i'd prefer a non-cliché rejection—"

"i'm not trying to reject you," he says, and it's selfish of him. because he's really not. he isn't comfortable with the things you'd want from him, but he still wants you in some capacity. "i just don't—do shit like that."

"kissing?"

somehow knowing for sure that you did want to kiss him in his office makes him want you more. he likes that you're bold. he likes that you're not ashamed of that. he wants to be different than he is. "any... of it," he struggles to admit.

"at all?"

he nods.

"just—like touching, and stuff?"

it sounds so juvenile that he can't help but laugh through his nose, roll his eyes. "yeah. touching and stuff."

"oh."

you're disappointed. of course you are. it's not like he expected anything different, but—sometimes he fucking hates his life. hates that he can't be the thing people need him to be. hates that trying is so difficult, that it flings his stomach into space, like a throwing stone skipping across a still lake.

"so you don't go on dates, or anything."

"haven't tried."

"do you not want to?" you ask, and he can tell it's more of a genuine question than anything. you're curious about him, like you always are. it's more than he deserves, for all he can offer.

"doesn't make sense to."

"that's not what i asked."

it's not. and so katsuki listens as you ask your question again, and he really takes a moment to think.

considering the answer to your question leads him to his first date with you. and his second, and his third—his fourth, and he's keenly aware that his last fourth date ended with what he expects all dates are supposed to end with.

he takes you to the aquarium. because of all the fucking origami whale sharks. you still haven't given him one and it sticks in his craw like a bone. in front of the backlit tank that holds sharks of all types, shapes and sizes and teeth he's never pictured possible of a living creature before, he asks, "why sharks?"

you look at him, brow raised. "i don't know. they probably needed the biggest tank in the aquarium. and this looks like the biggest tank."

"no, dumbass—your sharks. the ones all over the fuckin' office."

"what, you don't like them?" you ask, but you're smiling, sly.

he shrugs. he thinks they're dumb as hell. he wants one to hang up at work, like the ones you've got hung up at your desk. "they're whatever. they clutter the fuck out of ei's office. and he's already got issues organizing." you've just made eijirou so many at his point, and it's getting ridiculous. "but what—are they easy to make, or something?"

you laugh a little. "no. not at all, actually." a whale shark swims by, its spotted hide shimmering in the tank's eerie blue lighting, and you watch it intently. "but it'd be boring if it was too easy."

this date ends with him walking you home from the aquarium a few blocks from your apartment and you smiling at him and telling him that you had a really great time, and he feels like a fucking freak because you don't even expect more. you don't wait for a kiss. don't look disappointed that he doesn't try to give you one. the way you look at him holds so much affection that he doesn't deserve and he has no idea how to reciprocate it to you, and somehow he lands on, "make me one."

"one what?" you ask, but he thinks you already know what he's asking. you like to play coy. he likes it when you play coy. when you're enjoying yourself.

"one of your little fuckin' paper things," he mutters, because admitting that he wants one of those dumbass sharks feels somehow demeaning. he doesn't want you to know how much he's wanted one. "ei's got a million of 'em."

your hand was on your door handle, but it falls to your side. he's keenly aware of its proximity to him. he doesn't feel that terrible ripping in his gut and its absence is almost frightening to him. your fingers tighten into a fist. it's cold out. "ah, and you're jealous?"

"no," he says, knee-jerk. "i just don't get why everyone gets one but me."

you smile when he says this and he could live in this image of you, delicate and small and made for him. he goes home and thinks about it until he falls asleep. thinks about it even beyond then, feels that strong breeze inside him tearing every leaf from its grounded perch.

here's the thing—nothing against jirou, but unlike his other fourth date, this one was enjoyable. more than. he loved watching you be amazed by the size of the whale sharks, and he loved watching you put a bunch of coins into the penny press and cranking the machine until one was squeezed out into the pattern you wanted, and he loved watching you lay your hand against the glass where the rubbery wings of a flood of stingrays battled for your attention, and—

he loved watching you. that's weird, right? he sounds like a fucking lunatic thinking that.

but he does. he hadn't realized until now how difficult it had been not only to touch people, but to look at them. maintaining eye contact, watching someone do a simple task out of interest instead of staring them down in an attempt to intimidate them. he's so much more fucked up than he thought but what makes it bearable is that he can do it with you. he can watch the way you enjoy things and feel like he's not intruding on something he shouldn't. without even trying, you make him feel welcome—wanted.

