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ohimsummer · 3 months ago

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PUCKER UP! ft. NERDJO

— minors dni, nerdjo x meangirl! reader, college! au, pegging, ass-eating, this started getting sloppy nasty lmao reader is a freak fr, hints of stsg, pet names (pretty boy, princess), kind of proofread

wc 3k….😭

it's easy to get satoru to do anything for you.

he's caught off guard when he opens the door to his dorm and you’re shoving yet another homework assignment in his hands, backing him into the room. he's easily victim to honeyed words from your glossy lips, the flutter of your eyelashes. though, if that isn't enough, a firm palm to his already-hardening bulge is sure to get you whatever you want. the gesture is topped off with a promised reward of sucking him dry, however, you're both painfully aware that you would have done so anyway.

satoru settles beside you on his bed, where you lay browsing through social media. he works dutifully, though still listening and responding to the mindless school gossip that no one else would ever let him know about. you keep him well-informed.

twenty minutes have passed, and you spare the papers a glance. it astounds you that satoru is already halfway finished in less than thirty minutes with what would have taken you at least an hour. it's easy for him...maybe a little too easy. maybe a little unfair.

"you're working too fast.", you huff, wrinkling your nose.

satoru pauses, pen hovering over the paper. he looks between you and your homework. "... is that a problem...?"

you sit up on his bed, staring in disdain at the half-finished work in his lap. "if it was? you're not just rushing, are you?"

here he comes with the pouting. satoru is extremely confident in his work, and he knows you know he'd never let you get a bad grade. "don't critique me, i know what i'm doing–“

"bend over, i'm bored."

his jaw falls slack as you tug open the drawer next to his bed, and pull out the lengthy, baby-blue toy hidden away.

"you–, now–?", he sputters. "i'm in the middle of–"

"oh, shut it, shut it.", you wave off his complaints with a manicured hand. "can't you multitask?"

satoru opens his mouth to give a snarky reply, but his words fall short when you slip the tip of the dildo between your lips. he can feel your eyes on him, but his gaze won't leave the way the toy disappears into your mouth, and blood goes rushing to fill the half-erect hard-on he's been sporting since you got here.

you pull the dildo from your mouth with a 'pop!'. "so? be a good boy and bend over for me?"

it's kind of funny, how you don't even have to touch him or bat a lash or use that one flirty tone that makes his head spin, yet satoru still tugs his own shirt off and pants down. he faces away to lower his head and present his round ass to you. a finger traces over the hem of his boxers, embedded with two bold sets of initials on them: yours and an S.G. not satoru's own name, of course.

with a quick kiss to his thigh, you're pulling the white boxers down his legs and tossing them inside. satoru's asshole sits bare and on display for you, puckered and twitching as you admire him.

as if reading your thoughts, he mumbles, "don't stare so much..."

you break gaze with the hole inches from your face to raise a brow at your boyfriend. "shouldn't you be doing my homework?"

"uh–“, he scrambles to form a sentence."yeah, but–"

"pass me the lube and the harness, too."

satoru obeys your command, reaching into the still-open drawer to pull out a bottle of strawberry-flavoured lubricant and a light blue, leather harness. he reaches back a hand to give it to you, where you snatch both items from his grasp and satoru immediately hears the sound of the tube cap clicking open.

not wanting to be chastised again, satoru tries his hardest to steer his focus back to the papers beside him. the pencil trembles in his hand, but he manages to write all of three words before feeling your finger circling his hole.

he jolts, his face flushes at your mischievous giggle behind him, and satoru coerces his body to relaxation once more. it's a feat which is basically impossible when his mind is fixed on the way your finger traces the rim of his entrance, and the more subtle, wet sounds of you massaging lube into the dildo.

"i don't see you doing any work.", you scold him, and satoru yelps when you pluck a harsh finger against his hole. despite the surprise, his dick twitches at the mild discomfort.

pushing himself again to focus on the blurry words and math problems in front of him, satoru mashes the lead a little harder than he should into the paper, clenching the pencil tightly in his fist. he blocks out the movements and sounds going on behind him: the slick pumping of the dildo strapped to your waist, your other hand clutching and gripping either ass cheek in your palm, sinking nails into the skin for a quick lesson in pain before the pad of your thumb pokes and prods at his puckered hole again.

this lasts for what seems like an eternity before a new sensation sends a shiver up his spine, something that forces a gasp from his lips and raises the thin hairs on his neck. it's warm, wet, and familiar—the overwhelming feel of your tongue bullying its way into his insides.

"hey, hey, i–i won't be able to focus if you're doing that–!", satoru whines, but you pay him no mind. his fists wrench the fabric of the comforter as the slimy, pink muscle worms inside.

behind him, you moan at the flavor, slipping your tongue from his orifice to flatten it against his pale skin, running it from satoru's balls to the top of his ass crack. satoru flinches when you spit on his hole, and whines like a mutt in heat at the sloppy way you make out with his asshole. every kiss and bite to his cheeks has him tightening around your tongue, but you wriggle it with a driven intent to get him nice and loose for the absolute pounding you're about to bestow upon him. it's disgusting, and satoru fucking loves it.

he's so lost in you and your heavenly tongue that he almost doesn't register the warmth spreading in his lower body. it's at the last second that satoru lets out a strangled moan and his first orgasm comes washing over him. ropes of cum shoot out to coat his bare thighs and chiseled abdomen as satoru squirms from the sheer pleasure. he's so fidgety, he almost lets your assignment go slipping off the edge of the bed. it’s grabbed just in time, and he shoves it a little further away to avoid any more of the wet spots his drool has already stained into them.

you let him have his fun, come down from his little high, and then satoru feels your touch retreat from his sensitive behind. "did you still plan on getting that done today, or...?"

satoru shivers, and cranes his neck to give you a puppy-eyed gaze, tears having built up on his lash line. "...it's hard."

his poor, pathetic, puppy-dog tone and the deep pink tint across his cheeks and up to his ears yank at your heartstrings. it's times like this where you feel bad for being mean to him, even if it's all an act. satoru's just so fucking cute, he reminds you that can't keep up the cruel demeanor towards him forever.

"ohh.", you coo at your nerdy, loser boyfriend and peck short kisses onto his ass cheeks. "you want me to go slower, baby?"

"yes. yes, please.", he whines. "i can't focus to finish your work."

so adorable. truthfully you couldn't give less of a fuck about the papers anymore, but it's still a little endearing that even in such a position, satoru is still determined to get you the passing grade you don't deserve.

as promised, you take it down a notch, just to give him more control of his thoughts. and satoru figured taking things a step back would do wonders when you weren't absolutely ravishing his hole, but this...this may be significantly worse.

the once intense fervor of your movements has been replaced with a skillful precision. every stroke and flick of your tongue around his rim feels more pleasurable than the last, and satoru's cock jerks and aches at the slow, sensual sucks to his ass. you replace the dig of your nails with the occasional, unforgiving smack!, only to layer on top a coat of soothing kisses. the drawn-out movements make him even more conscious of every single thing you're doing.

but still, your plan was to grace him with some mercy, and satoru won't allow you to say he didn't at least try. so, with newfound strength, he squeezes the pen in his hand, and he gets to work.

his body remains painfully aware of the thrills and pleasure you shower him with, and satoru struggles to keep those feelings at bay from distracting his mind. it's a challenge, but satoru does likes a challenge, and he finds he's managed to complete the remaining bottom half of the current page. this is it. he's on the final paper, so close to the finish line, before he can stop having to worry about it. and then he feels your gentle tap on his thigh.

it takes him out of the space he's forced himself into. satoru turns until he just sees you in his peripherals. "huh? what's wrong?"

"nothing.", you reassure him. "do you want to pack that up before i start?"

'start?', he thinks, and then he feels the slap of the rubber dildo between his ass cheeks. "ah, um–“

his throat goes dry, and you gliding the heavy length back-and-forth along his asshole doesn't help in the slightest.

"just do your best, okay? i'm happy with a B."

satoru isn't happy with anything below an A-, but the complaint is stripped from his tongue as he feels the thick tip of your cock sinking into his hole. even with your slow movements, it knocks the wind from his lungs, and all he can let out is a choked moan. stuck gripping the streets, his cheek is smushed against the bed and his mouth agape, until satoru finally feels you flush against the back of his thighs.

there’s a beat, then your encouraging voice in his ear: “breath, satoru.”

a second later and you can see the tension leaving his larger, toned body. your hands make a delicate path up the curve of his back, massaging his sensitive nape which leaves him gasping, before one of them trails back up his spine. you apply pressure as you go, further pronouncing the arch in satoru’s pliant body, and the wandering hand ends at his hip.

slowly, you unsheathe the girthy, faux length from his ass, revealing more and more and more until only the tip remains. his hole tightens, and you don’t think you’ve ever been so jealous of both a man or a piece of fucking silicone in your entire life. you’d kill to have a real one right now, to feel satoru’s moist insides and the way he’d clench around you, sucking you in further and further until you were stuck balls deep in him. it’s fucking unfair.

“m–move, please.”, he begs in such a soft mewl. so needy, so impatient. so spoiled as you plunge your cock into him again.

a sharp gasp flees his lips, followed by satoru's strangled moan as you bury yourself to the hilt. there’s a prominent vein on the back of his hand from how tightly he grips the sheets, pillow, anything satoru can get his hands on.

though you move languidly, satoru quickly dissolves into an utter wreck. your hands hold tight onto his waist with initial intent to keep him steady, but his moans bring out a crazed animal in you. soon you're manhandling him back-and-forth to meet the ever-growing roughness of your thrusts. the sound of you pounding into him can't even be heard over the slutty noises tumbling out into the open air, hitting all four walls to fill the dorm room. it makes you ache, yearning for some relief other than the occasional friction of the harness against your clit.

