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mattsobvimyfav · 2 days ago

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neighbors (matthew sturniolo)

pt 8

The SUV rumbled to a stop in the driveway, the hum of the engine fading as Matt cut the ignition. The air felt heavier in Los Angeles, like the weight of reality had returned to settle back on all of our shoulders.

Nick, Chris, and Matt jumped out first, each grabbing suitcases from the trunk. Charlie and I stepped out slowly, our legs stiff from the long drive. The laughter and lightness of the trip lingered faintly, but the tension of everything unresolved had crept back in with the familiar surroundings.

“Alright, ladies, welcome back to reality,” Nick joked, setting Charlie’s suitcase by the front door.

Charlie grinned, rolling her eyes. “Reality isn’t so bad.” She turned to Chris, wrapping her arms around his neck as he pulled her in for a lingering hug. His forehead rested against hers for a moment before he kissed her softly.

Nick came over next, grinning as he hugged both of us. “Don’t miss me too much, okay? Group dinner soon.”

“You live next door, if I miss you I'll just come over,” Charlie said, nudging him playfully.

When it was Matt’s turn, everything slowed down. He hesitated for a moment, his eyes searching mine before he finally stepped forward. Without a word, his arms wrapped around me, pulling me close in a hug that was almost crushing. His hands gripped the fabric of my shirt like he was afraid to let go, and my cheek pressed against his chest, hearing the steady beat of his heart.

I closed my eyes, letting myself sink into the embrace for just a second longer than I probably should have. My hands rested lightly on his back, and I could feel the tension in his body, the unspoken words hanging heavy in the space between us.

“Take care of yourself,” he murmured softly, kissing my forehead.

“You too,” I replied, my voice muffled against his chest.

When he finally pulled back, his eyes lingered on mine for a moment before he turned away, walking toward the car with Nick and Chris. I stayed rooted in place, watching as they drove into their driveway the weight of his embrace still lingering like a phantom touch.

Charlie nudged me gently. “You okay?”

I nodded, though my throat felt tight. “Yeah. Let’s go inside.”

As we carried the last of our things in and closed the door behind us, I couldn’t help but feel like something had shifted, but whether it was for the better or worse, I wasn’t sure.

The soft hum of my laptop filled the empty living room as I sat cross-legged on the couch, editing the vlog from our trip. The familiar sound of laughter and waves crashing in the footage felt distant now, almost like a different lifetime.

It had been a week since we got back, and the house felt quieter than ever. Charlie had been spending her nights at the triplets’ place with Chris, leaving me to fend off the creeping loneliness.

The knock on the door was sharp and sudden, making me jump. I froze for a moment, my fingers hovering over the keyboard.

“Y/N, it’s Leo. Open the fucking door!”

My breath hitched, my body instinctively stumbling back a step. My heart raced as I stared at the door, his muffled voice sending a chill down my spine.

Without thinking, I grabbed my phone from the couch, my hands shaking as I scrolled to Charlie’s contact. I hit the call button and pressed the phone to my ear, my gaze fixed on the door like it might burst open at any moment.

“Come on, Charlie, pick up,” I whispered, my voice barely audible over the sound of my own heartbeat.

The phone rang once, then twice. Just as I was about to hang up and try someone else, Matt’s voice came through.

“Hello?”

The sound of him made the lump in my throat swell. “Matt,” I choked, my voice cracking. “Leo’s here. He’s at my door, yelling. I—I don’t know what to do.”

There was a beat of silence, then the call disconnected without a word.

I stood there frozen, staring at the screen. Did he hang up? My heart pounded as I peeked out the window.

Not even two minutes later, I saw them—Matt and Chris walking down the sidewalk, their faces set in a grim determination. Relief and fear tangled in my chest as I backed away from the window.

The pounding on the door intensified, and Leo’s voice grew louder. “Y/N, don’t make me do this! Open the fucking door!”

Before I could even think, the door swung open, and there was Matt, shoving Leo back with a firm hand. Chris followed close behind, his posture tense as he positioned himself slightly to the side, ready to intervene if needed.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Matt growled, his voice low and threatening.

Leo took a step forward, his face twisted in anger. “This has nothing to do with you. I’m here to talk to Y/N.”

Matt’s laugh was humorless. “Yelling and banging on her door like a psycho? That’s how you ‘talk’ to her? You need to leave. Now.”

Leo’s gaze darted to me, standing frozen a few feet back. “She’s mine,” he spat, pointing in my direction. “She knows it, and you all need to stay the hell out of it.”

Tears stinging my eyes as I shook my head. “Leo, we’re done. You wanted a break—”

“A break isn’t a breakup!” Leo shouted, his voice shaking with rage.

Matt stepped forward, his jaw tightening as he blocked Leo’s line of sight to me. “She said it’s over. You don’t get to decide for her.”

Leo’s nostrils flared. “And what about you, huh? You think you can just swoop in and fix everything? You don’t even deserve to be in her life after what you did.”

Matt’s shoulders stiffened, his fists clenching at his sides. “Maybe I don’t. But I’d rather spend the rest of my life making up for my mistakes than treat her like some possession you can just control.”

The tension in the air snapped like a rubber band. Leo shoved Matt hard, and Matt stumbled back a step before retaliating with a hard shove of his own.

Chris stepped forward, his hands raised. “Alright, that’s enough—”

But it wasn’t. Leo swung first, his fist connecting with Matt’s jaw. The sound was sickening, and I gasped, my hands flying to my mouth.

Matt barely flinched. His eyes burned with fury as he swung back, his punch landing squarely against Leo’s cheek. The force sent Leo stumbling back into the porch railing, but he recovered quickly, lunging at Matt again.

The moment Leo lunged at Matt again, my instinct took over, and I stepped forward, desperate to stop it.

“Stop it!” I cried, placing myself between the two of them.

Before I could say more, Leo’s arm swung wide in his anger, and his fist connected squarely with my jaw. The impact sent me stumbling back, my vision flashing white as pain radiated through my jaw.

“Oh my God, Y/N!” Chris yelled, rushing toward me.

Leo’s face paled instantly, his hands flying up as if to apologize. “Y/N, I didn’t—”

He didn’t get the chance to finish. Matt’s face contorted into pure rage, his entire body trembling with fury. “You hit her?” he hissed, his voice low and dangerous.

Matt lunged, grabbing Leo by the collar and throwing him to the ground. Before anyone could react, Matt started swinging. His fist collided with Leo’s face over and over again, the sickening thuds echoing through the night.

“Matt! Stop!” I screamed, clutching my throbbing face.

Chris jumped into action, grabbing Matt by the shoulders and trying to pull him back, but Matt was relentless. His fists continued to rain down on Leo, who laid defenseless on the porch, groaning in pain.

“Matt, that’s enough! You’re gonna kill him!” Chris yelled, finally yanking him back with all his strength.

Matt stumbled to his feet, his chest heaving and his hands trembling, bloodied from the fight. He turned to me, his eyes wide with a mixture of rage and concern. “Are you okay? Where does it hurt, sweetheart?”

I nodded shakily, my hand pressing against my aching jaw. Tears blurred my vision as I stared at the scene before me: Leo lying bruised and bleeding out on the ground, Matt trembling with fury, and Chris trying to keep the situation from spiraling further out of control.

Leo groaned, rolling onto his side, and tried to sit up. “Y/N, I—”

“Don’t,” Matt spat, stepping forward again. Chris quickly put a hand on his chest, stopping him.

“You’ve done enough,” Chris said firmly to Leo. “Get out of here before I call the cops.”

Leo’s gaze darted to me, but I couldn’t bring myself to look at him. He staggered to his feet, wiping blood from his mouth, and limped away without another word.

The moment he was gone, Matt turned back to me, his hands hovering near my face but not quite touching. “Y/N, I’m so sorry,” he whispered, his voice trembling.

Chris ran over to his house, running inside to grab Charlie knowing that’s all Y/N wanted. Minutes later Charlie comes sprinting full force out of the front door and across the lawn to reach me, not even waiting for Chris as he runs after her.

Matt’s arms were steady as he scooped me up, cradling me against his chest, and I instinctively buried my face into his shirt, feeling the heat of his skin under the cool fabric. My heart was still racing, but his touch grounded me. He didn’t say anything, just carried me inside with a protective gentleness that made the tears begin to flow.

As he sat down on the couch, he adjusted me so that I was sitting on his lap, holding me close to him as if he would never let go. His hands rubbed up and down my arms, trying to calm me down. The sound of Charlie’s hurried footsteps were heard across the porch before she burst into the living room, eyes wide with concern.

“Oh my God, Y/N!” she gasped, rushing over to me. Without hesitation, she grabbed an ice pack from the fridge and sat beside me, gently pressing it to my swollen face. Her hand brushed the back of my head, and she pulled me closer to her, her voice shaky as she whispered, “I’m so sorry. This is all my fault.”

I shook my head, my tears falling harder now, mixing with the ice cold on my face. “No, it’s not,” I sobbed, “It’s just… so embarrassing. I can’t believe this is happening.”

Matt’s hands tightened around me as he placed his head gently on my shoulder. “You don’t have to explain, Y/N. You don’t owe anyone anything,” he murmured, his voice low and soothing. “We’re here for you. I’m here for you.”

Charlie held me close, her fingers combing through my hair as I leaned against her. “It’s not embarrassing,” she said, her voice soft but firm. “You didn’t do anything wrong, okay?”

But I couldn’t stop the tears. The weight of the situation felt too much to bear, the embarrassment of it all crushing me. The fight with Leo, Matt’s bloody fists, my bruised face—it felt like it was all too much. “Why did this have to happen? Why couldn’t I just have one peaceful night?”

Matt kissed the top of my head, his voice full of regret. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this. You should’ve never had to go through that. None of it’s your fault. Please remember that.”

I clung to him, feeling the warmth of his body against mine, the comfort of having him close. “My face fucking hurts.” I sobbed louder

“It will,” Charlie giggled, squeezing me tighter. “You’re just emotional and thinking your life is over cause you just got socked in the jaw. I promise you’ll be okay when you come back to your senses.”

I giggle into Matt's chest through my sobs.

The sound of Charlie and Chris’s footsteps faded as they made their way upstairs, leaving Matt and I alone in the living room. I wiped my tears, the sobs starting to die down, but I still felt the weight of everything pressing on me. Matt gently lifted me off his lap, cradling me in his arms as if I was weightless, and carried me toward my bedroom.

I didn’t say anything as he laid me down on the bed, the soft sheets feeling oddly comforting against my skin. He pulled the covers up around me, his eyes scanning my face for any sign of pain or distress.

“I’m gonna go clean up, okay?” he said quietly, voice rough, but it was clear he was doing his best to keep it together.

Before he could leave, I grabbed his wrist, my grip weak but firm. “Matt, please,” I whispered, my voice small, fragile. “Stay.”

He hesitated, looking at me for a moment, the blood on his shirt and hands a reminder of what just happened. He took in a deep breath, the exhaustion in his eyes almost unbearable. “Y/N, I’m a mess,” he said, his voice quiet and unsure. “I’m covered in blood…”

“I don’t care,” I replied, my voice just as quiet. “Please, stay.”

Matt’s gaze softened, and after a moment of contemplation, he nodded. “Alright,” he murmured, stepping back to the bathroom. “I’ll be right back. Just… let me shower first.”

I lay back against the pillow, closing my eyes for a moment as I tried to gather my thoughts, the emotions swirling inside me. My face still hurt, but the sting was nothing compared to the emotional toll everything had taken.

When Matt returned, he was in nothing but his boxers, his hair damp from the shower. He looked different now, calmer, the blood and anger from earlier replaced by something more vulnerable. He crawled into bed beside me, pulling the covers back gently before settling down, his arm wrapping around my waist, pulling me close. I rested my head against his chest, letting the rise and fall of his breath steady my own.

I had changed into an oversized shirt, the comfort of the fabric a small relief, and I snuggled closer into Matt’s warmth, feeling the tension slowly leave my body.

“I’m here,” Matt whispered, his fingers brushing through my hair as he kissed the top of my head.

I closed my eyes, the warmth of his body beside mine, his steady heartbeat against my ear, lulling me into a sense of calm. I didn’t know what would happen tomorrow, or how everything would play out, but for now, I just needed him here.

In the quiet of the room, with Matt holding me close, I allowed myself to drift into a deep, much-needed sleep, knowing that I wasn’t alone anymore.

I woke up slowly the next morning, the soft hum of the morning light slipping through the curtains, casting a golden glow across the room. My body was warm, Matt’s arm still draped around me, and for a moment, I felt comforted by the weight of him beside me. Then, as I shifted slightly, I felt a sharp pang of pain in my jaw. I flinched, and the sharp sensation made my breath catch in my throat.

Matt immediately looked down at me, concern flooding his eyes as he noticed my discomfort. “Hey, what’s wrong? What do you need?” he asked softly, his voice filled with worry.

I winced but smiled up at him, despite the pain. “Just… stay with me today, okay?” I whispered, my voice low and fragile. “I don’t want to be alone.”

Matt nodded without hesitation, pulling me a little closer into his chest, his hand softly rubbing my back as if to soothe the unease within me. “Of course,” he murmured. “I’m not going anywhere.”

For the next few hours, we stayed wrapped in the warmth of the bed, doing nothing but lounging and talking in low tones. We flipped through the TV channels, finally landing on an old rom-com that neither of us really cared about but still laughed at together. I didn’t mind the lighthearted distractions; it kept my mind off everything that had happened. We even joked about how cheesy the movie was, poking fun at the overly dramatic dialogue, which lifted my spirits, even if only for a while.

Around noon, we ordered food—comfort food, naturally. Matt had a burger, fries, and a milkshake, while I opted for a simple grilled cheese and tomato soup. As the food arrived, we sat on the couch together, eating while we chatted about nothing in particular. The conversation meandered through random topics—everything from silly stories about the trip to the latest memes we’d seen on Instagram. I felt a small sense of normalcy return, the type of comfort that was hard to come by recently.

After lunch, Matt suggested we try editing the vlog we had filmed on the trip. We moved to the desk in my room, and I set up my laptop while Matt helped sort through the footage. As we watched through the clips, it was almost surreal to see ourselves laughing, joking, and having a good time, knowing everything that had happened since. Matt sat behind me, his hands brushing against mine as we navigated the editing software, his presence a steady anchor.

“You know,” Matt said casually, “this trip wasn’t all bad. There were good parts, too.”

I smiled, glancing at him over my shoulder. “Yeah, the good parts were definitely worth it. And we made some memories, even if things got… messy.”

He chuckled softly, leaning down to kiss the top of my head. “Messy is an understatement.”

Once we wrapped up the vlog, we moved to the living room, deciding it was time to relax with a movie marathon. We picked a series we both enjoyed—one of those mindless, action-packed movies that didn’t require much brainpower. I snuggled up next to him, and we spent the next couple of hours watching as the characters on screen got into wild situations, while we lazily munched on snacks.

By mid-afternoon, we were both a little bored, but content. I glanced over at Matt and suddenly had an idea. “Hey, we should make a TikTok together. Just for fun,” I suggested.

Matt raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued. “What kind of TikTok?”

“Something simple,” I said, grinning. “Just us, having fun, showing people we’re okay.”

He agreed, and I moved closer to him putting on a song we both knew as we lip synced it. As soon as we finished, I put the caption - we uploaded the video, laughing at how cute we both looked in the process. It wasn’t perfect, but it felt good to share something lighthearted.

After the TikTok was posted, we sat back down, and I rested my head on his shoulder.

Later in the afternoon, the doorbell rang, and Matt went to answer it. Moments later, Nick, Chris, and Charlie came into the living room, their expressions a mix of concern and hesitation. Charlie immediately came over, sitting next to me on the couch, her eyes scanning my face as if to gauge how I was holding up.

"Hey," she said softly, her tone cautious. "How are you feeling?"

I sighed, already sensing where this was headed. "I’m fine," I said quickly, waving her off.

Nick and Chris exchanged glances before sitting down across from us. Nick leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "You sure, Y/N? You don’t look... you know... great."

I rolled my eyes, shifting uncomfortably under their pitying gazes. "Seriously, guys, I’m fine. You don’t have to—"

"You don’t have to pretend," Chris interrupted gently. "We get it. Yesterday was... a lot."

Matt came back into the room, standing behind the couch with his arms crossed. He looked at me, his jaw tight as if he wanted to jump in and defend me but held back.

Charlie reached for my hand, her voice soft and understanding. "We’re just worried about you, that’s all."

Something about their careful, almost coddling behavior made me snap. I stood up abruptly, pulling my hand away from Charlie and taking a step back. "Can you guys stop treating me like a baby?" My voice was sharper than I intended, but I didn’t care. "Yes, yesterday was awful, but I don’t need you walking on eggshells around me. I’m not going to break."

The room fell silent, everyone staring at me in surprise. I crossed my arms over my chest, determined to make my point clear. "Can we just drink or do something fun? Let’s forget yesterday happened, okay? I don’t want to sit here and dwell on it."

Nick was the first to break the tension, standing up with a slow clap. "Well, damn. There she is!" he said with a grin, his tone teasing.

Chris smirked, shaking his head. "Alright, alright. If that’s what you want, we can do that."

Charlie hesitated for a moment, but then she smiled, standing up to hug me. "Okay, fine. But only if you promise to let us know if you’re not okay. Deal?"

"Deal," I said with a small smile, feeling a little lighter now that they’d backed off.

Matt disappeared into the kitchen and came back a moment later with a bottle of tequila and a mischievous grin. "Guess we’re doing this, then."

Charlie poured two shots, sliding one over to me with a sly grin. “Here’s to forgetting yesterday,” she said, raising her glass. I clinked mine against hers, the sharp sound echoing in the room before we both threw back the tequila. The burn was immediate, but the warmth that followed felt like freedom.

"Alright, our turn," Nick called out, grabbing the bottle. He poured shots for himself, Chris, and Matt. They raised their glasses in unison, Nick declaring, "To... whatever this night turns into!" before downing their shots together.

An hour in, the tequila bottle was half-empty, and I was at least seven shots deep, feeling a buzz that made everything a little brighter and a lot funnier. Charlie was giggling uncontrollably at one of Nick’s terrible jokes, and Chris was trying to teach Matt how to shuffle a deck of cards, which wasn’t going well.

I leaned back on the couch, letting the laughter wash over me before sitting up with a sudden idea. "Okay," I announced, clapping my hands together. "We’re all sufficiently drunk, so I think it’s time for food."

Nick groaned dramatically, as I argued with him to order me an uber to go to McDonalds. “Why can’t we just get it delivered like normal people? UberEats exists for a reason.”

I shook my head stubbornly, the tequila making me bold. “Nope. I want fresh fries, not ones that have been sitting in someone’s car for twenty minutes.”

Charlie clapped her hands in agreement, laughing. “She’s got a point, Nick. Nothing hits like fresh McDonald’s fries.”

Nick sighed, pulling out his phone. “Fine, I’ll order the Uber. But if I get a bad rating because of you, you owe me.”

“I’ll owe you fries!” I yelled at him.

Charlie jumped up from her seat, nearly tripping over the coffee table in her excitement. “I’m coming with you, Y/N!”

Before I could reply, Matt shot up from his spot on the couch, his drunk eyes narrowing. “Absolutely not.”

Charlie and I both turned to him in confusion. “What do you mean, ‘absolutely not?’” Charlie asked, crossing her arms.

Matt crossed the room, standing in front of us like a protective wall. “I don’t trust two drunk girls to go to McDonald’s in the middle of the night. I’m coming with you.”

Nick smirked, looking up from his phone. “Tough guy Matt activated.”

“Whatever,” I muttered, grabbing my purse. “As long as we get fries, I don’t care who comes.”

A few minutes later, the Uber arrived, and Matt made sure both Charlie and I were buckled.

The Uber driver was a middle-aged man with a cocky grin plastered across his face. The moment we got into the car, he started with a casual comment. “So, what brings you guys out this late?” His eyes flicked to the rearview mirror, locking on me with just a little too much interest.

I was too tipsy to care at first, so I laughed and answered, “The holy grail. Fries.”

He chuckled, a little too enthusiastically. “You’ve got good taste. A pretty girl like you deserves fresh fries, not cold ones.”

Matt stiffened beside me, his jaw tightening as he stared out the window, his hands clenched into fists on his lap. I could practically feel the tension radiating off of him, but he didn’t say a word.

The driver wasn’t done. “So, you’re from around here? If you ever need a ride again, maybe you can give me a call directly.”

Matt’s head snapped toward him, but he stayed silent, clearly trying to keep his cool. I knew he didn’t want Nick’s Uber rating to take a hit, but the frustration in his eyes was evident.

Feeling bold and a little spiteful, I decided to stir the pot. “Oh, actually—” I said sweetly, cutting myself off as I unbuckled and shifted in my seat climbing into Matt’s lap, straddling him. His hands instinctively gripped my hips, his eyes widening in surprise as I leaned in.

“Y/N, what are you doing?” Matt started, his voice low and intrigued.

“Showing him who I belong too” I pressed my lips to his, kissing him. He deepened the kiss by grabbing the back of my head to pull my face in closer, while his other hand tightened on my hip. The kiss was hot and intense, fueled by tequila and adrenaline.

I could feel the driver’s gaze darting nervously to the rearview mirror, but I didn’t care. If he wanted to flirt, he could deal with the consequences.

Matt finally pulled back slightly, his breath hot against my lips. “I'm going to have a boner now.” he whispered, though his voice held more amusement than anger.

“Good,” I whispered back, a smug smile on my face.

He groaned softly, shaking his head but unable to hide the small grin tugging at his lips. The rest of the ride was silent except for Charlie’s giggles beside us. By the time we got to McDonald’s, the driver seemed thoroughly flustered, and Matt looked like he was ready to strangle me—but not in a bad way.

The Uber pulled up to the house, and as the driver put the car in park, I turned to him with an exaggeratedly sweet smile, still feeling the tequila running through my veins. "Thank you, mister!" I chirped, leaning forward to kiss his cheek dramatically.

Matt's grip on the bags tightened, and before I could pull back, I felt a sharp smack on my butt. "Let’s go," he growled lowly, his hand lingering on my hip as he gently guided me toward the door. His touch sent a jolt through me, but I bit my lip to stop myself from laughing as we walked up the driveway.

When we stepped inside, the smell of tequila still clung to us, and Charlie was already grinning, ready to spill. “Oh my god, you guys are NOT gonna believe what just happened!” she squealed, making a beeline for Chris and Nick, who were sprawled on the couch.

“What now?” Nick asked, raising an eyebrow as he handed Chris another beer.

Charlie threw herself onto the couch dramatically. “So, we’re in the Uber, and the driver’s this totally creepy older dude, right? He keeps flirting with Y/N—like full-on, ‘call me directly for rides’ flirting. Matt’s sitting there, probably about two seconds from exploding, but he’s holding it in for Nick’s Uber rating. Like, he’s fuming, jaw clenching, hands in fists—the whole thing.”

Chris chuckled, leaning forward. “Oh no, what did she do?”

“She climbs onto Matt’s lap,” Charlie continued, her eyes wide for effect, “like, full straddle. And then she starts making out with him—like, right there in the Uber. I swear the driver looked like he was about to cry.”

Nick nearly choked on his drink. “No way.”

“Oh, it gets better,” Charlie added, holding up a finger. “When we get to the house, she kisses the guy on the cheek—like a little ‘thank you’—and Matt smacks her ass and says, ‘Let’s go.’ It was like something out of a movie.”

Chris doubled over laughing, while Nick shook his head, his mouth open in disbelief. “I cannot leave you two alone for one second. You’re both absolute menaces.”

“Tell me something I don’t know,” I said, plopping onto the couch beside Matt, who rolled his eyes but pulled me into his side anyway. His arm draped protectively around my shoulders as the group erupted into more laughter, reliving the story like it was the most ridiculous thing they’d ever heard.

The party kept going, the energy in the house reaching a chaotic peak. Chris and Charlie were in some kind of dramatic arm-wrestling competition, Nick was trying to convince everyone he could do a backflip off the couch, and I was doubled over laughing at… honestly, I wasn’t even sure what. Everything just felt hilarious.

Matt stood from the couch and stretched, his voice cutting through the noise. “Alright, it’s time for bed,” he said, looking directly at me with a pointed expression.

I grinned at him, feeling bold and bubbly from all the shots. “I’m going to bed with Matt!” I shouted, throwing my hands in the air for dramatic effect.

The room erupted into laughter, everyone yelling, “Goodnight, Y/N!” in unison like it was some inside joke we all shared.

Matt shook his head but grabbed my hand, leading me toward the stairs. I stumbled a little but let him guide me, giggling the whole way. Once we got to the bedroom, he pulled off his shirt and jeans being left in just boxers. I stood in the middle of the room, trying to yank my hoodie over my head without falling over. Eventually, I managed to kick off my shoes and flop onto the bed in just my oversized t-shirt.

Matt climbed into bed, leaning back against the headboard, looking like he was about to say something. But before he could, I crawled onto his lap, straddling his waist. My hands cupped his face, and I leaned down, pressing my lips to his in a messy, needy kiss.

His hands found my hips, steadying me as he kissed back harder “Y/N,” he murmured against my lips, his voice muffled but firm.

“Hmm?” I kissed him again, trailing my hands down his chest as I grinned against his mouth. “What is it?”

“Y/N,” he said again, pulling back slightly. His forehead pressed against mine, and I could feel his breath, warm and shaky. “We can’t… not like this.”

“Why not?” I pouted, tilting my head as I brushed my lips along his jaw. “I want you, Matt. Right now.”

He let out a deep sigh, his grip on my hips tightening slightly before he loosened it. “I don’t want to do this for the first time again while we’re drunk,” he said softly, his eyes locking with mine. “I want it to mean something. I want you to remember it—every part of it.”

I blinked at him, my drunken haze making his words sink in slower than usual. “That’s… sweet,” I mumbled, though I wasn’t fully ready to give up. I leaned in again, “Lets just… Kiss than” I smashed my lips back into his rougher than before.

“Just. Kiss. Than,” He said each word in between kissing,

I grinded my hips into his as I felt his erection grow under me, I moved my lips to his jaw, and finally to his neck where I sucked and bit it softly making sure to leave marks. I continued rolling my hips into him while he was a moaning mess.

“Fuck your making this really hard,” he said through a moan.

“Good.” I said as my hands grabbed his neck connecting my lips back to his.

After a few more minutes of making out he lifted my hips off him and placed me on the bed next to him.

“Your done. My dick actually hurts” he said, laying down pulling me into him. I giggled as I snuggled into his chest.

“Goodnight sweetheart” He said as he kissed my forehead.

I closed my eyes, the weight of the night finally catching up to me, and fell asleep to the sound of his breathing, feeling more content than I cared to admit.

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itz-pandora · 2 months ago

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Huh. If my life was a quote, it'd be "one of those sad ones with a deceptively happy tune"

#quote from MLP:FIW #sorryyyy been kinda angry about my step family all day #sorry but im so tired of my Stepmom acting like she raised decent kids #my step brother is like 25 and living in my dads home. hes unironically an andrew tate fan and treats his very disabled girlfriend like shit #step sister always got compred to my sister who's the same age and put step sis in the light every time EVEN THO MY SIS WAS LITERALLY BETTER #<- like grades n shit #also both step sibs are gross. never cleans up ever. step brother and his gf are banned from the basement #step bro went to juvy when he was 16 and step sis had a trial last year and almost went to jail #also step sis has mono and would rather die than cover her mouth #i feel bad for SB's girlfriend because she has no other support system and sometimes it feels like SB or SS is trying to kill her?????#my dad threatened to kick out the adults if the house is dirty (adults being SB. SBG. SS. My sister. Aunt.)#My sister does SO MUCH HOUSEWORK and nobody cares and im mad #also bullshit rules recently have made my potential eating disorder worse #i don't think its healthy to rather starve than wash a dish but i actually have cried several times over this #not to mention how much i accidentally starve myself #also our food has been less and less because I don't know what I'm allowed to eat anymore because of my step family #also i have to share the smallest room with my sister. its okay tho ilh and i wouldn't want to get rid of her #sometimes it feels like my stepmom doesn't like me or my sisters because we're “weird”. childish interests and artistic #she lectured me about having missing assignments and I started crying #i said i just forgot to turn in some before the deadline and she called me lazy #<- Oops! so close. its actually THE MENTAL ILLNESS #my sisters and i feel like shit #i feel like my safe space is with my oldest sister.#and you all too! i love you guys #i just feel trapped. trapped by my step family. trapped by my own mind.#i was just starting to feel free from the burden of school and she just made me feel more stressed.#i didn't want to study because she killed the little motivation I had #Spanish exam is now “Fuck it we ball”#sorry for the personal post

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tvrningout-a · 1 year ago

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steeples my fingers. what if lif, miss favored daughter of the mother goddess sunna, was the one who waged war. what if lif became so enraged and resentful of the mortals who did not respect the land and creatures within it despite her efforts. she created elves, nymphs, dragons, and likely others to help foster love for the wilds she had so carefully nurtured, but rather than listen, the mortals squabbled. they killed as they pleased. they destroyed lands to hurt each other. they forced her children back to the forests or into hiding, and lif grew bitter -- even more so as her brother sjor was banished to the sea for his own anger towards the mortals who caused famine among his children of the sea.

so much death and suffering, yet sunna did nothing. lif would not be like her mother. she would act.

i haven't decided on all of the deities who side with each goddess, but i do think it's interesting to have the two creation goddesses fight each other! tbh, only lif could really be counted as sunna's equal ( or at least close to it ); i think the major difference between them is that sunna believed in limiting interactions between deities and mortals to avoid disaster, whereas lif believed deities should play a somewhat active role in the mortals' lives. she wanted to act as an actual parent, in a way. she wanted to protect her children and fight their battles, but sunna believed that would only make matters worse down the line.

she was kinda right. involving themselves and involving mortals in their affairs only led to more bloodshed and destruction. lif's actions and the resulting war are why none of the gods reside in the mortal realm ( except for sjor, but no one knows about him save for the merfolk ) and why the gods do not often grant miracles or meddle as they used to. in order for their children to flourish, they let go and allow them their independence.

there's!! a lot for me to think about now that i have a more solid idea of what " the great war " was really about and who started it!! i'm so excited y'all :' ))

#gonna stop myself from just listing all of my thoughts because i surely will asdfg #writing this even helps me better imagine sunna's character and perspective which is very nice #i'm probably never going to write her as a muse but i need to be able to understand her to an extent #since she plays a huge role in rin's story #i think she is easily mistaken as cold but it's not that? it's just she understands that it isn't her place to meddle in someone's life #she is a goddess and a mother but she gave her children free will and minds of their own for a reason #for better or for worse their lives are their own and she will not step in until it's truly unecessary #AAHHHH I'M JUST!!! VIBRATING AFTER THIS TBH!!!!#ALSO THE OUTRAGE FROM LIF AND SJOR BC MORTALS WON'T JUST!! RESPECT LIFE AND NATURE AND WHATNOT!!!#i really don't which deities would side with them if anyone tbh?? all i know is sla holes up in her mountains with her dwarven children #and refuses to take part in the war bc screw that asdfg #oh my gosh this really really makes me so excited :' ))#headcanons | dórverold

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adler-obsessed · 7 months ago

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god. Vivienne really is just. that character. She is taken to the circle so young she does not remember what her parents even looked like and someone had to tell her. She wouldn’t even know if they were telling the truth. She is ruthless, the terror and nightmare of the Orlesian court. She almost weeps when you find the Tranquil skulls in Redcliffe. She hates drop waists. She is harrowed younger than any other mage in living memory. She teaches Bull the steps to the dance of the six candles. He likens her to a Qunari dreadnought that has half the enemies on the ground before he’s even reached the front line. Her accent’s not Orlesian. No Free Marcher can tell where she is from either. Is her original voice another part of herself she cut off? She enchanted a duke within one meeting and they scandalised even Orlesian society. She was good friends with his wife. They possibly fucked too. No can control her. She’s been owned since the moment she was first brought to the Circle. She belongs to no people. There are a dozen leashes around her neck claiming otherwise. She makes fun of an elven god for setting his coattails on fire. She is on the verge of banishing Cole back to the Fade all the time. She can’t help but grow to care for him at the end despite her best efforts to pretend otherwise. She hates herself for it. She thinks caring makes you weak. During the first conversation you have with her unmasked as a Trevelyan, she begs to know if you also cared about her childhood friend, Lydia. She tries to import illegal fur into Skyhold. Did she kill everything soft within her soul herself or did the Chantry sisters do it for her? She is impossible to prank. Some might say she’s even better than Sera at pranking. She was pulled into the game by the time she was nineteen. She’d faced worse things since she could first remember her dreams. Life has never been fair. One merely needs to be hard enough to survive. The blade at her neck when she lay on the floor of the harrowing chamber was no different from the hunger in her belly as child, a necessary pain that only drove her forward. Maker, was there ever any chance that she did not see cruelty as simply another word for life? Is there any version of her that does not end up surrounded by moral filth?