that's it. you make him feel wanted.

the realization affects him in a way he doesn't understand. at work the next day, when you smile at him over the top of the front desk, he feels something incredibly strong—something like instinct—that tells him to touch you. small. a thumb brushed across your cheek. his fingers grazing yours. he wants it in a way that can't be right because he's never wanted to touch someone like this.

he doesn't do it, but he thinks about it all day. your little smiles when you notice him watching you on your dates, the way your fingers graze your lips when you cover your laugh, the softness in the way you regard him. you're quiet, reserved, but when you laugh you laugh hard. he wants your soft, your quiet and your loud, he wants the feeling of your fingers on his lips, he wants your smallest smiles, all things he wishes he could fold up and keep and later display somewhere he can always see them. a school of paper fish, gaping mouths and drawn-on spots and such carefully pressed lines.

so on the eleventh date—(he knows it's ridiculous to count, but he's never spent this much time with one person before, not like this)—he reaches for your hand when you're walking alongside the bay, the air turning cold in the wake of the sunset that the two of you had just witnessed. that's romantic, you'd teased when he asked you to watch it with him. he'd rolled his eyes, shrugged you off.

but maybe he wanted it to be romantic. maybe he wanted to make this as normal as possible for you because nothing has been normal between the two of you so far.

you pull back when he reaches for you, as if on instinct. look up at him, confused, when he reaches out again. "katsuki..." you say, and it sounds as if he's done something wrong.

he tries not to let his brain spiral but thoughts drip inwards. water meeting a dented hull. what has he done this time? what else has he fucked up by being fundamentally wrong?

"you know..." you start, and you lose your words.

he thinks of kyoka, years ago. it's okay, you know. to not like it. he wonders if you'll still text him like she does.

your lips pull into a frown before you speak and katsuki can't breathe. "i was never gonna ask on my own because i know you don't like talking about things like this if you don't bring it up. but—um. katsuki—do you think i expect something from you?"

"huh?" he asks, dumb. breathing is still something he fails to do.

"i know that this is—different. i know you have some things going on that make the physical part hard for you." you look up at him so earnestly, and he loves looking at you. he loves looking at you and doesn't want to have to stop and he's worried that this is it. the moment he'll have to stop. you try to smile and it's small and he wants it all for himself. careful. delicate. secret, for him. "i'm not gonna lie to you. i don't know what a relationship without that kind of stuff looks like. but that doesn't mean i'm not willing to find out. it's—i don't need you to try to do something you think i want you to do."

"i'm not."

"it makes me feel a little sick, kat. honestly. it makes me feel like, i don't know—like i'm taking advantage of you, or something—"

"you're not."

"you don't have to do things like that to keep me around." you look flustered, eyes darting from his face to the skyline. "if you want me, i'm—you know."

it's okay, you know. "i don't know."

"i'm yours," you say, and cringe immediately at your words. "or like—i could be, you know, kind of whatever you wanted, if you—if that's what you want. would want."

katsuki can only remember a few times when his head was this quiet in the presence of someone else. when he trusted someone enough to let his mind go blank, to let himself act on instinct. "can i kiss you?"

you sigh. "this is what i was saying. i don't want you to—"

"no," he says, quiet, and he's closer to you than he's ever been. he likes the way you smell. he's not gonna apologize if that's weird. "i just want—god, i feel pathetic asking again. can i just—?"

just, just, just. just a touch, just a kiss, just a moment of your fucking time—it's all he wants. and he's never wanted like this. he's never trusted like this. his head has never quieted entirely because he's so sure that he's not going to disappoint you, or be something you don't actually want, or be wrong.

you've shown him that he can't be wrong with you, regardless of whether or not something within him is broken.

your lips are warm, a little chapped from the dry air, and he tries to remember what kissing chastely is but it's like something breaks in him further the second the two of you touch. his hands are cradling your face, his tongue is gliding against your tongue, his teeth are clacking against your teeth, and he knows the kiss is bad and wrong and messy but he suddenly needs it. he needs to feel you.

you make a noise against him and worry slices into his stomach before he realizes it's a quiet, breathy moan, and maybe you've been okay without the touch but that doesn't mean you don't enjoy it when you receive it. he can tell he hasn't made his boundaries clear enough—your hands circle his wrists, too cautious to go further, too hesitant to grip him like he thinks you want to. like he wants you to want to.