"fuck, you're so hot.", you lean down and pant against his ear. satoru babbles something you can’t understand, and it makes you laugh. you can't help mock him a little.

"so loud, too.", comes the bratty taunt, and satoru whimpers out a barely coherent 'sorry'. god, he's so cute and pathetic. you feel like you're bullying him, corrupting your little nerd boyfriend, and it turns you on tenfold.

"aren't people living in the dorm next to you? they’re gonna be pissed.", you tease further, though never letting up on your thrusts and in fact picking up the pace. "these walls are pretty thin. suguru was here yesterday, did you get a noise complaint?"

"mhm."

that response catches you off guard—his audible confirmation along with a weak nod of the head.

"are you serious?" satoru nods again, and you let out an incredulous scoff. "damn, i was just kidding. i may have to go harder, then, i want them to know how well i treat you, too!"

it’s all gibberish in satoru's mind. with such scrambled thoughts, he can barely hold on to a thing you're saying, let alone worry about maintaining his now continuously waning status as a considerate neighbor.

"c'mere." your words sound muffled amongst the fog in his head. satoru strains his eyes and barely sees your blurry figure hovering over him. "pass me the pillow, babe."

he flails a feeble hand in the general direction of said object, finally landing on the soft cushion and using what—in his current state—feels like an absurd amount of strength in order to hand it back to you. a second later, he feels you tugging at his waist. “lift your hips up.” and, ever the helpful boyfriend, satoru uses every bit of remaining energy in his bones to raise his body.

"look at you, my good little loser." he feels you squeeze the pillow between him and the bed, and then goes limp again beneath you. his cock twitches at the soft pressure surrounding his length. it reminds him of a fleshlight, something you and suguru make sure he's extremely familiar with.

there's a 'smack!', and satoru whimpers at the sharp slap to one of his ass cheeks. you knead at the fat flesh in your hands, dulling the pain, and pull satoru’s ass apart to stare at the way his hole quivers and tightens around you.

"do you like being lazy?”, you tease. "letting me do most of the work?" he nods. "say it. tell me you’re my pretty little pillow princess.”

"i’m y–your pretty–, pretty pillow princess.", satoru moans with a cheek against the mattress, and lets out a feeble cry when you give his ass another loud smack.

"mmm, yeah." a sinister grin paints itself across your lips. your hands continue squeezing satoru’s sore ass in your palms, and your boyfriend groans in pleasure as you begin fucking into him again. "fuck, such a good toy for me."

you say something else, something he doesn’t hear, if not for satoru’s bedframe thudding against the wall, or the lewd slapping of skin on skin, then definitely because of his own moans echoing in his ears. there’s a short pause. satoru registers the dip of the mattress on each side of his head, and the blurry details of your manicure. the ticklish touch of your fingers brush against his forehead, moving locks of stark white hair to reveal more of his gorgeous face.

"my pretty boy.”

satoru whines at the praise before feeling the length of your cock rubbing against his prostate. it's calm at first, a frustratingly slow grind against his ass where he can feel the silicone balls of your strap up against his own. but soon you're picking up pace, slamming into him with each thrust, thrusts that send satoru flying forward every time you plunge deep into him again. every rock of your hips against his brushes satoru’s leaking cock harder and faster along the pillow under his body. it feels out of this world, and all too much to endure.

the heat and pleasure overrunning satoru has steadily evolved from a slow trickle, to growing waves, to a huge tsunami bearing down on him. his entire body is searing; he releases a particularly loud cry of your name as cum shoots straight into the fluff of the pillow, soaking deep inside the fabric as waves of pleasure flood over him. tears burn at his hazy, blue eyes, making it impossible to see clearly, but that doesn't matter when satoru's eyes are wrenched shut anyway as you slow to another grind against his ass, fucking him through his final orgasm.

satoru lies there, trembling and taking in heaving breathes of air. he lets out one last pathetic whimper when you pull out, leaving his hole tragically empty, but still accepts the press of a few soft kisses to his pink, tear-stained cheeks.

"satoru?", you whisper softly against his ear. “all good?” and you give him another kiss on the forehead when he gives a weak nod. "atta boy, you did so well. i'm going to get you a towel, 'kay?"

your boyfriend only makes a weak effort to grasp your hand, but you understand what he’s asking for, regardless. “fine, pretty boy. i’m right here, just relax and catch your breath for me.”

and, as usual, satoru follows your instructions without question. he is comforted by the gentle squeeze of your hand, the caress of your fingers through his hair, and the doting kisses you place on his shoulders, neck, and face. eventually, his brain is empty, drained. satoru begins dozing off to sleep in a far-away land—away from his room and away from homework, yet still surrounded by your soft, lingering presence.

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knightjpg · 11 months ago

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Brick by Brick

And like a dog who's learned a new trick Simon rings your bell the next day. Wasn't happy with how he left it, and wasn't that faucet leaking? He's got plenty of spare wood in his shed, don't you worry. What's that about the boiler making a weird noise? He'll take a look at it, might have something for the draft in the hallway too. Pay him? What are you talking about, he does stuff like this for fun. Don't sweat it, love. Just hand him that wrench.

tags: construction worker simon/neighbour reader

part 1 | part 2

Summer is the worst time of year for construction work outside. Up early before the birds are awake to try and beat the heat, arriving on site at six or earlier with bleary eyes and creaky joints from the day before. It means coming home at four or five with lots of day left to get through yet without the will or energy to do anything beside shower, eat, watch some telly, and sleep.

The pay is good and it beats sitting in a cramped office all day, but when Simon gets home with aching knees and the thrum of a headache at the back of his skull it's hard to remember why on Earth he chose the career he's in. He's drenched in sweat, large dark patches adorning his pits and back.

It's one of those days where very little can make him stray from his commute straight to home to collapse into his big falling-apart chair, but today it's not really up to him. A large moving truck blocks his driveway. The faded company logo against dirty white overtakes the entire view of his windshield, though Simon can see the back doors are still swung open. No one to attend to it, though.

Simon noticed the FOR SALE! sign had gone, of course. Remembers feeling vaguely pleased, even, that the home next to his wouldn't be empty anymore, because he of all people knows exactly how quickly places can fall apart without anyone tending to it. But right now all he feels is tired, and hot, and really fucking annoyed. Just when he's clicked his belt loose to get out of the car and see if the dolt belonging to the truck is anywhere to be found, voices carry from the open front door.

“...last. I'm afraid it's a little heavy, though, so maybe we should get the boxes out first?”

And out steps the sweetest little thing he's ever seen. Hair tied up, tight little top, and shorts that give him ample view of your legs.

Maybe summer's not so bad after all.

You're talking to a bloke wearing a uniform that matches the moving truck and who looks flushed in the face from exertion. As soon as you clock Simon's car, though, you stop mid-sentence in surprise, and then quickly walk to him, brows furrowed apologetically.

“Oh, I'm so sorry—you're trying to get past us, aren't you?” Simon gives you a nod, and you turn back to the mover. “Would you mind moving the truck up a little? I don't want it to be in the way.”

There's precious little parking space ahead, so Simon rolls down his window and calls out to you, “Jus’ backing up a few yards s’fine.” He gestures to his driveway so you know that's where he's headed, and you flash him a smile and a thumbs-up in understanding.

The truck is moved, Simon parks his car, and you pull another heavy-looking box from the cube. You never reach your new doorstep with it; Simon steps in and lifts it from your hands. You blink up at him, lashes fluttering sweetly with surprise. “Oh—are you sure? It's heavy...!”

One corner of Simon's mouth tugs up. Tired as he is it weighs next to nothing, and he can't resist holding it with one arm, holding out the other.

“Can take ‘nother if you need.”

You laugh and assure him this is quite enough, then jog back to the truck while Simon pushes past the half-open door to his new neighbour's home.

It's a mess, of course. Piles of boxes, scattered furniture, rolled-up carpets. Simon puts the box down in the living room, then saunters back outside to lift another from your hands. He does the same with the couch; the mover is struggling and Simon doesn't trust him not to let it fall and crash. And you're such a little thing. Just doesn't feel right, watching you rush around and struggle without stepping in.

With Simon's help it's quick work. The mover thanks Simon before driving off, but he's not really listening. There's much more important things to pay attention to.

You're pretty. Cheeks flushed from exertion, breathing hard, flyaway hairs from your ponytail sticking up in odd directions. Simon has to suppress the urge to smooth them away.

"Thanks so much for the help,” you tell him earnestly. “I'm sorry we were in the way—we thought we'd have a little more time before people started coming home from work.”

“S’alright,” Simon says. It's nearing evening, now, the sky above you glowing in pale pink and oranges hues. The little smatter of trees across from you rustles with a gust of summer wind.

You introduce yourself and insist on giving Simon your number “in case there's ever anything you need.” Simon's more concerned about a young woman living all on her own but takes your number all the same, watching your pretty little fingers tap it in on his phone.

“I mostly work from home, but I'm very quiet and boring,” you tell him with a smile. “You don't have to worry about noise.”

For some reason that isn't the selling point it should be. When Simon stands inside his hallway, house empty and dark and quiet, he wishes he still lived in a shitty apartment with thin walls on the bad side of Manchester. Maybe then he'd hear your footsteps, or better yet, your voice. Instead the only thing waiting for him at home is silence. Heavy and thick, where he's ripped away from sweet sunshine and plunged underwater.

Simon is halfway to falling asleep on the couch when the bell rings. He groans, drags a hand over his face, and glances up at the TV. The football match is still going. The camera pans over a cheering crowd, their cries distant and quiet.