#dragon age #vivienne #I've been working on a gift fic for a friend that is centred around her that I may end up posting to ao3 as well #and god #my god #this woman

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rememberwren · 7 months ago

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Skin Deep

Tattoo artist!Simon x fem!reader. Reader, looking to expand your horizons, you get your first tattoo from an enigmatic artist deemed “Ghost”. 8.4k. Features: soft!Simon who is bad at people-ing, vaginal sex, lots of nipples, like at least three nipples, poor writing, abrupt transitions, shy and awkward reader. Based on this post.

Sequel here.

“I bit the bullet!” you shout over the music, hand cupped around your friend’s ear to be better heard. She shrieks in delight at the sound of your voice, turning to wrap her arms around your waist and pull you close to her swaying body. Many eyes in the club follow her movements. She has always been the wild child to your wallflower, attracting attention wherever she goes.

“You bit what?” she shouts back, her breath like a mint julep.

“The bullet,” you laugh. “I called that guy you recommended and set up an appointment. For the tattoo I wanted!”

She stares at you blankly. Her silky little tank top is drooping off of one shoulder, so you reach out and tuck it back into place. The longer she stares, the more nervous you grow. She’d been so encouraging after your last boyfriend dumped you—encouraging you to step outside your comfort zone, to ‘make more mistakes’, to live life more fully. Now she’s staring at you like you’ve grown a second head and it’s the one doing the talking.

“What guy I recommended?” she asks.

“Kevin!”

“Oh no. No, no, no. Not Kevin. Not Kevin. Why, Kevin?”

You frown. “You said you went to Kevin.”

“It wasn’t a recommendation, sweetie, if anything it was to caution you away from him! He’s a creep; there’s a reason why I never went back.”

You deflate like a balloon, going limp and letting her drag you to the nearby free seats at the bar where you sit heavily. It’s not just the tattoo. It’s the icing on a shitcake of a day.

A new song seamlessly starts, and the dancers nearby go wild with excitement. Your mood is the antithesis of the event; everyone seems to be having a great time except for you. Story of your life.

“You conveniently left that out. Ugh. I’ll cancel it. What am I even fucking doing—thank you—” you accept the cup of ice water the bartender slides in front of you with a shy smile, sipping at it and keeping your hand curled over the top of it protectively. “—none of this is like me.”

Your friend frowns. She steals your drink and sips at it. “You were the one who said you’d always wanted a tattoo. You’re an adult. These are exactly the kinds of decisions you’re old enough to make. Look, fuck Kevin. All my friends hate Kevin. I know another guy, and he’s highly recommended. Let me give you his number. Alright?”

“Alright,” you sigh. You make a silent promise to yourself though: if it doesn’t work out with this next tattoo artist, then you won’t be getting one at all. You’ll take it as a sign from the universe to get back in your comfort zone and stay there, once and for all.

What kind of a moniker is Ghost? you wonder to yourself as you skim the Instagram of the shop this Ghost owns. The profile picture is one of the building itself, and all of the pictures are of various inked body parts. Beautiful ones, admittedly. But no hint of the mysterious figure who owns the shop. There is a personal instagram linked @GHOST89 but it is private when you try to click on it.

The phone number your friend gave you rings straight through to voicemail. You let out a shaky breath. Fuck, you hate voicemail. Talking to people was difficult enough; talking to people’s disembodied machines was even worse somehow. It isn’t until you’ve hung up after leaving your message that you realize you forgot to tell him your fucking name (genius!). Groaning, you contemplate dialing him back when the phone in your hand rings—and it’s him.

“Hello?”

“I’m free Wednesdays for consultations,” says a baritone voice from the other end of the line.

Nice to talk to you too, you think dryly. Maybe this guy is as bad at the phone as you are. “I work Wednesdays. Are you free in the evenings?”

He sighs, like this is going to be very strenuous for him.

“Name a time. I’ll pencil you in. Half is due at the end of the consultation upon booking an appointment. Cash only,” he says.

Jesus Christ, could he be anymore abrupt? While a tiny part of you is grateful that he isn’t trying to make small talk, a larger part is terrified that you’ve already made an impression so foul that it’s incurred his wrath. What other reason could he have for being so stilted?

“Alright,” you answer cautiously. “How’s five?”

“Five. Don’t be late.”

He hangs up on you, leaving you wondering why every step outside your comfort zone must be so bloody far.

You arrive early to the consultation, only to find that the building itself—a tidy little brick two-floor, adorned with a sign that dubbed it SKIN DEEP tattoos & artisan piercings, which you recognize from Instagram—is locked. A note written in neat handwriting taped to the door declares NO WALK INS. Your palms are sweaty. You wipe them on your work slacks, but it doesn’t help. How are you supposed to get in?

All at once a shadow appears on the other side of the door. The shadow is enormous: well above six feet tall, and broad shouldered. A black surgical mask is tucked up over his mouth and nose, which only adds to his intimidating aura. Judging by the impressive sleeve of tattoos he has, you imagine that this is the guy.

Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. And Ghost.

Dark brown eyes stare down at you when he opens the door, cocking a hip against the frame, staring at you. Waiting.

Waiting for you to explain your presence, you realize.

“I have a consultation,” you blurt out. “At…five?”

He opens the door wider to let you pass without a word. He’s so broad that you can smell him as you pass him: clean and masculine. The inside of the tattoo shop is bigger than it looks on the outside. There is a reception area with a desk and a computer and printer. The glossy wooden floors are polished to shine, leading to an open floor plan. There is a small sitting area with armchairs, a wide sofa, and a table on which rests two bottles of water, a notebook, and a steaming mug of liquid.

“Sit,” he says, his voice the same deep rumble you recognize from the phone. He chooses the chair beside the mug. His body is so goddamn long, his legs lean and thick all at once where he stretches them out in front of him. He reaches for the mug and takes a sip—of tea, judging by the smell. “Name?”

You tell him, perching yourself anxiously on the other chair. He glances up at you, eyes raking over your posture. Suddenly he tugs the mask down to rest beneath his chin, revealing a full, pale mouth. A straight, noble nose. A pink scar stretches across his lips and up towards his cheek.

“The water is for you,” he says.

“Oh!” You reach forward and take one bottle, breaking the seal. “Thank you.”

“This is your first tattoo.”

“What gave me away?” you ask with a weak laugh.

He doesn’t laugh. “Everything. Is someone putting you up to this? This smells like Soap.”

“What? No, of course not. I want this, I’m just, I’m an anxious personality. I promise.” You hesitate and then add: “I probably smell like soap because I showered this morning.”

His mouth twitches. He leans back in his seat and sucks on his teeth, and you get the distinct feeling that he is trying very hard not to laugh at you. Why had you mentioned to him that you showered? What was wrong with you? Just as you’re comprising a list of things, he picks up the pencil and the notebook, opening to a fresh page.

He asks what you want and God, that’s a harder question.

You do your best to express your idea, but your words feel halting and silly. His pencil scratches rapidly at the paper as he listens in total silence—pausing only once, when you say that you want this to be a sternum piece. Only then does his pencil seem to hover over the paper, his dark eyes seeking you out and pinning you in place on the armchair.

He reaches for his tea to take a generous sip and then continues writing.

He asks a few pointed, concise questions (and you’re just thrilled he was actually listening), following your answers up with more scribbling in his notebook. At length, he shuts the book.

“I think I see the vision. Give me thirty to sketch something and we’ll see if you want to book an appointment. Something this size, on your sternum could take more than one session, depending on how well you sit. How do you take pain?”

“I mean, it hurts?” you offer.

He stares. “Two sessions. Let me sketch something. Drink your water.”

You think that maybe he’ll move to another room to sketch, but he just flips to a clean page and begins to work right there (drawing the mask up over his nose and mouth again). With nothing else to do, you can’t help but watch him.

He’s handsome, in an odd sort of way. His brow is a little too low, his gaze a little too intimidating to be considered conventionally attractive, but you find him fascinating to look at, especially when he is so clearly in the throes of something he enjoys doing. It’s almost like watching someone have sex. The thought makes your face go warm. You pick up your phone, determined not to look at him again.

“Here.”

You glance up from your mindless scrolling. What he shows you is a beautiful rendition of what you had expressed wanting. There are a few key differences, and he patiently explains why he made the decisions he did. He didn’t make the changes because he thought your idea was stupid. He made them so the image would better fit the contours of your body. He made them because the ink will spread over time, and he wants the look to stay clean.

His thoughtfulness touches you.

“I love it. I want it,” you say, enthusiasm getting the better of you.

“This is just a first sketch,” he says dryly, making that warmth return to your face. “I’ll text you a few variations this week, and we can nail down the final piece. You want to book?”

“Yes,” you say, nearly buzzing. “I really want to book.”

He’s expensive—but judging by the book of his artwork that is available for you to flip through at the front desk while he quotes you a price and writes you up a receipt, he is more than worth the money. Fuck, he’s got skill. You thought that maybe his art style was too dark for what you wanted, but you found that he was able to adapt styles nicely. You just hoped this tattoo wouldn’t bore him to death.

“Thanks again for meeting with me,” you say as he sees you out. “I’ll be waiting for your text.”

“You’ll get it.” He glances past you out the window. It’s dark. “Did you walk?”

“No, my car is just there.”

“I’ll wait.”

And he does. His figure darkens the doorway until you have shut your car and locked the doors, temporary insanity making you give him a short wave. He raises two fingers and then disappears.

You didn’t tell me this guy was cute, you text to your friend.

GHOST? Cute? I’ve never even seen his face lol. He’s always wearing one of his masks.

You chew over this information. Yes he’d been wearing a mask, but he’d lowered it for you. Did that mean something? Did it mean something that you wanted it to mean something?

Masks are cute, you say.

Fuck the tattoo artist!!!! she says. Maybe he’ll ink you for free.

You’re terrible.

You’re…thinking about it.

Two days later, you squint blearily into the darkness at your phone after it vibrates on your nightstand. The time reads twelve past one in the morning. It’s from GHOST.

The two images he sends are beautiful; enough to rouse you straight from sleep into wakefulness.

I love them both, you tell him. But the second one is amazing. I think that’s the one.

Keep your appointment. Ten minutes later (after you have already fallen back to sleep) he sends: wear something appropriate.

And fuck, you didn’t even think of that.

“You’re being ridiculous,” you mutter to yourself in the mirror, turning sideways to assess yourself. On the bed behind you are a series of button up shirts, all of which you have tried on at one point or another.

“You are,” your friend agrees from where she lounges on your bed, scrolling on her phone. “Your tits are cute. Let Ghost see them.”

The look you give her is the one the phrase ‘if looks could kill’ was modeled after, surely. She doesn’t even see it, so the effect is lost entirely. You turn your gaze back to the silicone nipple adhesive covers again, still stuck to their adhesive backing. You’ve already used one set of the pack of three, and they covered your nipple and areolas nicely, but still left you feeling so exposed.

“Be glad you’re not going to creepy Kevin anymore,” your friend says.

“Very glad of it.”

You felt reasonably safe with Ghost, but still a degree of embarrassment about your own body. Or perhaps that was too strong a word—it didn’t embarrass you, but it felt private. Baring your breasts to a near stranger (especially one you had a grudging attraction to) made your anxiety reach epic level proportions.

“You should text him about it, see if he has any advice for you. He’s been doing this for years. I’m sure he’s seen it all,” she says—the first good idea she’s had all night, miles ahead of ‘Just let Ghost see your cute tits’.

That night, you take her advice and text him, hoping you aren’t overstepping some weird artist-client boundary.

I’m a little nervous.

You can cancel, is all he says. I’ll refund your money.

It’s not that.

What is it?

Not really accustomed to the nakedness tbh. There. You said it. Let him think you some prim priss; it was true.

But all he said back was: how can I help?

I don’t know, you admit. Then; sorry. I’m probably bothering you with this while you’re working.

I’m not working. Five minutes later, when it seems as if you aren’t going to message back: I keep the shop closed to the public. One customer at a time: you. I’ll let my piercer know I’m with a client and not to walk in. I’ll keep you covered every moment I can. Better?

Relief, warm and sweet curling low in your belly, you let him know: much better.

You bring the pasties anyway.

The day of your appointment, you are so nervous you are shaking. Now you know the truth behind the phrase ‘knees knocking together’, as you stand outside SKIN DEEP waiting for Ghost’s hulking figure to appear on the other side of the glass.

When it does, he’s like a little punch to the gut. That black surgical mask is in place—typical for him, if your friend’s words are to be trusted—but his blond hair, cropped short to his scalp is riotous in a way that is adorably charming, like he hasn’t been able to keep his hands out of it. His black t-shirt stretches across his broad shoulders, and his jeans fit him nicely around his thick thighs.

You’re horrified to find that your attraction to him has grown. Exponentially. Your friend’s words echo in your mind—fuck the tattoo artist, maybe he’ll ink you for free.

“Hi,” you squeak.

Ghost raises both his brows. He opens the door wider for you to slip past him. Fuck he still smells good.

“I’m still nervous,” you blurt out, hoping that speaking the truth out loud will help you feel better. It doesn’t.

“That’s normal. You can back out at any time, but the earlier the better. Come look at the image and tell me if it’s still what you want.”

It’s exactly what you want, and more.

“It’s perfect. You’re very talented.”

He huffs a little, like you shouldn’t have said such a thing.

The chair is a great leather contraption which reclines comfortably once he’s gotten you in it (after making you use the restroom first, during which you took the time to splash water on your burning face and double check that your pasties were in place covering all the cutest bits according to your friend). Simon moves around you, making preparations with the ease of someone who has done this work for many years.

You fight the arousal that blooms in your belly at the sight of him doing such benign things as washing his hands, putting on gloves, opening fresh needles, preparing little wells of ink and sticking them to the movable cart with Vaseline. There’s just something about a person who knows exactly what they’re doing and who is able to do it with efficacy.

“Ready?” he asks at length.

You nod, hoping your nerves don’t show on your face. Steeling yourself, you unbutton the shirt you’re wearing. His eyes follow your hands, but there is a detached, clinical sort of expression in them. He’s not watching a strip tease, he’s looking at a canvas.

Finally, you sit in front of him in only the pasties, the shirt lax around your shoulders, and your sweatpants, socked toes curling in anxiety in your shoes. Without missing a beat, he leans the chair all the way back. Then he opens a fresh disposable razor and shaves you.

“Am I hairy?” you ask, resting your hands oh-so-casually over your breasts to keep them out of his way.

“Yes,” he says. Then his eyes flicker to yours. “Everyone is. Everywhere. It’s normal.”

“I’m just teasing you.”

“Didn’t think you had the breath in your body left to tease me,” he mutters, voice nearly lost behind his mask as he carefully works the razor across your skin removing the baby-fine hairs from beneath your breasts and across your sternum. “You’re nervous, I mean.”

“Would you take the mask off?” you ask on a whim. It had helped last time, to see his face.

“No,” he says. He adds: “Sorry. It’s more sanitary f’you if I keep it on.”

You get the feeling that he really is sorry—and that’s well enough. Some of the anxiety in your belly fades away. He would take it off if he could. The most anxious part of the process (baring yourself to a stranger) has already passed. Maybe now you can begin to relax.

After cleaning your skin, he carefully lays the stencil and has you stand up to look at it in the mirror and make sure the placement is correct and holy fucking shit. It’s sexy. You’ve always been attracted to tattoos, and fancied the idea of getting one on your sternum for far longer than you’d ever admitted to anyone, but seeing it come to life gives you a rush you hadn’t expected. You feel so…badass.

“Good?” He asks.

“Very good,” you answer, sitting back down, hoping he ignores the way your breasts bounce a little as you do. He leans you back again and this time breaks out the needle gun.

But before he uses it on you, he carefully takes a clean towel and lays it over your left breast, covering the parts of you that are not nearest to his eyes. His gentleness and thoughtfulness go straight to your cunt.

“Thank you,” you say softly.

He just nods. The gun buzzes to life. “I’ll make a line and see how you feel. Last chance to back out without any souvenirs.”

“I’m not backing out.”

He clicks his tongue as if to say, It’s your funeral. Then he lays his hand on your sternum above your breasts, pinning you in place, and makes a gentle line.

It burns more than you expected it to. There’s a sandpaper quality to it, almost like the rasping of a cat’s tongue. The pain is sharp and bright, but it isn’t overwhelming. In fact…a strange part of you sort of enjoys it. Maybe it’s the rush of endorphins.

“Good?” He asks.

“Good,” you squeak.

You hear his quiet laugh, no more than an exhale of breath.

“Let me know when you need to break.”

You don’t know how you feel about the way he phrases that: when you need to break. He adjusts his mask a little, leans over you, and gets to work. Sometimes the needles pass over a place that is more sensitive than the others, making you flinch. He pauses when this happens, eyes flickering up to your own, making sure you are alright even though he can likely feel the pounding of your heart beneath his hand. That hand on your chest, wrist just brushing the top of your breast, is a solid warm weight that seems to tether you back down to the earth as he lines you. He is very careful not to brush against your breast when he wipes away the excess ink and traces of blood, but you feel hyper-attuned to how easy it would be for him if he wanted to. How huge his hand is compared to your tit. Beneath the pasties, your nipples ache with tension, a tension that is mirrored between your legs.

“Alright. Break,” he says, abruptly turning the gun off. He covers your exposed breast with another towel. “Take ten.”

He disposes of his gloves and disappears behind a curtain in the back, leaving you throbbing between the legs. Worming your phone free from your pocket, you scroll aimlessly, hoping to calm your raging hormones. He returns right at the ten minute mark, just as his cellphone rings. He glances toward where it rests on the table, but makes no move to answer it.

“Do you need to get that?” you ask, offering him an out.

“No,” he says. “I make everyone leave a message. Weeds out the cowards.”

It had almost weeded out you, you think about telling him, but in the end you decide against it. He gloves back up.

“Good for more?”

And so it repeats.

At one point, he runs into a patch of sensitive skin on your ribs just overlaying the bone. It has you sucking in a breath through your teeth, eyes squeezing shut. It’s too late to turn back now you tell yourself; the only way out is through.

His thumb gently strokes your sternum.

“It’s rough. You can take it,” he says, quiet and focused. The buzzing of the gun never ceases as he tries to make his work as quick as possible, his words a little distant and distracted. “Just keep breathing. That’s it. Good girl.”

Jesus. Did he not have any idea what those words could do to a girl? A groan escapes your lips, and he clearly mistakes it for pain, because his thumb strokes again the soft skin over your heart, just above the curve of your breast.

“You can do it. Just a little longer for me, and we’ll break.”

“Hurts,” you breathe, flinching again.

He hushes you, surprisingly tender.

“This is the worst of it.” This time, his thumb does brush the edge of your breast, making you suck in a gasp. He recoils, hand lifting away from you and curling into a fist. He rests that against you instead, taking away any further hope that he might brush his fingertips against you. You make it through the rough patch with tears in your eyes but no worse for wear.

“Break. Ten minutes,” he says again, already shredding his gloves and moving to disappear behind the curtain.

You call out: “Hey, wait—I’d rather just get through it in one go if I can. If this really is the worst of it.”

“I need breaks too,” he says stonily.

You duck your head, feeling silly. “Right. Sorry.”

“Don’t be.” He vanishes again.

He is late to return to you. Only by five minutes or so, but noticeably for a man so usually punctual and so demanding of punctuality in you. His face is stoic—what bits of it you can see from behind the mask—as he washes his hands thoroughly and preps his work station again.

This time his hand keeps a very respectable distance from your breasts—a fact which you both lament and appreciate all in one. He works with single-minded efficiency, giving you his entire focus. You break once more, but this time he breaks in the room with you, stretching out his back and neck (giving you a generous glimpse of his belly when his shirt rides up, exposing cut abs and a happy trail you’d give your life to follow).

“I think we could do this in one sitting, if you have nowhere else to be,” he mutters at length.

“Eager to be done?” you wonder.

He stares at you, expression flat, and says nothing. Nothing needs to be said.

“I don’t have anywhere to be,” you murmur, staring up at the bright adjustable light that he has positioned over you. You hope he mistakes that for the reason behind any mistiness in your eyes, his rudeness cutting you deeply.

So the two of you push through later into the evening, until you are sweating at your temples and the base of your neck from the continuous pain for so long. At last he lays the last gradient for the shading, sprays you down, and wipes you clean so very gently.

“Go take a look. I’m going to cover it up.”

It’s beautiful. Stunning, even. You let your shirt gape closed and cover the pasties, revealing a broad glimpse of the sternum tattoo, and it is the sexiest you have ever felt. It almost makes your eyes burn anew.

“I love it,” you choke out. “Thank you.”

“Can I take a picture of it?” he asks. “For Instagram.”

“Sure!” It will feel a little like being famous, you think, judging by how much notice each of the photos on his Instagram garners. He crouches down on the floor to be at the perfect height, reaches out and gently adjusts your shirt. Parts of the tattoo are covered—the very far edges—but you can’t deny how sexy it is. Maybe he feels the same way.

After he takes the photo, he posts it and asks for your handle to tag you in it. Then he says: “Let me cover it up. Keep it covered overnight, but tomorrow let it breathe. Keep it clean. Don’t do anything stupid to it. Understand?”

“I understand.”

“And if you have any questions—text me.”

You get home to find that Ghost’s personal account has requested to follow you. Thrumming with nerves and excitement, you accept the request and send one of your own, spending the night scrolling through his Instagram (so, so carefully to avoid any incidental ‘likes’). Plenty of the photos are of his artwork, still. But there are ones of his dog: a German Shepherd that is thankfully much more photogenic than her surly owner. There are three or four photos featuring Ghost himself, and only one has his full face in the picture. You find yourself staring at his fixated expression for longer than is respectable.

Three days later when you find yourself panicking, you don’t text him like he asked you to. You call.

Your skin is peeling off. Peeling. Off. The sight of it makes your stomach roll. The entire tattoo is hot to the touch, and the skin around it feels warm as well. Flushed. Is it supposed to hurt this much?

The internet doesn’t help. The peeling is normal, sure. But everything else is suggesting that your tattoo could be infected. What sort of ink did Ghost use? Was it reputable? What if the infection reaches your bloodstream? You were too young to die! Your anxiety spirals like a plane with one wing, trailing smoke as it soars straight down, determined to take you with it.

With shaking hands, you don’t even think about texting Ghost. You go straight to calling him, tapping his number in your phone and pressing it to your ear, listening to the ring.

He’s going to send you to voicemail, just like he does to everyone else—except he doesn’t. All the sudden there is glorious feedback from the other end: a cacophony of voices and laughter, clearly some sort of gathering.

“Yes?” Ghost says into the phone, as if that’s a decent hello.

“There’s something wrong with my tattoo!” you cry.

“Wait—get out of my goddamn way.” There is rustling, and then the noise decreases substantially. You can almost see him standing outside whatever bar his friends have brought him to, mask down around his chin, hand over his other ear as he strains to listen to you. “Say it again. Now I can fucking hear you.”

“There’s. Something. Wrong,” you say through your teeth. “With my tattoo!”

“Well? What is it?”

“It’s falling off, for one!”

He snorts. “That’s normal. That's why you called?”

“It’s all swollen and hot. And it hurts.”

Now that shuts him up. He sighs a little, switches the phone from one ear to the other. “Hurts how bad?”

“Worse than getting it.”

“Fuck me. Alright. Meet me at the shop in…twenty?”

“Twenty minutes from now?”

“From when else?” He hangs up. Man doesn’t know the meaning of the word goodbye.

The night is cool. You don’t bother with a bra, not when it irritates your tattoo so much. Pulling your jacket closed more tightly around yourself, you walk from your parking spot along the street to the tattoo shop.

Ghost stands outside at the curb. His figure is unmistakable. He is smoking, mask down, the lit end of his cigarette a burning ember that flares bright in the darkness. When he sees you coming, he crushes the cigarette beneath his boot and opens the door to the shop, which is still and dark. He flicks on a light switch as he goes, casting the place in a warm glow.

He’s dressed in his usual dark jeans and an obscenely tight t-shirt, his sleeve of tattoos on display. He leaves the mask down. His eyes are on your tits—or resting where your tattoo is beneath your clothes.

“Well. Sit. Show me.”

You sit in one of the armchairs, your shoulders rising in defensiveness. “What, just flash you?”

“Nothing I’ve never seen before.”

Gritting your teeth, you begin unbuttoning your shirt until it gapes open. You cup your breasts with your hands, maintaining your modesty while putting the tattoo on full display. He narrows his eyes, leaning down. His fingers reach out, but then he thinks twice and washes his hands.

“I was smoking,” he says when you roll your eyes in exasperation.

“You’re worried about getting the chemicals on my skin but not in your lungs?”

“Fuck my lungs,” he mutters. His fingers hover over your tattoo. “Can I?”

You nod. His fingers are cool when they gently prod and ghost along the edges of the tattoo, feeling for the signature warmth of an infection. “Any fever?” he asks.

“Not that I’ve noticed.”

“You feel warm, but I’ve felt warmer. I don’t think it’s infected. Have you tried icing it?”

“No,” you admit.

“Ice will help. Just use something clean, for fuck’s sake.” As he speaks, his breath fans across your chest, making you shiver. He sees this, his eyes darkening. “When you called, I thought it was for me.”

“It was for you,” you say, brow furrowing. “Who else?”

He snorts, lips quirking. It tugs on the scar across his lips. “Forget it.”

“Forget what?”

“Talking about it goes against forgetting it.”

You groan, tossing up your hands. “You’re impossible.”

He reaches out and jerks your shirt closed, hastily doing up a button. Your face burns as you do up the rest of the buttons—you end up having to backtrack and redo them because he was off by one.

“Thank you for meeting me. I’m sorry it was for nothing.”

“It wasn’t for nothing,” he says. “And I wasn’t doing much.”

“You were with friends,” you insist.

His eyes narrow. “Who told you that?”

“I saw it on your Instagram tonight.”

“Nosey.”

“I could buy you a drink sometime,” you offer after a lengthy pause, your heart pounding loud enough to fill the silence between you. Are you really doing this? Are you really asking him out? “Make up for the ones I lost you tonight.”

“Maybe.”

God, it’s like he’s not getting it. Maybe you need to be bolder. Fortune favors the bold, doesn’t it? Your hands are shaking when they fall back to the buttons on your shirt.

“Would you take one more look at my tattoo? Just to be…positive?”

He sighs and makes an impatient hand gesture. Your fingers fumble through the buttons again. You don’t cover yourself with your hands this time; just keep the halves of your shirt over your nipples. He dutifully exams the tattoo again, prodding gently, laying the flat of his fingers against it to feel the warmth it lets off.

“Maybe you should look closer.”

His eyes flicker up to yours. “Closer.”

Your mouth is dry. “Yeah.”

“Can’t get much closer than I am.”

“You could—if you wanted to.”

“If I—“ it hits him then. You can see it in the fractional widening of his eyes, the way his mouth parts softly in blatant surprise before he shuts it, dark eyes returning to your sternum. He says: “Closer.”

“Mhm.”

The back of his hand brushes against your breast, causing your breath to hitch. His thumb traces softly along the outline of the tattoo, following the path just beneath your shirt, nudging the fabric aside slowly, so slowly, until your breast is bare, nipple puckered and aching.

“Fucking hell,” he mutters. His eyes flicker to yours as if to see if you really want this—and whatever he sees must reassure him, because then he is sweeping his fingertips along the bottom curve of your breast and taking it into his hand, his palm rasping gently over your nipple. All the breath rushes out of you. Your thighs clench together. Already you’re aching—have been since you saw his mouth around that cigarette on the street—but he moves with determined caution. His thumb finds your nipple and teases it, pulling a desperate little sound from the back of your throat.

“Pretty little tits,” he says, his voice a warm, smoky rumble that goes straight to your core. He captures your nipple between his thumb and forefinger, pinching softly.

“Fuck,” you gasp, one hand reaching out to brace yourself against his shoulder. He is solid and firm beneath your touch, unmoving and unmalleable. Your breasts have always been sensitive, but it feels like every touch is directly related to the feelings in your cunt. You find your back arching, hips searching for friction against the seat of the chair.

“Be still,” he says firmly. Another pitiful sound slips past your throat. “Let me play with you.”

“Please,” you gasp. “Play with me—even if that’s all you want—just don’t stop, please.”

His mouth parts as he listens to you, his eyes so, so dark. The pupils have nearly swallowed his irises whole, until you can see yourself bare from the waist up in the reflection. He shakes his head a little. “You don’t even know what you’re saying.”

“I do. I—“ your words are cut off with a gasp as he hauls you out of the chair by your wrist and onto his lap. He’s so thick thighed that it stretches you obscenely to have him between your legs. His hands tear the button-up off your shoulders and down your arms until it flutters to the floor, leaving you half naked. Dipping his head, he presses a heated kiss to the place on your sternum where he had rested his hand during the tattoo—and then trails wet kisses towards your left breast, taking your nipple into his mouth and sucking with a decided softness.

You let out an unflattering, choked groan, resting your weight heavily against him until you can feel the prominent bulge in his tight jeans. His hands find your ass and grip you tightly, working you back and forth, rubbing that bulge against your clothed sex.

“Driving me fucking crazy,” he mutters against your skin, opening his mouth to drag the sharp line of his teeth against the curve of one breast before switching to the other and flicking his tongue over your nipple.

You gape at his admission. Had you been? He’d been so closed off and cool…though now that you thought back, maybe that was just his way of hiding it. Suddenly he grips the back of your neck, where your hairline ends, and pulls you to his mouth. He tastes faintly of smoke, even fainter of the drinks he had had earlier in the night, but it is an intoxicating mixture. Your tongues find a rhythm as your hips do the same, both of you fucking in every sense of the word except the literal kind.

He takes one of your thighs and wedges it between his own, until you’re no longer grinding against his cock but instead his denim-clad thigh. “You the kind of girl who can cum like this? Just from this?”