his teeth hit yours again and you laugh, and he pulls back, stomach tight. there's a hope in him that's ready to be torn.

you see it in his face—the fear. "i love kissing you," you blurt out, as if it's the only reassurance you can think of in the moment. "i mean—you're just." you laugh again, and he realizes it's nerves. you're just as nervous as he is. "can i—can we go somewhere warm? and maybe do this more? or—if this was enough—"

he's pulling you towards his apartment before you can get another word out.

kissing you is easy because you make him feel like it's relatively new for you as well. maybe that's how it feels for everyone every time, but he wouldn't know. he just feels comfortable with you. like you're not so much better than him, like you're not waiting to laugh at him when he fucks up, like you're touching him because you really want to.

so he takes you to his apartment and puts you on his couch and kisses you until your back is against the armrest and he's looming over you and you feel comfortable enough that your hands stray from his wrists to his shoulders to his hair and he didn't even know touching someone could feel like this.

put aside the fact that he's nearly finished in his fucking jeans three times just from your fingers running across his back, from the way you cup his cheek when he pulls back for air because he keeps forgetting to breathe—just having you close is intoxicating. he wants to bury his face in the curve of your shoulder, he wants to bite marks into your skin that'll stay vibrant for weeks, he wants to etch himself into you so deeply that he doesn't have to leave. these wants aren't even sexual—it's something about having you be his. i'm yours, you'd told him, and he hadn't even known that it would be exactly what he needed to hear.

he's in love with you, which isn't shocking to him, but he knows he shouldn't be in love with you yet because people that aren't fucked up in the head don't feel shit like this so quickly. he's not gonna tell you this for a very long time, but he knows—so completely and confidently—that he will reach a point when he can tell you.

"you sure you want this?" he asks, breathy, between kisses.

you stop kissing him, brows raised in surprise. "katsuki, we don't... this is a lot for one night. we can take it slow, still."

"that's—i'm not talking about that." he gives in, then—lets himself bury his face in the crook of your neck, lets himself breathe in deep, lets himself find your hands and intertwine your fingers, and you can probably feel that he's hard as fucking metal for you but that's not what's important right now. it sure as hell makes it awkward to try to have a serious conversation, though. "you sure you wanna deal with all... you know. my stuff."

"are you sure you wanna deal with all of my stuff?" you counter, and he pulls back to look at you. kissed rotten and smiling. "of course i want to deal with it. i like you."

and he likes you too. god, he likes you so fucking much.

the next morning, long after you've left for home, he finds a little orange whale shark hidden behind the alarm clock on his bedside table, stars in the place of eyes, and the trace of you is enough to make him feel warm. to hope that over time his apartment becomes full of the little paper creatures until his home is its own aquarium, until everywhere he looks is a memory of all you've brought him—pieces of you, perfectly arranged and delicately folded by your careful hands, much too gentle to tear.

[ncteenv]

what are friends for?

joshua hong x fem!reader cw: 18+ mdni, smut, protected sex, lewd language, casual hook up, mild flirting and seduction ncteenv: this was supposed to be absolute filth but towards the end i gave in to lovemaking

a sweatshirt?

you turned in the mirror again, eyeing yourself from the side and then the front.

it was one of your favorites, a deep red cable knit with a hole worn into one of the elbows because you favored it over all the others. and it was comfortably a few sizes too big, reaching past your hips and covering your butt enough to walk around your apartment without pants.

you grabbed the hem and pulled it over your head, tossing it to the side.

now simple black laced panties and bralette stared back at you in the dim reflection of your mirror.

too much?

the panties left nothing of your ass to the imagination, so you shrugged the sweatshirt back over your head along with a pair of shorts.

turning away from the mirror, you faced your bedroom and scanned over everything to make sure it was… right.

it wasn’t too clean or too messy, but casual. because that’s all that this was. a casual hook up.

the curtain lights over your window illuminated the room in a warm glow. you all but dropped your phone when it buzzed in your hand, receiving a single text.

‘i’m here. let me in.’

the clicks of your keyboard were all to be heard through your apartment as you made your way to the front door. you ditched your shorts on the way over.

[an hour earlier]

“wait,” joshua laughed on the other line, “you’re telling me that you and gyu never—“

“no, we never did it. but, what i’d give for a good fucking.” your voice came out in a low groan.

he was silent, processing. you on the other hand had a heart beating absolutely out of your ribcage in this moment, and wanted him to say something.

anything.