He mutes the thing entirely and heaves himself up to open the door. Swear to God, if this is the fucking salesman again...

“Hi there.”

You give Simon a little finger wave, your other hand cradling a round oven dish. When you shift on your feet the protective foil on top rustles noisily.

You look a little more put together than you did yesterday—rested, showered, fed. Just as pretty.

Although, speaking of fed...

“Alright?” Simon asks, eyes on the oven pan. He's only catching a faint whiff of something, but whatever it is smells really fucking good. His stomach reminds him that the only thing in his fridge are a couple cans of beer.

You nod and lift the dish with a shy little grin. “Yeah. Um. I wanted to say thanks again, for yesterday. And I wanted to test out my oven, so...”

You hold the dish out for him to take. Simon's fingers brush yours, large meaty paws easily twice the size of your own. When he peels back the foil you add, “Shepherd's pie. I thought about cookies, but I wasn't sure if you'd like those.”

The scent hits him, then, rich and hearty and buttery smooth. The dish is still a little warm.

Fuck. When was the last time he ate something homemade?

“No, I'll eat anything,” he says, suddenly feeling a little self-conscious. He hasn't showered yet. Must look a nightmare. Does he stink? “Thanks.”

Your whole face lights up, and Simon's neck feels hot. He averts his eyes to avoid your gaze and pretends to inspect the pie instead. Jesus, what is he, twelve? “I'm glad. I'll leave you to it, then.”

D’you want to come in for a drink?

It's on the tip of his tongue, but he can't get the words out quite right and gives you a brusque nod, watching you walk back to your own home before closing his door all the way.

He eats at his kitchen table and finishes the whole thing in one go. Chases bits of flakey crust with his finger, licks up every leftover crumb. The meat is tender and juicy and for a while after the only things he smells is golden-brown potatoes seasoned with rosemary.

He mourns it when it's gone, of course. Has half a mind to go over right now and ask if your cooking is for hire—Simon can't remember the last time he felt satisfied. When he ate not just for the sake of fuel or convenience but because someone wanted him to have something nice, something special. Is it special? Is he special? Are you going around the neighbourhood handing out cookies and pies to just anyone?

Simon's sigh is loud in the silence and sticks to the kitchen walls.

The pre-made frozen meals are fine, of course. Empty plastic containers fill up the rubbish bin. They're easy and cheap and most days Simon's glad just to have something warm in his stomach.

And yet.

The next day Simon stands at your door at six in the evening sharp, holding the clean dish in his hands. You invite him in for a cup of tea, because unlike him you have good manners, and you sheepishly apologise for the stacks of boxes everywhere.

“S’alright,” Simon says, carefully manoeuvring around a large pile of books. “I don't mind.”

And he doesn't, though he does feel like a bull in a china shop. Large and much too coarse for the little tea cup you hand him while the kettle whistles on the stove.

“I'm afraid I don't have much to go with it,” you say with a flutter of your hands. “Do you like ginger snaps? I think I've got a pack somewhere.”

You don't wait for his answer and pry open one of the cupboards. First come the ginger snaps, then the box of Earl Grey, which you hold up to him with a triumphant smile. “Unpacked the important stuff first.”

Simon frowns and jerks his chin to the cupboard. “S’it stuck?”

“Oh—yeah. They all are.” You give the wood a little knock. “It'll take me some time to get to fixing everything. The house went for a good price, but only ‘cause it needs some love.” You give him a rueful smile and get up, wiping your hands on your thighs. “I'm not all that handy, so I'll have to take it bit by bit.”

Simon rises before you finish your sentence. "Let me see.”

“Oh, no, it's okay. It's not a big deal, really—”

Simon crouches down, slowly, to spare his knees, and tests the hinges. The wood is rotten in certain places, the hinges old and rusted. Rather than fixing it up it should be replaced entirely. You really better had gotten this place for good money, because this will take more than a bit of elbow grease to repair. He prods at the hinges, tuts, and looks up at you.

“Ready to fall apart, this one. You said they're all like this?”

You nod, worry creasing your brow. “I—yes. Well, the kitchen is. The bathroom seems alright. Is it worse than I thought?”

“Might be. You have anyone look at this?”

You shake your head. “I'm starting to feel silly about it now, but I was going to look up how to do it myself.”

Simon straightens. “I'll go get my kit.”

It's not as bad as he feared. Two cabinets need tearing down completely, but the others are worth saving. Simon warns you the repair job will fuck the wood, but you tell him it's no problem; you'll paint over it anyway.

You feed him tea and ginger snaps while he works, asking him several times if he wouldn't like a break, hasn't he done a lot already? You feel terrible about having him work on his day off. Didn't he say he worked construction? He must be so tired, poor man. You insist he stay for dinner. “You've been so helpful—it's the least I could do.”

Simon takes a breather to watch you cook. Chicken, pasta, summer salad. The sun sinks lower and hits you straight on from the kitchen window, painting the edges of you a dazed red-gold. An angel's halo.

“You big on reading, then?”

You turn down the heat and put a lid over the pan to join him at the table. Simon's eyeing the many books strewn about on top of boxes that say “pans” and “kitchen supplies”. Le Morte D’Arthur. Histories of the Kings of Britain. Beowulf. There's even one that prompts a vague, long-forgotten memory from his school days— The Canterbury Tales.

“I am. Always have been.” You nod to the books. “I teach at university—medieval literature. But I'm working on my own research on the side.”

Simon lets out a low whistle. His pretty bird is a clever one. Smarter than him, that's for sure. He might be big and strong but he's got bricks for brains.

That's what his dad always used to say, anyway—that he's stupid. Those always were his kinder moments.

“That explains all the books y’got.”

“There sure are a lot of them, aren't there? I swear moving really makes you realise just how much stuff you own...” You shake your head. “I'll have to get a bigger bookcase.”

“Think it's impressive.”

Your eyes crinkle with a smile. “Not as impressive as knowing how to fix my cabinets! I don't know how I would've managed by myself.” You hop up from your seat to check the food, then ask over your shoulder, “Is that something you do a lot for work, too? Carpentry and the like?”

Simon shakes his head. “We do the heavy lifting. Clearing a place out, laying the foundation. Johnny—my coworker, he's mostly on machinery. Kyle does transport and plumbing. I do the heavier handiwork.”

You hum and start plating the food while asking him more questions. Is the pay good? Is his boss fair? Are his coworkers nice?

Price's fairly strict is what he is, Simon answers, and you laugh again. He likes that. Likes that he gets you to do that.

He wolfs down a plate of his pasta and devours the chicken. It's fragrant, roasted with lemon and thyme, bursts between his teeth. He tells you more about Johnny, that he's a cocky bastard who likes playing with electricity way too much, but that he's also a loyal friend. That he's a hard worker—that all of them are.

When his plate is empty and he's eyeing what's left in the pans you push them closer without saying anything, and prompt him to tell you about that time a plumbing line exploded and Kyle got soaked from tip to toe in disgusting gunk. He smelt like sewage water for weeks.

Simon doesn't even realise how much he's talked until his throat starts feeling rougher than usual. You make it easy somehow. If he'd thought you would look down on him because of your own job he needn't have worried. You're not at all like what he imagines when he thinks of professors, none of the stuffy superiority complex he's used to weathering when people find out all he does all day is chafe his fingers on hard cement.

Maybe you're just good at faking it, but he doubts it. The sparkle in your eyes when you listen to him so intently has to be real.

You send him home with a warm thanks and dessert, and Simon feels something in his chest lurch when you peer up at him through your lashes in the doorway, smiling and sweet. Can't remember the last time he went out for dates. Can't remember having the time or energy for it.

Pay him? What are you talking about, he does stuff like this for fun. Don't sweat it, love. Just hand him that wrench.

There are days when it's hard, of course. Simon is only human, and spending days and days on sizzling hard concrete would wring anyone dry. The project is coming along nicely, but at the height of summer there's plenty of times when even the promise of your smile isn't enough to keep him from falling asleep on his couch—often on an empty stomach.

But during the weekends he rings your bell dutifully. Six o’clock becomes something sacred in his mind, sweet relief after praying on his knees for hours smoothing out cement. It gets to the point where he turns down Friday drinks with the guys more than once because he's got something to go home for now, his pretty little bird that's never once mentioned a boyfriend of any kind.

“You really should let me pay you.”

Simon gives you a look before pushing his large shoulders further into the cabinet under the bathroom sink. “Should be the one payin’ you. I know I'm doubling your grocery bill.”

He eats more at your place than his own these days. It gives him incentive to rush through a shower, dress like something resembling a human, then wait at your doorstep to be let in. Wagging tail and everything.

Your cheeks darken and you duck your head. “No, um... It makes me happy. To see you eat my cooking, I mean,” you confess a little shyly. “I feel like I'm the one getting everything out of this. I hope I'm not keeping you from—from spending time at home, or with your family.”

“S’just me, love.” Simon pauses, pretends to inspect the pipes. “Less you don't want me coming ‘round anymore.”

“No, no,” you say hastily. “No, I like—I like the company. Really.” Your voice softens. “And I'm not just saying that because I appreciate the help.”

Simon exhales, shifts a little to accommodate the strain in his boxers, and holds his hand out for the screwdriver.

#cod mw2 #cod x reader #ghost cod #simon ghost riley #ghost mw2 #simon riley #ghost x reader #ghost/reader #simon ghost riley x reader #x reader #if you saw me post this to the wrong blog. no you didnt.