“Uh-huh,” you promise, head bobbing.

He buries his face in your neck. “Good. I won’t last when I’ve got my cock in you. I’d like you to cum at least once before then.”

“Oh god,” you groan, gripping his shoulders fiercely as you begin a halting, stilted rhythm against his thigh. The denim is rough against your leggings. He feels all around you: his scent, his taste, his touch. When his hands find your hips to help you work yourself against him more smoothly, a sigh of gratitude fans from your lips.

“What else do you need?” he asks.

“My—touch me—“ He abandons your hips once you find a suitable rhythm. He finds your nipples again, teasing them with clever fingers. The stimulation has your peak approaching faster, building like a storm in your lower belly.

Ghost leans back to look at you, eyes trailing over you from head to toe: your face burning with warmth, your breasts with peaked little nipples, your leggings nearly soaked through at the crotch with how wet you are. He shakes his head, like he can’t believe what he’s seeing.

“Fucking perfect.” You bury your face in his neck, feeling a warmth inside your chest. He grips you by the neck again and tugs you back. “Look at me. Look at me.”

You look at him for as long as you can, but when the band in your belly finally snaps, your eyes roll up and slip shut, your mouth drops open in a choked gasp, nails digging into his shoulders as you shudder and shake in the throes of your pleasure.

He leans down to kiss you through it, tongue teasing at your slack mouth.

When he stands, he takes you with him, hauling you up until you wrap your shaking legs around his waist. It’s probably a good thing too. You aren’t sure you could walk otherwise. He carries you the few steps to the couch and lays you down, curling his fingers in the waistband of your leggings. You nod. He strips them off you, along with your flats, and your panties until you are naked as the day you were born.

Your thighs clamp together shyly. He lets them, reaching behind himself to pull his shirt off. Something catches your eye in the streetlights streaming in through the window: Ghost has one of his nipples pierced, a neat little barbell through the sensitive flesh.

Fingers enter your vision—your own—reaching out on instinct. You hesitate, unsure if he is receptive, and a little afraid to hurt him. He’s so bloody tall, too…but he takes care of that himself by kneeling down by your side, his eyes cautious. Closer, you can see the scars: silvery in the moonlight, crisscrossing over his torso.

“Does it hurt?” You ask, softly stroking your fingers beneath the pale pink skin of his areola.

“No,” he says. You can feel the timber of his warm voice vibrating through his chest, up your fingers, straight to your pussy. “You can play with it.”

You shyly run your thumb over it the way he had yours. He sighs, breath fanning across your arm. His eyes go heavy-lidded, tongue flashing as he wets his lips. After a moment, you grow insecure and move your hands away from his nipple down to a scar that crosses his sternum. He lets you, very patient, like a dangerous creature withholding its bite.

“You’re so—“ the words are whispered dreamily before you have any idea how you plan to finish the sentence. Flushing with embarrassed heat under his wary stare, you finish: “—hot.”

He physically turns away, expression inscrutable. You can’t help but feel like you have said the wrong thing. He puts a hand on your belly, stroking the softness. “You broken, or can you take more?”

“I want more.”

“Want my cock?”

You nod, feeling like a bobble head.

“I want to hear you say it.”

“I want your cock.”

His hand reaches for his belt, unbuckling it. Your eyes track the movement with hungry nerves. His hands put butterflies in your belly: thick palms with long, slender fingers, veins criss-crossing along the backs. An artist’s hands. He works his belt free with nimble grace and shucks down his jeans and underwear in one smooth movement, revealing his cock to your gaze and the light from the street lamps.

He is huge here to match. Downright intimidating in length and girth, uncut with a nice curve toward his belly. He grips himself and gives a series of smooth strokes, the muscles in his abdomen flexing into sharp relief.

“Oh my god,” you mutter.

“No gods here,” he says, kneeling up on the couch. His hands part your thighs, and for a long time he just looks at you, that sensitive, swollen place between your legs. He stares so long that you nearly cover your face, embarrassed by whatever he is thinking. Then he touches you, and when he does, he touches you with surprising reverence. He touches you like you are art.

“Can’t believe you let me ink you,” he mutters, stroking your vulva with his warm palm. His eyes are on the sternum piece now. “Practically let me carve my name into your skin. Anybody around here who sees it will know who did it. They’ll know who touched you.”

“Good,” you breathe.

His sigh is shaky. You’re learning his reactions, his very breaths. That shaky sigh means he’s pleased with you. You’ve said something right.

He reaches down to his jeans on the floor and works a hand into his pocket, pulling free a condom. He hands it to you—for inspection, you realize, though you’ve had so few one night stands (try zero) that you’ve never had the need to inspect a condom before. The package is intact at least. There appears to be an expiration date which you squint at. All looks well. You hand it back to him and he tears it open, rolling it down his considerable length.

Then he goes back to touching you. One hand braces himself against the back of the sofa so he can lean down to kiss you, tasting your mouth deeply. The other hand finds your entrance, circling it with a finger before slipping inside you all the way to the last knuckle. You are wet enough and relaxed enough that he slips in easily.

“Relax…there you go. Let me in,” he says under his breath, working a second finger in beside the first. It is a bit of a stretch—he’s thick everywhere goddamn it—but it’s a good stretch, a much needed one. The third finger has you stiffening, whining at the pinch of pain. He slows his fingers and lets his thumb find your clit, muting the pain with little jolts of pleasure.

“Ghost,” you groan, toes curling against the leather of the couch.

“I think you can take it,” he says, thumb so soft and insistent against that aching pearl of nerves. “But what do you think?”

“Your cock—want it—please—“

“Alright,” he laughs, pulling his fingers free and wiping the wetness on his cock. “No need to beg.”

He notches his cock against your entrance and slips inside you. Both of you inhale together, like on cue. Just the first few inches have you feeling full beyond your comfort zone, but he seems to understand in his silent, all-knowing way. He stills, working that free hand between you both to play with your clit until you’re clenching around him, body trying to pull him deeper. He slips further in and then reaches the end of what your body can take. You feel fucking stuffed, your hands shaking where you have gripped his naked shoulders, nails digging into his skin.

His own breathing is ragged, pecs brushing your nipples with every inhale. The little bursts of pleasure help, until you find that your hips have grown restless, working back and forth as much as his substantial weight will allow when you’re pinned beneath it.

“Stay still,” he mutters into the juncture of your neck. “Stay still or I’ll cum and this is all over.”

“Can’t,” you gasp, his revelation electrifying you. “Have to move, ‘m so full—“

“Fucking hell,” he groans. He pulls out, leaving you feeling gaped. “Roll onto your side.”

He gives you instruction but isn’t shy about reaching out and physically arranging you until you are both spooning, your back to his chest. This time when he enters you, it is more shallow, and easier for him to reach around and play with your clit.

You arch your back, seeking more of him, pressing your breast into his free palm. He plucks at the nipple, teeth nibbling at your throat.

“Want you to cum again,” he says, stilling your movements so that you can’t fuck your self back against him. “Give me one more. Then it’s my turn.”

“Ghost—I can’t—“ you’ve never cum twice before. Not even with your favorite toys have you been able to scrounge together more than one illustrious orgasm. This knowledge and your expectation of his disappointment has you stiffening in his arms.

“If you can’t, then don’t,” he says simply, like it’s the easiest thing in the world. He keeps his fingers soft and insistent against you, and only after a few lengthy moments does he feel confident enough to work his hips against you too. He pulls out too far and his length drags across your labia, the head brushing where his fingers play with your clit.

You give a sighing little moan. His head cocks; you aren’t the only one listening to sighs. Now when he gives those lazy, lackadaisical thrusts, his entire length just strokes the outside of your sex.

“Oh fuck,” you whine, feeling that band in your belly begin pulling tight again.

He hums behind you, a smug sound.

“Not sure I want you to cum now,” he says. “Hold it. I’m thinking it over.”

“Ghost!”

He laughs, honest to God laughs at you. Tears prick your eyes from the sheer need (and a bit from embarrassment) but his hips never cease nor slow their tireless thrusts against you, not even when you grow close enough to beg, close enough to plead.

He loops his arm around your waist and pins you against him when you cum to keep you from rolling right off the couch, your body wracked with shivers and spasms. The warmth of your release washes over you from head to toe, and you are still basking in it when his cock finds your entrance again and enters you.

The position keeps the penetration blissfully shallow (otherwise he might give your cervix a painful beating), but he still reaches new lengths inside you, filling spaces you didn’t know were empty. The shop is eerily quiet except for the sound of his hips snapping against your ass and the frequent breathy sounds his cock punches out of your lungs.

He buries his face in the crook of your neck and lets out a series of sounds that are toe-curling: deep groans and raspy curses, whispered praise and hisses through his teeth. His hand grips your hip tightly, leaving shadows the shape of his fingerprints on your skin as he fucks you.

Sooner than you’d like—but he’d warned you, hadn’t he?—his thrusts grow sloppy, the sounds messy thanks to your wetness as he finds his release and moans it into the skin of your throat.

“Fuck,” he whispers. And again: “Fuck, fuck. You broken?”

“Yes.”

He snorts. Then it turns into that laughter, warm and rumbling against your back. You smile where he can’t see.

“Sorry about this,” he says as he ties the condom off and throws it away, naked as the day he was born. You’re still naked too, though much more shy, legs crossed demurely and arms wrapped around yourself.

“Regretting it already?”

“Yes,” he says. Then, when he sees the stricken look on your face, he adds: “Should have at least taken you to dinner first.”

“Dinner?”

“You owe me drinks. I owe you dinner.” He finds his boxers in the darkness and slips back into them. Then, because the expression on your face still hasn’t relaxed, he says: “I don’t regret the sex. Do you?”

You shake your head.

He scoffs a little.

“I mean it,” you insist. You touch your tattoo. “I wanted it…the day you did—this.”

He raises both brows at you, silently calling your bluff.

“I didn’t think you were interested,” you admitted sheepishly.

“I jerked off in the back just from seeing half your tits,” he admits, slipping into his jeans now too. His mouth curls a little at the corner when he sees the way you gape at this news. “I was interested.”

You laugh; you can’t help it. “Dinner, then? Or drinks?”

“Yeah,” he says. “Alright. Get dressed.”

#simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x reader #skin deep

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celiababy · 18 days ago

Text

Ain't Right part 2

Pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader

Summary: It's the holiday season and Joel is a Scrooge.

Warnings: 18+ SMUT MDNI, age gap (56/20), swearing, p in v, unprotected sex, size kink, oral sex (m!receiving), SQUIRT, creampie, threats of violence, alcohol

Celia's note: uhm hello??? what the flip thank y'all sm for all the love on my first post!! I got so many requests to make a part 2 so dinner's ready y'all dig in!!!!

Read the first part! > part 1

Jackson looked so pretty this time of year. The Christmas lights, the snowmen, the comfy sweaters and chocolate chip cookies; you loved it all.

Especially gift-giving.

To you, there was really nothing better than seeing someone's face light up when they open a present.

This year, there was someone special you planned to go all out for.

It had been 3 days since Joel Miller fucked you in his house, on his bed.

You hadn't stopped replaying the moment in your mind, especially the part when he finished all over your stomach.

However, it just so happens that after those amazing thirty minutes, Joel was called away by Tommy.

He had to leave and do something that you weren't allowed to know about. Undoubtedly some dangerous mission that pained you to think about.

So your victory was short-lived.

But, like the gentleman he was, he walked you home and made sure you were okay before he left. You wanted to kiss him goodbye, but felt too nervous to do so.

You don't know why—he literally had his cock in you a few moments prior.

Yet you couldn't, and just had to watch him walk away.

Now, you haven't seen him in three days and were starting to get serious withdrawals. Whatever he was up to couldn't have come at a worse time.

You finally had the taste of his perfection, now he was gone, leaving you to deal with your desire alone.

You tried to preoccupy yourself with helping set up all the Christmas decorations around town as well as baking an absurd amount of treats.

You also managed to get him a little gift in the meantime, stuffing it in the cutest box with the prettiest wrapping paper.

God, you hoped he'd come back soon.

And luckily, he did!

You had heard from Maria that everyone had returned from their trip—safe and sound.

She had also told you that she was throwing a little Christmas get-together at her and Tommy's house to celebrate.

She was careful to mention that Joel would be in attendance.

So, that night, you whipped up your signature cinnamon apple recipe and put on your cutest outfit.

You topped it with some fuzzy reindeer antlers because you were in a very festive mood.

As you walked alone to Maria and Tommy's, you were freezing your ass off in your skirt and sweater. You wore tights with your skirt in hopes that it would help with the cold, but who were you kidding?

You didn't care, though. You just cared if Joel thought you looked pretty or not.

You pranced up the steps of their porch, letting yourself into the house and getting immediately bombarded by the hoard of people inside.

Maria made it seem like it was going to be a small thing, but the entire Jackson population seemed to be in her living room.

Thankfully, Tommy catches you come in and walks up to greet you. "Hey there stranger," He grins, looking down at the dish in your hands. "What you got there?"

"Brought desert," You chirp, handing it to him with a proud smile.

"Well well," He muses as he takes the glass container from you, looking it over with surprise. "Didn't think you could tie your own shoes, let alone bake anything."

You roll your eyes before scoffing. "You're just mad because I can tie my shoes and bake something before you can conjure a coherent thought."

Tommy fakes a wince before chuckling. "Alright, touché kid. We're gonna be playing charades in a little bit so stick around, alright?"

You nod, having absolutely no intention of 'sticking around' for charades. Tommy wanders off with your apples, finally giving you a moment to survey the party.

Obviously, you were looking for one person in particular.

You squeezed through all the crowds of people, scouring what felt like every room in the house.

But no dice.

Joel was nowhere to be found and sadness washes over you like a tidal wave.

Was he doing this on purpose?

Torturing you by depriving you of his presence? This was hell.

You plant yourself by the special eggnog and down several glasses to take the edge off.

You were tipsy in no time, it really didn't take much. It was like Maria just dumped an entire bottle of vodka in the bowl and splashed some milk in it. It was disgusting, really, but it was getting its job done.

As you hunched yourself over the bowl, someone tapped you on your shoulder.

You spin around, your hopes high.

"Joel!—Oh. Hi Connor." The disappointment you feel inside displays clearly in your tone.

You're now face to face with the boy who has been unsubtly trying to sleep with you for months.

"Hey there! You look fucking great tonight." He flirts, a smug grin on his face.

You grimace because you know he thinks he's so cool, even though you'd rather die than stand here with him right now.

"Thanks." You say flatly, turning back towards the eggnog and pouring yourself another glass. For some reason, Connor takes this as an invitation to step closer, now invading your space.

You don't even bother trying to hide your disgusted expression. His cologne is attacking your nostrils, and it doesn't even smell good.

"That skirt looks amazing on you." His eyes unabashedly drag along the skin of your legs, making you shiver in disgust. He takes it too far when his hand comes up to brush your arm.

"You come here with anyone?" He coos, leaning against the food table like he was hot shit or something.

You couldn't stand this douche. Just as you were about to tell him to fuck off or something, you feel someone looming over you.

"She did." A gruff voice comes from behind you, and you immediately recognize that it could only be one person.

You whip around, your face lighting up at the sight of Joel.

His expression is settled into a natural scowl, his jaw clenched and his eyes narrowed at the boy in front of you both. Even though he looked scary as shit, he was so fucking hot.

You're instantly horny just at the sight of him.

Connor scoffs, looking between the two of you, but your eyes stayed glued to Joel.

"Really? Him? But he's like—an old man." Connor spits, which immediately earns a glare from you.

Just as you're about to cuss him out, Joel beats you to it.

"Walk away before this old man breaks your jaw." His voice is stern, not to be tested.

It makes your core tighten with need.

Hearing the threat that he assumes to be all too real, Connor doesn't waste time scurrying off.

You turn back towards Joel, a warm, relieved smile spreading across your face. “Hi,” You whisper, wanting to hug him so bad but holding yourself back because he wasn’t a big fan of PDA. “M'so glad you're back." You do, however, step closer into his personal bubble.

His face softens when he finally looks down at you, and you can almost swear you see his lips curling up into a smile.

"Yeah, me too, kid." He husks out, looking between you and the bowl of half-empty eggnog. "Enjoyin' yourself?" He asks with somewhat of a disappointed look on his face, clocking that you were a little tipsy.

"Now I am." You answer truthfully, beaming up at him. "Have you been here the whole time? I was looking for you earlier but I couldn't find you."

Joel shifted on his feet, sliding his hands in his pockets. "Just got here. Tommy was talkin' my ear off at the door." He explained, an exasperated look on his face.

You laughed and nodded, knowing you both shared that experience.

"Are you having a good time, though?" You ask, actually curious because he seemed like he would rather be anywhere else right now.

He shrugs, brushing a hand through his short hair. "This Christmas holiday crap is givin' me a fuckin' aneurysm." He huffs out with complete honestly, scratching the back of his neck.

"What? Really? Why?" The shock and bewilderment in your voice isn't lost on Joel.

He sighs out, knowing you're about to explain the magical spirit of the season or whatever.

"The blizzards, people spazzin' out over gifts, all 'cause some fat guy is coming down chimneys—s'all just ridiculous."

You want to giggle at how actually annoyed he sounded, but you hold it down.

Grouchy old man.

"I'd let you come down my chimney," you flirt, but then correct yourself. "I have let you come down my—"

Joel shoots you a glare, daring you to finish your sentence.

You know when to cut your losses, so you don't.

"Well, speaking of gifts," You start, rummaging in your bag to pull out your present for him. You hold it up, the pink wrapping paper making him cock an eyebrow. "Merry Christmas, Scrooge."

Joel feels an unfamiliar feeling swimming around in his stomach at the sight.

He slowly takes the box from you, looking at it like it was a puzzle.

He really wasn't expecting anything from you. But he supposed people who have had the other persons genitals inside them should probably give them something for Christmas.

He finds himself very pleasantly surprised.

After a moment, he finds something to say.

"Couldn't find some manlier wrapping paper?" He coughs, his voice low but it's obvious he's joking with you.

You roll your eyes and scoff. "Just open it!"

Joel somewhat grins at your impatience but finally starts to open the box.

That grin drops off his face after he sees the contents, an immediate bittersweet feeling swelling in his chest.

You're watching his face so intently, so scared that he didn't like it based on his reaction.

Joel pulls out the watch from the box, clutching it tightly. He's not saying anything, so you hear yourself start to ramble.

"Do you like it? I just saw that the watch you wear is broken so I figured I'd get you a new one. If you don't like it I can take it back."

You're starting to crumble underneath the weight of his silence, anxiety bubbling in your gut. Just as you're about to ask him if he's okay, Joel finally looks back at you.

"S'real great. Thank you." His tone is genuine, you can tell he's telling the truth. But why does he look so pained?

"Of course." Your murmur, your eyes searching his. After a moment of silence, you clear your throat. "There's one more thing, actually."

Joel's shoulder slump. "You got me another present?" He asked tiredly, looking at you with disbelief.

A guilty smile paints your face before you gesture for Joel to follow you. "It's upstairs. C'mon."

He doesn't know how much more his heart could handle.

Reluctantly, he follows you up the stairs, wondering why you had a gift waiting for him in Tommy's guest bedroom.

You open the door and close it behind you both, purposefully not turning the lights on.

Joel walks into the center of the room, standing aimlessly and confused as to why you hadn’t flipped the light switch yet.

But then he hears the rustling of clothes and when you eventually turn the lights on, you're wearing nothing but a bra and panties.

His cock immediately gets hard.

"What do ya think you're doin'?" He whisper yells, trying to keep his eyes on your face but that proves to be impossible because your tits looked so good in lace.

"What? You don't like it? I bought it for you." You give him a 360 and he has to brace himself against the bed.

Fuck you looked good.

He sits down on the mattress, dragging a hand down his jaw in thought.

He's debating if he's really about to fuck you in his brother's house.

Why were you always making him go against his morals?

A few seconds of silence pass between the two of you before Joel snaps his eyes back to your figure.

"C'mere."

Got 'em.

You squeal excitedly before running over, slotting yourself between his legs and placing your hands on his shoulders.

In turn, his large hands come out to hold your hips, his gaze zeroing in on your perfect-looking cleavage that he was now eye-level with.

Just as he was about to slide his hands up to grope your breasts, you sink down to the floor.

Joel's puzzled as he watches you get on your knees, looking up at him with those mischievous eyes. He truly has no clue what you're up to, that is, until you bring your lips to the bulge in his jeans.

You place the softest kiss on his clothed hard-on, earning a groan from him.

Now he knows what you're trying to do.

He juts his hand out, holding you firm by your shoulder.

"You ain't gotta do that, sweetheart." Joel says softly, probably the softest you've ever heard him say anything.

Your body erupts in goosebumps when you hear the endearing pet name slip so effortlessly from his lips.

"I want to—been wanting to since, like, forever." You murmur, nuzzling your cheek against his inner thigh.

Joel wasn't sure what to think right now.

His past romantic experiences taught him that blowjobs were a hassle for women—something that they did only if they felt they had to.

But here you were, looking up at him with those wide eyes and wanting nothing more than his dick in your mouth.

You surprise him everyday.

His dick has literally never been harder, especially when you finally start unzipping his pants to let it spring free.

You gaze up at him again, waiting for his green light.

Joel had one hand white-knuckling the edge of the bed, while the other gently caressed the side of your head.

He offers a short nod of approval, already trying not to come just by the sight of his cock so close to your face.

You waste absolutely no time in grabbing the base of his dick with both hands, gingerly licking at his tip to warm him up.

Joel throws his head back, groaning at the feeling.

You tilt it up so you can drag your tongue all the way up his shaft, then bring your mouth down on his tip.

"Fuck," Joel curses, his eyes squeezing shut for a moment before snapping back open, not being able to look away from you.

Tears are falling from your eyes the farther you go down on him, the sensation of his head poking the back of your throat was making you dizzy.

But you don't stop. You're eager to please.

Your hands pump at the length you can't reach, while your warm mouth and tongue swirl around him.

You're too good at this, and Joel knows he's not gonna last long.

He can't help it when his hand in your hair turns into a fist, tightly gripping the strands like he was afraid you might go somewhere.

You moan when he accidentally pulls your hair forwards, forcing you deep on his cock. You bet he didn't even realize what he just did, based on the way his chest was heaving and his face looked so lost in pleasure.

You gag and more tears spill from your eyes, but you don't even dream about lifting off. If Joel was getting off on this, you were going to do more of it.

You moan, still keeping his cock in your mouth as you try to go even deeper down on it.

"Oh fuck—" Joel suddenly yanks your mouth off his cock, breathing heavily as he stares down at you.

You cough and sputter at the loss, looking up at him with that same fucked out expression you had last time.

"Why?" You manage to whine, wondering why he stopped you before he came.

Joel doesn't answer—instead he picks you up by your armpits and places you on the bed.

The quick change almost gives you whiplash, but Joel's surprisingly steady and husky voice guides you.

"On your stomach, pretty girl." He mutters as he taps your leg in a gesturing manner.

...Was he trying to kill you with that bedroom voice of his?

A whimper crawls its way out of your throat, your body having an audible reaction to his sweet words.

You flip over onto your stomach, instantly arching your back for him.

Being the impatient man he was, he rips your panties and throws them to the side in a lust-driven blur.

You literally didn't even care. Sure, they were new, but you'd just find another pair. The only two thoughts in your mind right now was Joel and Joel's dick.

Something warm and soft prods at your entrance before slipping to wedge between your folds, gathering up your slick.

You try to push back on it, but Joel holds you still, making you lose the rest of the small amount of composure you had left.

"Joelpleasefuckme," You sob, your cunt weeping for his cock. "need you so bad it hurts,"

You reach back, your hand finding his that was holding your hip and squeezing it.

Joel didn't want to admit to himself how much he loved the neediness in your voice, your obvious desperation made him harder.

"M'gettin' there, don't gotta beg me baby." He mutters, his hand that you grabbed intertwining with your fingers. His other hand was rubbing circles in the skin around your hips.

You feel that same sensation of his tip, but then Joel also brings his chest down to engulf your back.

You're already trembling, but when he begins to pepper kisses down the nape of your neck and back, all while slowly sheathing himself inside your pussy...

You effectively lose your mind.

"OhFUCKJoelloveitsomuch," You blabber, not having enough strength to hold yourself up anymore so your head drops into a pillow, muffling your moans.

Effortlessly, he pulls you back up so that your back is flush with his chest, his one arm wrapped around your stomach to keep you secure.

You rest the back of your head on his shoulder as she starts rocking into you, letting your body go limp because you know he's got you.

"Can you take it or do I need'a stop?" He asks, his tone making you dizzier.

You frantically nod, turning your head to the side to look at him. "I can take it, promise I can," you muster out between moans. "please don't stop—want your cock in me forever-"

Joel chuckles.

God, he really never stood a chance against you.

"I don't know about forever sweet thing, but I'll see what I can do for tonight, yeah?"

You giggle airily, like you weren't all there, nodding your head in acknowledgement. Your eyes are closed for a second but you feel his lips on yours, hungrily taking whatever they wanted.

You passionately return his kiss, mewling into it because his lips paired with the slow thrust of his dick was enough to drive you crazy.

The stretch of his cock is as close to heaven as you're ever gonna get.

His speed picks up which means your moans get louder, and Joel has no choice put to bring his other hand up and cover your mouth.

There's still a party going on downstairs, after all.

"Gotta be quieter baby," he pants, even though he's not slowing down his speed at all.

You whine into his hand, surprisingly loving the feeling of it because it's like he's swallowing you whole.

You feel that tight coil in your stomach slowly start to come undone, and you know you won't last long now. You try to tell Joel, but his hand is muffling your noises.

All the sudden, he speaks in your ear—his voice low and raspy. "Don't want you doin' this with anyone else, hear me?"

...Well.

You weren't expecting that.

His words probably made you soak the sheets because of how wet you became.

He sounded so stern when he said it too, making your heart flutter even more.

You nod, tears pouring from your eyes. He lets his hand off your mouth for a moment and you immediately jump at the opportunity to speak.

"Only want you, only ever wanted you, Joel—m'all yours, always been yours," You mewl after gasping for air, your body jolting with each of his deep thrusts.

"Fuck," Joel swears, quickly but carefully putting you down only to flip you over onto your back. Now in missionary, he buries himself all the way inside you again before dropping down so your faces are centimeters apart. "All mine, huh?" Joel reiterates, and you can't tell if he's mocking you or maybe asking for clarification.

Probably the ladder.

You agree nonetheless, a string of yes's spilling from your mouth.

"Yeah, just for me." He pants, slamming into you with more vigor than before. Your cunt is constricting around him like a vice, he's—not planning to last much longer either.

"M'gonna cum," you whine, wrapping your arms around his shoulders for support.

When Joel hears this, he drops a hand down to rub at your clit, making you come undone altogether.

"Ohfuckohfuckohfuck waitwait Joel-" You feel something..unique boiling, but then Joel's expert fingers release the flood gates.

You scream as you squirt all over his cock, your entire body writhing with the overstimulating pleasure.

Your juices soak him. When he see's this, he comes immediately.

He groans as he finishes inside you, unloading into your snug cunt. The feeling is incomparable for the both of you.

Once the haze of perfect pleasure dissipates, Joel realizes what he's just done.

"Shit," he grits, pulling out and watching his seed drip from your hole. "Fuck."

You manage to sit up on your elbows, looking up at him with teary eyes. "Don't worry," Your voice is quiet and cracked—you just had the squirt fucked out of you, after all. "I've been on the pill since we had sex the first time."

Joel looks down at you, stupefied.

Eventually, he feels his heart start beating again and huffs out a sigh of relief. "Thank christ." He leans back against the headboard, raking a hand through his hair and thinking about how that was a fucking close one.

You're lying next to him, still trying to catch your breath. "That felt so good," You manage to murmur, your body still shivering from the after shocks.

After you catch your breath, you turn your head to look up at him. "M'serious about what I said, about bein' yours."

He looks at you and your serious face for a moment, then brings his hand down to gently ruffle the top of your head.

"Yeah, I know you are." His texan drawl prominent.

"I'd let you brand me with a fire poker if thats what you wanted." You say flatly, no joking tone in your voice whatsoever.

Joel is taken back by the sudden jump in intensity, assessing you to make sure you were being for real.

You were, and when he realizes this, he shakes his head. "You've lost your damn mind." He grunts, dragging a hand down his face.

You shrug.

"I think a ring would do the trick." Joel mutters, not meaning for it to have some kind of underlying message or anything. But you're quick to jump to conclusions.

"A ring?" You squeal, moving to lay on his chest which earns a huff from him. "Didn't know we were already goin' steady like that, Miller!" You tease, the giddiest smile on your face.

"I didn't mean—quit. You know what I was sayin'." Joel grunts, looking at you with an unamused expression.

You don't quit though.

"My ring finger is a size 6, would love 2 carats but if you can swing for 3 that would be perfect—also, I hate silver bands, it has to be gold—but make sure it's not that super yellow fake gold, I like more rustic looks, I mean, if that wasn't obvious-" You cast him a glance, alluding to the fact that he was rustic looking.

Joel rolls his eyes before gently nudging you off him, getting off the bed and walking over to your clothes that you discarded a long time ago.

You continue rambling from your position on the sheets, staring up at the ceiling as you recited, in extreme detail, how you loved oval shaped diamonds the most.

He walks back over and manhandles you to sit up. "Lift up your arms." He mutters, putting your sweater back on you.

"Hm, gettin' some serious deja vu right now." You murmur, smiling up at him.

"Yeah, yeah, hush." He grumbles before sliding your tights and skirt back on as well.

The act is so kind and heartwarming. You mumble a thank you before standing up, almost falling back down because your legs were still a bit weak.

Joel made a motion like he would've caught you, reaching his arms out. "Careful." He warns, planting a hand on your lower back for stability. You giggle and nod, regaining your ability to walk slowly but surely.

You guys tried to discretely walk back down the stairs, but with Joel's hand on your back and your happy expression--it wasn't hard for people to guess what happened.

***

A couple days had passed since Tommy and Maria's party.

You were finishing up some hand-made Christmas cards on your desk when you heard a knock at your door.

"Coming!" You shout, leisurely making your way to the front door.

When you open it, no one's there. You look around, only seeing a familiar male figure walking away in the distance. When you step outside to shout after him, you feel yourself kick something.

Upon looking down, a small velvet box lays at your feet.

You pick it up carefully, opening it to reveal a gold ring placed so delicately inside. The small note inside reads:

Merry Christmas. -Scrooge

#smut #joel miller x reader #joel miller smut #joel miller #joel tlou #the last of us hbo #the last of us #tlou fanfiction #drabble #I need him so carnally

2K notes · View notes

trashytracktales · 16 days ago

Note

ong yes!! lando gotta loveeeee doggy and taking her against a wall!! But imagine her on top for the first time and not knowing how to ride him and him teaching him and telling her what to do! im asking this to santa !!

kill me now!!

Oh, Christmas treat | LN ⁴

💌 INSPIRED by anon ──── Why ask Santa when I'm literally right here... enjoy 💋

⤿ We're yapping about this ask.

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𐙚 summary ──── It's a quiet winter night, and Lando notices that his girlfriend seems a bit distracted. After some playful coaxing, she admits a secret desire to try something new. With his gentle guidance, they explore new paths together, each step bringing them closer.