“hm..” was all joshua could come up with.

it wasn’t unlike you both to end up on the phone like this for hours at a time, and the subject was no surprise either.

“is it okay to say that i’m craving a good fucking?”

“you can always say it, y/n,” he reassured you, “but what can you do about it?”

“fuck you?”

you nervously chewed your thumb nail, deciding on whether or not to lead the conversation in the way you’d been intending all along.

“what?!” the statement seemed to have caught him off guard.

“what what?”

“y/n, be serious.”

“i am. it’s been months since i’ve had cock.”

“y/n.”

“joshua,” you answered, heart still pounding. it was cute, really, but you both knew where you’d ultimately end up. “look, i’m not proposing a one night stand or that we’d become friends with benefits.”

“no. that is exactly what this sounds like.”

“well— we’ve kissed plenty of times before without things becoming awkward.”

“but it was never deep, tongue-filled kisses. only light pecks.”

you sighed, becoming annoyed with his hesitation. “you seem to have an explanation for everything.”

a low groan, most likely accompanied by a slow drag of his hand down his face, echoed in your ears. followed by a soft chuckle.

“but.. why me?” joshua suddenly asked.

“who else better?”

“i just assumed you and mingyu—“

“then i can ask mingyu instead. he’d have no problem with—“

“you can stop that now. that’s not going to work on me, y/n.”

you bite your bottom lip, the conversation coming to a brief silence. you could only hope your forwardness didn’t make him uncomfortable.

“will you come over?” you asked, adding a sweet “please?”

joshua paused for a second. he was probably pondering. considering.

“just,” he sighed, “give me a moment. i’ll be there soon.”

your cheeks burned.

and he hung up.

[now]

your chest tightened when there was a soft knock at the door. with a deep breath, you turned the knob.

joshua stood in front of you and you couldn’t hold back your smile the moment you made eye contact.

he was dressed clean, as if he’d just spent a weekend in the hamptons. the sunlight caught in his hair, created a halo effect that made your heart skip a beat.

“so,” you giggled, “is this a booty call or?”

he opened his mouth, pretending to be offended. “i haven’t been invited in yet, i can leave right—“

you grabbed his arm and pulled him inside, shutting the door to push him against it.

“don’t think either of us want that, shua.” your voice was barely above a whisper, lips dangerously close.

he shifts you suddenly so that you’re the one being pressed against the door and leaned in to give you a single kiss, short and sweet.

“y/n?”

“hmm?”

joshua nosed down to the skin of your neck pressing gentle kisses there, as well. you turned your head to the side to give him more access.

“are you truly sure that you want to do this with me?”

you were too distracted by the way his lips were ghosting over your collarbones, humming in response to his words.

“i want to give you the fucking you’re craving,” his finger hooked under your chin, guiding your face to look at him, “but i want to be able to look at you afterwards and not feel like i’ve ruined our friendship.”

you searched his eyes as if you were weighing his words carefully, finding sincerity and genuine concern there.

“promise me.”

you nodded, tugging at the curls behind his ears, “i promise.”

joshua wasn’t afraid to take the lead on things and gingerly parted your lips with his tongue, eliciting a small moan from your throat. his fingers still held your chin protectively as he deepened the kiss, gently thumbing over your cheek as he did so.

you whined as he pulled back, subconsciously leaning forward into him with a pout. “hey…”

he couldn’t help but chuckle to himself, drawing in a deep breath.

“we should move to the bedroom.” joshua spoke lowly.

“yeah..”

taking his hand, you dragged him into your room, kicking your shorts into a corner on the way.

joshua had been in your room many times before. often crashing on your bed if movie night ran too late or he had a long practice. and waking up the next morning cuddled in his arms was no big deal, but this time was different.

he stood in the doorway, watching over your silhouette until you turned around, noticing he’s stopped.

“come here.”

“are you sure you want this?” he asked again.

“joshua,” you laughed, “i’m pretty horny so yeah, i want this. i promise. i’ll say it in korean if it’ll convince you.”

“don’t. your korean is terrible.” he mumbled.

you patted the empty spot on the bed next to you. he sighed with a smile and made his way toward you.

without a second thought, he pushed you backwards into the pillows at your headboard and smothered you in kisses.

your hands that hungrily searched under him, tugging at his pants, were suddenly pinned against the mattress by joshua and stood no chance against his strength.