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wordsmeetwbb · 1 month ago

Text

Two Minutes

Word count: 3.4k

Content: smut (semi-public, Daddy!Paige, sub!Azzi)

Pairing: Pazzi

Notes: So it only took UConn winning the national championship to get me to finish a fic for the first time in a month (I have 5 different ones half written. my bad), but here is some Pazzi smut to celebrate! Send in your reactions bc I'm missing all my anons and my ego needs a boost. Enjoy!

________

The team had a tradition of going out for a nice dinner after a big game. They’d vote on a restaurant, get all dressed up, and go out to eat and bond with each other. Those nights were some of Paige’s favorite memories from her five years in college. Getting to eat good food and spend quality time with the people she loved- almost nothing was better than that.

Tonight, they’ve picked a nice Italian restaurant and all 14 of them are seated around a long table. Azzi is on Paige’s right, and Caroline is on her left, but Paige can’t honestly say she’s paying much attention to anyone other than Azzi.

She’s in a long sleeveless black dress, the fabric clinging to every curve and dip of her body. She even has a little makeup on for once. It’s just some mascara, a dark lip gloss, and a little bit of blush on her cheeks, but Paige is entranced. Between every sentence she contributes to the group’s conversation, her eyes return to Azzi.

Azzi’s not immune to Paige’s staring. She had started the meal by pretending to be annoyed by the attention, but the faux annoyance quickly devolved into blushing and heavy-lidded glances. Even now, after so many years of knowing the younger girl, knowing the effect she had on her still brought butterflies to her stomach. It was an intoxicating feeling.

The conversation at the table dies down slightly when their food arrives, everybody digging into their meals with all the enthusiasm and hunger that comes with being a D1 athlete. It doesn’t keep Paige’s eyes off Azzi, though.

Paige has her fork halfway to her mouth, noodles twirled haphazardly around the tongs, when she feels it. Two fingers slowly drag up the outside of her thigh over the fabric of her black shorts. Her hand freezes for a second before she remembers to shove the pasta into her mouth. Azzi’s fingers reach the crease of Paige’s hip and then reverse their movement back down her thigh. Paige’s eyes dart over to find Azzi already looking at her.

Paige raises an eyebrow, questioning Azzi’s goals. Azzi just sends her a sweet smile and goes back to her own plate of pasta, her hand leaving Paige’s leg. The blonde almost wants to argue, to reach over and replace Azzi’s hand where it had been on her thigh, but she restrains herself.

“-right, Paige?” Paige shakes her head, quickly trying to tune back into the conversation.

“What?” She asks. KK, who had been the one to speak originally, laughs at her.

“Is that pasta so good you can’t pay attention to me, P Boogers?” KK teases. Paige holds up a hand, flipping KK off quickly before a waiter walks by and shoots her a judgmental look.

“What was your question, Kamorea?” Paige raises an eyebrow, and KK grins.

“Over the summer, when you leave us” -Paige is hit with a pang of sadness before shoving it down- “I’m gonna be the one you miss the most, right? None of these other idiots have the special bond we have,” KK teases. Paige snorts.

“Yeah, right. By ‘special bond,’ do you mean your mission to bother me more than anyone else?” KK’s mouth hasn’t moved from a wide grin since the conversation started. The rest of the team has been roped into their antics by now, and various expressions of disagreement are obvious.

“KK, you can’t seriously think you’re Paige’s favorite,” Ice argues from down the table. KK sticks out her tongue at the taller girl. Then Jana is getting involved, stating that she’s actually Paige’s favorite child. She cites all the breakfasts Paige had made for her before sunrise during Ramadan, and it only makes everybody grow louder with their own counterclaims and arguments.

Amid the chaos, Azzi’s hand returns to Paige’s leg. This time, Azzi’s touch isn’t gentle or soothing. No, now Azzi’s fingers are digging into the sensitive flesh of Paige’s inner thigh, far too high up to be appropriate in such a public setting. Luckily, the white tablecloth covering the table hides the movement, but Paige can’t hide the gasp it draws from her lips.

Caroline nudges Paige from her seat next to the blonde.

“You okay, Paige?” she asks, face open with concern. Paige only gets one word into her reply before Azzi’s fingers are suddenly tracing a line straight up to the heat between Paige’s legs. Paige swallows and tries again.

“Yeah, all good. Just remembered I forgot to… do an assignment,” she lies. Caroline raises a skeptical eyebrow but shrugs and leaves Paige alone. Paige lets out a slow breath, trying to get herself under control. Then Azzi is leaning into her space, the warmth from the younger girl’s arm bleeding into Paige’s skin.

“You gotta stop, baby,” Paige mumbles, keeping her voice low so none of their teammates will overhear. Azzi tilts her head, and suddenly her hand that isn’t busy on Paige’s thigh is gripping her chin, angling Paige’s face so she’s forced to look Azzi in the eyes. Paige almost moans right there at the table. It’s not normal for Azzi to be this bold in general, but especially in public, at a table with all their teammates, surrounded by random other people eating at the restaurant. Paige squeezes her legs together tightly.

“You’re terrible at hiding your reactions to things, baby,” Azzi starts. Paige’s eyebrows scrunch together in confusion.

“Yeah, great observation. That’s why I told you to stop, ‘cause I can’t hide it.” Azzi smiles sweetly. She looks dangerous. Paige is incredibly turned on. She shifts in her chair, trying to relieve some of the ache between her thighs.

“This is your warning to make your face look normal and keep it that way,” Azzi warns. Paige tries her best to quickly school her features into a mask of composure. She’s not entirely sure she’s successful. Azzi leans a little closer, speaking softly into Paige’s ear so no one else can hear.

“I know we’ve been busy lately, but it’s been two weeks since we had sex at this point, and I’ve been wet since the press conference after the game. So I’m going to go to the bathroom to take care of this, and you’re more than welcome to come help,” Azzi murmurs. Any composure Paige had managed to achieve before is completely wiped away by the time Azzi finishes her first sentence.

“Fuck,” Paige whispers. Her face feels hot, and she knows her cheeks are bright red. Whatever the opposite of discreet is, she thinks, that’s exactly what she’s being right now. Azzi slides one finger down Paige’s jaw before letting go of her chin and leaning away. As she stands up from the table, she leans down to whisper into Paige’s ear once more.

“Oh, by the way, I’m not wearing any underwear,” she says, voice soft and teasing. Paige is gone.

It takes every ounce of Paige’s restraint to keep herself seated at the table for a few more minutes. In all honesty, it’s probably only enough time to take her departure from obvious to suspicious, but she can’t wait any longer. She can feel herself soaking through her boxers with every second she sits at the table, thinking about Azzi in the bathroom. Is she already touching herself? Dripping down her thighs from how wet she is?

It’s that mental image that drives Paige from her seat, making some half-assed excuse to Caroline about needing to use the restroom.

She makes a beeline for the restroom, knocking urgently on the door when she reaches it. It takes barely a second for Azzi to open the door and tug Paige inside before promptly locking it behind them again. Then she has the blonde pressed up against the door, and their lips are crushed together, tongues meeting hungrily when Azzi licks into Paige’s mouth.

Paige groans when Azzi brings her knee in between her legs. She grinds herself down, mouth falling open as she pants.

“Shit Az. Hang on, wait, lemme get you first, ‘kay?” Azzi looks at Paige skeptically, grinding the older girl down onto her thigh to prove a point as it rips a moan from Paige’s throat. Paige curses again.

“Come on, Az. I know you’re all worked up. Gotta be dripping down your legs by now, right? Said you’ve been wet since the post-game and I know you don’t have anything under that dress. Probably hurts, doesn’t it, baby? Let me take care of it. I’ll make it feel better,” Paige coos. Azzi’s determination collapses, giving way to the pure need she’s been feeling for days at this point.

Paige flips their position, shoving Azzi up against the sink and dropping to her knees. She pushes the fabric of Azzi’s dress up, first past her knees and then up to her stomach.

“Hold it up,” she commands. Azzi’s hands scramble to obey. “Good girl,” Paige praises. Azzi feels herself clench around nothing. She presses her thighs together to relieve the ache.

Paige isn’t having any of that, quickly shoving Azzi’s legs apart and gripping her thighs with a strength that they both know will leave bruises on Azzi’s skin. Azzi sighs out a soft breath.

“Shit. Look at that baby. I was right. You’re dripping,” Paige murmurs. Azzi leans her head back. The image of Paige on her knees in front of her, assessing everything she sees, ready to please her, is far too much for Azzi to handle right now.

“Fuck. Just touch me,” she demands. Paige’s hands leave Azzi’s skin.

“Nuh-uh,” she tuts. “I wanna take care of you, mama, but you gotta be good for me. That means not making demands without saying please,” Paige says sternly. Azzi squirms.

“Paige, we have to be fast. Everybody’s gonna notice we’re gone,” she whispers. Paige just looks up at her, eyebrows raised as if to say “And what do you want me to do about it?” Azzi swallows a groan.

“Please, Paige. Please touch me, and please be fast about it so we don’t get caught,” she asks. Paige smiles and her hands return to Azzi’s thighs, sliding up until they find the wetness dripping from her slit.

“Fuck, honey. You need it that bad, huh?” Azzi whines and bucks her hips in an attempt to get Paige’s touch where she really needs it. Luckily, they’re pressed for time, and Paige doesn’t think it’s quite worth it to make her beg again.

Paige’s fingers meet Azzi’s swollen clit and begin to circle roughly. Azzi swears and her hips move of their own accord. Paige uses her unoccupied hand to shove Azzi more firmly against the sink. Her forearm forms a bar across her pelvis, preventing any more movements. Azzi’s head falls forward.

“Paige, please. More,” she pleads. Maybe it’s the multiple weeks without sex or the teasing Azzi had done at the table earlier or the leftover adrenaline from the game that afternoon, but Paige’s response gives away the very particular mood she’s in.