𐙚 pairing ──── Lando Norris x she/her reader

𐙚 rating ──── explicit

𐙚 category ──── F/M

𐙚 warnings ──── 18+, mature/sexual content, established relationship, fluff & smut, descriptive language, light teasing, themes of vulnerability, unprotected sex, reader's first time on top, bit of swearing.

𐙚 word count ──── 2.5k

𐙚 date ──── Dec. 24, 2024

𐙚 a/n ──── I know this wasn’t a request per se, but I wanted to share this one-shot with you since it was already mostly ready to go. I’ve been dealing with some health issues recently and couldn't get myself to get anything done, so thank you for your patience. The rest of the requests are still on their (admittedly slow) way, but I promise they’re coming 🤞🏻 Wishing a very Merry Christmas Eve to everyone who celebrates, and who knows, I might have another little treat up my sleeve 👀

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

THE DAY HAD been nothing out of the ordinary, but that was exactly what made it special.

Lando had woken up late, groggy but grinning satisfied when he caught her padding around the kitchen in fuzzy socks and an oversized sweater, humming along to Christmas songs. She loves the holiday season, because she likes it when he's home, and Lando doesn't have to be anywhere but their own apartment. That's exactly why she can't get upset when he streams with Max for hours in the night, and ends up sleeping in the next day. The simple fact that he's there is enough.

Maybe she conditioned herself to accept that, but then she sees his sleepy face and thinks she'd accept worse in order to share her mornings with him.

It's Christmas Eve, so they’d decided to bake cookies, mostly because she insisted it was a winter tradition, and Lando, ever the competitive spirit, took it as a challenge to see whose decorations would turn out better. As expected, chaos followed. By the time the cookies were ready, the kitchen looked like it had been through a snowstorm of flour and sugar. Lando had a streak of frosting on his cheek, and she had somehow ended up with sprinkles in her hair. In reality, they spent more time laughing and teasing each other than actually baking, but that was always the way it went with them.

Now, their cookies sit patiently on the counter, forgotten as the two of them relax on the couch in the living room. The Christmas tree lights glow warmly in the corner, and a cheesy holiday movie plays on the TV. They’re snuggled under a thick blanket, her legs curled up and tucked into his side. Lando’s arm drapes around her shoulders, his fingers playing lazily with her hair. It’s peaceful and comforting, but somewhere in the quiet, she feels a sudden pull in her chest.

In all the time they've been together, she never took the lead — not willingly, at least — feeling more than happy to surrender. She's been thinking about it for a long time, but she's never had the courage to do it. She doesn't feel intimidated or inhibited by her boyfriend, but rather by how it could all go wrong for both of them if she, somehow, ends up doing something she’s not supposed to.

Suddenly, her arms tighten around him, her nose nuzzling into his shirt. There’s a weight in her heart, not sadness exactly, but something tender, something raw. It makes her extra clingy, but she doesn’t say anything. She just holds him closer, hoping he won’t notice.

But Lando always notices.

His fingers pause in her hair, and his brows furrow slightly as he glances down at her. “You good, baby?” he asks, his voice soft and curious.

She hums nonchalantly, her face still buried in his chest.

“You sure?” Lando insists, his tone teasing but gentle.

The girl freezes for a moment, debating whether to brush it off, but before she can decide, he tilts her chin up with his fingers, making her look at him.

“Come on, what’s going on in that pretty head of yours, hm?” he asks, his eyes scanning hers.

Her cheeks heat under his gaze, and she sighs. “I don’t know. You just… feel extra nice to hold tonight,” she says quietly.

Lando blinks, then his grin widens, teasing again. “Didn’t know I had levels of cuddliness.”

“Oh, shut up,” she mumbles, hiding her face against his chest again.

His smile softens, and he wraps his arms around her fully, pulling her tighter against him. “Hey, you don’t wanna talk to me?”

She shakes her head and, at that, Lando stops pushing, knowing that whatever it is, she’ll come to him. Eventually. When she’s ready.

A few hours later, their movie marathon ends in a comfortable silence, the glow of the TV instantly muted by the credits rolling on the screen. Lando stretches, groaning softly as he shifts from the couch.

She gathers the blanket, folding it neatly before turning to him with a small smile.

“Bedtime?” she asks, her voice soft, almost reluctant to leave the warmth of the evening behind.

“Bedtime,” he agrees, though he watches her carefully as she heads toward the bedroom.

She moves through her usual routine, brushing her teeth and slipping into one of his hoodies, paired with sleep shorts. As she pulls back the covers and sits on the edge of the bed, he hears it again — the same quiet sigh that makes his chest tighten.

Lando leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, frowning in her direction. “Alright, that’s the second time tonight,” he says, his tone light but edged with curiosity. “Should I worry?”

“What?” she replies quickly, too quickly, as she gets ready to tuck herself under the duvet. “No, baby. It’s nothing.”

“Right,” says Lando, stepping closer, his lips curving into a mischievous grin. “If you won’t tell me, I’ll have to get it out of you another way.”

She narrows her eyes at him. “Lando…”

Before she can finish, he lunges, playfully grabbing her waist and threatening to tickle her sides. She squeals, trying to wiggle away, but his grip on her is firm.

“Last chance, I'm serious,” he warns, his laughter bubbling up as she giggles uncontrollably.

“Okay, fine, stop it!” she pleads, breathless, her face flushed.

Lando stops, pulling back just enough to sit on the edge of the bed. Then, with a gentle tug, he pulls her onto his lap. His arms wrap loosely around her waist, and he tilts his head, watching her with a mix of curiosity and concern.

“Now,” he says, happy that he managed to break her wall, “What’s going on?”

She hesitates, her cheeks turning pink as she avoids his gaze. Instead, her fingers find his curls at the back of his head, twisting them gently as she takes a deep breath. “You know, it’s not even a big deal. I’ve been thinking about something, but I just didn’t know how to bring it up.”

“Mhm,” he nods, leaning in to press a lingering kiss to her lips. It’s deep, slow, almost as if he’s trying to reassure her without words. When he pulls back, their foreheads touch, and he whispers, “You can tell me anything, you know that.”

She knows. Still, that doesn’t make it any easier. The heat rushes in her cheeks as she finally meets his eyes. “Look, I like when you’re on top. I mean, I really like it,” she says, stumbling slightly over her words. “But I was thinking, maybe, I’d like to, you know...”

Her voice trails off, and she looks away again, clearly embarrassed.

Lando blinks, letting her words sink in. His mouth opens slightly, but no sound comes out as a flush creeps up his neck. Then, a grin spreads across his face, equal parts flustered and excited.

“Yeah?” he asks, his voice soft, his hands tightening slightly on her waist. “You want to ride me, baby?”

She nods quickly, still twisting his curls nervously. “But I’ve never done it before, and I’m not sure I’d be good at it. It's just that—”

He exhales a chuckle, leaning forward to kiss her forehead. “Slow down,” he murmurs against her skin, his tone so tender that it makes her stomach flip. “You don’t have to worry about being good at it, baby. If you wat to try it, I can guide you, and we’ll see what works for us as we go.”

Her cheeks flush as she processes his reassurance, the tender way he’s looking at her making her feel bold and seen. And listened to.

She smiles, shifting on his lap, searching for some friction, and the slight brush of her core against his growing hardness has her letting out a soft gasp. Lando notices immediately, but he doesn’t say anything yet. Instead, he lets her take the lead at her own pace, on her own terms.

She shifts again, this time deliberately pressing herself against him, and the soft sound she makes has Lando’s self-control slipping. “I suppose we can try now?” he murmurs, his voice thick with heat.

She doesn’t reply — at least not with words. Instead, she grabs his hoodie, pulling it over her head in one swift motion, leaving her in nothing but her shorts. Lando’s breath catches as he takes her in, his hands immediately coming up to palm her breasts, his thumbs brushing over her hardened nipples. He's seen her naked so many times before, but somehow, every time she gets rid of her clothes she uncovers something new.

“So beautiful,” he mutters, leaning in to press open-mouthed kisses along her collarbone. She tilts her head back, giving him more access, and the heat between them builds until she pushes him gently onto the mattress.

Lando goes willingly, a grin tugging at his lips as she leans over him to kiss him again. His hands move to her hips, holding her firmly as she presses herself against him, grinding slowly. He groans into her mouth, his hands sliding lower to grip her ass, then he spreads her slightly, pushing her down against his growing length, making both of them gasp at the feeling.

Her hands trail down his chest, and she tugs at his shirt. “Off,” she breathes, and he obeys, pulling it over his head and tossing it aside. For a moment, she just looks at him, her hands tracing the defined lines of his chest.

The tension between them builds rapidly, their breaths mingling as they press closer. It doesn’t take long before she’s tugging at the waistband of her shorts, her nerves creeping back in as she pushes them down. Lando sits up slightly, watching her with darkened eyes, and when she glances at him nervously, he reaches out to stroke her thigh gently.

“You’re perfect,” he says softly, his voice full of sincerity.

Her nerves ease at his words, and when he pushes his joggers down, freeing himself, her anticipation drowns out her doubts.

He sits up fully, pulling her closer until she’s straddling him again. “Alright, love,” he murmurs, his hands steadying her hips. “Go slow, yeah? Just sit on me first. Take your time.”

She nods, biting her lip as she lines herself up with him. Slowly, she sinks down, feeling the stretch as he fills her inch by sweet inch. Her breath hitches, and Lando groans, his hands gripping her hips tighter.

“Oh, fuck,” he rasps. “You always feel so good.”

She pauses once he’s fully inside, her hands braced on his chest as she adjusts to the feeling of being so full of him. Sensing her nervousness, Lando rubs soothing circles on her hips, letting her take her time.

When she finally starts to move, lifting herself up slightly before sinking back down, a soft, shaky moan escapes her lips. Lando watches her with a mix of awe and hunger, his hands guiding her gently.

“Just like that, baby,” he encourages her, “Easy. You’re doing so well.”

Slowly but surely, she manages to build a rhythm, her movements tentative at first. But as the pleasure starts invading her senses, she becomes bolder. She opens up more, craving all of him at once. Her hands slide back to grip his thighs for support as she leans back slightly, the new angle sending sparks of pleasure through her body.

The taste of power it's rather interesting in this position, and she can’t afford to be shy anymore. Not when his cock feels so good inside her, and not when she decides how to take him.

“Fuck, Lando,” she breathes, her head tilting back.

She begins to move more rapidly on top of him, her hips following a predetermined path that she wasn't even aware of before. Lando watches her in amazement, feeling every pulse of pleasure every time she comes back for more, her walls hugging his cock so tightly that it leaves him breathless.

He groans, his hands sliding up to her waist to steady her. “That’s it, baby. Keep going. God, you’re going to make me cum so fast like this.”

The sight of her riding him, her body moving with such confidence now, nearly breaks him. Somehow, he resists the urge to thrust up into her, letting her stay in control, but his grip tightens as his restraint begins to fray.

He hears a silent cry, getting ready for every scenario in his mind, while his eyes study her frame by frame.

She whimpers, her movements becoming more erratic as the pleasure overwhelms her. “Lan,” she gasps, her voice shaky. “I can’t go—too much.”

He sits up slightly, pulling her towards him and pressing his forehead to hers. “Of course you can, baby,” he says softly, his voice steady despite the fire coursing through him. “I’m here. Just a little more, yeah? You’re doing so good.”

She feels his cock twitching inside her as she shakes her head weakly, “Lando, please…” her hands desperately clutch his shoulders, and that's when he understands what she needs from him.

Lando's hands land on her waist again, gripping at her firmly, and he starts to guide her harder on his cock while thrusting up into her simultaneously, meeting her halfway. The sudden change in rhythm makes her cry out, her nails digging into his skin.

“Yes,” she moans, her head dropping onto his shoulder as he drives her higher. “It’s so good, fuck. I’m—”

“That’s it,” he growls, his voice tinged with exhaustion. “Let go, baby. I’ve got you.”

So she does, her body trembling as the pleasure crests and crashes over her. He follows seconds later, his movements growing erratic before he stills inside her, holding her tightly against him as they both ride out their highs, breathing each other’s air. They stay tangled together, bodies still pressed close as the intensity of their orgasms fades away.

Lando brushes a strand of her hair away from her damp forehead, his lips curling into a soft smile. “You okay there?” he asks, his voice a gentle rasp.

She nods against him, her body still warm and buzzing. “Mhm, ‘m okay,” she murmurs, tilting her head up to meet his gaze.

He grins, leaning down to kiss her forehead. “You did so well, baby. Made me proud.”

She lets out a breathless laugh, her head dropping back onto his shoulder. “Cheers,” she trails off, playfully groaning. “But that was so much work. My fucking thighs are on fire.”

Lando laughs, the sound deep and rich. “Oh, you poor thing,” he teases, stroking her back soothingly.

She swats at his chest, unable to hold back her grin. “I’m serious! It’s a full-body workout being on top.”

He hums thoughtfully, his fingers lazily tracing patterns on her skin. “So what you’re saying is…” he starts, tilting his head with a mischievous glint in his eyes, “I get to be in charge again next time?”

She pulls back to look at him, her cheeks flushing, but there’s a playful sparkle in her eyes. “You won't hear me complaining,” she quips, biting her lip to suppress her laughter.

Thank you for reading!

None of my works are available for reposting on other platforms. Reblogs, likes, and comments are deeply appreciated ♥︎

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beardedjoel · 2 months ago

Text

indebted

dark!joel x f!reader. one shot.

main masterlist | ao3 | kofi

summary: you're having a bad day. one you think is getting better once a rough around the edges man comes to your rescue. you didn't expect it would takes such a sharp turn for the worse. first person pov reader. 9.2k words.

warnings: 18+ MDNI! DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT! NON CONSENUAL SEXUAL ACTS, READ AT YOUR OWN DISCRETION, pervy, sleazy, and foul mouthed joel. degradation, sexual favors, forced oral and piv, virgin reader, corruption, innocence, and daddy kinks featured. biiig ol' age gap (reader's age not mentioned other than "young" but i imagine her as 18-20 as she has a relatively immature attitude, imagining joel 50-55), this is not for everyone and that's okay. i'm not responsible for the content you consume.

a/n: i had some hormonal induced insanity and came up with this. i had a great time trying out a new pov for writing fic! enjoy him as much as i did, friends 🖤 and thanks @joelstummy for the amazing freaky beta work!

I’ll be the first person to admit now that what I’ve been doing is stupid. Dangerous. Idiotic. The list goes on. I can hear my father’s stern, militant voice in the back of my head, telling me as much. Except now he likely won’t get the chance to relish in it because I’m going to die here. Way out here where nobody will find my body, and I’ll be just another person that went missing in the QZ, never to be seen again. But this time, it’s not some sleazy FEDRA scheme and coverup or a smuggling deal gone wrong.

It’s utterly and completely my fault.

Sneaking out wasn’t meant to become a habit, but after the first few times, I lost the fear and adrenaline that had burned hot through my veins at those first steps of freedom. I craved it again, so I kept going further. And further. Away from civilization as I knew it, until the cluster of buildings known as the Quarantine Zone became a tiny speck in the distance. Out here was desolation, nothingness, only abandoned buildings to explore. The infected were another story, but I started to learn routes that helped me avoid encounters with them.

It helped clear my mind after a while, this newly found sense of adventure. All I’d ever known was a cage, a walled city that had become so mundane I felt my insides starting to rot from the listlessness of it all. My father was important - top in the rankings - I knew that, and it was all the more reason to keep me safely locked away while the city stirred with chatter of an uprising against FEDRA.

He never bothered to check on me much, anyways, making my little forays quite easy. Once I’d persuaded enough people with ration cards, they’d shown me the tunnel leading to freedom. Well, that tunnel, then another, a ladder to climb back up to the surface, and only then could I go through a precarious hole in a chain link fence. That was the smuggler’s route, they said, an easy ticket to getting in and out without being noticed.

I’d been abusing it, staying out for days at a time, never able to drink in enough of this quiet solitude that was of my own choosing, not my father’s. I couldn’t quite figure out what hole inside of me I was trying to fill, but I’d be damned if I stopped trying.

However, today seemed to be my last chance to try at all. His footsteps had been quiet - so quiet - approaching behind me. An old store, full of half decayed plushies, molded candies, and other adorable things from lives long put in the past, had called to me, distracted me. The arm around my throat, constricting, the other coming up to put a hand over my mouth. A dirty, putrid smell encompassing everything as I sputtered against him. This is it, I’d thought. What a waste.

I scream and fight against the strong hold he has on me, a nasty sneer right against my skin. “What’s some fresh meat like you doing waaaay out here, huh?” a dark voice rattles into my ear.

I scream behind his dirty palm in response, kicking my legs back at him. I should have learned more self defense, but who needs it when you’ve spent most of your life safely tucked away with your family name as your biggest protector?

“You smell good… real good…” The creep’s voice buzzes by me as he takes a deep breath in, making me shudder. One swift kick and I’m sure this is it, the one to knock him senseless and let me escape. He’s smart for how distracted he seems to be by my scent, and he’s one step ahead of me. My legs are kicked out from underneath me as I rear one back, and I fall to the ground, the man coming down with me to sit on my back, straddling my body in a fluid motion. He grips my hands behind my back, leaving me helpless in my fight, kicking and screaming. I’m ice and heat all at once, my body burning in a frozen blaze, my fight or flight quickly turning to fawn as his weight presses down on me.

“You can have anything in my backpack, anything! Please, let me go! I - I don’t want any trouble,” I choke out pathetically, hating how my voice comes out in shaky waves. This isn’t how to appeal to people like this, people who have lost their sense of humanity, evident by the way he’s now grinding himself down onto my jean clad asscheeks.

A laugh comes out of him that would haunt me as evil incarnate for the rest of my days if I wasn’t so sure that I was going to die at the hands of this man after he was done with me. “We both know I don’t give a fuck about any damn backpack of yours. I don’t want any trouble either, sweet cheeks, I just think you’d have a lot of fun with me and my friends. But mostly me,” he replies with the hint of a wink in his voice.

My stomach clenches, sickness rolling in that is only furthered as the man leans down, cloaking me with his large form. I can’t turn enough to see him, to even know what this violation of a man looks like, but his energy is beyond hideous as I catch a glimpse of his yellowing teeth in a grin before he pushes my head down to the cracked linoleum tiles. My hair tangled in his fingers, he holds me down hard, and I struggle to breathe as he crushes me beneath him.

“Now, are you gonna come easily, or do I need to do things the hard way? Either way is fine with me, for a fine piece of ass like this. In fact, I might prefer it the hard way, but we’d hate to ruin this pretty skin of yours, wouldn’t we?” He says slowly, pressing the cold blade of a knife to my throat.

“O-okay, okay,” I acquiesce, stopping my squirming, just needing a bit of room to breathe, my lungs heavy inside my chest. My panic only makes my chest tighter, even when the man leans back the tiniest bit. I had hoped that my sudden compliance would get that knife off my throat, but it hasn’t. “Just don’t hurt me… please…” I whimper.

He lets out a long, ragged sigh. “Afraid I can’t promise that.”

I’ve never felt fear like this, such certainty that I was about to be ruined, my life as I know it changing without a chance to even look back. I squeeze my eyes shut and brace for it, for anything he’s about to do next, finally accepting that there isn’t any appealing to scummy men in a scummy world. But nothing comes except for a muffled crack ringing through the air, and then a thud as the entire weight of my adversary falls on top of me, crushing. Something warm has splattered on my skin, my face, then starts to coat my jacket, seeping through. I shake violently, begging my body to catch a full breath under the weight of him.

Then as suddenly as it happened, it stops, the body yanked off of me and tossed to the side with ease. The deafening thud of his entire weight onto the ground is stark. I flip over and scramble backwards, grabbing the knife that had fallen from the man’s hand in his swift, final moment. Holding up a shaky hand, I grip the knife tightly, looking up to face a brutish, tall man with overgrown hair of chestnut and gray. A trim beard with the same coloring wraps around his tightly set jaw. He’s all wide shoulders, thick arms, broad chest, and my senses go on high alert again. His gun is practically still smoking as it hangs at his side, an active threat.

“Y’alright?” he drawls, thick and deep, echoing through the abandoned shop. One step closer to me has the knife practically flailing as I struggle to calm my hands, a strained hum alongside my shaky breathing the only sound I seem capable of making.

“Put that thing down,” he says calmly, almost exasperated. His stance slackens, one knee pushed out as he sizes me up. I’m likely the most miserable looking thing he’s seen in a while, I’m sure. “You’re harmless.”

“H-how do I know you’re not with him?” I blurt out.

My gruff savior lifts his brows incredulously. “That guy?” he asks, motioning impatiently to the dead body only a foot away. “Think I’d be puttin’ a bullet right in his skull if he was my best buddy?”

My eyes dance over him as I think. He has a point, and he did just save me from whatever debauched things that stranger’s mind had been conjuring up.

“Y-yeah, you have a point,” I finally say. He steps closer, and this time, I let him, putting the knife down. He motions with an authoritarian air for me to push it away, and I obey immediately, flinging it across the room.

“Poor fucker died with a hard on, didn’t he?” The man muses as his boots thud on the way over to the body, kicking it slightly as if to check, letting it roll back before turning his attention on me. “Now, are you usually this stupid, comin’ into hunter territory, or what?” he asks, reaching a hand down to me, presumably to help me up.

“I didn’t know…” I mumble, letting his hand hang there. He doesn’t snatch it back right away, although I can tell he wants to, that he’s already beyond exasperated by his day and the last thing he’d wanted was a damsel in distress like me. I hate that he’s proving all the things I’d been trying to disprove about myself by coming out on these solo trips into the great, big outside. I’m weak. Dependent. Needy. It makes my skin crawl with self loathing and frustration.

“Didn’t know, huh? So just clueless, then?” the man spits out, staring down at me with darkened eyes that make me turn my head away in shame. At my sullen silence, he seems to soften a little. “I’m Joel,” he says, an offering to go along with his outstretched hand.

I sigh, taking it and telling him my own name. I’m up on my feet, dusting myself off and looking at him shyly now. I don’t know what people are supposed to say when someone saves their life, so I just mumble, “Thank you.”

Joel snorts, nodding in acknowledgment as he crouches to pat down the body, seeming to come up short of anything interesting. “Don’t thank me yet,” he says, standing back to his full, towering height, glancing around with sharp eyes. “We should move.”

I might be as stupid as he says, because I wordlessly start to follow him towards the door. His hand stretches out behind him, open and inviting me in as he checks outside the door with a careful peek, his gun held tightly in the other. I stare down at it in disbelief. “C’mon, I don’t bite,” he sighs, that perpetual vexation in his tone again as he twitches his brows at me. “Need you close by. An’ it seems you have a tendency to go where you shouldn’t.”

My cheeks grow hot at the harsh truth of it, and I grasp his hand without any further objections, marveling for a moment at the way it envelops mine. All calloused and hard, mine soft and unused for labor of any kind.

“I’ve got a safehouse not too far from here.”

“A safehouse?”

“It’s already gettin’ dark. There ain’t no way we’re making it back to the QZ today, princess,” he retorts quickly, the pet name mocking on his tongue.

“How’d you know?” I ask softly, disappointment pressing in on my shoulders.

He chuckles out more of a snort, pulling me around a bend, slowly leaving behind the dangerous territory that I’d unknowingly encroached on. “You’re a FEDRA princess if I’ve ever seen one,” he tells me, and my heart sinks that I was so easy to read. I’d seen how capable this man Joel was, but damn was he was astute, more than I’d given him credit for.

I chew at my lip. “Fair enough,” I mumble under my breath, letting him take his well earned win. The longer I hang onto Joel’s hand, letting him expertly weave me through the barren streets, the safer I start to feel. He knows where he’s going, a practiced route he’s taken countless times, and it hits me then that this man is a smuggler. He has to be.

“Are you a smuggler?” I ask pointedly. “I’ve heard that people like that come in and out of the QZ.”

Joel falters for just a brief second, giving me a wily grin. “Look who’s readin’ who now,” he says with a dry chuckle. “Ain’t gonna run and tell your daddy, are you?”

I shake my head, pressing my lips together in a smile. “I can keep a secret.” In fact, I like keeping secrets from my father, hence the sneaking out, so Joel can count on me to never rat him out.

His amused grin in response lights a little flame akin to friendship inside of me. This grumpy old bastard could smile after all. “Just through here,” he says, letting the smile drop, taking a sharp left down a street just as a sprinkle of rain starts to fall on us. It’s a less urban area - more like a neighborhood - sprouted with apartment buildings and abandoned, vine covered cars. It’s my favorite thing about all the exploration I’ve been doing, seeing the way nature can reclaim anything and make it her own.

The cracked street below us makes me tread carefully, lagging behind as Joel’s hand tugs me along urgently. We turn down an alley, Joel whipping his head left to right before dragging me behind him, finally dropping my hand to open a door that leads right into a tiny lobby and a stairwell. He runs a hand through his damp hair, slicking it back some - a rather handsome look for him, now that I’m thinking about it. I try to ignore that thought as his voice booms through the empty room.

“Up,” he commands, gripping my hand again and leading us up the stairs.

My stomach sinks a little when he takes out a key, unlocking a padlock on one of the apartments numbered 405 and pushing the old, chipped door inwards. I have no reason not to trust Joel, he saved my life afterall, but I can’t shake the nerves I feel from being in an unfamiliar place with an unfamiliar man. It’s quiet here, likely nobody in the vicinity but the two of us.

“Home sweet home,” he grunts out, dropping his backpack and gun holster near the door and shrugging off his damp jacket, leaving him in a plain tee shirt that hugs his muscular frame. It’s a small, cramped apartment with a living room and kitchen directly next to it, a little window cut into the wall, peering in on the living room from above the stove. It looks as if it’s left exactly as it was years ago, full of furniture and clutter, only a vessel for Joel to use without making it his own at all. I peer past to see a small hallway I can only assume leads to a bedroom and bathroom.

“Know it ain’t the palace you’re probably used to, but we’ll be safe an’ dry here,” he say, and I roll my eyes behind his back. If Joel thinks that I live in a palace, he’s clearly misunderstood the state that the QZ is in. My father’s house is spacious, sure, but it’s just as dilapidated as the rest of the city. The only difference is the level of protection afforded to our homes.

He ambles into the kitchen, rummaging through the cabinets with a clatter, then comes back moments later with an open can of beans and two forks. I’m still standing in the entryway, unsure of what to do with myself.

“Hungry?” he asks gruffly, and I shake my head, wide eyed. I’d lost my appetite the minute that man had grabbed me earlier, and I couldn’t seem to get it back. Joel shrugs, digging in with a messy forkful of from the can. “Your funeral,” he says, chewing.

Joel sinks down onto the couch with a tiny groan, setting down the can on the side table next to his armrest, giving the other cushion an expectant look. “Well, you gonna sit your ass on down an’ tell me why the hell I had to save it today, or what? Why the hell you’re wanderin’ around like it’s a free for all out there?”

I flinch slightly at his harsh tone, but gingerly step my way into the room, unzipping my jacket and shedding it. For the chill outside, the temperature inside the apartment is more comfortable than I’d expect, my skin welcoming the change. Joel eyes my thin tee shirt, and I feel a flash of heat sweep my skin before I feel the prickle of goosebumps, knowing my nipples are poking through the fabric. His eyes catch there before he promptly averts them.

I sit precariously next to Joel on the loveseat, pressed as far away as I can from him, not wanting to cramp his personal space. But he seems to have no problem with that anyways, his legs spread wide open in a comfortable stance, leaned back against the cushions. He pinches the bridge of his nose, eyes shut for a moment as he awaits my answer.

“I was… exploring,” I say simply, cringing at how ridiculous it sounds coming out of my mouth. Who leaves perfect safety to wander around in a dangerous world on purpose? For no other reason than curiosity and a sudden, rebellious sense of defiance?

His eyes snap open, head pulling up from the couch, turning my way. “Explorin’…” He mulls on the word, slowly licking his lips before pursing them. “You’re tellin’ me I had to save a FEDRA brat today ‘cause she was explorin’? You really are stupid. ‘Course you are, look how young y’are. Look how fuckin’... sheltered.” Joel throws his hands up, landing them on his thighs with a soft thud, sighing. “Can’t even blame ya.”

I pluck up every bit of courage I have, glaring at him with narrowed eyes. “Look, it was really nice of you to save me and everything, and I do thank you for it. I’m sorry if I messed up whatever… smuggling stuff you had going on today, but I’d appreciate it if you didn’t call me… stupid.” The last word is quiet, mousy, and I turn my head down, eyes shining with unshed tears that I silently curse myself for. My father’s voice rings through my head - you stupid girl! - making me shudder.

Joel sucks at his teeth. “Hit a nerve, I see,” he says passively. “Alright, I’m sorry kiddo. I just mean, you’re puttin’ yourself at risk doin’ what you’re doin’, and it ain’t a smart idea. Yeah?”

“Yeah,” I sigh out, relaxing a little. “I just needed to get away.”

“From your dear old daddy?” he teases, picking up the can, shoveling several more bites into his mouth. I go silent, picking at a thread on the couch rather than answer him. “Ah, another nerve, I see. Daddy issues. Could’ve guessed that one.”

“I don’t have -”

“Sweetheart…” Joel interrupts, looking at me from under his brows, pulling his lip between his teeth, seeming to look at me in a fresh light. It sends my skin tingling, the way he eyes me, a glint in his stare. It seems to prove his point, the way a pet name from a middle aged man seems to immobilize me against my will. I want to slap the smug look off his face, but I have no grounds to do so, only grumbling quietly with my cheeks blazing in embarrassment. A prickle of something else works its way deep into my belly, something warm at how his scrutinizing eyes flick over my body, the lines in his face set, showing his age, his experience.

“Take a piece of advice from a man probably as old as your daddy, then. Trust me when I say that outside those walls ain’t the place to find what you’re lookin’ for. The sooner you let go of that notion, the better off you’ll be.”

Frustration blooms hot in my chest, overpowering whatever the hell that sudden, unwanted feeling was. I’m tired of people dictating what I can and can’t do, what I’m capable of. “People do it all the time - smugglers - you would know,” I retort. “I’ve been doing it for months. Never had a problem until today. It was just some bad luck.”

“Bad luck? Really? You’d be that man’s newest little cock sleeve if it weren’t for me savin’ your ass,” Joel growls, standing up off the couch. I wince at his vulgar language, the picture it paints in my mind of what life might have been like if Joel hadn’t happened to be in the right place at the right time.

“I - I know - I’m sorry,” I blurt out, feeling my hands start to go shaky. “Thank you, Joel, I really - I really do owe you. Everything.”

“Like I said, don’t thank me yet.” He steps over so that he’s in front of me, using his boot to part my legs, scooting them apart and standing between them. “Think I did all this out of the kindness of my heart, did you? Didn’t think that maybe I was after the same damn thing as buddy boy earlier?”

I’m like a fish out of water, the way my lips move with no sound coming out. “Joel…” I breathe out in warning, in questioning. I see his arms strain in his t-shirt, hands flexing open and closed.

“I can’t say the thought ain’t crossin’ my mind now. You are mighty pretty. And you do owe me a favor. One big ol’ gigantic favor, for savin’ your backside.” He brushes his fingers along his jeans, palming his crotch for a brief second before leaning forward, caging me in on the couch with hands on either side of me, pressing into the cushions. My heart hammers in my chest so loud I expect Joel can hear it, can feel the fear taking hold of me. He bares his teeth above me like a wild animal, and now I’m certain he can smell my fear too, that he thrives on it.