“if we’re gonna do this,” he looked you in the eyes, “then we have to do it right.”

you squirmed beneath him to let him drag your clothes off, and barely contained your squeal at his mouth trailing lower.

“is this.. my sweatshirt?” joshua tugged at the hem.

you hummed in thought. it very well may be his. and it was probably the reason you loved it so much.

“just take it off. please.” you begged.

he obliged, as the sweatshirt was pulled over your head, you felt a rush of cool air on your skin, followed by the warmth of joshua’s hands as he touched your bare shoulders. his fingers trailed down your arms, leaving a path of gentle caresses that sent shivers down your spine.

he took a moment to appreciate the sight of you and you bashfully look up at him. “what?”

“you’re pretty.”

a smile twinged at your lips, “yeah?”

“yeah,” his mouth returned to yours, “really, really pretty.” you felt the tension between you build as he deepened the kiss.

your hands, still pinned beneath his, strained against his grip, eager to touch him back. but joshua held firm, controlling the pace of intimacy.

as he broke from your lips, you gasped for air, only to have him claim your neck once more, and you couldn’t help but arch into his touch.

“joshua,” you whispered urgently, “please.”

he paused, looking at you with an intensity that made your heart skip a beat. “what do you want?” he asked softly.

you swallowed hard, trying to find the words to express the desperation building inside you. “i want.. i want to feel you, too.”

a slow smile spread across his face as he released your hands from their pinned position. you immediately took advantage of the freedom to explore his body, tracing the contours of his chest and abdomen through his shirt, and began to shed his clothes piece by piece until you’re both lying there in nothing but skin and anticipation.

you took the lull into action as an opportunity to rid your chest of the bralette and pushed yourself back against the bed, assuming the position you’d been in just seconds before.

watching joshua was a treat in and of itself. he was measured in how he placed his rubber over his tip, rolling it down his length.

he hovered above you, his face trying to read yours.

“are you sure this is what you want?” he asked for the last of what felt like a thousand times.

“yes. don’t you want me?” your cheeks began to prickle with heat. he wasn’t answering. “joshua?”

he had never wanted you as much as he did right now.

“more than anything.” he answered lowly.

your breathing escalated and became rushed when you felt him remove your last item of clothing, tossing your panties to the floor.

like missing pieces of a puzzle you fit together perfectly. the pressure that had surged on entry vanished when you remembered it was joshua inside of you. you felt slightly smug knowing that if you weren't compatible in any other way at least you were here. holding you so close to him, you moved slowly in unison.

joshua’s left hand twisted in your hair as his right held your waist, keeping you in motion with him. you couldn't think, you couldn't breath, your body and mind were going insane with pleasure. you let out short, quick gasps pulling at his hair and clutching on to his back.

his pace quickened now and your back began to arch involuntarily. joshua propped an arm beneath it, holding you in place while his other arm clasped your right leg around his waist, allowing for deeper movement. he was inhaling and exhaling loudly, the chill of his breath smouldering your skin in an all too good a way. some of the weight he was holding off he allowed to push down, grinding into you. lifting you, your back slammed into the headboard. it should have hurt but you didn't feel the pain.

joshua’s eyes looked quickly into yours, alarmed, afraid he'd hurt you. you pushed your lips into his, emphasizing that you were okay. no harm done. while being held against the board, his hands clasped around your thighs, you let your hands wander over every part of his body, taking in every inch of his skin. no imperfections to be found, just layers of astonishing beauty.

tangled together you mimicked each other’s movements. he didn't need to confirm your thoughts, he knew exactly what you wanted and when you released your legs slightly from his waist he moved you back down underneath him again. the board had been chaffing a bit and you were glad to feel the pressure of joshua’s weight, covering you from head to toe like a silk blanket.

relaxing his body so you were barely moving at all, joshua delicately ran his lips along your jaw, stopping at your hairline and kissed your forehead tenderly. the warm ache that had been emerging from between the both of you was sitting on standby, intensifying and waiting. He knew this, his crooked smile was knowing.

"joshua," you choked as he placed a playful kiss on your nose, "please don't stop!"

smiling, he started kissing you hungrily again, bringing your pace back up to speed, the passion thickening more than you thought possible. rising, soaring you both came fast and thrilling. you gasped loudly trying to keep your head from spinning off with all these new feelings taking over.

joshua buried his face in your neck, his moans filling your ear as you hugged and stroked his head, fingers tangling in his hair.

nothing compared to how incredible this felt. pulsing, pulsing and then the calm.