“How do you ask me the right way, mama?” Azzi’s brain buffers for a moment. She had said please. She had asked nicely for what she wanted. Then it hits her. Oh. She knows what Paige means. Her legs twitch and it has nothing to do with the fingers still circling her clit.

“Please, Daddy? Please give me more. I need it so bad, Daddy, please.” Azzi knows that was the right answer when Paige groans, her arm shoving Azzi harder into the counter, and two of her fingers slip into the younger girl’s cunt.

“Fuck. Oh god, yes, that’s so good,” Azzi breathes. The stretch of Paige’s fingers is easy, slick and smooth from how wet she is. Paige’s thumb starts up the circles on Azzi’s clit again, driving the brunette higher.

“Please, baby, can I have your mouth?” Azzi asks. Paige pulls back, her eyebrows raised as she waits. It only takes a second before Azzi realizes her mistake.

“Please, Daddy,” she corrects. Paige smiles, removing her arm from Azzi’s torso and instead bringing it down to pet along warm brown skin.

“Good girl, Az. We gotta hurry up now, so do you think you can cum in two minutes for me? Can you do that for Daddy?” Paige murmurs. Azzi nods desperately. One of her hands comes down to fist in Paige’s hair. She doesn’t bother mentioning that it probably won’t even take that long for Paige to get her off.

Paige pulls away for only a few seconds, rummaging in her pockets, but it’s far too long for Azzi. Then Paige pulls out her phone, clicks a few things on the screen, and then hands it to Azzi. It’s the clock app. It’s a stopwatch. Azzi’s legs feel weak.

“Shit,” she mumbles.

“When I put my mouth on you, you start the timer, okay mama? You get two minutes, and when it hits two minutes exactly, you tell me and I stop. Got it? You cum in two minutes right now, or you wait until we get home later.” Azzi is nodding, unable to do anything else. Her eyes are trained on Paige’s. She can’t look away.

“Are you gonna be good for me, Az? Gonna follow directions and do what I told you to?” Paige prompts. Azzi is beyond desperate at this point. She knows they’ve already been gone from the table for far too long, but she needs to cum too bad to really put any energy into caring about what their teammates are probably guessing right now.

“Yes, yes, Daddy. I‘m gonna be good for you Daddy, gonna be your good girl.” The words are spilling from Azzi’s mouth, like the more she agrees, the faster it’ll get Paige to act. It works because before Azzi can even take a breath, Paige’s tongue is licking a strip through Azzi’s folds and humming at the way she tastes.

“Oh god,” Azzi groans, and then remembers she’s been given a task. She quickly hits start on the stopwatch, watching the numbers tick up as seconds go by.

It doesn’t take Paige long to get into her rhythm at all. Before Azzi can even get a good, stabilizing grip on the counter behind her, Paige has her face completely buried between Azzi’s thighs, tongue teasing her hole just to slide back up and suck the younger girl’s clit into her mouth. It takes thirty seconds of this for Azzi to be a whining, writhing, breathy mess.

“Please, please, so close,” she begs as the tension in her stomach grows tighter and tighter. Paige doubles her efforts, sliding two fingers back into Azzi’s cunt effortlessly, meeting no resistance. Azzi lets out a whine that’s so pathetic she’s embarrassed of it even in her current needy state.

“Gonna cum for me honey? Can feel you clenching around my fingers. You’re just dripping down my hand. So fucking dirty, Az, look at that,” Paige says and she thrusts her fingers in and out roughly. Her voice is low and hoarse as she speaks against Azzi’s clit. The vibrations, combined with Paige’s words, push Azzi even closer.

“Fuck, fuck- Daddy please, gonna cum. Can I cum? Need to cum, please Daddy, please, let me cum-” the words are spilling unbidden from Azzi’s lips in between the other noises Paige is drawing from her.

“How much time is left, mama?” Paige asks instead of answering. She keeps her fingers moving. It feels like every thrust is harder than the last. Azzi’s eyes dart down to Paige’s phone screen.

“I have thirty seconds. Please Paige. Daddy, please, please, I still have time, please let me,” Azzi begs. She’s suddenly consumed by the fear that Paige will draw this out for too long, making her beg to cum until she runs out of time, until she has to tell Paige to stop and wait until they get home after dinner. A tear rolls down her cheek as Paige’s teeth scrape lightly over her clit. Her hips buck, feeling completely and utterly overstimulated.

“Please, Daddy!” She cries once again, and she tries desperately to keep her eyes open and trained on the seconds ticking up on the stopwatch. Only twenty seconds now.

“Cum for me mama. Been such a good girl. You can cum now. Make a mess all over my hand, baby, that’s it.” Paige talks her through it as Azzi trembles through her orgasm, wave after wave ripping through her as Paige keeps moving her hand since her mouth is occupied with speaking.

“Oh god,” Azzi whimpers as she starts to come down. Paige doesn’t stop the movement of her fingers, dragging them in and out of Azzi’s pussy with obscene, slick sounds. Azzi knows better than to push Paige away right now. She’d learned quickly that when Paige was Daddy, she liked to draw out Azzi’s pleasure and overstimulation until she physically couldn’t take it anymore.

Only when Azzi is shaking and whining, one of her hands gripping tightly in Paige’s hair as her hips jump against Paige’s hand, does the blonde pull her fingers out.

Looking up to make sure Azzi is watching, Paige sucks each of her fingers into her mouth, cleaning Azzi’s wetness off every digit. Azzi lets out a soft moan, eyes fluttering shut.

“Eyes on me, honey,” Paige orders. Azzi’s eyes snap back open, once again trained on Paige’s lips. Paige’s expression softens, and she rises from her knees, licking into Azzi’s mouth gently.

“You did so good for me, baby. Gotta get cleaned up now so we can go back to the table, ‘kay? Can I clean you up?” Paige asks softly. Azzi nods, eyes still locked on Paige’s. She hasn’t been given permission to look away yet, so she doesn’t. Paige’s chest warms with pride as she grabs some paper towels, wetting them and then gently wiping them along Azzi’s thighs to clean her up. Azzi does exactly what’s expected of her and stands there obediently.

“Being such a good girl, Azzi. So good. I’m so proud of you,” Paige keeps soothing. Azzi has finally noticed how delightfully fuzzy and detached her brain feels. She’s not worried, though. Paige will take care of her.

“We’re gonna go back to the table now, okay honey?” Paige starts. Azzi’s chest tightens with panic. She can’t make conversation with her girls like this. She can’t let them see her like this, fucked dumb and submissive. The panic is obvious on her face, prompting Paige to run her hands along Azzi’s arms in an attempt to calm her.

“Hey, it’s alright. We don’t have to stay. We’re gonna go over there, I’m gonna tell everyone you don’t feel well and I’m taking you home, and then we’re gonna leave. Does that sound okay, mama?” Paige murmurs. She tilts Azzi’s chin up to meet her eyes more easily. Azzi’s expression is so open and trusting and wrecked that Paige feels something in her chest crack.

Azzi nods, eyes big and shiny. Paige presses a soft kiss to her lips, stroking a few fingers over her cheeks.

“I’m gonna take care of you, mama. Gonna get you home so you can relax and come down from this when you’re ready, okay?” Azzi’s eyebrows draw together as Paige starts to pull away, leading her to the door of the bathroom. She tugs on Paige’s sleeve to stop her.

“I don’t wanna come down,” she mumbles. Paige’s confusion turns into a smile.

“Oh, honey, are you still feeling needy?” Azzi nods, relief threading through her body. “Okay, baby. When we get home you can cum as many times as you need to. Just gotta wait until we get there. Can you be good and wait for me?” Paige asks gently. Azzi nods. Her words have abandoned her, but Paige seems to understand.

Azzi is in a pleasant daze as Paige leads her out of the bathroom, back to the table to make an excuse to their teammates, and then to her car. The daze continues as they climb the stairs to Paige’s apartment, as they enter her room, and as Paige makes Azzi shatter into a ball of pleasure many more times throughout the night. And throughout it all, Azzi feels safe and knows she is loved, and is incredibly glad they don’t have to go two weeks without sex again anytime soon.

#uconn wbb #uconn women’s basketball #paige bueckers #azzi fudd #pazzi #pazzi smut #paige bueckers smut #azzi fudd smut #pazzi fics

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bratbarzal · 3 months ago

Note

for ur valentines blurb pretty please these prompts with quinn hughes ☺️😘

¹⁾ “you really planned this?! remind me how you’re single, again?”

⁴⁾ “c’mon, like i need an excuse to spend time with you.”

⁵⁾ “i can’t help but think that this is a little more effort than someone would normally put in for their friend.”

✩‧₊˚ bratbarzal's valentines event!˚₊‧✩

idk why I give prompts and then continue to go off script but I honestly think I have a problem with being told what to do lmao. something about scripted sentence cuts a creative wire in my brain. THE SENTIMENT OF WHAT I WROTE IS THE SAME!!!!! I promise. also I like this one lmao!! I hope you like it too thanks for requesting!! and stacking the prompts is very cool gave me a nice little story to follow I love it!!! I wrote this whole thing and realised I didn't mention valentines once, but it's belated, so..... we're going to pretend it's okay I've decided on your behalf thanks love you

this ended up at 3.4k words lol - warnings for fade to black type smut, slightly angsty

Quinn: you coming over tonight?

A text from him has never filled you with anxiety like this.

But then again, for as long as the two of you have been friends, you've never actively avoided Quinn until now.

Monday had been one word answers, Tuesday had been emojis, Wednesday had been reactions, and Thursday had been radio silence, because he hadn't texted you, anyway.