“You know what? Maybe you were bound to find what you were lookin’ for outside those walls. Maybe that’s what you needed, is it? Couldn’t find any love from daddy back home, so you wanted to find someone to turn you into their own personal little play thing. Poor baby just needed some attention, did she? Sad, really.”

My hands tremble, my words lost as I can only breathe in shaky little breaths, shaking my head violently. How can this god forsaken day keep getting worse?

“Please -” I mumble out, bringing a jittery hand up to my mouth. Joel slaps it away, gripping my chin harshly at first, inspecting me before his thumb brushes over my bottom lip. I’d think it was gentle, caring, even, if not for the nasty look spreading across his face, the grin that darkens it along with his eyes.

“Time to put this pretty thing to better use and show how grateful you are to ol’ daddy Joel,” he says, using his free hand to deftly unbuckle his belt, the jangling sound like a death knell, making my throat go dry. “Promise I’ll be much better than he would’ve been earlier. People say I’m… a generous lover.” His drawl is slow and calculated, voice deep with lust, the sly smirk turning to a triumphant grin as he chuckles, amusing himself.

He grips the top of my head, pushing me to slide down the couch cushions into a slump as I struggle, powerless against a man of his strength. He positions himself higher up to bring the giant denim bulge right in my view. I wince, trying to turn my head away as his zipper comes undone, his hand grasping deep into the fly of his jeans, yanking his cock out. When it springs free, I gasp as he lets it slap me in the face. Hot, throbbing, and massive, leaking a shiny bead of precum that had ended up somewhere on my cheek. I sit stunned and held in place by his rough hand.

The cold hard fact hits me that this is the first time I’m ever going to experience intimacy of any kind. Hell, I’ve only had one kiss before, and it was when I was ten years old, with a boy belonging to one of my father’s friends, a name I can’t even remember now. The first penis I’m ever seeing is right here, right now, in a context I have had zero control over. It’s thicker than I’d imagined one could be, softer too as I look at the skin of it. Veins run along the sides and bottom, all leading up to an imposing, angry pink head at the tip, practically bursting as it awaits me. It’s magnificent and terrifying at the same time, nothing like what I’d expected based on the half-assed health classes provided by schooling in the QZ. Sex has always had a shroud of mystery for me, and I never imagined that all those secrets, long awaited, would be uncovered like this. A dingy bedroom, a man likely almost three times my age, and me as an unwilling participant. Desperation swiftly grips my chest as I realize I actually have no clue what goes on behind closed doors between two people, and I have a feeling I’m about to find out in the crudest of ways.

The fearful innocence I know is about to be stolen from me causes tears to sting at my eyes, fat little droplets that instantly start to roll down my cheeks, leaking onto Joel’s large fingers still gripped around my chin. I start to struggle, my body seeming to catch up with my mind, loud warning sirens of DANGER! DANGER! finally blaring out in a panic. When I squirm, Joel plants one of his knees into my body, keeping himself balanced while still being able to hold me down.

“Don’t cry now, honey, it’ll only make him harder.” He sneers as he strokes his cock, slapping the head against my closed lips a few times. He wrenches my jaw down, forcing it open. “Nice ‘n wide for this big boy, there we go,” he says, not waiting a moment longer to barge his cock past the opening while he has it.

He groans loudly as he shoves several inches in right from the get go, his eyes nearly rolling back in his head. The hand that had been holding my jaw presses in on my shoulder, holding me in place. I’d have nowhere to go, anyways, with his knee on my thighs, his entire body caging me in, the cushions giving me no leeway to the way his cock is forcefully intruding, inch by inch down my throat. The taste is all consuming - a little salty, a little ripe, tasting like days of Joel’s old sweat, but it’s not completely bad, not what I’d have expected. It’s heady in a strange way, clouding my mind as I try to cope with the fullness in my mouth.

The next moment I sputter, my eyes popping open wide, flooded with tears as he hits the back of my throat. I try to gasp for air and I find that I can’t. This is torture of some form, it must be. Full panic follows, where I try to move, but every avenue is pinned down in some way by Joel’s massive body. I weakly flap at him with my hands but it barely even deters him from rocking his hips in and out, choking me again on the thrust inwards as the back of my throat tightens, gagging around his thick girth.

“Open up, relax your goddamn throat,” Joel hisses at me, keeping his cock pressed fully to the back of my throat, constricting any airflow I was hoping to have. I finally breathe shakily out of my nose when he pulls back just enough, only to slide it in slowly, his eyes carefully watching me. I glance up for the first time at him from below, hoping to find any shred of humanity he might have for me, but I’m met with an icy, dark gaze clouded with lust, power.

“Gonna fuck your face now, like the dumb little slut you are. This is what stupid girls get for wanderin’ around by themselves. This is what they ask for.” He punctuates the last words with a sharp thrust inwards, my entire body convulsing with the gag I sputter out around him, drool pooling around my stretched lips. I would whimper if I could, if I even had the air to do so.

Joel is relentless for the next few moments, rapid thrusts in and out of my mouth, my head held conveniently in place against the couch cushions for him. He groans deeply, his pleasure evident while I’m just trying to get my next breath in. I time them expertly, learning as I go, letting him continue to take from me to gain his own pleasure.

“That’s it, that’s right, you’re turnin’ into quite the good girl,” Joel mutters above me, rolling his hips with vigor and making me gag again. I can feel drool dribbling down my chin, my neck, landing on my chest, and it makes me feel ashamed, embarrassed, and a twinge of something else. I can’t tell as Joel grunts, pumping himself in and out of my gruesomely contorted jaw, if the fact that it’s something even remotely sexual has me feeling things I shouldn’t. My cheeks burn hot as my eyes continue to water - how much of it is crying and how much of it is just my body’s response to him hitting the back of my throat, I don’t know.

Then he surprises me by slowing down, languid strokes of his cock in and out with sloppy sounds, a soft hand landing on my head, stroking before bundling my hair in his fist tightly. “Knew you’d have such a filthy little mouth for daddy,” he coos, rolling his hips forward a little further, touching the back of my throat with his cock.

My body spasms a little when he keeps pushing, grumbling quiet groans of approval. My eyes squeeze shut, leaking out an onslaught of tears. I don’t want to see the aftermath if it ends up that it’s one gag too many and the inevitable happens. But to my surprise, he keeps slipping down, intruding on my throat. I try to keep my trembling body still, wanting to keep my throat relaxed, terrified of what might happen if I fight this. Can a person die this way? Could I really choke to death on this man’s dick?

“Jesus fuck. Lord have fuckin’ mercy…” Joel breathes out as he pushes even further. “Swallowin’ him down, aren’t ya? Feel me right in here, I bet.” I flinch when he touches his hand to the column of my throat, wrapping his fingers softly around the flesh. When he starts to retreat, the choking is back in a second, but Joel holds me by the throat, keeping my neck craned back, returning to the brutal way he’d been abusing my mouth. I groan and sputter and try to cough through all of it, my mouth stuffed full over and over again before I can get a breath in.

He’s relentless, and then it stops all at once, his cock popping out from between my lips with a wet, lewd sound. A stream of drool follows, a gush that dribbles down onto my already soaked shirt, and I cough violently, my hands flailing to clutch at my chest.

As soon as the pressure of Joel’s body lifts off of me, I’m scrambling to somewhere, anywhere else, my limbs stiff and achy, my jaw panging with a soreness I’ve never felt before. He stands in front of me, one hand shooting out to grab the collar of my shirt before I can even get fully off the couch, pulling me close.

“Does it look like you’re done showin’ your gratitude yet?” he growls out, gripping the back of my head and forcing me to look down at his cock, still standing at full attention, shiny and dripping with saliva. I swallow hard, the lump painful on the way down. Joel shakes my head for me, the burn at my scalp making me wince. He presses his hips flush with mine, forcing his erection against my thigh before slipping it between them. He leans in close, hot breath ghosting over my face before his lips brush mine.

“You do make a pretty cocksleeve, y’know. Suckin’ cock like a cheap whore, wonder if you take it the same way in your cunt.”

I whimper, shaking my head, the tears non-stop as they roll down my cheeks. “Please… don’t. You don’t have to do this…”

Joel scoffs. “If I put my hand down your pants to that pretty little snatch, tell me I wouldn’t find you wet right now.” He punctuates the words with a sharp pull on my scalp. I cry out, lip quivering, trying to shake my head. “Don’t lie t’me after I’ve been so, so generous t’you today.”

I’m spinning around, a dizzying sensation, Joel’s strong bicep brought across my chest as his other hand delves below my waistline, plunging deep, right to my cotton panties, bypassing the waistband of those, too. Without care, without any sense of boundaries, his fingers explore, slipping through my sensitive slit with ease. I yelp, squirming at the intrusion, and Joel’s deep chuckle behind me confirms what I already knew, what I was beyond confused by.

“Thought so,” he says gruffly, then he cups my entire mound, giving an almost comforting sensation, holding his hand tightly pressed to it. “Nothin’ to be upset about, we’re just havin’ a little fun, payin’ off your debt to dear ol’ Joel, okay?”

I shake my head. “I - I shouldn't be here… it shouldn’t be like this,” I whisper in a cracking voice, hanging my head low as the tears just keep coming, damn them.

Joel’s fingers start to move slowly, just starting with one, stroking gently up my lips, spreading my slickness around. I’m surprised that it feels good, a pleasant little tingle zipping right to my core that I quickly lament, hating myself for it. “What shouldn’t be like this, hm? That you shouldn’t like my cock down your throat? It’s perfectly natural, doll,” he says, somehow soft and condescending in the same breath.

“A-all of this,” I whimper, “Please, j-just let me go. I w-won’t say anything, I won’t do anything. I just…”

Joel quietly shushes me, letting his finger do the talking for a moment. It drags up to my clit, rubbing tiny, enticing little circles. I bite my lip hard, enough to taste copper, trying to suppress the moan climbing its way up from my chest.

“It’s okay, it’s okay that it feels good. It’s ‘sposed to. Good little sluts like you don’t know any better, don’t care what it is that’s gettin’ their panties wet. Desperate,” he growls, fingers sliding through the slick mess that’s now drooling onto the cotton. “Just relax, let it happen…” I feel his breath, hot on my ear, before he nibbles, biting down hard on the earlobe, tugging it with his teeth. It bursts out, the whimpering moan I’d been holding back, just as he pinches my clit at the same time as the bite.

He laughs. He has the nerve to laugh and it sends a shiver down my spine, my brain muddled and confused and turned on by the eroticism at play here. He soothes me by nuzzling my neck, taking a long, deep breath in. I squirm as Joel’s hand retreats, and I wonder for just a moment, a brief, all consuming moment, if maybe he’s seen reason. When his fingers find the buttons of my jeans, my heart plummets to depths previously unknown as he unbuttons them, pulling the zipper down slowly, the only sound in the room his harsh breathing right on my neck.

“Please, I gave you what you want already,” I beg once more, feeling it fall on deaf ears as Joel tugs my jeans down, revealing my pink cotton panties. They’re my favorite pair - were my favorite pair - a rare find in a world like this. Pretty pale pink with a nice lacy trim and a little bow at the front. Only now, they’d belong to Joel.

Joel clicks his tongue in approval of the sight, pulling his head back to peer at my underwear from the back before his hand grips my ass, jiggling it roughly. “Oh, you’re jus’not getting it, are you? You feel this?” he asks angrily, letting me feel the hard length of his cock pressed to my ass cheeks, threatening to slip between my thighs. “This means you didn’t give me nearly half of what I want yet. He’s still achin’ for ya, princess.”

I grit my teeth, hating the pet name, the way he’s using who I am to mock me. It’s a low blow. I hated everything to do with being associated with my father - I knew he wasn’t a good man - and I hated most that it was so obvious to a stranger which echelon of society I belonged to. If I was so important, where were they now, huh? I want to scream those words at him, but instead I just feel my legs tremble underneath me, my knees feeling like jelly as they almost give out on me.

“Please!” I struggle against his hold, but it only makes him grip my ass tighter, hard enough to bruise. “I-I’m a virgin,” I suddenly squeak out, unsure of why I say it other than some last ditch effort to deter him. My heart pounds as he stills, dead silent with his hand grasping my ass like it’s his next meal, like he owns it.

“Well ain’t it my lucky day. Shit, that’s why you were sputterin’ all over my damn cock, ain’t it?” he says as the epiphany dawns on him, laughing. My cheeks blaze hotter and hotter, hating that I’m even embarrassed at my lack of experience and skills, like I have some sick need to impress him. He notices my tension, my head hanging low as I cry new tears, and says, “Hey, hey, nothin’ to be ashamed for. In fact…” His hand fists in my underwear, tight and unrelenting. I feel his cock press against my ass again, harder than ever before it slips between my thighs. “Makes me awful excited,” he purrs, bringing his mouth to my ear again.

I only give him a timid whimper in reply, squeezing my eyes shut as I realize there is nothing I can do to stop this man. He thinks I’m a cheap whore, and he loves it. I’m a pure virgin, and he loves it even more.

He squeezes me tighter to his chest, my back starting to sweat through my thin tee shirt. “The hell were you savin’ yourself for anyways? Marriage? A sweet pussy like this?” At my silence, he cups my pussy hard, letting the dampness of my underwear soak into his palm. “Answer me!” he barks out.

“I - I wasn’t! I don’t know!” I cry out, trembling.

“Well,” he says, fisting my panties again, starting to pull them down. “M’honored you’d let me be your first, sweetheart,” he drawls, and I nearly scream at the insinuation. I’m not letting him do anything.

I start to put up more of a fight, useless against his thick arms holding me so tightly. Cool air touches my ass and the space between my thighs as he manages to shimmy my panties further down even in my struggle. I clamp my legs shut in defiance, roaring out a strained grunt as I keep trying to squirm out of his grasp. He huffs in anger, trying to subdue my writhing body before he pushes it towards the couch. I land hard, banging my knee on the hard edge that supports the cushion, wincing and trying to catch my breath. I’m practically in position for him already, ass pressed out towards him, on my hands and knees.

“Gonna make me do things the hard way, are you?” He scowls, his free hand fisting in my hair again, pulling me close. His breath is hot over my shoulder, the sensation vile against the skin of my cheek, stained with tears. “Been too long since I found a pretty virgin like you. An’ ruinin’ this perfect, pure little cunt is jus’ the cherry on top of a perfect day f’me.”

I feel his hard cock twitch against me, a reminder of what’s to come. The movements are quick for how bulky Joel’s body is, let alone his age, as he exchanges the hold across my chest for my wrists, bundling them behind my back. I cry out at the strain, the awkward angle he’d twisted them to, fighting him again until a hard smack lands on my ass. I scream through gritted teeth, not giving up the fight, but another thwap! rings out through the apartment, making me falter. My tender flesh screams at me in agony when he lands another spank, even harder this time, then another, until I’m crying unrelenting, fat tears.

With me rendered motionless, Joel presses down, bending me over, my balance tricky with my hands behind my back. My face nearly touches the couch, but I’m precariously held up by the wrists, the strain already making them ache. The warmth dripping between my thighs betrays me as my ass stings in residual little pulses, so raw and sore but spreading a pleasure through me that I’ve never known before.

I don’t have time to dwell on it before Joel is grasping one hand on my hip, notching himself at my entrance. “Promise you’re gonna like this, that you’ll never be able to think of anyone else’s cock but daddy Joel’s,” he spews gruffly in my ear before he thrusts hard, one swift motion to bury himself inside of me. I scream out, the searing pain between my thighs making me wonder if I’m being split open for good, if it’s possible that some things are just too big to fit in certain places of the body.

“Fuuuuuuck,” Joel hisses through his teeth, making the tiniest thrusting motions to ensure he’s buried deep. Every movement pierces me with a new sting as my body desperately tries to adjust, to accommodate the horrible, overwhelming intrusion. “You were not kiddin’, sweetheart. Tightest fuckin’ pussy I’ve ever been in.”

I sob, unable to speak, unable to move as Joel thrusts brutally from the get go, his hips snapping with force, crashing into mine hard enough to bruise. The lewd sounds we make disgust me, because I know I’m part of those sounds, my body enjoying the filthy things he’s saying, the way he’s taking me without remorse. He pulls himself out, clicking his tongue as he peers down between our bodies. “Christ, you are one sexy little bird. Poor little virgin bleedin’ on daddy’s cock.”

The thought horrifies me, making my stomach turn. “Please,” I cry out, my body rocking with the motions as he starts to fuck me again, the strain on my wrists as Joel uses them to help thrust himself inside of me starting to gnaw deeper into them. I’m like a ragdoll with the way he’s jerking me by my wrists, my body having no choice but to flail in time with the movements so that he can press himself deep on each cruel thrust inwards.

“You want more? You beggin’ already?” Joel grunts between his heavy breaths, sounding so cocky it makes me want to spin around and punch him. I settle for gritting my teeth instead, feeling my body slowly but surely melding into his. When Joel presses me down further, forcing an arch in my back, I whimper when his cock hits something sensitive, deep, primal. Fuck, is it something.

“Oh, that’s it. We got her now, don’t we?” he says from above, continuing to stroke his cock along that spot repeatedly. I feel myself losing my will to fight, hating the pleasure but feeling myself lean into it slightly, my hips pressing back to meet his nearly against my will. “You ever come before, sweetheart?” He leans in a little closer to ask the question, the pistoning of his hips slowing the slightest bit.

I refuse to answer, tears pooling in my eyes. I don’t want him to take this from me, I don’t want him to know anything about me. He jerks my wrists at the same time he slams his hips into me, and I whimper loudly, feeling the way he’s surely bruising my insides.

“If you ain’t figured it out yet, the rules are that you answer me when I’m askin’ you a question if you know what’s good for ya,” he spits out, and I shake my head, letting it hang limply.

“Use your words. Say ‘no, daddy’,” he says with sinister condescension, stroking his own ego.

“N-no… daddy…” I say, my tongue revolting against the words, bile climbing up my throat.

He moves his hand to my head, stroking carefully and softly. “Oh, that’s a shame. That’s a daaaamn shame. All pent up, y’are. But daddy will make it all better.” He sounds deranged, sick, like he truly believes that I’m thankful to him for what he’s doing to me. I can’t answer, my mouth gaping open just as he releases my wrists, letting me fall to the couch with a thud. My open mouth gets a mouthful of the cushions, making me sick over the fact that it’s probably full of god knows what due to its age and whatever things Joel seems to get up to in this apartment of his.

I blink as Joel grips tightly at my hips, wondering why he suddenly trusts my hands to be free, when it happens. He thrusts into that spot again, harsh and unforgiving, and I nearly see stars behind my eyes as the head of his cock punches against things I didn’t even know were there. That’s why. I’m incapacitated at this angle, brutally forced to enjoy the pleasure washing over my body as Joel takes from me, actually giving in return this time.

I bite my tongue hard, not wanting to give him any satisfaction for the tiny moans that are growing louder in my throat, desperate to be let out.

“Let me hear you, princess. Daddy doesn’t do with quiet girls. I can feel you clampin’ down on my cock, know you’re lovin’ how I use you up like you were meant for it.”

I shake my head in protest, but a strangled sound escapes past my tight lips when Joel slams into me harder than he has yet, puffing hard as he fucks me like a greedy animal. He chuckles through heavy breaths, little whispers of that’s it, come on, take it, flow freely from his nasty mouth.

I feel myself slip away, further gone from reality as the warmth spreads from my pelvis into my belly, coiling tight. Everything tingles, set on fire, the spot where Joel handles my hips with his fat fingers practically burning with a constant mix of pleasure and pain. I cry out when Joel’s cock pulls that feeling out from deep inside of me again, half a sob and half a moan as it crescendos, waves of pleasure crashing over me.

Joel’s grunts of approval, so brutish and debauched, sends a new wave of arousal through me. I tremble, eyes squeezed shut with my body completely out of my control, taken over by this boundless bliss. It’s unlike anything I’ve ever felt before: heavenly warmth worlds above any of the pleasures I’ve known. This had to be what Joel was referring to, urging me towards, telling me he wanted to make me come. This had to be what I was missing out on all these years, hiding myself away. Was this the reason sex was so coveted, so sought after? Was this feeling… the reason he’s doing what he is to me right now?

It feels like it’s never ending, my body so rigid as it spasms yet pliant as he fucks into me harder and harder. I loathe the noises I’m making that intermingle with his as I squeeze my eyes shut, enjoying it.

“Fuck, fuck - that’s it - f-fuck knew you’d love it. Come on my cock, baby, that’s right.” Joel’s string of praises reach my ears as I come down from my high, limp and yielding to whatever it is he wants to do to me now. I have no fight - my bones turned to jelly, my body sore all over, my throat scratchy from the way he’d assaulted it earlier. I only have it in me to give the rest of myself over, whether I like it or not.

“S-so fuckin’ tight, lettin’ me take your virginity like a good little whore,” he punches out, pounding into my sensitive cunt like it’s saving his soul, like it’s the only thing he could ever care about. I’m on the precipice of coming again, my nerves still frayed and on edge from the last one. A smaller but still powerful climax takes over, my body shuddering and tight, milking every last second of the pleasure.

“Gonna blow my load into this pure little pussy, make it mine - fuck - gonna fill you up like the cocksleeve you are. P-probably never want to be without my fuckin’ load drippin’ out of you again. I-I’m close, fuck -” Joel rambles as he ruts his hips deep, one final thrust and a grunt, and I feel him stall, pulsing into me.

It’s all suddenly very still, an eerie quiet settling over the room. My entire body burns hot, the only thing keeping me from collapsing is Joel’s hands still anchored on my hips as he leaves his cock inside of me, plugging me up. I want to cry again at the sudden, overwhelming shame I feel, but I can’t give him the satisfaction. I can’t.

Joel pats my ass a few times, pulling out. I tremble hard, falling forward onto the couch without his hold, instantly curling in on myself. I resent the way I’d noticed how empty I felt the second he was gone, how cold my body was without his warmth pressed into it. I dare to peer up at the sick man who stands above me, catching his breath, watching just as the last bit of his softening cock gets tucked back into his jeans. He swipes a hand across his forehead, gathering sweat, staring down at me with a darkened expression, grinning cockily.

When he plops down on the couch next to me, picking up the can of beans he’d been eating before, my mouth hangs open in surprise at how casual he’s acting. I watch his face shine with sweat, his breathing still labored, but everything else about his attitude would indicate he didn’t just force himself on me.

I try to keep my expression neutral for my own safety as I feel something leak out of me, not even wanting to give him the smug satisfaction of having to confirm my suspicions about what it is. I do my best to position my body so he can’t see between my legs as I try to pull my underwear up from where they sit near my knees, my jeans following. Joel only gives me a knowing glance as he takes a bite, conscious of the fact that a part of him sits inside my now soiled underwear, and a part of me now sits inside of his soul.

He shoves the can my way and I shrink back at his sudden motion, not taking it from him. “Eat. I ain’t havin’ you all weak and despondent for the next time.”

I feel my heart sink down past my ass, my stomach plummeting along with it as nausea overtakes me, a dizzying sensation clouding my vision. He couldn’t have said what I think he did. I - I’d paid my debt, whatever it was he thought I owed him for saving me when I didn’t even ask him to. For saving me and then doing exactly what that man had planned to do anyways under the guise of a caring, noble rescuer.

“N-next time…?” I manage to make my mouth move, my throat to produce a sound, pushing the question out in a voice that doesn’t sound like my own.

“Know you said not to call you stupid but my house, my rules, an’ sweetheart…” He looks at me under his raised, expectant brows. “My stupid, stupid girl. Did you really think that would be enough? That I’d get an opportunity every man dreams of - an untouched, perfect pussy like yours, to keep all for m’self, and throw it all away?” He’s creeping closer as he speaks, shrouding me on the couch with his huge frame, caging in where I lay, my body wound as tightly as it can to itself to block whatever he’s thinking of doing next. “Now you don’t think daddy is that dumb to let you go knowin’ all that, do you?”

I sit stunned silent underneath him, wide eyes fixed in a tortured gaze on his rugged face, but his hand squeezing my thigh is warning enough for me to shake my head, stuttering out an answer. “N-no. No…” I whisper.

Two approving pats on my cheek send Joel slinking back slightly, his dark, unhinged eyes staring holes into me as they roam over my body. Despite nothing even visible - my chest hidden underneath my arms and legs clamped tightly - I feel violated, objectified.

Terror rips through my chest as reality settles in slowly but surely. I look at the man I’d trusted once, who’d shown himself to be a friend, or at the least an ally, currently feasting his eyes on me like I’m a product. Which now, I suppose I am. A whore. His whore.

“Now,” he says, licking his lips, that hungry gaze already returning, a bulge appearing in his jeans and stretching the fabric. “All I’ve got to do is decide just how long I’ll keep ya for.”

dividers by @/saradika-graphics!

#fic: indebted #joel miller #joel miller fanfiction #dark!joel miller fanfiction #dark!joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller smut #joel miller x f!reader #x reader #the last of us fanfiction #tlou fanfiction #dddne joel miller #dead dove joel miller

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moonstruckme · 8 months ago

Note

Hii! I love your fics so much and I was wonder if you could do a emt marauders fix where the reader gets a concussion? I just got another one and it’s really taken a toll on me. (Again, I love your work SO MUCH!! It’s so comforting!!)

Hi my sweetheart! I'm so sorry, I swear I highlighted emt marauders when I was writing this request but somehow along the way I seemed to forget that it was supposed to be the au, I hope this is still alright (I'm very down to do another for emt specifically if you would like)! And I really hope you're doing okay!! Concussions are so rough, I hope your recovery is going well <3

cw: concussion

poly!marauders x fem!reader ♡ 1.1k words

Sirius wakes to shushing sounds from down the hall. Bright sunlight has snuck in through the cracks in the blinds, laying itself down in slats across the bed. He’s laying nearly sideways with no one else to shove him away, one of his feet dangling off the side of the mattress and his head on the opposite pillow.

He gets up though his body doesn’t want to, following the sound into the living room. The curtains are drawn closed here, too, though it’s light enough for Sirius to make you both out clearly, you sitting on the couch and Remus with your hands in his, speaking to you in a hushed voice while slow tears dribble off your chin.

“Hey.” Sirius’ voice betrays his lethargy, but you don’t seem to notice. You look up with shiny eyes as he steps into the room. “What’s the matter, sweetheart?”

The answer takes time to come to you. Sirius isn’t sure if you’re searching for the words or if your thoughts are just evading you as they have been since you got hurt, but his heart twinges when your brows bunch in concentration.

Remus only looks at you steadily. He’s been the most patient with you; Sirius and James both have the urge to guess at the ends to your sentences when you get stuck, but Remus only waits, letting you parse it out in your own time.

“I’m sad. Frustrated,” you decide, though you look more glum than angry. You sniff. “I want to be better already.”

Sirius nods in both understanding and sympathy, going to sit behind you on the couch. He knows Remus isn’t the most tactile, but it kills him to see you with your shoulders shaking and no arms wrapped around them. He’s quick to remedy this.

“We were playing cards,” Remus explains in his quiet way (a way Sirius has been trying to mimic to accommodate your sound sensitivity, though it doesn’t come easily to him), “and she just got a bit upset when she didn’t remember whether aces were high or low.”

Sirius tsks, nosing at your cheek. “That’s common enough, darling. It can go either way.”

“That’s what I said,” Remus tells him. His thumbs carve twin paths up the sides of your palms. “It hardly matters, I’m happy to play with them high or low.”

“I just wish I knew like usual,” you say, though you already seem to be calming. Your voice has taken on that distant quality again. It still sounds like you, just a tad dazed, like when you first wake up in the mornings.

Sirius rubs up and down your shoulder, pressing his lips to the side of your chin. He can’t imagine it’s comfortable, feeling so unlike yourself. Worse to know it’s not changing soon. You hit your head a few days ago, and it’ll probably be some time until you feel completely normal again.

Sirius has been told he can be dramatic, but when you’d fallen he honestly thought for a second that you were dead, you were so still. In the pandemonium of sirens and doctors and waiting rooms that had followed, James and Remus each took a bit of time to process things, get their emotions in order, but Sirius has never been able to cry in public. When they finally got to take you home, he’d gotten in the shower and cried so hard he thought he’d throw up. He’s honestly not sure if he’s ever been so terrified in his life. After you got into bed that night he’d hugged you so hard you’d called him James, and your boyfriends had all laughed before they realized you weren’t joking.

He and Remus hold you in silence for some time. None of you seem to mind. Sirius is still too sleepy to get bored, you’re presumably too concussed, and Remus is still Remus. He can look at the two of you all day and never need a diversion.

The room seems to come alive when James gets home, not only because of his sparkling personality but also because he lets in a bunch of sunlight and a cacophony of street noise with him.

“Hello, my loves,” he says, adjusting his volume halfway through the sentence. He shuts the door behind him with care, dropping his rugby bag onto the floor with far less. “How are we doing?”

“I’m doing horrible,” Sirius says, though it’s obvious he was really only asking about you. “I haven’t had anything to eat yet today.”

“You have just woken up,” Remus points out with a droll look, but James indulges him.

He sets a big hand on Sirius’ head and kisses between his own fingers. He smells like dirt and sweat, gross on anyone else but hot when it’s him. James gives you the same treatment next, palm stroking down the back of your head protectively.

“You alright, lovie?” he murmurs.

You hum. “Why?”

“Nothing.” His eyes slide to Sirius, a question in them. “You look as though you might’ve had a cry, that’s all.”

“Water under the bridge,” Sirius assures him, giving you a firm squeeze. “We’re all good now, just very hungry and in need of someone to make sandwiches for lunch. Right, baby?”

You nod amenably, but Remus fixes you with a curious look.

“Are you hungry, dove?” he asks.

You take some time to mull this over. Sirius bites the inside of his lip to restrain himself, and he can see James doing the same to his cheek. It’s a good thing that you’re taking such a thorough inventory of yourself, he supposes, but it’s agonizing to watch how much effort it takes you. After a while, you say, “I think so.”

Remus nods. “Alright. We had a snack a bit ago, but if you’re hungry you should eat. I can make sandwiches,” he shoots Sirius a teasing look as he starts to stand, “since I’m not in the habit of taking advantage of those who’ve just got home from training.”

“No, sit.” James urges Remus back down with a hand on his shoulder, squeezing fondly. “I’ve got it, I’m on an adrenaline roll right now anyway. Egg and cress all around?”

“Yes, please,” Remus says. You echo a moment later.

Sirius can’t seem to detach himself from you, which isn’t unusual but has been worse since your injury. He dots kisses along the edge of your jaw to amuse himself.

“Are you feeling tired?” Remus asks you. “You haven’t had a nap yet today.”

Sirius waits for the inevitable joke about your nursing home schedule, but it doesn’t come. You must not be feeling up to it.

You shrug, mumbling, “I’m okay.”

“Have a nap with me after lunch,” Sirius says. “I’m knackered, and I could use a cuddle buddy.”

You make a confused humming sound. “Were you just asleep?”

“I was,” he admits readily. “And it’ll be even better the second time around, with you there.”

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fireya-x · 2 months ago

Text

caught in the undertow

【 AO3 Link (full tag list) || masterlist 】 ✦ John Price x Reader ✦ John made the right call that day. It could have cost you your life, but it saved a dozen others - innocent men, women and children. He made the right decision. …did he? ✦ 7k words ✦ tags/cw: injury, angst, feels, medical and military inaccuracies, guilt, trauma/ptsd, piv sex, …did i mention angst?