It's not that you're mad at him. You wish you could be mad - wish you had any reason other than your own shame to be turning down all attempts at contact. But instead, all you can think when you see his name is how much you had fucked everything up the last time you saw him.

You: idk

And only because you feel instantly bad about how short that is, you immediately follow up with:

You: work has kicked my ass this week

You see the little dots keep popping up, and you're only torturing yourself to watch them come and go as he figures out what to say - how to salvage what you'd so carelessly made a gigantic mess of only last weekend.

You should really just say yes, you think - be the bigger person. Fridays have been your thing, all season. The day of the week he most frequently has the night off, and an end to your usually-hectic work-week, it has just made sense for the two of you to hang out, to make a routine of doing so.

Bailing on him is harsh, you know that. And with such a weak excuse too - you've had much worse times in your job, and it's never come between the two of you before.

And you know that he knows what you're doing. It's obvious. It's just whether he's in any mood to try and recover whatever scraps of your friendship still remain. Whether he even cares, anymore.

Quinn: please?

The two minutes it took for him to type just one word dragged longer than they ever have in your life, and you blink at your phone screen as you see the dots jump up again.

You chew nervously at your lip and wait, tapping your foot against the side of your desk and watching this time as it stays.

Quinn: I've already bought enough to cook for us both

He's such a guilt tripper.

You sigh, typing back and sending an immediate response, figuring a week of the bare minimum is punishment enough without blanking him or making him wait.

You: okay

A heart pops up below your message almost immediately, the reaction only worsening your anxiety at the thought of how hard keeping your distance is.

You: I'm finishing later than usual, should be there around 8

Quinn: ok I'll have dinner ready for then!

You knock on Quinn's door a little after 8pm - still in your work clothes, although that is usually how you come over, in your defence. Quinn loans you something comfy, and you usually change, but changing means staying over, and you're kind of trying to avoid all that again.

So when he welcomes you in, you awkwardly pat at his back as he tries to embrace you, before hovering around the kitchen instead of making your way back to his room.

He frowns a little as he watches you - he's in a hoodie and sweats, settled in now for the night with no intentions of getting back up once the two of you have eventually sunk down into the couch together - and waits a second to see if you're just on a delay, if you're just beat from work, like you said.

"I left a change of clothes for you on my bed," he says once he realises you aren't shifting, glancing quickly at you before he starts to busy himself with dishing up dinner.

"I'm good," you tell him, short, with a tight lipped smile sent his way when his eyes meet yours, narrowed in curiosity.

You're wearing a skirt and heels, for Christ's sake, and a blouse that's a little too restrictive around your shoulders. You've been in them all day, too. Of course you aren't good, and of course he knows that, but he drops it, a resigned nod and an awkward shift of his gaze back to the task at hand, spooning an assortment of green vegetables beside the rice on your plate.

You chance a good look at him while he's distracted - his hair soft, pushed back messily in a way that makes it flop straight back into place, and he looks a little tired, but he's had a long week, too. Back in training, pushing himself, dealing with a best friend who isn't reciprocating his energy. He's probably exhausted.

His jaw is clenched as he finishes the meal off, clattering utensils a little louder the longer you're quiet, and letting out heavy sighs when he's clearly growing more frustrated with how little you're giving back.

"How was work?" he tries, reaching into the draw and retrieving a knife and fork for the two of you.

"Long," you sigh, offering a small smile when he looks over to let him know that this particular instance of a short response isn't personal. You are genuinely exhausted - you'd worked an extra long day, just to get a major project finished, and, if you're honest, you're just ready for bed. "Glad it's the weekend, I'm probably gonna hit my pillow tonight and not see tomorrow."

The initial spark that lit up in his eyes when you started speaking a full sentence to him dulled immediately when he realised that you had all intentions of going home.

"You're not staying over?"

"I can hardly sleep here until Sunday, Quinn, that would be insane." Like you haven't spent consecutive days around his apartment, before. Like you haven't spent weeks with him back at his lake house in Michigan in the summer. Like the two of you didn't isolate together when you both got covid, probably from each other.

He nods, brief and sharp, jaw tensing again as he mutters out a bitter, "Right."

God, this is hard.

"Do you want me to carry anything?" You ask, trying to be helpful, just to make yourself feel better.

He wordlessly hands over the cutlery before turning to grab both plates on his own, nodding for you to make your way out of the kitchen for him to follow.

You do as he asks, holding the door for him so he doesn't struggle, stepping nervously behind him as he guides you through to where he's set the dining table up.

His curtains are drawn, a picturesque view of the nightlife of downtown Vancouver, twinkling city lights and the distant flash of vehicles passing by below stands as the most perfect backdrop to his set-up - the table candle-lit, a vase of fresh flowers in the middle, wine glasses and a salad bowl situated around the nice placemats you'd made him buy the last time the two of you went shopping together.

You hesitate when you get a little closer, eyeing up the setting reluctantly as Quinn places the plates in your retrospective places.

He's usually neat when it comes to his dinner table - usually likes to set things up so that they look nice, placemats, coasters. cutlery and napkins - but it's never like this.

"What's all this?" You ask, meeting his eye as he leans across the table to place down the knives and forks you hand to him.

"You said you had a bad week," he shrugs, "Wanted to do something nice."

He shuffles around you, the light placement of his hand on your hip as he does so jolting you toward the table, head swivelling to watch him disappear back toward the kitchen.

"You planned this?" you call after him, turning to look down at everything - a meal that he cooked, something nutritious and filling, knowing you wouldn't have the energy to make as much yourself, pretty flowers, and a calm, ambient atmosphere flooding the room. Your fingers poke softly at the petals on the flowers, lifting them a little to get a better look, mindful of the roses in the arrangement, careful not to be pricked by their thorns. "And you said you didn't think you'd be a good boyfriend,"

The latter sentence is muttered to yourself more than anything, a remembrance of something he'd said a while ago now - something that had always been in the back of your mind when you considered anything more - but your heart drops when you hear him chuckle from not too far behind, spinning on your heels to look at him, wide-eyed and apologetic. "I didnt-,"

“It’s fine,” he assures you, dipping his head but still keeping his gaze on yours, “Wine?”

He holds the bottle up in one hand, and your mouth goes a little dry at the sight of the label, mind going straight back to this time last week, when you had shared a few glasses with him. When things had gone too far.

Quinn's hands were holding you in place on his lap, soft fingers slipping under the hem of his sweatshirt that you wore, sliding up to press into the warm skin of your back, rocking you on his lap as his tongue swiped languidly against your own.

You couldn't quite tell whose mouth the taste of plummy Malbec sat within, but at that point, you didn't care - you'd both drunk enough of it to find yourselves in such a situation, you were at equal fault.

Not that any of it felt wrong in the moment, his hips bucking up as you straddled his thighs, your fingers clutching where his hair grew thick at the back of his neck. Quinn was humming soft, delicious groans straight between your lips, his own closing around your tongue as he sucked on it - all other bodily movements frantic and stuttered until he was repositioning the two of you, laying you back on the couch and gripping the elastic waist of your sweatpants.

It can't have been wrong - not with how easy it all unfolded, your hips lifting until he slid your bottoms off, his fingertips sneaking their beneath the hem of your panties - too drunk to care how sexy they might have been, never expecting to have to even consider such a thing around Quinn - all the while his mouth pressing firm, bruising kisses to your own.

"I shouldn't, I'm driving," you mumble, a soft shake of your head supposed to let him down easy, and to bring your senses back to the present, but his frown just deepens, the crease between his eyebrows now almost a fold.

"You can stay, you know," he tells you, pouring his own glass. "I don't care if you sleep until Sunday, it's not like you haven't spent the weekend before."

"I don't know," You sit cautiously in your seat, watching as he lowers into his own, face morphing into a hard scowl before he lets out a heavy sigh. "What?"

"It's like you've been making excuses not to hang out."

"Or maybe you've been making excuses to hang out," you retort, cringing yourself at how stupid it sounds, looking down into your lap as you place your napkin there so that he can't see the visible curl of your features.

"That doesn't even make sense," you know that, obviously, but you've been avoiding him for a reason - you don't want to have this conversation. You're not ready. "I don't need an excuse, we're friends, it's what friends do."

And God, you wish he'd just stop saying it. It's getting annoying now, your jaw tensing as you huff a short breath out, still keeping your head down to avoid him reading you like an open book - a book that may as well be pictures, at this point, or written for children with the most basic reading comprehension, one sentence per page and clear as day.

"What friends do," you mutter, in disbelief. He's one to talk about what friends do.

Friends don't do what you did last week.

Quinn's body had pretty much completely flopped onto yours, his chest rising and falling in heavy pants, but still careful enough not to bare all his weight on you so that yours could do the same.

Your skin felt clammy all over, baby hairs sticking to the back of your neck and your forehead, your neck slick from where his lips had been pressing all into it, sucking and nipping and you swear you'd even felt the glorious scratch of teeth at one point, and the heat of him above you was doing little to remedy the feeling.

You brought a hand up, almost absent-mindedly, to scratch softly at the back of his head as he came down, an overwhelming dizziness gripping at your eyelids, pulling you down as you felt him follow.

"You're making me feel like I'm going crazy," you sigh, "You can't seriously set all this up and not realise that it's way more effort than anyone would normally put in for someone that's just a friend,"

"You're not just anything," he counters, "When did I say you were just anything?"

He looks annoyed, that much is obvious - and yeah, you've technically been avoiding him, just like he assumes, but he was the one who made you feel like you had to.

A soft, sleepy groan was the first sound that brought you into consciousness the next morning - raspy and thick, and so close to your ear that the feeling of it buzzed the whole way down to your toes.