“Captain Price,” Kate Laswell stated in her usual cool, precise and professional manner. She was called forward to speak last, and the room seemed to hold its breath as she spoke. “Undoubtedly saved multiple lives. I was in communication with him the entire time, and the situation was dire. The moment the Sergeant moved to shield the mother and her child, the hostile shifted, presenting immediate danger and forced Captain Price to take the shot. His team's confirmations came almost immediately. Threat neutralized, Sergeant down, requesting immediate medevac. The sequence of events is clear. The timings, irrefutable. It was the only choice to prevent a larger loss of life.”

She paused, allowing her words to settle, her gaze sweeping across the jury, then to John. And finally, her eyes met yours, a flicker of empathy, a shared understanding of the burden of impossible choices, passing between you.

When you took your seat in the witness stand what felt like hours before, the air in the courtroom was thick, feeling more suffocating than the humid summer air outside. You felt the seams of your dress digging into your skin like a thousand tiny needles, the fabric clinging to your body like a second skin. The injury hidden beneath that fabric pulsed with a dull ache, a rhythm that echoed the beat of your heart, a constant reminder of why you were there in the first place.

Across from you, John shifted in his seat. Captain John Price. Your Captain. Your leader. The love of your life. Accused and tried for the choice he made that day. He held his composure with the effortless grace of a man who’d stared down far worse fates than a panel of judges, his gaze fixed on some point beyond the courtroom walls, as if searching for an escape. But you, who knew him better than anyone, saw the subtle signs of the storm raging beneath – the tension in his jaw and the way his fingers tapped a restless rhythm against the table.

It had been weeks since the operation, since the bullet meant for a terrorist found its path through your shoulder, but the memory was still vivid, a cruel film reel playing on a loop in his mind.

The mission had been textbook, up until the point it wasn’t. The intel, as so often happened in this line of work, had unraveled, leaving you and Gaz staring down the barrel of a hostage situation gone sideways. A dozen innocent lives held captive by a man desperate for freedom, his finger itching on the trigger of his AK. A man whose eyes held the cold glint of a cornered animal, ready to unleash a violence that could silence a room within seconds.

You aimed at him, your finger tightening on the trigger of your own weapon, but you couldn't fire.

A mother and her child were singled out from the rest of the group of hostages. He used them as leverage, as a shield, their bodies a barrier that prevented both you and Gaz from taking the shot. And then, without thinking, without hesitation, you moved. Instinct and years of training taking over, your body reacting before your mind could even process the risk, you stepped forward, ushering the mother and child behind you, shielding them with your own flesh and bone.

You’d made a choice.

And just as you made that conscious choice that second, so had John. It all happened in a blink of an eye. The radio comms were a mess, you heard your name, a strangled cry from John booming in your ear as he yelled for you to stand down, a mixture of desperate shouts that nobody had a clear shot – and then the unmistakable twitch of the finger on the enemy's AK –

The prosecutor, a man whose weapon was his voice, spoke up, his words cutting through the tense silence, slicing through your thoughts. “Captain Jonathan Price,” he began, walking slowly towards where John was sitting, “Let’s revisit the moments that led up to the point where you decided to fire upon the hostile. Was there any point during the hostage negotiation that didn’t involve engaging an armed man directly?”

John’s gaze shifted to the man standing before him, the predator circling its prey, seeking a weakness, an admission of guilt, that would seal his fate. “The situation was volatile,” he stated, his voice low, controlled. “The suspect had already demonstrated he was willing to use lethal force.”

“Yes, indeed,” the prosecutor agreed, his tone laced with a false sympathy that made your stomach churn. “One civilian had been shot, tragically. But tell me, Captain, were the remaining hostages in imminent danger at the precise moment you fired your – ” He paused, his gaze dropping to his notes, then snapping back to John. “...sniper rifle, an MCPR-300, I believe? With a compromised line of sight? Don’t you think that was reckless? Negligent, even?”

John didn’t answer at first, his eyes focused back onto a distant horizon beyond the room. He was taken back to that warehouse, the scene he had witnessed through his scope, the twitch of the finger of the man who was about to decide about the fate of innocent people, who was about to punish you for stepping in front of his only leverage, who —

“Captain,” the prosecutor repeated, “perhaps you haven’t been paying attention. I asked you a question.”

John took a slow, steadying breath, forcing himself to surface. “I heard the question," he said finally, his voice low and dangerous, almost sounding like a threat. “There wasn’t a second to spare. I had to take the shot. The second those hostages were moved, the hostile was enraged. He was about to shoot them all, and the Sergeant stepped into my line of fire. I knew that the shot wasn’t impossible. It was flesh and bone, no vital organ. I had to… I had to risk it.”

“So you risked the life of one of your own?” The prosecutor's voice dripped with disdain, a subtle emphasis on the word risked that twisted like a knife in John's gut.

“It was that,” John stated, his tone flat, devoid of emotion, a soldier reciting a mission report, the only way he knew how to survive this interrogation. “Or a far worse outcome. I made the choice that saved the most lives. It was the only choice.”

He refused to look at you, couldn't bear the sight of your bandaged shoulder, the visible reminder of his decision, his guilt. His gaze remained fixed on the far wall, as if he could will away the memories that haunted him.

The prosecutor, frustrated by John's stoicism, turned his attention to you.

“Sergeant,” he said, his voice taking on a deceptive gentleness designed to lull you into a false sense of security, to draw out the accusation he so desperately sought. “Perhaps you can help us understand what happened that day. Can you walk us through the events leading up to… the incident? In your own words.”

“Of course.” You stood, your back straight, your gaze meeting the prosecutor’s, your injured arm held slightly stiffly at your side – a consistent, throbbing reminder of the choice, the bullet, your pain.

You described how you and Gaz had entered the warehouse in hopes to clear the situation, how Price was in communication with Laswell about this unexpected turn of events, watching every movement through his scope; how Soap and Ghost were circling the perimeter outside to find any possible way to secure the situation from a different angle. You described the hostages huddled to the side of the room, their faces full of terror. You told them about the mother and her child, no more than five years old, singled out, terrorized by a man with nothing left to lose.

“Tell us,” the prosecutor interrupted, sharp and accusing, “why didn’t you fire on the man? You were closer. Why did you rely on someone outside to have a clear shot? Were you not confident in your own abilities, Sergeant?"

“Because, like I said, there was a mother and her child right in front of him,” you repeated, “and I knew he was going to shoot at them if one of us just lifted a finger.”

“But surely, a trained soldier -” The prosecutor began, his voice dripping with disdain, but you cut him off.

“There wasn't time, sir,” you shot back, “I didn't have time to think, to calculate, to consider my options. I acted on instinct. I reacted. And I did what I had to do to protect those innocent lives. Captain Price knew that, and he acted accordingly.”

“And by doing so,” the prosecutor pressed, “you put yourself directly in the path of Captain Price’s bullet. A bullet fired from a high-powered sniper rifle. A weapon designed to kill.”

You met his gaze, your jaw tightening. “Yes, sir,” you stated. “But if I hadn’t moved, that mother and child would be dead.”

You described the way you’d ushered the hostages behind you, ignoring John's desperate pleas for you to get down, knowing you had only seconds, maybe less, to act. “His finger was already on the trigger,” you continued. “He was unhinged. He wouldn't have hesitated. I did what I had to do.”

You looked at John, your heart twisting as you saw the agony in his eyes, the guilt he carried, the self-loathing that radiated off him in waves.

“And then?” the prosecutor pressed, his voice sharp, intent on dissecting this moment, this choice, until he’d found the weakness, the fault, that would bring John Price down.

“And then, everything happened very quickly. I saw the gunman fall, his weapon clattering to the floor.” You swallowed hard, forcing the memory down, the sight of the blood, his blood and yours, mingling on the concrete floor. “Then the pain hit. I fell… and then… everything went black.”

John’s shot, impossibly precise, impossibly fast, had found its mark, silencing a threat before it could unleash hell.

“Captain Price’s shot,” you continued, “saved lives that day. He stopped a terrorist before he could execute any of those innocent men, women, and children. Before he could shoot Sergeant Garrick or me. It was the only shot, and it was the right choice.”

One by one, Gaz, Soap, and Ghost were questioned, their testimonies echoing your account – a chaotic situation, a volatile enemy, a split-second judgment call that had saved lives.

Laswell’s testimony was calm, factual, and her words were carefully chosen. She offered no justification, no defense, only the cold, hard facts that painted a clear picture – there had been no other option, no other choice.

But his team’s words, their support, did nothing to soothe the guilt that burned in John’s gut.

He’d fired the shot. He’d made the choice. And you, the woman he loved, the soldier who’d placed her life in his hands, carried the scar, the physical reminder, of that impossible decision.

Not guilty on all charges.

John shook his lawyer’s hand, accepting congratulations with a curt nod, his gaze distant, his thoughts a million miles away. And as you watched him walk out of the courtroom, his shoulders hunched, his steps heavy, you knew, that the real battle had just begun.

The weeks that followed were punctuated by doctor’s visits, physical therapy, and the slow, agonizing process of reclaiming the strength and mobility you’d temporarily lost. Soap, Gaz, and even Ghost, took turns checking in, bringing you takeout, offering their clumsy attempts at comfort and companionship. It felt like you saw more of them during those weeks of recovery than you did John.

But he was meticulous about your care, driven by a desperate need to somehow atone, to mend the damage he’d caused. He drove you to every doctor’s appointment, sat silently beside you in the waiting rooms. He made sure you had the best doctors, the best physical therapy. You’d find fresh ice packs in the freezer, pain medication neatly arranged on the kitchen counter, a schedule for your meds taped to the fridge with military precision.

He brought home flowers, he found that rare book you’d mentioned, the one you thought was lost forever, and placed it on your bedside table. A desperate attempt to bring back a sliver of the normalcy you’d lost.

He'd do it all to soothe his mind, to right the wrongs just a little bit. But it didn't help.

Just like that verdict hadn’t brought him any solace. He was a prisoner of his own self, the bars constructed from the barbed wire of guilt and self-accusation. He’d fired the bullet. With the knowledge that it would tear through your flesh, hurt you, make you bleed –

Not guilty.

The words churned in his mind like a dark undercurrent, dragging him down, down, down into the depths of his self-inflicted torment. They echoed through the empty spaces of his days, a mocking chorus that followed him everywhere, laughing at him from the shadows.

Not guilty.

As the image of you being rushed into surgery repeated in his mind. His heart beating a million times a minute, replaying how your eyes rolled back into your head from the pain as soon as the adrenaline faded, how he had begged Laswell to send medical faster, how he watched his team tend to you because he was frozen in place, letting realization hit him of what he had just done with the force of a tidal wave.

Not guilty.

As he remembered pacing the waiting room like a caged animal, every thought about you a self-inflicting wound to his soul, every passing second an eternity. He saw your face everywhere, in the worried expressions of his team, on Laswell, as she relayed the surgeon’s updates on your condition. “It was a clean shot, John. Just like you knew it was. She will be okay.” But even those words – words of reassurance, of hope – couldn’t calm the storm raging within him, couldn’t drown out the relentless echo of that damning verdict.

Not guilty.

One centimeter. The surgeon talked to John personally, and it felt like a cruel joke when he praised the precision of the shot – painting him as the incredible soldier who’d done the unthinkable, the hero who saved the day – one fucking centimeter. A haunting reminder of your fragility, just how close he’d missed the subclavian artery, walking a thin line between duty and devastation, between love and loss.

Not guilty.

As he threw himself into his work, disappearing to the base for days, trying to outrun his own mind by getting lost in familiar routines – trainings, missions, briefings – a desperate attempt to swim against the current of guilt, but it was relentless, pulling him back into the depths of despair over and over again.

He’d stand in the training room, the heavy bag swaying before him, a silent opponent that couldn't judge him, couldn't accuse him. He’d pummel it, again and again, the satisfying thud of leather against his knuckles a fleeting release.

Not guilty.

As he felt the sting of his knuckles split open, the blood a welcome distraction, a pain that grounded him in the present, momentarily pushing back the memories. He didn't stop, didn't flinch. He just kept hitting the bag, the rhythm of his blows a mantra, a futile attempt to atone for a sin he couldn’t wash away.

Not guilty.

As even his sleep was haunted by the echoes of that day. It was always the same - the screams of the hostages, the metallic clang of the terrorist's weapon hitting the concrete floor, your muffled gasps as the bullet ripped through you. He’d wake in a cold sweat, his sheets tangled, his heart hammering against his ribs.

He had to relive the moment over and over - his love for you against the lives of those hostages - the terror that seized him as his finger squeezed the trigger, the sickening thud of the bullet finding its mark, the knowledge that it was his skill, his precision, that had brought you so close to death.

Not guilty.

Could he have waited another second for a clear shot?

No. He remembered it all too vividly; the frantic whispers in his earpiece -

No clear shot, Captain.

Civilians blocking the path.

He’s moving. He’s gonna shoot.

The terrorist’s finger tightening on the trigger, the manic gleam in his eye. He was a cornered animal, desperate, ready to take everyone down with him.

The way you had moved, instinctively, selflessly, pushing the woman and child behind you, placing yourself in the path of the bullet he was about to unleash.

He’d made the only call he could, he knew that. But logic didn’t seem to matter against the gnawing guilt that had become his constant companion. The weight of it, the burden of that impossible choice, had him retreating further into himself, desperately seeking refuge from the truth he couldn't escape – he’d chosen to save those lives, and in doing so, had almost sacrificed yours.

Not guilty.

As he’d scrub his hands raw, the water running red in his mind, as if trying to wash away the phantom stain of your blood. He couldn’t bear to look at himself in the mirror, his reflection - the hard lines of his face, the haunted eyes - a constant accusation.

Not guilty.

As he’d walk through the door, late and weary, the aroma of his favorite meal would hit him, the familiar scent a painful reminder of the normalcy he craved, the domesticity he felt he no longer deserved. He’d find a bottle of his favorite whiskey already poured, two glasses waiting on the table, and you, in that soft, worn sweater he loved, would greet him with a smile that made his heart ache with a love he felt was both undeserved and unbearable.

Not guilty.

As he watched the aftermath of his choice everywhere. The way you winced when you tried to do mundane everyday tasks, reaching for the coffee on the cupboard, brushing your hair, finding a comfortable position to sleep. A reminder, constant and always present, of his choice, his bullet.

And yet, when you caught him looking at you, you’d still offer him the brightest and reassuring smile. You smiled at him. You seemed to be so full of life, so full of love – something he felt he could no longer accept after what he had done.

Not guilty.

It kept mocking him, over and over and over again – and the amber liquid in his glass did nothing to drown the demons that were laughing at him, their voices echoing the verdict, the words that condemned him more surely than any court of law ever could.

“Can’t sleep?” You’d ask, your voice soft and sleepy, as you approached him standing by the moonlit window, your hand reaching out to rest on his arm.

He’d flinch away from your touch, the reaction so instinctive, so painful, that it felt like a knife stabbed right through your heart.

“No.” His answer was short, clipped, and was followed by a silence that felt deafening, pushing the chasm that had been broken open between you even further.

“Talk to me, John.” Your voice trembled, a mixture of frustration and sadness, a desperate plea for the man you loved to emerge from the shadows of his own making. You’d let him have his space, but you felt like you were losing him. You respected he would need time, but it was increasingly frightening to see him retreat further and further into this self-imposed exile.

“There’s nothing to say.” He set the glass down, the crystal clinking against the wood, a sharp sound in the stillness of the room. He turned to walk away, as if your presence was a physical burden.

You knew what he did wasn’t a rejection, but a shield, a desperate attempt to protect you from the shattered pieces of himself. He thought he was sparing you, keeping you from the darkness that threatened to drown him.

You longed for his touch, for the familiar comfort of his embrace, for the warmth of his laughter, the way he’d make you forget the world with a single glance. You longed for the man who laughed with his men, who stole kisses in the dead of night, whose touch had once been your sanctuary.

One evening, you stood in the bathroom to take a shower, as you desperately tried to reach for the clasp of your strapless bra. You hated that thing already, but you didn't have a choice, as straps would hurt your shoulder.

You couldn’t reach around, your shoulder throbbing with each awkward movement. The frustration of this simple task, the feeling of helplessness, amplified the deeper ache in your heart, the loneliness that had become your constant companion. You had enough.

“John!” It was both a cry for help as it was a plea for reconnection.

He was by your side in an instant, crossing your shared space to the bathroom in three quick strides, alert by the sound of your voice. “What is it? What’s wrong?” The urgency in his voice, the raw concern he couldn’t mask, a contrast to the coldness that had settled between you in the weeks since the trial, and it had tears flowing freely down your cheeks now.

The sight of you, usually so strong, so capable, brought low by something as simple as a stubborn clasp, tore through his gut like a burning blade.

He'd put that look on your face.

He did.

“This damned thing…” you gestured to the bra clasp, your throat constricting as the emotions that had been suppressed for so long threatened to finally spill over.

He didn’t hesitate. “Let me.” He said, moving behind you, his touch gentle as he brushed your hair aside and his fingers undid the clasp. Something he had done a million times before, but not with a touch that felt like you were made out of porcelain, about to shatter under the weight of his guilt.

“The doctor said I can change the bandages myself now,” you said, your voice soft, hesitant, “Can you… can you help me?”

He turned away, retrieving the first aid kit from the bathroom cabinet, his movements stiff, controlled, a familiar mask slipping back into place. But as you watched him lay out the gauze, the antiseptic, the scissors, you saw the slight tremor in his hands, the way his jaw clenched.

You knew, he was afraid of you. Or rather, he was afraid of himself, afraid of the damage he’d inflicted, the hurt he’d caused. He was afraid of hurting you again.

“Turn around, love,” he murmured, his voice husky, a rough caress against your ear. “May I?”

“You know you may.”

You turned, and you could feel the heat of his gaze, which burned into your back as if he could see right through you. You could feel the tension in him, the way he held his breath, as his fingers brushed against your skin, gently peeling away the old bandage.

Then you heard him inhale sharply, a sound that spoke volumes. He'd seen the bruise.

“It’s…” His voice hitched, the word catching in his throat, the sight of that bruise, a grotesque masterpiece of purple and yellow blooming across your shoulder blade, a brutal reminder of the force of his impact, his choice, his guilt.

You didn't need to see his face to know the expression that twisted his features. You felt it, the self-loathing, the way it had poisoned him and had turned his love into a weapon turned against himself.

You tried to meet his gaze. “It's just a bruise, John,” you said, your voice softer now, a plea for him to see you, the woman who loved him, not the casualty he'd created in his own mind.

He worked silently to fixate the new bandage, the silence stretching between you, thick with unspoken emotions. Then he turned to leave, his hand reaching for the doorknob, but you stopped him, your hand reaching out, your fingers closing around his wrist.

“Don’t,” you whispered, your voice trembling, your touch a desperate attempt to anchor him to the present, to remind him that he hadn't destroyed you, that you were still here, still his.

He looked at you, his eyes clouded with a mix of emotions you couldn’t decipher - guilt, fear, longing, and a deep, abiding love that he'd tried so hard to bury. He wanted to pull away, to tell you that you deserved better, that he was no good for you, a danger, a threat.

“I should…” he began, his voice rough with the effort of holding himself together. “I have reports…”

But you weren't letting him escape. Not this time. You stepped closer, pressing your naked body against his, ignoring the ache in your shoulder, the protest of your wounded flesh, because the ache in your heart, the yearning for his touch, was a far more powerful force.

“Don’t,” you whispered, your breath warm on his skin, igniting a fire that threatened to burn away the carefully constructed walls he'd built around himself. “Don't push me away, John. Please.”

He closed his eyes for a moment, your scent filling his senses, something he’d craved, longed for, but felt he no longer had the right to claim.

“I don’t –” he started to protest, the denial on his lips, but you silenced him with a kiss, standing on your tiptoes to press your lips against his. He hesitated, a battle raging within him, then, with a groan that sounded more like surrender than anything else, he gave in. His hands, as if with a will of their own, found their way to your waist, pulling you closer, molding your curves against the hard lines of his body, seeking solace in the familiar feel of you, the warmth, the softness.

You moaned against his lips, a sound of pure need that seemed to break the last vestiges of his control. The weight of his guilt, the burden he’d carried for weeks, seemed to dissipate under the heat of your kiss, replaced by a more primal need; a raw, desperate hunger.

You pulled back just enough to catch your breath, to look into his eyes, the stormy blue depths you’d thought you’d lost forever, now blazing with a rekindled fire that sent a jolt of pure desire straight through you.

He kissed you again with a ferocity that had your knees going weak, his tongue a weapon claiming every inch of your mouth, his hands a possessive force on your hips, as if he could physically merge your bodies, your souls, erasing the distance, the doubt, that had haunted you for far too long.

He lifted you then, without breaking the kiss, carrying you towards the bedroom, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist. He laid you down on the bed, his weight settling over you, his gaze never leaving yours as he reached behind you, tucking a pillow beneath your injured shoulder.

He loomed over you, his body a welcome weight against your own. “This okay?”

“Yes,” you breathed, your fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer, your body arching towards his, needing more, needing everything he’d held back for far too long. “God, yes, John… Just… touch me.”

His touch was no longer hesitant, no longer laced with guilt or apprehension. This was the John you knew. His hands, large and calloused, yet infinitely gentle, roamed your body with a familiarity like it was a map he had studied for years.

“Like this?” he rasped, his fingers tracing the line of your jaw, his thumb stroking the sensitive skin beneath your ear, a spot he knew made you shiver with anticipation.

“Yes!” You moaned, arching into his touch, needing more, needing all of him.

“Tell me when it’s too much, yeah?”

You wanted to tell him that nothing he could ever do would be too much, that the thought of him hesitating, of holding back any part of himself from you, was more unbearable than any pain he could inflict. But the words wouldn’t come, caught in the swell of need that tightened your throat, that turned your insides to molten gold under his hungry gaze.

He’d shed his clothes in a heartbeat, and then he was pushing your thighs apart. His knee settled between your legs, and the heat of him, the solid evidence of his desire, his erection standing full and proud, made you ache with a need you hadn't thought possible.

This was him, offering up his vulnerability alongside his desire, reminding himself, reminding you, that he was still the man you’d fallen in love with somewhere between the training ground and the front lines.

“John,” you breathed, his name escaping your lips as he positioned himself at your entrance, the tip of his cock, slick and hot against your aching core, a sensation both familiar and intensely, unbearably, arousing.

He entered you with a force that stole your breath, the feeling both familiar and overwhelming after weeks of forced abstinence.

He was fucking you. Hard, fast, with a ferocity he hadn't unleashed in weeks. Every thrust a desperate attempt to exorcise the demons that haunted him, to rewrite the narrative of his actions, to find solace, oblivion, in the heat of your body and the taste of your skin.

For a stolen moment, it almost worked. He lost himself in the feel of you, tight and hot around him; the scent of you, the taste of you on his lips, a drug that dulled the edges of his pain, offering a fleeting escape from the torment.

But the past had a way of catching up, even in this vulnerable, shared haven of yours.

You arched into him, your head thrown back against the pillows, a moan escaping your lips as he pushed deeper. Your face distorted, your features twisted in the throes of passion, and something within him snapped.

His vision blurred, the lines of your face dissolving –

Your eyes, rolled back, your brows furrowed –

From pleasure. Not pain.

Your breath hitched as he moved – as the bullet hit your shoulder.

Pleasure. Not pain.

He repeated those words over and over like a frantic litany in his mind, trying to erase the image that superimposed itself onto you —

He saw it again, your face, contorted in agony, not ecstasy, as he ran towards you in the warehouse, your body a broken doll sprawled on the blood-soaked concrete, a testament to his choice, his aim, his failure.

Pain.

The warehouse lights glared in his memory, harsh and unforgiving, reflecting off the pool of blood that seemed to expand, to swallow him whole. The metallic tang of it filled his nostrils, choking him. He felt the phantom weight of the rifle against his shoulder, heard the echo of the gunshot, the sickening thud as his bullet found its mark.

His stomach churned, the pleasure, so intense moments before, turning bitter in his mouth, a sour, acidic taste that had bile rising in his throat.

He couldn’t breathe. The room seemed to spin, your body suddenly a stranger, a fragile thing he needed to put at a distance before he destroyed you all over again.

“No…” The denial escaped his lips, a strangled whisper. His body shuddered, a wave of nausea rolling over him, forcing him to pull back, breaking the contact, leaving him stranded on a shore of his own making again, the waves of his guilt crashing over him again, threatening to drag him under again.

“John?” You sat up, the sheet pooling around your waist, concern furrowing your brow as you watched him recoil from you, his face distorted with an anguish you couldn’t decipher. You reached for him, your hand hovering hesitantly above his arm, unsure of how to navigate this sudden shift, this retreat back into the darkness he'd been fighting for weeks.

He shook his head, unable to speak, unable to face you. The shame, the self-loathing, was a physical weight that had him collapsing back onto the bed, his back to you, his body curled in on itself, seeking a refuge he knew didn't exist. It was as if he were trying to fold himself into the smallest possible space, disappear into the shadows, become as invisible as the ghosts that haunted him.

“John, what's wrong?” You whispered, your hand still hovering above him, wanting to touch him, to offer comfort, but afraid of intruding, of shattering the fragile shell he seemed to have retreated into.

He shook his head again, the gesture frantic, a silent denial of your offer. He couldn't look at you, couldn't bear the judgment, the accusation, he knew he deserved. The guilt, the remorse, the images that replayed in his mind – they were a relentless tide, an undertow dragging him down into a darkness he wasn’t sure he could escape.

“God, I don’t…” His voice cracked, the weight of his guilt crushing him, squeezing the air from his lungs, stealing his breath. “I don't deserve you… I don’t deserve… any of this.”

He finally turned to you then, and you flinched involuntarily. The pain in your shoulder was nothing compared to the agony etched on his face, the raw, unfiltered torment in his eyes, a reflection of the hell he was living in.

“I look at you…” He choked out, the confession a jagged piece of shrapnel piercing his heart. “And all I see is... the blood. Your blood. Everywhere…” He buried his face in his hands, his shoulders shaking as a sob ripped through him, the sound raw and guttural, a stark contrast to the strong soldier you'd always known, the man who had built his life on control, on burying his emotions beneath layers of duty and discipline.

This wasn't the John you knew, the man who faced every challenge head-on, who commanded a room with his presence. This was a man undone, a warrior stripped of his armor, reduced to tears by the torment of his guilt, the terror of his own actions and his love for you. Vulnerable and exposed.

And as he sat there, his body trembling, his breath coming in ragged gasps, the dam finally broke completely. He was a ship caught in a hurricane, the waves of his guilt crashing over him, the mast of his resolve snapping, the sails of his self-control ripped to shreds. His sobs, raw and guttural, filled the room, a lament that echoed the turmoil in his soul, a sound that had your heart shattering into a million pieces.

“It’s… it’s everywhere. On my hands... On the walls… In my dreams… God, I can't… I can't escape it.”

You reached out, your hand settling gently on his arm, but you didn't speak. You could offer no words, no reassurances, that could alleviate this pain. You could only offer him your presence, your touch; show him that he did still deserved you and your love.

“Those nights… Every time I close my eyes, it's there. The warehouse, the hostages, the look on your face, the blood…” He shuddered, his voice breaking as he continued, “It's like… I’m back there, in that moment, but this time… this time you don’t get up.”

His gaze, filled with a desolate pain you'd never witnessed before, settled on the bandage on your shoulder.

“One centimeter,” he whispered then, “one fucking centimeter... and it was my choice, my bullet… ” He trailed off, the realization of it all, the weight of his actions, crashing over him all over again. “God, I’ve seen men die… good men, the best… I've held them as they bled out, watched the light fade from their eyes… But this…” He shook his head, the words choking him. “This is different. I… I can't…”

He shifted slightly, his gaze still settled on your shoulder. “You’ve been injured before,” he choked out, “hell, I've been shot, stabbed, blown up…” He laughed, a harsh, brittle sound – he’d survived a hundred battles, a thousand close calls, only to be brought down by his own hand, his own love. “But this… this time, it was me. I was the one who…”

He couldn't finish the sentence, the words dissolving into another sob that racked his body. He pressed his palms against his eyes, as if he could physically erase the images that haunted him, but the memories were too vivid, too deeply ingrained - your startled gasp, the sickening thud of the bullet, the blood, your blood, blossoming against your skin. He saw it everywhere: on his hands, on his uniform, on the sheets of your shared bed. A stain he couldn't wash away, a mark of Cain branded onto his soul.

“I’m a monster,” he choked out, the words a strangled cry, a confession ripped from the very core of his being, a truth he'd been running from since the moment he'd pulled the trigger. “Don’t you see? I could have killed you... I almost killed you…”

You could see that he was losing the battle against himself, the fight for control he’d waged for weeks finally slipping through his fingers.

“Forgive me,” he whispered, his voice cracking again, the words an admission of his vulnerability, his need for you, the one person he felt he'd failed. “Please… forgive me.”

“John, stop.” You finally whispered as he seemed to have paused his emotional confession. You shifted closer to him, gently placing your hands on his ribs, his warmth seeping into your skin. “You’re not a monster. The hostages, they’re alive because of you. You saved Gaz. You saved my life. And you were the only one who could make that shot. You know that.”

Your hands found their way around him, to lift his head, so that he would look at you, so you could see him, the man you loved, lost in the depths of his own despair. You gently cupped his cheeks, your fingers wiping away the trails of tears that were rolling down, a gesture of comfort, of reassurance, and a silent plea for him to believe in your love, in the truth that transcended his self-inflicted judgment. “Listen to me.” You said, louder now, your voice a lifeline thrown out to pull a man drowning back to the surface. “There is nothing to forgive.”

“But I –” He started to argue, to protest, but the words caught in his throat, his breath hitched as he surrendered to the grief, the remorse, that had been bottled up inside him for so long.

"Shh," you soothed, leaning in, your forehead resting against his.

You pulled back slightly, meeting his gaze. “I don’t blame you for this, John. Not one bit. Not a single, tiny bit."

His eyes, shadowed with doubt, searched yours, as if looking for the lie, the accusation he was convinced he deserved instead.

“Yes, it sucks. Yes, it hurts.” You continued, your voice soft but firm, “but you know what would have hurt more? Dead parents and their children, and me… maybe not even here to hurt at all. He was about to fire, John. You know it. I know it.”

You held his gaze, your thumbs stroking the lines of pain etched around his eyes, lines that spoke of sleepless nights. “You may not want to be called a hero, John,” you whispered, leaning forward, resting your forehead against his again, offering him the comfort, the understanding, the love he so desperately needed. “But you are my hero. You did the right thing. If there's anyone on this earth who could make that shot, that impossible shot, who could put a bullet through my shoulder and stop a terrorist’s heart in the same breath… it’s you. It’s always been you.”

He stared at you, the intensity of his gaze softening as he listened to your words, the frantic beating of his heart gradually slowing, the storm within him beginning to calm.

“I just…” The confession escaped his lips on a shuddering breath. “I almost lost you. The thought of it…” He trailed off, unable to voice the terror that haunted him, the vision of your lifeless body, his bullet the cause, a constant nightmare from which there seemed no escape.

“I’m here,” you whispered, cutting him off before he could descend back into the abyss of his own making. “I’m alive.”

He closed his eyes, surrendering to the pressure of your touch, your warmth seeping into his skin. He let himself get pulled against your chest, his head resting so he could hear your heartbeat steadily in his ear. A reassuring lullaby to soothe him, a reminder that you were still here, with him.