Then came unassuming movements, a twist of his torso, a shuffle of his hips, the stretch of his legs, all of which had been pressed right against all the same parts of your body - the sticky warmth of him catching your skin and rousing you fully from your sleep.

His arms tightened their hold around you before you really thought he knew what he was doing - a lethargic sigh huffing from his nostrils as he got comfortable again - and you had maybe a solid minute in his embrace until he fully came to.

The two of you were naked, one of the throws from the back of the couch draped lazily over your modesty, but that didn't really matter when you could feel the heavy press of him all over - your chest, your stomach, your hips, your thighs.

His fingers tightened, pressing a little into your waist before his touch disappeared completely. Before he was retreating, untangling himself from your body and sitting up. You felt the couch move as he shuffled around doing God-knows-what - felt the soft drape of the throw back over your body, and the whoosh of cold that followed and refused to leave.

When you dared to open your eyes, he was sat on the other side, leaning over, head in his hands after shrugging his boxers back on.

"Quinn?" you asked, your own voice thick with sleep, straightening to face him properly and rubbing at your eyes until they focused. "What's going on?"

"How much did we have to drink last night?"

Your heart dropped at the question, but your eyes floated over to the coffee table, two empty bottles standing on the other side. "A lot, I guess."

"Shit," he cursed, pushing himself up and pacing in front of the couch, refusing to look at you. "Fuck."

"Q, you're making me dizzy."

"I just," he stopped in place and scratched at the back of his neck, eyes lowering down your body in a way that made heat creep back up your neck, and your shoulders practically fold in on themselves consciously. "I didn't mean for it to go that far."

Your lips parted, although you didn't really know what to say to that. All you could do was nod, stuttered and slow, your gaze shifting too until it landed on the carpeted rug in front of him, focusing too hard on the pattern. "It's fine."

You could feel the weight of his stormy stare, but you couldn't look up - too afraid of rejection, too afraid of regret.

"We're friends, you know, you're-,"

"I know," you confirmed, not needing to hear how he didn't ever intend to be anything more. "We were drunk, Q, it's fine."

Your attempt at a reassuring smile probably looked a little more like a grimace, but you were saved probably by the fact that the two of you had had a lot to drink, and you were honestly a little queasy.

And maybe it had been the cold hard slap of rejection you woke up to that made you feel that way - after years of wanting more with Quinn - but he didn't need to know that. Not if he was already 10 toes deep into a regret spiral so soon after opening his eyes.

"We're friends."

"You said it last Saturday," you frown, "Saturday morning."

"No, you said we were drunk. I said we were friends, but you cut me off-,"

"Yeah, 'cause I didn't really want the first thing you said to me that morning to be that you made a mistake!"

"And here you are again, cutting me off!" his voice is a little raised now - so unlike the soft-spoken Quinn you're used to - easy going and well natured. "I can't win with you, you're either avoiding me like the plague, or you're not letting me speak, either way, I can't clear all this up!"

"What's there to clear up?" you scoff, "I don't need you to hold my hand and give me the full speech, okay, I get it, you don't want to be anything more than-," your body is jolted quickly by the sudden scrape of your chair across the floor, Quinn's grip firm on the leg as he pulls, "Hey, what are you-,"

And he's at the perfect height, then, to meet your lips once you're close enough, his hand leaving the chair to grip at your face - hold you in place so that you can't protest, can't cut him off in this, too, like you have been doing with every other way he's tried to communicate his feelings for you.

His kiss feels familiar, achingly so, the swipe of his tongue soft at the parting of your lips, his own mouth closing in a soft pressure against yours, over and over at a disorienting intensity - all thoughts melting away at his endeavour.

When he pulls away, he keeps his hands in place, watching intently as your eyes flutter open, and you slowly sink back into consciousness, pupils blown when they meet his, intense in their focus on you.

"You're really important to me."

You frown, because your brain will only allow you to process that as the start of rejection - followed by, which is why we can't go further - but that's not the direction Quinn is taking this.

"I wanted to do all of this right. That's why I freaked out last week. I didn't want you to think it was a drunken mistake."

Oh.

You're still a little dazed from the kiss, if you're honest, and so you find yourself blinking slowly back at him, mouth bopping open and closed while you figure out what to say.

"What?" Is all that comes out when you find your voice, watching as he rolls his eyes - part exasperated, part amused.

"Now you have nothing to say?" He scoffs, thumb swiping gently at your cheek as if to show you he's kidding. "I like you. I have for a while, and I want to be more than friends. I want you to stay at my place whenever you come over, and wear my clothes, and eat my food, and drink my wine," he lists, dipping his head closer and closer until you're face to face, a mere inch or two from him kissing you again. "And I want you to sleep here until Sunday. Maybe even after."

"Okay." you respond - the kind of one word answer you've been throwing his way to avoid getting hurt all week. And because you feel guilty, you add, "I want all that, too."

He breathes out a sigh of relief, closing his eyes and smiling slowly - an infectious kind of smile, that has you doing it right back, noses just brushing before you kiss him, again.

Stone cold sober, no longer looking to avoid your feelings, with the intention of being so much more than his friend.

#quinn hughes x reader #quinn hughes #quinn hughes blurb #quinn hughes imagine #nhl imagine #nhl blurb #*writing #.ve #💌.valentinesevent #this got so long lmao #girl let the man eat his dinner

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winndycakes · 4 months ago

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Winndy Rambles And Gushes About Chuck Tingle

Wanted to ramble a little about one of my favorite authors, creators and overall just super rad people; Chuck Tingle.

Like many people, when I first heard of Chuck, I took him as some sort of meme. A troll, a joke, someone not to be taken seriously. After all, the majority of his works are "silly short erotica stories around dinosaurs, cryptids and even living concepts and items". How COULD this be serious? It's a question I asked before, years ago, and one that many still do to this day.

One holiday season, a friend had made a post on FaceBook saying "first five people to comment I'll gift you a book". So I did. The book I got was a physical copy of the "Space Raptor Butt Invasion Trilogy" by Chuck Tingle. Since I had a book of Tingle's now, I really had no excuse to not read it for myself.

Erotica normally isn't my thing (I'm pretty ace and grey aro too), but very quickly, I was charmed by the prose. As you read Chuck's stories, there's a fact that becomes very apparent. Chuck Tingle is a great writer, a really great writer. How he writes, how the words flow together, one sentence going into the next. The characters, the plot, the little bits of lore, dialogue and all he puts in... You quickly begin to see; this is NOT a joke.

It is not a meme. He is not trolling you. It is art. Passionate, sincere, genuine art. And it's beautiful. The more you read, the more definitive it gets.

I will admit, I have read aloud many a Tingler for friends and others in Discord servers, both to share my joy of Tingle with others, but also, it is fun to look at how different his works are. It's fine to laugh along with them even.

The moment that really was like... angels singing, light shining down and there's bishi sparkles and a heavenly soft pink background appearing for me though was the summer Chuck Tingle released on of his first full novella's; "Trans Wizard Harriet Porber and the Bad Boy Parasaurolophus". Like many, I was crushed and gutted at JKR's extreme turn to committing to transphobia (and of course the hindsight of realizing... the HP books and universe were not as kind and welcoming as I remembered growing up). So when Chuck Tingle (in one weekend mind you) came out with a 50k novel affirming trans people and their belonging in not just queer spaces, but being on this Earth, as fellow human beings, it was... affirming. It was the welcoming feeling I had gotten with the original HP books all those years ago, but it was real. (Also please read both Trans Wizard Harriet Porber books. They're delightful, fun and the magic system Tingle creates is so, so cool and interesting).

The next thing that got me just mega hype for Tingle was his first foray into horror; "Straight". "Straight" is Tingle's answer to the ever popular trope and genre of zombies and the apocalypse that comes with them, and what a fun turn of tables he takes on them. Zombies in the Tingleverse are not undead beings, they're not humans afflicted by a virus, instead a strange cosmic event happens once a year, when one night, all cishet people on Earth get this animalistic, violent urge to brutally harm and even kill all queer people. I won't get too spoilery about it but it is a very fun romp, and as someone who has been fatigued by zombies, it is a welcome new perspective.

Not long after this, Chuck came out with two full, traditionally published horror novels; "Camp Damascus" and "Bury Your Gays". Both are very different experiences in horror, both a joyful celebration of being queer and your authentic self even in the face of those looking to silence you, permanently if they must. I had the pleasure of meeting Chuck (twice!) while he was on tour for both of these books, getting my copies signed (along with my copies of the Trans Wizard duology and my beloved copy of the Space Raptor trilogy) and was able to tell Tingle myself just how important he is to someone like me; another queer autistic creator. (I was also one of the few people to win the little mini games he gave, twice, but that's a different story).

Ultimately that is what I am trying to get at. Growing up, and even for all of my 20s, there wasn't really someone like Tingle. Someone unabashedly authentic, themselves, queer, open and imo most importantly, joyously so. One is often told "just be yourself" but that can be hard to do when it seems like the world is against you for one reason or another.

Seeing a creator like Chuck shows how important it is to have such a presence in the world, and I was glad I got to tell him myself. I've had a lot of hardships in life, a lot of losses, a lot of grief, but someone like Chuck is there to tell you to keep trotting and remind you; Love Is Real.

And that's truly the ending message:

Love Is Real.

#winndy talks #chuck tingle #love is real #buckaroo lifestyle

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i-am-a-bad-influence-writes · 2 months ago

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Caught up

Masterlist Word count: 1k Sylus x Reader

Summary: Sylus disappeared and you've got no idea where he went.

Author's note: A short one to make up for the time I've been gone. I'm still moving. It's all going a little slower than expected. If all goes well, I'll be at my new place by Monday.