“I love you,” he whispered, the words broken, a confession wrenched from his soul. “God, I love you so much… I almost… I’m so sorry…”

“I know, John.”

His breathing slowed as the tension ebbed from his body. He realized then, in the quiet aftermath, that pulling away, retreating into the silence of his own guilt, had only deepened the cut, amplified his pain. The distance had been a lie, a shield he'd put up to protect you from him, but now he knew: you didn’t need protection. You needed him, just as he needed you. The only force strong enough to pull him back from the abyss, the only remedy to heal those self-inflicted wounds, was you.

“I know.”

His tears continued to fall, but they were different now – not the hot, frantic tears of a man drowning in guilt, but softer, almost silent tears, born of exhaustion and a fragile hope that maybe, just maybe, he could find a way to forgive himself.

You watched him as he drifted off to sleep, his face finally peaceful. For the first time in weeks, he slept without nightmares and tremors. He was exhausted – emotionally, physically drained – the weight of his guilt temporarily lifted by the power of your presence, your touch, your love.

You leaned down, your lips brushing against his hair, your lips lingering, as you rested your head above his.

“I love you, too, John. It’s alright. We’re alright.”

528 notes · View notes

phyrestartr · 7 months ago

Text

PR Stunt (Only, Right?) | Sukuna/M!Reader

W/C: 6.9K (oh god lol) #NSFW, fingering, implied fucking, bottom!reader, top!sukuna, angst, fluff, smut, happy ending, Sukuna owns a body shop, reader is an actor, kinda meet cute, ABO dynamics, mpreg, yes there are always babies involved because i love dad sukuna, surprise baby, sukuna is a dickhead (what else is new), Gojo is an actor, Getou is a manager/agent, Toji is a stunt coordinator, Jin is a teacher tags: @kamote-kuneho @better-imagination-9 @flowersatwork @watyousayin

“Did you sleep with (L. Name) (F. Name)?”

The question caught Sukuna off guard; normally, Uraume didn't inquire into his personal life in regards to who he had and hadn't slept with. They were a friend, yes, but moreover they were the bookkeeper and helped with securing clients and arranging meetings–celebrities and their managers were fucks that Sukuna didn't like negotiating with. Best to leave the yapping to someone with a cooler head.

“Where the hell did that come from?” Sukuna asked as he rolled out from under the newest commissioned vehicle.

Uraume walked to him, iPad in hand, and turned it to him, stone cold.

Sukuna sat up straighter and squinted at the screen, annoyed. You’d probably just made up some salacious rumour and spread it throughout your friend circles; or worse, you wanted revenge on him for something he probably definitely did. In that case, Sukuna could somewhat understand. But still–

(Name) putting on weight? What’s happening to the former bombshell babe of Japan?!

Pregnant with a baby boy?! The secret's out!

(Name) returns to the stage after giving birth to a baby boy–but who is the father?

(Name) driving a Ryoumen Sukuna rescue vehicle?! Could he be the deadbeat dad we've been looking for?

Sukuna sucked his teeth after skimming over the article titles presented to him.

“...No proof.”

“Ah. Then please explain this,” Uraume requested, still polite as ever, as they flicked to an additional few images the scumbag paparazzi had caught of you.

One was the car mentioned. Sukuna remembered it like it was yesterday–the joy of restoring a Porsche 911 back into its former glory was unmatched. You happily paid for all the parts and too often swung by to see the progress being made on the old thing. Obviously, Sukuna was more than happy to oblige.

The next was of you holding a little nugget of a baby against your chest as you walked down a street in Shibuya. Nothing too damning, nothing too inspirational.

But the last one–

“The fuck?” Sukuna mumbled as he snatched the iPad from Uraume’s hands and zoomed in on the now-toddler sitting with you in that damn Porsche, grinning brightly beside his mum while you ruffled his hair. His very, very pink hair.

Sukuna took a breath while he thought. He didn't have to think too hard, though, not when he still dreamed about you and the short-lived fling between the two of you.

“A Porsche 911, huh?” Sukuna grinned as he looked over the rusted beater of a car. He could still see scraps of its former glory, of the beautiful thing she used to be. Heaven knows she would've become an irreparable hunk of junk if you hadn't bought it from a scrapyard.

“Yep.” You beamed. “So you think you can make her pretty again?”

“You kidding? I'd pay you to let me fix this thing, baby.” Sukuna caught sight of your security stepping forward, but you waved them off without a second thought.

Sukuna smirked. “But it’s not gonna be cheap.”

You nodded. “Well, do what you have to. I'll pay whatever you need, handsome.”

“Yeah?” Sukuna asked, looking your neatly-manicured appearance up and down; you were dressed like you were meeting someone of great importance (and you were, obviously), with your hair groomed perfectly, outfit fit for a premiere, skin flawless.

“Mhm. And I tip well.” you looked him up and down in kind, grinning as you bit at the nub of your sunglasses.

“Done.”

Every time you came to check on his progress, genuine excitement flooding in your motormouthed words, you'd go home with him and fuck him silly.

And now, you were the momma to his baby. Allegedly.

“I–so what the fuck does this have to do with anything?” Sukuna ran a frustrated hand through his hair after Uraume took the tablet back. “Bitch isn't asking for anything, he's not asking me to be his public fucking baby daddy, not asking me to pay for nothing?”

“No,” Uraume conceded, “But he and his PR managers have reached out concerning this.”

The man groaned and stood. “Fucking hell. Can't stand fucking PR teams. The fuck did they want?”

“They want to make a statement about Touma's father.”

Sukuna froze.

“Touma's a good name for a boy, right?”

You asked the question so suddenly, so out of nowhere in the quiet of the afterglow. The city lights sparkled and winked at you both through the towering windows keeping you safe from the outside world. In hindsight, Sukuna would wonder if the city was excited for him. For you.

“What, for a mutt?” Sukuna drawled, puffing on a blunt while he played with your hair and drowned in the tingles left in the wake of fingers drawing circles on his bare chest.

“For a kid,” you chastised with a laugh. “I like Touma. Or Touka for a girl. Ayato's nice, too. Maybe Kazue.”

“You better not be pregnant.”

“I'm not, I'm not. I'm just getting baby fever, I guess.” You hummed and left a sweet kiss against his tan skin. “I guess being around a big, bad boy like you's got me feeling domestic.”

Sukuna laughed, dazed and happy. “You wanna ruin this pretty lil’ body for a fucking kid? Be my guest. Just don't come looking for a booty call after you've ruined yourself like that.”

“Oh, don't worry,” you cooed. “I won't.”

Man. Man.

“A statement.”

“In other words–”

“I'm not the fucking father.”

“This might be a good way to get Yorozu off your case,” Uraume suggested, and Sukuna perked up.

“Right. She fuckin’ hates kids.”

“So, if you were to have a son, and it's revealed you've been quietly trying to make things work behind the scenes with (Name), then hypothetically–”

“I'll take the runt.”

Truth is out–Ryoumen Sukuna is the father, (Name) tells fans on social media!

Sukuna hated seeing that shit. The circus celebrities had to dance through used to be funny until he somehow got swept up into it. Until he suddenly had a baby boy that looked so much like him and so much like you.

He spent too much time on your socials, scrolling through promotion posts and photos of you at red carpet events and premieres–and then he remembered you had a private account. One that you said he could follow. One that he never followed.

Sukuna rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling as he sulked in bed. Was he really about to sacrifice his pride for this? Was he seriously gonna request to follow your personal account just moments after articles dropped and tweets were sent about him being the baby daddy? Could his pride take it?

Fuck me. This shit is highschool.

He requested to follow, and not even a minute later, you approved it.

That had him interested. Did you want him to follow? Did you want him to be part of his little guy's life? Were you feeling a rush of anxiety and excitement like he was right now?

“Get over it, you fucking idiot,” he mumbled to himself before scrolling through your photos.

There was so much more here. So many photos of you pregnant, of Touma when he was so ridiculously itty bitty, of when you were recovering in the hospital, looking worn out and exhausted, but still beaming as you held your little boy.

There were photos of his first birthday and the cute…rustic cake you'd apparently made yourself. Your agent, Getou, was there, as was one of your fellow agency mates, Gojo, along with some other folks Sukuna did and didn't recognize.

Of course, his boy–your boy lit up the centre, eyes glittering with the reflection of sparklers and the warmth of a good, safe home. He was happy. The boy–his boy–your boy was happy.

Then he called you. He couldn't help it, not anymore.

Sukuna paced around his penthouse, sipping on his spiked coffee and trying to desperately control his…nerves? Alpha instincts? Excitement? Fuck, he didn't know. But he was full of whatever it was, and it drove him nuts.

“Hi!” You answered as you picked up, so full of life as usual. “Been a while. How're you? What's up?”

Sukuna felt so, so old suddenly. Why were you so awake in the morning?

“Think you can spare some of that pep in your step for me?” Sukuna asked. He smiled when he heard you laugh on the other line. “Dunno how the hell you're so awake in the morning.”

“Well, I don't party or work on cars until the crack of dawn,” you purred back, so sweet and teasing. Sukuna almost got hard. Ugh. Ugh. What the fuck was wrong with him?

“Hah? What, you sayin’ I'm irresponsible ‘n make shitty choices, babe?”

“Absolutely.”

“Tch. Omegas.”

You snickered again before cutting to the chase: “So, you're calling about my Touma?”

Sukuna swallowed. “Yeah. Gotta say I'm pretty fucking confused.”

“Yeah, I get it.” He heard you shift in bed, triggering a rumble of grumpy noises from your little one. You hushed him gently and apologized before the small, crackly purring resumed faintly in the background. The thought made Sukuna's heart ache.

“What do you wanna know?”

Sukuna inhaled deeply. “Why'd you keep it?”

“I wanted him,” you said. “Next question.”

“...When did you know?”

“Mmh…I guess about a week or two after we stopped hooking up.”

“And you didn't say shit?”

You went silent for a moment, and Sukuna felt his nerves tingle and prick. He wasn't anxious. He wasn't feeling betrayed. It wasn't any of that. Absolutely not.

“I guess I got cold feet,” you admitted. “I don't--I know how many baby daddy accusations you get, y'know? I didn't want you to think I was just trying to get you to pay me out or something.”

Oh. Okay. That made sense, actually.

Too many omegas and women Sukuna fucked around with pointed the finger at him if they caught some sort of STI or fell pregnant; even if it was months after fucking, Sukuna would be suspected of fathering the pregnancy of a newly-pregnant, ex-partner he hadn't seen in eternities, and the media would run to the ends of the earth with it. He was the infamous bad boy the media circuit loved to prey on. And Sukuna didn't really care for it–not until now. Not until those fucks ruined his opportunity to be a dad.

“Fucking–” Sukuna sighed and put his mug down to rub his face. “Shit. Shit. Fucking media bastards. Fuck.”

“I need to get my car tuned,” you said.

Sukuna deadpanned. “Read the fucking room, babe, we're not–”

“Do you want me to bring Touma?” You finished, undeterred by the alpha's grouchiness. “So you can meet him? I think he'd like that.”

Oh. Oh. Ouch. His heart–was Sukuna about to die? Why'd his chest hurt so much? What the fuck?

Sukuna cleared his throat and ran a hand through his hair. “I–yeah? Yeah. Alright.”

“Okay, cool. When's your next–”

“Tomorrow.” He cleared his throat again and scratched at the back of his neck. “Any time.”

You stifled a laugh poorly. “Don’t be nervous, Sukuna.”

“M'not. Fuck you.”

“I can do tomorrow. Let's saaay…1pm?”

“Yeah, sure. 1pm.”

You rolled up at 12:59pm.

Sukuna had the garage open, everything tidy and ready to go like he actually gave a fuck about tuning your car when his literal fucking son was about to be in his presence. But he was so not nervous. Definitely not fucking nervous. Nope. Nuh-uh. Never.

You stepped out of the car and Sukuna felt his heart jump; you looked the same as you did last time he saw you. You were dressed more casually, though, done up in joggers and runners with a university hoodie to top it all off. Clearly, you didn't care to impress today.

You threw Sukuna an easy smile before pulling open the back door and taking care in plucking your chubby bunny from his car seat. All the while, Sukuna wandered closer and closer, but maintained a respectful distance just in case your momma bear came out to bite. He knew you had an impressive temper when your easy-going self got pushed too far, and he would rather not bring that out right now.

“Pa!” Your son yipped as soon as he got up into your arms. “Puh Pa!”

You melted immediately, punching Sukuna in the gut with your happy scent of maple syrup and cardamom as the little one nuzzled up to you, repeating variants of “pa!” as he rubbed his chubby cheeks and snotty nose against your neck and face to get that perfect scent onto him.

“You're so sweet, bunny,” you cooed and adjusted him in your arms as you met Sukuna the rest of the way. “Hey, hey! So, did you want to meet him first, or–?”

Sukuna didn't know what the fuck to do, honestly.

“I, uh. Car shit first. What needs tuning?” He drawled, watching the pup clinging to you with rapt attention.

Admittedly, Sukuna didn't really pay attention to what you were saying and what you were gesturing to; he was too captivated by the faint wisps of scent he caught from your little one. He smelled of smoke and syrup–a perfect combination of his parents’ scents.

And he just looked so much like the both of you. Touma's skin tone tilted more your direction, but the glowy, bronzey quality that Sukuna brought to the table still shone through in its own weird way. His eyes were almond-shaped like his own, but bore the same, welcoming colour of yours. And, fuck, his hair was just a perfect match to Sukuna's. If the little shit got Maori tattoos too, he'd be a tiny carbon copy.

Damn. Speaking of–would his mom wanna meet the little shit? Her grandson? Would she ever bother leaving Hawaii to–

“You get all that?” You asked.

Sukuna stared at you. “Get what?”

You pursed your lips like you so often did and turned to the big, bad alpha.

“Maybe we should do the meet ‘n greet first, huh?” You swayed a little and kissed Touma awake. “Baby, you wanna meet a friend?”

“Buh!” Touma exclaimed. You gently guided his little face to look at Sukuna, and the boy looked star struck staring up at the absolute unit that was Ryoumen Sukuna.

“Touma, this is Sukuna.” You closed the gap between the two of you a little more, and Sukuna leaned down to look at the little one. His little one.

Sukuna twitched a smile as he looked over the little thing. “You sure this thing’s mine? Looks a little small.”

You laughed. “If you were born as big as you are, I’m so, so sorry for your mother.” You nuzzled Touma’s little cheek and bounced him a little.

“Wuh!” Touma’s little arms flew up towards Sukuna, and the towering man looked a little more than nervous, looking at the tiny pudgy hands like they were deadly weapons.

“Come on, don’t look at him like that.” You took Sukuna’s hand and delivered it to Touma. “He’s curious. He hasn’t met anyone as big and tall as you, y’know?”

Sukuna huffed, but let the little one grab at his fingers and hold his hand. “What, you don’t have another alpha looking after you? Hard to believe that. You're the neediest little bitch I know.”

“Stop. I'm not Yorozu,” you huffed, and Sukuna cringed at the name. “He has alphas around, sure. But not big ones like you–security excluded. It's not like other men want to play nice with another alpha's pup.”

Sukuna caught the hint of a frown on your face, and his hackles started to rise.

“Some dumbfuck giving you grief?” Sukuna asked, voice rolling with thunderous promise. He'd kill whatever moron fucked with you and his pup. You just had to drop the name.

You sighed, light-hearted. “You know what the rich and famous are like--we're the worst.”

Sukuna growled, and Touma mimicked the noise as best as he could with his pathetically teeny tiny crackled voice. Fuckin’ cute as shit.

“Tch. Don't sell yourself short.”

“I'm just trying to say I don't need that around my boy, and I sure as hell don't want it around me, either.” You nodded and stepped closer as Touma reached up for Sukuna again. Apparently just holding his hand wasn't doing it for the boy anymore.

“Good. Don't need those pathetic fucks around the runt–oi, wait, what the fuck're you–”

“Wup, wup!” Your son shrieked as you helped bully Sukuna into holding him.

“He wants uppies.”

“Uppies,” Sukuna balked.

“He wants you to–okay, you're bad at this–don't hold him like that! Here, do it like–” you cut off as you helped Sukuna get a comfortable hold on Touma while the littlest one squirmed and squeaked in delight, trying to climb up onto Sukuna's shoulder but failing miserably.

Sukuna twitched a smile as you sighed, exasperated by the ball of energy trying to scale the mountainous man. But he got a hold of him, tucking his arm under his butt and holding his back to make sure the little shit didn't go plummeting to the floor.

“You give your ma hell, huh? I can get behind that,” Sukuna hummed. His son's little hands papped at his face, grabbing at his nose and jaw–specifically over the dark tattoos streaking along the curves and cut of his features.

And you smiled the entire time. You pursed your lips tightly to hide it, but you did it so poorly. You always did. Maybe it was on purpose.

“So, can I tell you about my car problems now?”

Sukuna held onto his runt while you explained what flaws, either cosmetically or mechanically, were bothering you. It mostly consisted of slight dents from other assholes not knowing how to park, paint scratches, and more of that sort. As a fellow car guy, Sukuna could understand the anguish of having a favourite baby get all dinged up.

“Not hard to fix,” Sukuna decided. He held the hood up with one hand and looked over the motor–everything looked clean and well-maintained. He was almost impressed. “But, well, it'll cost ya. Uraume can send the details.”

You nodded. “Sure, sure, sounds good. I'm never taking this thing on the road again after it's fixed. Too many fucking idiots out there with piss poor driving skills.”

The mechanic smirked. “Ho? So beating up your car is what makes you start cussin’, huh? Noted.” He let the hood fall closed and adjusted his hold on the now-sleeping tot. “Couldn't even get you to do that in bed.”

“Psht, don't say that in front of the baby, Sukuna, jeeze,” you sighed and rubbed your face. “Babies remember more than you'd like to know.”

“Huh. You think he'll remember when he got–”

“No, he won't remember his inception.” You laughed and shook your head, but paused when you saw smears of concealer on your fingers and tutted.

“How long's the car gonna take? Should I get a rental?” You asked before the man could comment.

“Probably, if you want me to detail this thing right,” Sukuna mumbled. He reached out and turned your chin back to him, looking at the spots concealer missing, hinting at dark circles under your eyes.

Your face grew hot, but you nodded and cleared your throat. “Yeah, okay. I'll, uh. I'll call someone to pick us up–”

“I'll take you home.”

You brightened the slightest bit. “Yeah? I–okay.” You pulled his hand from your face and smiled. “I'll grab the car seat.”

Sukuna liked your house. It was a nice mix of traditional and modern with large stretches of woodgrain and bamboo. A neat outdoor garden and pond decorated the front, but a bigger, more lush collection of tropical plants greeted guests. It was beautiful, if one was desperate to be in nature.

“I'm just gonna get him to bed, be one second.”

Sukuna nodded and pocketed his hands as he pretended to not watch you trot upstairs with the sleepy cub melting in your arms. You still had a nice ass even after popping that little melon out. Huh.

He looked around your space more, wandering with slow, lumbering steps. The house wasn't huge by any means, but it was cozy and warm, quiet and hidden away from the city's gaze. That was probably why you chose it–here, you could be honest with yourself. You could shield your babe from the brutality of your career and keep him safe from leering eyes. Honestly, one of the leaves on your giant monstera could hide him from the whole universe.

Guy's too obsessed with growing shit. It ticked him off, but he didn't know why.

Maybe it was all the photos of you and Touma. Maybe it was because he wasn't in them and too many other men were in his place, lining your walls in the protection of cheap IKEA frames–but Sukuna didn't want you. No, no, Ryoumen Sukuna did not want anyone. He didn't want you. He didn't need to settle down and–

“You want a glass of wine?” You asked when you came back down the stairs. “It's plum wine. Don't really have any scotch or anything, but I–”

Sukuna scoffed before a mocking laugh slipped out of him. You paused, looking at him with bleak attention as he shook his head and pocketed his hands. Your request for him to stay pissed him off; clearly, you expected something more from him.

“Whaddaya think is gonna happen here, huh? You think we're gonna fall in love, pick up where we left off, have a happy little fuckin’ family to tell the tabloids about?”

“What?” You asked. “I never–”

“Didn't have to. Gotta admit, you did a better job than the rest of the whores that tried wrangling me in to–”

“All I asked,” you cut him off, voice quiet but firm, “Is if you wanted wine. I’m not proposing, Sukuna.”

Sukuna didn’t like that. The whole…not-being-into-him and not wanting him to stick around after he just shut you down. He sucked his teeth and took a breath, about to say something, but you spoke first.

“I know this is a PR thing. I know how the whole media circus works–you want your ex to stop bothering you, and I want people to stop asking questions about who the fucking father of my son is.” You paused, staring Sukuna dead in his eyes, a quiet, simmering rage boiling just beneath the surface of placid control.

“Call my manager when the car’s done,” you decided, sounding beaten down and exhausted. “I’ll send someone for it. Thanks for the ride home.”

Next thing the man knew, he was ushered toward the door and stood in the doorway, stuck on the idea of being kicked out of his omega’s–no, no, out of an omega’s house like he was trash.

“Fucking–wait, just–”

“What?” You snapped.

“I could–glass of wine doesn’t sound too bad–”

You shoved the bottle into his hands and slammed the door.

Sukuna tried to sleep it off–as in, he slept around to forget about the crushing weight of rejection collapsing down on him, shattering his chest, spearing his heart with shattered bone.

You still kept being so fucking nice to him, too. You never slandered him, never spoke ill whenever he was asked about in interviews–you spared his reputation with a kind smile every time you had to talk about him or to him.

And he was grateful for it, even if he didn't return the favor. It's not like he was on a smear campaign, no, but anytime a hook up would ask about you, he wouldn't give a glowing review, per se. But it wouldn't be scalding either. Just sheer indifference tainted with drops of bitterness stemming from unripe guilt.

It went on like that for months–until you did your parental duties, and set aside your feelings about Sukuna for the sake of your son.

“Uraume, get that,” Sukuna called as his phone rang. He was too busy fucking around under the hood of his latest project to wipe his hands free of grease and pick up himself, obviously.

But Uraume was there for a reason. They picked up the phone with a polite hello before their sharp frigidity melted into rounded edges.

“(Name)-san,” they hummed. “It's good to hear from you. Do you need to talk to Sukuna-san?”

Sukuna started wiping his hands off so unbelievably fast.

“He's working on a car right now. You know how he can be when he's focused.”

“Fucking–piece of shit–what the fuck–” somehow, he got even more grease and oil on his hands thanks to that stupid fucking rag. God, what a nightmare.

“Sure, I can take a message.”

“Fuckin’ shit fuck, fuck.” He wiped his hands on his designer jeans before running to Uraume and gesturing for the phone.

Uraume's brows raised, and they actually smiled.

“Ah, hold on, Sukuna-san's here.”

Sukuna snatched up the phone, ignoring the knowing look glimmering in Uraume’s eyes. Ugh. Ugh. Betas.

“Hey,” Sukuna said after clearing his throat.

“Hey! Ume said you were working on a car? You didn't have to stop to talk.”

“Yeah, well.” Sukuna shrugged to himself and kicked a scrapped car part, sending it skittering across the ground and clanking into other parts. Jesus, when did his shop get so messy? “Needed a break anyway.”

“Ah. You work too hard, you need to take breaks more often,” you laughed sweetly. “So, listen, Touma's birthday's coming up–”

“Shit, seriously?” Sukuna grinned and kicked another chopped part. “Fuck. How old's the little shit turning?”

“Two! He's growing up so fast, I wish I could slow down time and–” you paused and laughed, suddenly sounding unsure and a bit nervous. “Sorry, sorry, was about to go on a tangent. Anyway, there is a little get-together, but you don't have to come. Satoru and Toji'll be there. But your brother and his son'll be there, too, so it won't suck completely.

“Otherwise, if you want to come see him earlier or something, that's fine, and–and you're not cutting me off and I didn't think I'd get this far so I'm losing the plot.”

Sukuna huffed. “What, you don't want me to fuckin’ listen, huh?”

“I know you will since I have such a pretty voice, but I'm surprised you're being a good boy for once.”

The mechanic rolled his eyes and rubbed his face. Who knows if it was to wipe away embarrassment or fatigue.

“You’re exhausting.”

“And you’re a dick.” There was a special brand of teasing bitterness behind those words, but the vibes were balanced perfectly; seemed you were still cranky about what he said, but you were willing to let it slide.

Sukuna chuckled, relaxing the slightest bit. “Alright. I don't know what the fuck kids like at that age, but I'll figure somethin’ out. I can at least show up Jin.”

“Wow.”

“Text me time and place. I'll be there.” After a moment, he added, “I’ll bring some plum wine. Fancy shit.”

The hidden rumble of a purr snuck its way out from your side, and Sukuna did everything he could to suppress his alpha's reciprocation.

“Sounds good. See you then, Sukuna.”

Toji answered the door.

“Hah. Why the hell are you here?” The fuckhead ex-Zenin asked with a stupid, shitty smirk on his dumbass face.

Sukuna strained not to throw the first punch. He really shouldn't murder someone at his--your son's birthday party. Murder is bad. Murder is bad.

“Fuck you.” Hey, at least it wasn't murder. “‘M here for my fucking kid.”

Toji crossed his arms and suddenly looked beyond bored as he leaned against the doorframe.

“Your kid? You mean (Name)’s kid?” He wondered, putting on a show of thinking. “Weird.”

“You're one to talk. You forgetting what you did to your own brat? You fuckin’--”

“Sukuna!” Your sweet voice called, instantly changing the atmosphere. “Glad you came. Do you–oi, Toji, move, stop bodyguarding. You're not a bouncer.”

“Eh?” Toji stayed in his spot as you smacked at his arm and tried to push him away. “I'm just standing here. Not bodyguarding. Minding my business.”

“You’re so full of shit.” You wheezed and squeaked as the man suddenly gave way, nearly making you crash into him and plummet to the floor. But you caught yourself and hissed at the dark-haired menace until he whistled innocently and waltzed away.

“Fucking--why’s he here again?” Sukuna grumbled as you let him in. He leaned down to nose at your cheek with a grumpy, quiet grunt--typical greeting procedures for an interested individual or bonded pair. But the way you choked on whatever you were about to say meant he must've caught you off guard.

“He's uh–we work together. We've worked together? He was the stunt coordinator for some movies I've been in.” You cleared your throat and took the present bag from Sukuna to place with the others. “And I babysit Gumi sometimes.”

“Gumi? What the fuck is a Gumi?”

“Megumi? His son?” Oh. Oh. “I babysit Yuuji too, so. Thick as thieves, y'know?”

Sukuna nodded a little, thinking hard on the lore. He liked that Yuuji was taken care of by you, but surely that wretched Gumi could go somewhere else. Toji was probably just leeching off of you.

“Oi, Momma, get in here,” Toji crowed from wherever all the baby giggles and excitement bubbled from in the house. “Your boys need some maternal guidance–”

“Toji, don't make it weird!” Jin whisper-yelled before going on a long-winded rant about this and that, about proper behaviour and attitudes in front of children (not that the kids were paying attention to anything Toji did).

You gave Sukuna a tired smile. “Come on. It won’t be that bad, I promise.”

Sukuna sighed, but let you drag him to his demise, bottle of wine in-hand.

But it wasn’t that bad. Not really.

Your other boys, Gojo Satoru and Getou Suguru, showed up and showered tiny Touma with way too much praise and far too many gifts, but the little shit looked so pleased that Sukuna couldn’t get too annoyed. Shoko and Uraume came by, too, much to Sukuna’s surprise. Uraume brought with them a whole fucking confectionary cake they’d crafted themselves at home. Gojo obsessed over it and Getou tried to reign him in to no avail.

And the night went on. No one talked shit, not unless it was in good fun, no one got fucking hammered, no one talked about work–it was all about the kids. Nothing else. No one else.

Sukuna could never guess just how far that truth went.

When everyone left for the night, the alpha could start to see the edges of your smile fraying. But you held on, thanking everyone for the gifts and for showing up for Touma, and especially thanking Jin for offering to let all the little ones spend the night at his place (you and Toji would forever be in his debt).

Then, when the door closed and all fell silent, he heard you cry.

Sukuna didn't know what to do about people crying. He never had. Even when he was a kid, he had a hard time trying to comfort people with hugs and words of reassurance–he just couldn't do it.

“It's okay,” he heard you whisper. “It's okay. It's okay. You're okay. It's okay. I'm okay.”

Sukuna got up and leaned against the doorway to the kitchen. “Sure about that?”

You jumped and clasped a hand over your mouth to stifle your scream. Sukuna barked out an ugly, reedy laugh while he defended himself from your petty smacks and pinches.

“You scared the fuck out of me–why're you still even here? Go home! Shoo!” You wiped your eyes once you were done harassing him and turned away, busying yourself with cleaning up dishes and wrapping paper left in the aftermath.

Sukuna followed you idly, a shit-eating grin still plastered on his face. What could he say? He loved seeing you get all petty and riled up. But he didn't love seeing you cry. He didn't love seeing you try to stealthily wipe tears away, to try and steady your shaky breathing.

“What’s going on with you, babe?” Sukuna asked as he settled beside you at the sink.

“It's nothing,” you said with a snuffle. “It's seriously nothing. Sorry, I--you don't need to stay. Or anything.” You sighed and rubbed at your eyes with your sleeve. “You've done your fatherly duties. You're free to leave.”

“Yeah? ‘N what about my baby daddy duties?” He wondered, voice so horribly low and comforting, like the buzzing crackle of a campfire.

You laughed, watery and shaky. “You already did everything you needed to, Sukuna.”

“Come on, don't cockblock me like that.” He gently tilted your Chin his way to catch your eyes just like he had back at the shop all those months ago. “Look at me.”

You did. Your eyes were red and irritated, whatever pretty boy make up you wore was wiped off and smudged, and those heavy, dark bags met the light in front of someone else for the first time in a long time.

You still had the gall to laugh it off and pull Sukuna's hand from your face with a small, “I'm fine,” though.

“Then why the hell are you crying?” He asked.

You squeezed his hand with both of yours. “Things are just…hard. Overwhelming.”

Sukuna nodded a bit. “That why Jin took the runts tonight?”

“Yeah. Needed some time, I guess.” You snuffled and wiped your face with both hands before finishing up with cleaning. “Makes me sound like a shit parent, I know.”

Sukuna couldn’t disagree more. “Least you're not flipping out on the kid. That'd be way shittier, yeah?”

“I don't know. I guess, but–yeah. I don't know.”

Sukuna sighed and scooped you up like a new bride. “You're driving me fucking mental.”

“Sukuna–!”

“Quiet.” Your omega indeed piped down at the grouchy command, and you shyly let the man carry you up the steps to find your bedroom. “You're getting some damn rest. You look like shit.”

You grumbled something Sukuna elected to ignore in favour of tossing you onto a bed the way one might lob a stone into a pond. You landed with a warbled squawk and looked at Sukuna with horribly accusatory, baffled eyes.

Sukuna quirked a brow as he looked down on you, gladly using his broad build and tall stature to secure your submission. And it worked; the aggravated spark in your eyes curled up and fell silent after a few long seconds. Your head lowered just the slightest bit, too, but your passive gaze remained stuck on him, waiting for his next move.

“Fine,” you grumbled.

Sukuna raised his brows and eased onto the bed, caging you underneath him with his solid frame. Your scent flickered with shy playfulness, and Sukuna relished in it.

“How do I know you're gonna obey, omega?”

“I guess you don't. Not for certain,” you admitted begrudgingly.

“Tch. Someone's gotta keep you accountable then, huh?” He nosed at your neck, nearly letting his lips touch your neck but refusing to do so in the same instance. “Make sure you're doing the right thing, make sure you're behaving.”

One of his hands squeezed at your soft thigh before inching up little by little. Your hands found themselves in his hair as he teased at your joggers’ waistband, pulling the elastic taut before letting it go.

“Sukuna,” you laughed, sounding a little breathless. “I, uh–I thought you said–”

“Changed my mind.”

“But–”

“Forget what I said and let me make you cum on my fingers, brat.”

Oh. Well, hard to argue against that.

You swallowed but gave a meek nod. He ripped your bottoms off and felt up your blazing skin with rough, calloused hands, groping and grabbing in the same spots he liked back when you were hooking up: your thighs, your hip bones, the squish of your stomach. As much as the man harped on about not wanting “damaged goods,” he sure worshiped your body like it was brand new, untouched.

Sukuna brought his fingers to your mouth, and you took them with utmost compliance. Your tongue worked against his digits thoughtfully and thoroughly for your own sake–a lack of starter lube wouldn't end well, after all. And Sukuna was not the most patient man in the sack.

“See?” Sukuna crowed into your ear as his hand traveled south and a finger sunk into you. “It's not so bad to just behave, now is it?”

You already felt like you were about to explode, and Sukuna savoured It. He liked being the one to do this to you–the only one for a while, considering how tight and sensitive you were. Any little push or prod inside you brought sweet sighs and soft moans to the surface–and a second and third finger had your hips bucking and your nails digging into his shoulder and back as he finger-fucked you to oblivion while still caging you in.

“Good omega,” he cooed. “Gonna cum already, huh? Tch, you shoulda said no one’s been taking care of you; I would’ve taken my parental responsibilities more seriously.” His lips and teeth landed on your neck, as you curled up into him, body tensing, heels digging into the mattress, panting and gasping getting louder and faster. The sound made his pants strain even more.

“Fuck, you smell fucking good. Better than when I fucked you the first time.”

“I-I forgot you talked so much in bed,” you managed out. “Could you just–shut up?”

Sukuna growled, and you whined. “You want me to shut up, huh? You wanna listen to your slick fucking hole getting spread open, plowed into? You miss me that much, omega?”

“No.” You hissed and clung to his upper arm as he somehow managed to take it up a notch, slipping his fourth finger in and spreading you obscenely wide.

“I think you did. Think you were hopin’ I’d come around, plow you into the bed again, stuff you full like no one else can.”

“Sukuna–”

“I’ll fill this hole up all you want, baby–I’ll even stuff another pup in you. Twins. You want that, huh? You gonna be my omega from now on? Creaming on my cock ‘n fingers the way you shoulda been the day you walked your perfect, little ass into my life?”

“Shut up, shut up, shut up–” you choked on a gasp and bit into his shoulder, soaking his shirt with drool and shuddered mewls while your body tightened and ecstasy hit like the weight of Sukuna’s words–brutal, fast, honest.

Sukuna moaned in sympathy, ignoring the way his hand and arm cramped and ached to keep pistoning into you and draw out your high. He couldn't help it–something about you drove him mad in that moment. It could have been how you made his ego swell, it might've been the way his greed needed your slick staining his and only his skin, perhaps it could have been a quiet yearning coming from his lonely, hollow alpha. He didn't know. But he didn't question it.

Your body started to relax with the death grip you had on his shoulder as you came down from the sudden, electric high. Your hips still jolted with every slow, lazy push into your soft hole, though a haze of purring and cooing filled the spot where gasps and moans once did. Eventually, you melted off of him and collapsed onto your back, looking as content as a cat lounging in the sun.

“Oi, oi, you're not done yet, sweetheart.” But if you said you were done, he might've listened. Just that once.

You hummed something as you looked up at him, eyes doey and so egregiously lovey-dovey.

“That's a nice face. Make sure you save it just for me,” Sukuna gently commanded, and you laughed.

“Demanding. I thought you didn't like used goods.”

Sukuna scowled. “Shut up.” His free hand traced the stripes of stretched skin left in the wake of bearing his baby boy. “I like ‘em when they're used by me.”

“Does that really make them ‘used goods,’ then?” You murmured as if speaking logic too loud would break Sukuna's entranced obsession of you.

But maybe, maybe, you had a point.

“Guess I'll have to think on that.” His fingers slipped out of you and he gave you a wet slap on the ass to wake you up. Your subsequent squeak sure as hell woke Sukuna up.

“Ow. Gross.”

“I'm not finished with you, brat. Don't get too fuckin’ content, yeah?” He smirked when you glanced at his crotch expectantly. “You want me to fuck you?”

“Please.”

Sukuna sighed and settled between your legs as he futzed with his belt and button. “Could put up a bit of a fight.”

“Too tired.” You yawned and stretched with a pleased sigh. “No will to argue.”

The alpha leaned down to bite at your knee, and you pulled your legs together to avoid his chunky, rude fangs. You knew he'd delight in making you bleed or leaving dark bruises. He was the worst.

“Still got a little fight left in ya,” Sukuna said with a grin. “Let's see how much more we can find, hm?”

#male reader insert #sukuna x you #sukuna x m!reader #jjk #jjk x you #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen x you #reader insert #ryoumen sukuna x reader #ryomen sukuna x reader #jjk smut #jjk x male reader #jjk x y/n #sukuna x y/n #sukuna x reader #sukuna ryoumen x reader #itadori sukuna x reader

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luveline · 1 year ago

Note

WOULD LOOOVE to see badass reader get jealous over someone flirting with spencer

ty for requesting ♡ —spencer reassures you when he catches the eye of a receptionist at the ocean city precinct. fem!reader, 1.3k

Hotch lives on coffee lately. Any type from any source, he doesn't care what it tastes like so long as it keeps him awake. You're similar, in that even if you hated it, you'd keep it to yourself.

But you're frowning in disgust at your cup. Eyebrows wrinkled, lips in a fierce line. Hotch sighs and puts his hand on the back of your chair. "Are you alright?" he asks.

You've never told him otherwise. "Fine. Thank you."

"There's water in my bag," he offers. You won't meet his eyes. You probably have a headache. "And aspirin."

For as long as he's known you and worked with you, you've been as you are now, quiet, stern, with little sense of humour at work and not much more outside of it. The only evidence of your soft heart is how you work like a dog, and how you treat your coworker, Spencer. He's your achilles heel, your tender spot in all the tough scarring. Hotch knows there's nothing anyone can do to make you feel better if they aren't him.

Hotch turns on the spot to look for him. The case you're working on here in Maryland has hit a lul, and exhausted faces peek out from behind their desks at Hotch's looking. He searches for the short mop of brown hair that's required and finds it in an unusual place.

Spencer has been waylaid by a receptionist. Glimmering eyes, shiny silver fingernails that tap the desk in front of her as she speaks, the receptionist clearly has Spencer hanging on. He takes a step back and she doubles down, her storytelling audible from across the room.

"You'll have to see it for yourself, Dr. Reid, it's a sight!"

Hotch looks at you from the corner of his eye. "I see."

"Don't know what you're talking about," you mutter. You stand and tip your coffee into the bin, letting the cup fall in after it morosely.

"Why don't you go and help Reid?" Hotch asks.

"Help Reid what?" you ask. Your tone betrays you —jealousy, sure, that slight crisp to your words that must hurt on the way out, but worse is the weakness as your sentence ends. You're jealous, and it's upsetting you. "I don't think I want to help him with that."

Derek swings into the sequestered space you've been using to operate and beams at you like he knows exactly what you're thinking.

"Isn't it surprising how quiet he can be? Years of catching bad guys and he can't say no to a pretty woman," Derek says, giving you a knowing look.

You and Derek have a half-hearted rivalry in that he loves to flirt and you disapprove. Your soft spot extends solely to Spencer no matter how hard Derek tries to sway you, though as you and Spencer have gotten closer, you've softened.

Hotch thinks that Derek's teasing might erase any progress that's been made.

"Morgan," he says reproachfully.

Derek makes a who, me? face but quickly gives in. "Why don't you go save him?" he asks you.

"He doesn't need saving. Spencer is a grown man who can make his own choices," you say quietly.

Hotch bites his tongue. Thankfully, Derek speaks up, without any teasing. "Spencer's been expected to know how to do things without any help since he was a kid. I really think he just doesn't know how to walk away."

You look down at your hands. Hotch has been doing his job for a long time, and he can guess what you're thinking from a misaligned finger. You don't feel like you measure up to the woman at reception. You're insecure about Spencer's affection for you, because you can't understand why he likes you so much to begin with. Hotch has thought it about Haley, Derek of Savannah. It's a very human doubt.

"Spencer tends to stand straight," Hotch says, bringing the lip of his paper cup up. "Right now, he's leaning away."

It's in as simple terms as he can put it without outright telling you that he really, truly believes that Spencer wouldn't bother with anyone who isn't you. That Spencer loves you in the young, all encompassing way, even though neither of you seems to have realised the depth of it yet.

Confident, no air of the girl frowning down at her hands, you leave the nook to approach Spencer from behind.

"Hi," Hotch hears you say, "you okay?"

Spencer visibly relaxes. "Hey, I'm fine. Uh, Y/N, this is Anabelle. Annabelle, this is my partner, Y/N."

"Partner?" Derek asks.

It's news to Hotch. Perhaps news to you, if the way you take his hand is any hint. It's like you've never held it before, and Hotch knows you have, he's seen you linking pinkies under tables.

You strangle his fingers with yours. Spencer doesn't move an inch.

"She was just telling me about the sightseeing you can do here. Have you ever seen the world's longest worm on a string?" he asks you.

"Hi, Annabelle," you say, turning to Spencer with poorly masked whiplash. "We're gonna try narrowing the search radius."

"Oh, right." Spencer lets go of your hand in favour of putting a hand behind your shoulder, saying his thank yous and goodbyes to Annabelle before guiding you back to the makeshift BAU base camp. "What took you so long?"

"What took me so long?" you ask.

"I thought you liked me!" Spencer says, teasing, his voice pitching higher. "I didn't know how to tell her I've already read the pamphlet she was quoting. She seemed nice though, right?"

"She seemed nice, Spence," you agree, a little wobbly still but a thousand times less sullen than before. "I– of course I like you, you know I like you. Right?"

Hotch is proud of Spencer for how remarkably he responds. Spencer puts his body between you and Hotch and Derek where they're standing to offer you the privacy you prefer, dropping his voice to match your tentativeness. "Yeah, I know. I was kidding. I think they'd have to reassess my position on this team if I didn't know that." He grabs your arm, thumb pressing into the crook of your elbow. "Are you okay?"

"I thought maybe she was flirting with you."

Spencer shrugs uneasily. "Maybe. It wouldn't make a difference to me. Do you know that?"

Your head dips down. Hotch can't hear what you say, honestly, he doesn't want to know. Eavesdropping on the people he cares about in their unhappy moments isn't something he makes a habit of, but it's hard not to hear Spencer's response. "Don't say that," he murmurs. "That's not true… We'll talk about it later, okay?"

You clear your throat. "Yeah. Whatever you want."

Derek doesn't hide that he's been listening very well, pulling a crime scene document up to his eye line as you and Spencer pull apart. Your eyebrows furrow into a glare, but it's Spencer who says, "What?"

Hotch bites back a smile. Derek grins and holds his hands up in surrender.

"Just nice to see you taking care of my favourite girl," he smarms.

"Stop. You're extremely unprofessional," Spencer says, helping you into your seat unnecessarily.

"And you're not?" Derek asks, gesturing to his hand where it lingers behind your shoulders.

You finally chip in, apparently back to your regular self. "Only one of us was responsible for a unit wide HR mandate about inappropriate behaviour."

"You cannot keep bringing that up."

"Why not?"

Hotch takes a sip of his tepid coffee. He'd rather not get involved.

#spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid oneshot #spencer reid scenario #spencer reid drabble #spencer reid fic #spencer reid fanfiction #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds #criminal minds fic #criminal minds x reader

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tang3r1n · 2 months ago

Text

ᴄʀᴀᴄᴋ ʙᴀʙʏ

cw; 18+, heavy topics ngl, refrences to poverty and starvation, angst, GAY LESBIAN SEX, slight cannibalism symbolism if you squint rly hard, refrences to sex work and/or sexual assault

A/N: abt 900 words and literally cranked this bitch out in lile half an hour. jesus fuck how in the hell did Sevika bring me out of my fucking writing dry spell. what the actual fuck. i haven’t written in a year and ofc when i do it’s fucked up analogies and lesbian sex.

To be born of the cursed flesh is a cruel fate worse than death.

To be born as a tainted babe, cast out from the womb with vile stares and scornful words, is the most unlucky a child could be.

It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t just. She’d lived her life good, honest, she deserved the fruits of her labor, a young life filled with pain and struggle. But she was that of the unfavored, not the blessed ones of Piltover, not the nobles with their mansions or the Council with their riches. She was impoverished, born starved, raised hungry, grown into a ravenous woman who begged for the moresles of candied love the scum around her shoved down her throat or inside her.

She lived to survive, didn’t have time for anything outside of the coins thrown her way and the scraps she fed from. Ironic how she never looked the part; plump and soft, malleable and pliable, her hunger hidden beneath that syrupy, sugary smile that oh-so softly graced her cherub cheeks. She pranced around in fine silks and soft feathers, smoke and shimmer stinging her nose and eyes, ears never without the soft whines and moans that fluttered through the halls of the brothel.

Men were somehow more starved than she, their oafish bodies sweaty and fetid as they grabbed her with rough hands, uncaring of the bruises and marks that grew, staining her already tainted body. She loathed them, pushing her brain to the clouds of smoke circling overhead as she rode out whatever sick ride they put her on. The rides were never long, thankfully, mercifully, their essence all that remained once they stepped off with little more than a sideways glance and those same scornful words she learned years ago. Her bed was a sanctuary, a soft, pillowy escape where she could let her mind drift and fly away, she dreamed of soft touches and sweeter kisses, honeyed words and gentle smiles against her plush skin.

This woman above her, her tan skin and dark lips, soft breasts and firm muscles, rough hands caressing her like she was made of porcelain, felt like heaven. Her touch was better than shimmer, a rush incomparable to any human emotion, a religious awakening, it was invigorating. Men were hurtful, slapping and choking all while they shared the same blood and flesh that she had— but this woman, with her metal arm and scars, was slow and sybaritic, gluttonous how she sucked and kissed at her skin.

Long fingers pumped inside her, working choked gasps and impossibly soft moans from the cursed one’s mouth, curling inside her cunt to almost lazily press against that spot that made her dizzy, stomach twisting as her eyes fluttered shut. The woman’s voice was low and deep, chiding her for looking away, for her hips trying to worm away from this pleasure, “look at me,” the woman whispered, licking a stripe up her neck littered in hickeys. The other keened, hazy eyes half lidded as she looked up to her savior, the older woman grinned, wolfish and possessed, yet she didn’t feel fear. Not like she had before, the woman was all-consuming, dominating her very soul and suffocating her under that strong body built by the gods, yet she could only cry and cling to her skin, begging for more and more.

She was starved, and this woman, bringing her to climax, the sinfully delicious sounds of her own cunt squelching clashing with her pitiful cries, was feeding her. Feeding that bottomless pit she had been build with, feeding her with lips sloppily meshed together in a fucked up display of power and perversion. Feeding her with those dangerous fingers circling her pearl and filling her up. Feeding her with praise and love like a false prayer, flooding her mind with devotion and compassion she so desperately craved.

With the burst of her orgasm, she wailed, tugging on her savior’s messy hair as her body shook in pleasure. White blinded her as her glassy eyes rolled back, devilish smile fading away with a dark chuckle. The woman gently slipped her fingers from her cunt, a dull ‘pop!’ making her ears burn as she watched the woman suck on the soaked fingers. The woman’s eyes rolled back, a delicious moan rumbling from her chest and in that moment she wondered if this woman was starving too. If her savior craved just like she did, if this woman watched her with the same kind of hungry eyes as she did.

She was pulled into another sultry kiss, lips smooshed and smacking as they stole each other’s breath, wrapped up in each other’s arms. The woman pulled away first, keeping her close with a firm hand around her thick neck, string fingers ever so gently cutting off her oxygen, “such a pretty girl,” the woman whispered, a secret for just the two of them, “my new favorite treat.”

Born damned, she scavenged for love and life, but staring into those dark eyes, she saw the same hunger, the same damned flesh tangled up in her’s in a macabre display.

#holy shit venus actually finished a work.#.v speaks #maybe the issue is i’m becoming more of a girl kisser #.venus updated!#..arcane #x chubby reader #x fat reader #arcane x reader #tw angst #tw sa implied #arcane smut #sevika arcane #arcane sevika #sevika x reader #sevika smut

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vrystalius · 4 months ago

Note

How would Sanemi react if Maeda made a uniform similar to Mitsuri's for Sanemi's girlfriend?

❕Sanemi’s reaction to your new uniform.

That perverted kakushi strikes again… how will Sanemi react?

Pairing: Sanemi x fem!reader

(Sanemi is very angry, there’s just a paragraph of him cursing, you have a worse uniform than Mitsuri’s)

Sanemi was staring at your uniform you were wearing. Your chest was straining against the fabric and almost spilling out of the hole in the center. Your skirt barely covered your bottom, your panties peeking out ever so slightly. You felt incredibly uncomfortable and kept pulling your skirt down, trying to cover yourself up.

“What the fuck are you wearing?”

His voice was incredibly deep and eerily calm. Sanemi wasn’t yelling or insulting the kakushi that made this, wich was somehow even scarier than him being openly angry. You crossed your arms over your chest to cover up the your chest-hole, wich he’s been staring at. That made him look into your eyes.

“Maeda was his name? The kakushi?”

You nodded quietly. Sanemi took his cropped haori off and unbuttoned his sleeveless uniform, wrapping it around your shoulders and buttoning it back up. He sensed how uncomfortable you felt in your poor excuse of a uniform.

“I’ll take care of it. There’s hakama pants in my closet. Go change.”

Sanemi was still calm as he grabbed his katana and headed out, his footsteps heavy and fast. He was rushing past the other kakushi and hashira, intentionally bumping into a few of them to make them go out of his damn way. He has a kakushi to murder after all.

“Sh-Shinazugawa-sama…!-“

Maeda was already shaking once he saw the wind hashira standing in his doorway. He seemed to be absolutely fuming, gripping the handle of his katana. The kakushi already fell onto his knees and slammed his forehead onto the tatami as a gesture of deep apology. He wanted to start begging for his life, but Sanemi interrupted him before he even started.

“You worthless piece of shit. You’re absolute FILTH—lower than the dirt I scrape off my blade after shoving it down a fucking demon’s throat. The fact that you breathe the same fucking air as the other kakushi, WHO PUT THEIR OWN FUCKING LIVES IN DANGER TO SAVE OTHERS, SOMETHING YOU COULD NEVER EVEN DREAM OF DOING, is a fucking insult to even the worst kakushi and the corps as a whole! You were too pathetic to become a slayer and save others and kill the scum of the earth, so instead YOU BECAME A FUCKING PIECE OF WORTHLESS SHIT.”

Sanemi was yelling his throat out, his hand trembling and itching to just use his sheathed katana to beat Maeda into a pile of broken bones.

“You’re worth NOTHING! Your mother would be fucking ashamed of you if she knew what a fucking pervert you are. I should be fucking killing you or feeding your worthless body to a fucking demon, even though YOU’RE PROBABLY NOT EVEN WORTH EATING, you fucking piece of shit.”

Sanemi stepped his foot onto his head, pushing him down. Maeda was shaking and sobbing, frantically apologising, but Sanemi just kept screaming at him. He took a deep breath at took his sheathed katana out of his belt, about to slam it against the kakushi’s back, before his arm got dragged out of the room and pulled into the hallway.

“Shinazugawa-sama, you should control your anger more. I’ll make sure to send a crow to Ubuyashiki-sama and make sure that this kakushi will be appropriately punished. Please let me handle this.”

Gyomei’s words were calming. He removed his arm from Sanemi’s bicep and returned to his usual gesture of prayer, rubbing his hands together. Sanemi was still shaking and seething in anger, itching to punch something. He quietly eyed Gyomei, then the kakushi

“You better make a normal fucking uniform. It will be done by tomorrow. I’ll be picking it up personally.

Sanemi grunted at him. Maeda wet himself while he was screaming at him, fearing for his dear life, shaking and sobbing, but frantically nodding ans apologising over and over. Gyomei started crying quietly.

“Your perverted actions are disrespecting the Demon Slayer Corps itself. You will soon learn your lesson through Master’s punishment.”

Sanemi glared at the kakushi one last time and then turned to Gyomei to mumble a quiet “thanks”. He stormed off, making his way back to you and his estate.

How dare he disrespect you like that? At least Sanemi now has an excuse to make you wear his clothes for even longer. That’s the only positive thing about this situation. He hopes that Kagaya will punish this excuse of an kakushi properly. If not, Sanemi’ll make sure he’ll never be able to make another uniform like this ever again.

💠

Sorry if this was underwhelming or not according to your liking, and sorry for randomly throwing Gyomei in. I hope you enjoyed anyway!

Anyways, make sure to EAT, SLEEP and DRINK enough <3

Take care of yourselves!

My masterlist for the hashira

My masterlist for the demons

#💠 house of vry 💠#demon slayer x reader #demon slayer #kny x reader #demon slayer hashira #fluff #sanemi x reader #sanemi x you #demon slayer sanemi #kny sanemi #demon slayer gyomei #kny gyomei

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fxllfaiiry · 2 years ago

Text

─ callin' it quits now, baby, I'm a wreck ੈ✩‧₊˚

✶ pairing: miguel o'hara x fem!reader

✶ synopsis: the aftermath of the argument with miguel.

✶ warnings: angst, hurt with comfort, occ miguel (for one scene only dw), shitty humour, one or two swear words, reader being slightly mean, mentions of death.

✶ notes: part two of "you're the sunflower" this part was originally 8k words long and i was like nope, so i had to cut it down, I'm sorry. I really hope this isn't bad ‼️

At first, you didn't quit the team.

After the blow-up with Miguel, you thought about leaving the team for good, but yet you decided to show up, hanging around for a bit before quickly leaving.

But slowly you stopped showing up altogether. The looks of pity were too much for you to handle, and frankly, you deserve an apology, you deserved better.

Every day was torture, and seeing Miguel only made it worse. No one thought this whole ordeal would go this far.

Everyone noticed the changes, you were more serious, and your usual sunshine self was gone at this point. Everyone noticed the day you stopped coming in.

You felt so lonely, sure, you had friends in your universe but yet, nothing felt the same. You sometimes wondered if they missed you or not.

It had only been a few weeks and yet it felt like months.

A part of you secretly hoped someone from the team would show up at your doorstep pleading for you to come back, but nothing.

"You'll get used to it eventually" You'd tell yourself.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

It had been two whole months since you left. Nothing felt the same without you.

"Does anyone else miss Sunflower?" Gwen said sadly. She missed your hugs, and your little girl talks with her, she missed everything about you.

"We all miss her, kid," Peter sighed. Without you, he had no one to talk to about Mayday.

"I hope she comes back soon," Miles said.

"I think she just wants space right now," Pavitr replied.

"This is all Miguel's fault y'know?" Hobie added bitterly, how dare Miguel take his friend away from him.

"Someone should talk to him, maybe if he apologizes, she'll come back." Miles was hopeful, he knew you'd come back eventually.

"Sure, kid. As if Miguel ever listens."

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

Miguel on the other hand was depressed.

He'd gotten used to your presence and it felt odd without you.

He felt horrible about yelling at you but he was scared. The thought of you dying terrified him, and his way of dealing with that wasn't the best.

He thought about apologizing many times, but he didn't know how to. The last thing he wanted was to cause more damage.

"You know a simple "sorry" could fix this all right?" Lyla said, breaking him out of his trance.

"It's not that easy, Lyla." He sounded so broken to his own ears.

"Well, you gotta try, Boss."

"Sunflower used to call me that."

"You're joking, right? Wow, you really are pathetic." Lyla snorted.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Dude, you're in love with her. You are absolutely smitten."

"Lyla, that's enough-"

"No, you love her and that's why it's bothering you so much."

"I don't-"

"Nah, Lyla's right, you do love her." He turned around to see Jess standing in his office.

"Jess, not you too, and where did you come from?" Miguel groaned, he did not love you.

"The door…? Anyways, just try to fix things, the first step is you apologizing." Jess stated matter-of-factly.

Miguel thought about it for a minute, these last few weeks had been pure torture for him, Jess was right, the first step is apologizing.

"Fine, I'll do it first thing tomorrow, but I don't love her."

"Sure, whatever you say, man." Jess snickered.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

You got somewhat used to your new life. It was the same old plain routine every day. You tried to throw yourself into other things. Finding new hobbies, jobs, literally anything.

But eventually, it all started to feel okay.

Things were finally starting to look good for you.

You thought about the spider society way less and finally started living your life to the fullest.

You were moving on.

Crime fighting was easy today. You got to hang out with your friends and an old lady gave you a cheerio, which is something.

You swung around the city for a bit, enjoying the view and temporary peace.

Soon it was time for you to head back home. You climbed in through your bedroom window and quickly changed out of your suit, slipping into more comfortable clothing.

When you went downstairs to get some food, you weren't expecting to see Miguel O'Hara sitting on your couch.

"Holy shit, what are you doing here?" You scared him, because he jumped violently at the sound of your voice.

"I was here t-"

"Humiliate me further? Because I thought we were done with that." You felt bad saying that, but he deserved it.

"No, I'm here to apologize." He looked down, ashamed.

"It's a bit late for that, isn't it?" You chuckled bitterly, walking past him into the kitchen.

"Just listen to me for a second."

"I thought I was incapable of doing that." You muttered to yourself.

He got up and strode towards you, but he received no acknowledgment of his presence.

"I'm sorry for yelling at you in front of everyone; it was wrong and I shouldn't have acted so immaturely."

"Uh-huh, it's fine. You can leave now, the door's right there." You weren't buying his ridiculous apology. Even a five-year-old could do better.

"I understand you're mad, but please give me a chance." That was pretty much the last straw for you.

"I'm mad? You humiliated me in front of everyone! You made me feel like shit, you made me think I don't belong on the team! You're an asshole." You were screaming at him, taking out all the anger and sadness you felt in the past two months.

"I'm sorry." He sounded so small, so vulnerable, and for the second time in his life, he didn't know what to do.

"The best you can say is I'm sorry? At least give me a proper explanation." You scoffed, rolling your eyes.

"I'm in love with you." What?

"Right, if you're here to joke around and mock me just leave okay." You open up to him and he mocks you in return. Amazing.

"I'm being serious. I'm not mocking you or joking around, I'm in love with you. You want an explanation, so I'm giving you one." He breathed, looking at you hoping to receive some reaction. All he got was a small head tilt which he took as a sign to continue.

"The reason I yelled at you was because I was scared. I thought you were going to die and that terrified me, I've lost everything, and I don't want to lose you too. I didn't know how to handle it, so I lashed out. I truly am sorry, Sunflower." You froze trying to process everything, was he telling the truth?

"Lyla and Jess helped me realize my true feelings for you." He whispered.

When you said nothing for a few minutes he started to get scared, he was ready to get on his knees and beg for forgiveness if he had to.

"Can you… say something? Please?"

"I can't forgive you just yet." He would never admit to what happened next but he started sobbing. All this was too much, being vulnerable was an unknown feeling to him.

"Woah, wait hey, don't cry. Let me-" Before you could finish your sentence he fell to his knees, arms clutching your waist like a lifeline.

You were beyond confused, you thought this whole interaction was some sort of weird dream. Miguel O'Hara down on his knees, for you? Wow, two months ago you would've scoffed and rolled your eyes at that.

Nonetheless, you ran your fingers through his hair trying to soothe him.

"Miguel, honey, listen to me. Just because I'm not ready to forgive you now, doesn't mean I never will." His face was still squished against your midriff, and his breathing was slowly returning to normal, with a few sniffs here and there.

"So, you'll come back?" Seeing him in such a state broke your heart, you were still upset with him but were willing to give him a chance.

"Yes, I'll come back tomorrow." At that, he smiled properly for the first time in weeks.

He stayed there for a few moments, letting you comb through his hair gently, he would cherish this brief moment forever.

"I should get going then. The multiverse needs saving." He said hoarsely, standing up, he was slightly embarrassed by this side of him.

"Maybe use the door this time." He lightly chuckled at your statement, the warm feeling took over him once again.

Miguel did not want to leave, he wanted to stay here with you, but he knew that wasn't an option right now.

Before he left he had to get one last thing off his chest.

"Could you, not tel-"

"Tell anyone about this? Don't worry, this stays between us only."

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

Everyone was surprised to see you back the next day.

The second you walked in, everyone was all over you, hugging you and filling you in on everything you missed. It felt good to be back.

"I'm so happy you're back," Gwen whispered, hugging you tightly.

"I'm happy to be back, Gwendy. I missed you guys so much."

"Hey quit hogging Sunflower, it's my turn to hug her now." Miles huffed impatiently.

"Me next!" Pavitr bounced enthusiastically.

"Hey, not cool. I called dibs, man." Hobie groaned.

"Hey, Sunflower, I have some new pictures of Mayday to show you." Everyone was so excited to see you again, it was chaotic, but it felt like home. They were your family.

Miguel watched the scene from afar with a smile, he was glad everything was okay now.

"So you fixed things up with her, huh?" Jess said, popping up behind him, once again taking him by surprise.

"¡Ay, coño! Jess, stop doing that."

"Sorry, not my fault you don't have a spidy sense." Jess hummed. "So, how did you get her to forgive you?"

"I have my ways."

"You got down on your knees and begged her, didn't you?"

"How did you know?" Miguel whisper-yelled. That was supposed to be a secret.

"I have my ways." Jess winked.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

In a few weeks, everything was back to normal, you were back to your old self again.

Except for the fact that you and Miguel were now closer than ever. That was new.

You were always by his side, sticking close to him and he felt comfortable around you, always relaxed in your presence.

He wasn't sure if you forgave him just yet, but he was willing to wait for as long as you needed.

He did small things to show you he cared, sometimes it was bringing you coffee, other times it was giving you your favorite flowers.

You knew he was sorry, and in your heart, you forgave him a long time back.

So, you finally decided to tell him.

You guys were in his office having lunch, he didn't like to eat out in the cafeteria. You both would usually sit in silence enjoying each other's company.

"Hey, Miguel."

"Hm?"

"I forgive you."

He raised his eyebrows in confusion taking a moment to realise what you meant. When he finally got it, his eyes widened almost comically.

"Oh, you do?" He was trying to hide his smile but failed horribly.

"I forgave you a long time back, but I just… needed some time." You nodded.

"I understand that. Thank you for giving me another chance."

"Actually, to forgive you fully, I want one thing from you." You declared, confidently.

"I'll do anything, Sunflower." He'd indeed do anything for you.

"I want you to go out on a date with me."

His brain stopped working. You were asking him out on a date.

"Miguel? Is that a yes or no?" You grew nervous at his lack of response. Did you cross boundaries? You thought he liked you.

"I would love to." You quickly beamed at his response, after months of waiting it was finally happening.

"So, how about tomorrow, at 7?" You giggled.

"Sounds perfect." He sighed, softly smiling.

He couldn't wait for tomorrow.

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