It's been a year. A long year. A torturous year. A year since you last saw him. A year since he disappeared from your life in a cloud of red.

Ever since then, you've been feeling strange, confused, dazed. Now and then you swear you feel someone looking at you, reaching out to touch you only to disappear when you turn to face them. It's something strange lurking from the shadows.

Something strangely resembling him.

Part of you thought he might've died, that it's his spirit reaching out for you, but you've seen him get shot... you were the one who shot him. He recovered just fine.

Sylus is not a man who dies.

He is a man who disappears for days on end only to come back to you with a few new scratches that he claims he couldn't heal with a shit eating grin on his face, almost daring you to call him out. That's the thing though. Normally it's days, not a full year.

No calls from unknown numbers, no cryptic texts, no Mephisto, no Luke and Kieran. Nothing. You've tried going to the N109 zone, but every time you got close you felt all turned around and couldn't find it. The whole situation is strange. It's not like a city can suddenly move.

And now this man has the gall to sit in your living room, battered and bruised but still as cocky and confident as ever, and smile at you?! You must be going crazy.

'What are you doi-' You can't even finish your sentence. It seems Sylus kept his composure until he saw you. His whole body collapses the second the door closes. You rush to his side and push him back against the couch. His eyes tell you his mind is dancing on the line between consciousness and unconsciousness.

'I've missed you.' The way he speaks, it doesn't sound like him. It sounds like he's been screaming for days until his throat went raw, like he's been crying out for weeks, like he's been tortured. Could that be it? Was he captured?

In the corner of your eye, you see his hand move up to your face. It looks strenuous for him. You gently take his wrist in your hand and move his hand to your face, nuzzling into it to pretend he's doing this all by himself. You know how much he needs to feel like he's still strong at a time like this.

'Where did you go?'

'Didn't go anywhere,' he tells you, every word seeming to take as much energy as running a marathon, 'was caught. Need you.'

You nod your head. Never has Sylus ever asked for your help like this, not when he's this hurt. But when you get up to go get your med kit, his hand suddenly clasps around your wrist. With his strength gone, he almost yanks himself off the couch with your movements. 'I'm just getting some stuff to help you. I'll be back in a second,' you reassure him. He tries to nod, but he can barely lift his head.

When you look at him now, truly look at him, your heart shatters. Your big bad man, the infamous leader of Onychinus, your dragon reduced to this. But now is no time for tears, now is the time to help him become himself again.

Feeling truly terrified for Sylus’ health and wellbeing speeds you up like nothing else. Within seconds you're back by his side with your medical supplies spread out on the coffee table. You take off his blouse and he tries to smirk and say something clever, but no words leave his mouth. There's just a strange lobsided smile on his lips that makes you worry even more.

Minutes tick away until they become hours, but it feels like forever until you finally finish patching him up. You tried getting him to drink some water and eat some food, but it was all too much for him. If only you knew when the last time he ate or drank was so it could ease your mind. Sadly, Sylus is not talking. He's barely conscious.

Miraculously, you managed to get him into your bed and stripped down to his boxers so that he could be comfortable. The night seems to go on forever as you watch him sleep. Every breath he takes makes you ever so slightly relieved. Watching his chest rise and fall while fighting sleep becomes almost impossible. The sound of his soft snores is almost hypnotic, and you quickly find yourself drifting off.

When you wake again, the sun is already up. You notice you're much warmer than you were last night and when you open your eyes, Sylus is looking straight back at you. His eyes are surprisingly clear for someone who looked like he was on death's door last night. It's a sharp contrast from the man you see in front of you right now.

Though you can tell he's still not fully recovered, sleep has done him wonders. The bruises and cuts in his face cleared up and he seems like he's doing fine. Most importantly, he's holding you in his arms, something that you were longing for a whole year. 'What's my diagnosis, miss hunter?' He saw you checking him. Apparently, he's got the strength to banter with you again.

'Surprising recovery,' you mumble as you snuggle closer to him, 'but that's nothing special when it's you.' Shit, you've missed this so much. His warmth, his touch, his voice. If you could, you would stay here forever to make up for the year he was gone. At the same time you want to scream at him for leaving you, but you knew what you signed up for when you got into a relationship with him. Though a year was a little ridiculous, he did come home. He did come back to you.

'I've missed you,' he coos, wrapping his arms around you tighter. Almost as if he's trying to force your body to merge with his. 'And I owe you an explanation.'

'Explanations can come later. Just hold me.'

'That I can most certainly do.'

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LADS general taglist

@brekkers-whore

@mcdepressed290

@fvcknwww

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ddejavvu · 1 year ago

Note

Also… your post about ani loving back scratches omg.. you think he’s into like reader playing with his hair too?? His curls, and even when he had short hair like wow I just know that man has the softest hair ever

happy may the 4th! send me star wars requests/headcanons and we'll have a party <3

i pictured this as tcw!anakin's hair because it was like the cutest little baby mullet/shag where it was growing and curling against the nape of his neck and i wanted to scrunch it with my fingers so bad <333

"Keep going."

"Hold on, hold on," You mutter, "My friend's texting me."

Anakin releases a displeased grunt into the fabric of your shirt, and you feel it where it lands warm in your lap.

"Easy," You tap away at the screen of your datapad, pecking letter by letter at what is shaping up to be a lengthy paragraph, "I thought they taught patience at the temple, Jedi Knight. I'll go back to playing with your hair as soon as I'm done."

Anakin grunts again, louder this time.

You don't dignify his dramatics with a response, and you continue typing, the lingering warmth of Anakin's hair fading from your fingertips. He lets you get half of a sentence more in before you feel an invisible tug at your hand, and it relocates itself against Anakin's scalp instead of where you'd placed it on your pad.

"Anakin!" You scoff, "Did you just force my hand back into your hair?"

He lets out a muffled chuckle into your sleep shirt, "Force."

"You are absolutely insufferable," You grumble, but you indulge him with the scrape of your nails against his scalp. It sends a shiver down his spine, and he burrows his face further into your stomach.

"You sound like Obi-Wan," He muses, "I've heard insufferable, incorrigible, reckless, untamable, unmanageable-"

"Unshushable," You add, still making a valiant effort at typing one-handed rather than returning your second hand to its rightful place among Anakin's barely-curled scruff, "Do you ever stop talking?"

"You love the sound of my voice," He accuses, peering up at you with squinted, tired eyes, "That's why you make me read to you at night."

"No, I make you read to me at night because the last thing you read was a users' manual for a landspeeder, and you barely even skimmed that," You scratch against the crown of his head and he groans, "I worry about your literary habits."

"I worry about your hair-playing habits," He reaches out to knock your datapad out of your hand which he drags back into his hair, "Come on, baby, you owe me three books-worth of this."

#anakin skywalker x reader #anakin skywalker imagine #anakin skywalker scenario #anakin skywalker oneshot #anakin skywalker one-shot #anakin skywalker one shot #anakin skywalker headcanon #anakin skywalker headcanons #anakin skywalker hcs #anakin skywalker hc #anakin skywalker fanfiction #anakin skywalker fanfic #anakin skywalker fic #anakin skywalker blurb #anakin skywalker drabble #anakin skywalker dialogue #anakin skywalker fluff #anakin skywalker smut

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spiderb00bs · 3 months ago

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- A Night To Remember!

Ella Purnell x Fem reader

"You made a request to your girlfriend, and she always did everything you wanted."

Genre - smut Warnings - sex w strap | MDNI

Now Playing - Red Wine Supernova, by Chappell Roan

n/a - This was a request, but i accidentally deleted it. But if you're seeing this, yk it's u ;)

Your panting was the loudest sound in the room, your girlfriend's kisses descended from your lips to your jaw, nibbling and licking until she reached your neck. Your hands were tightly gripping the fabric of the shirt Ella was wearing, and even though those pajamas had awakened something in you, all you wanted to do was take them off her body.

You knew what was coming when you saw the bulge in your girlfriend's tiny shorts, and you couldn't deny that you loved it. A few days ago, you had asked Ella what she thought about fucking you with the strap, and you could have sworn you saw her eyes light up the moment the idea hit her brain.

So here you were, underneath the woman as she let you explore her body, feeling you run your hands from her back to her breasts.

"Are you ready, darling?" Ella asked, her accent made you shiver every time.

"Aren't you going to take it off?" You said, pulling the hem of your shirt up, making your girlfriend giggle as she allowed you to pull the shirt off her body.

"Are you satisfied now?" Ella said, directing the tip of the strap to your pussy, teasing you.

You groaned, very annoyed at being the only one completely naked there - because your girlfriend was still wearing those fucking short shorts - but also because you were too horny to complain.

"Hey, don't be a bad girl. Remember, I'm the boss today, baby." She said, not even giving you time to protest.

A loud moan left you as Ella pushed herself inside you. The feeling of the strap and your girlfriend kissing your body and stimulating your breasts was wonderful, and you swore you could live like this forever.

"Fuck babe, that feels so good!" You said, grabbing Ella's shoulders. The naughty little smile on her face said she was loving this as much as you were.

"Fuck, oh my god babe, you're so tight, I can barely move!" The giggle that left your girlfriend's lips made your head fall back. How could that woman be so hot?

Seeing your neck on display, Ella took the opportunity to suck on your sensitive spot, increasing the speed of her thrusts, making her go deeper and deeper inside you.

your nails scratched the woman's lightly tanned skin, your nails scratched the woman's lightly tanned skin, giving Ella a twisted pleasure, who moaned with pain.

"Damn babe, why didn't you ask me to do this before?" Ella laughed once more, seeing that you couldn't say a word, just letting your moans come out. "You're enjoying it, aren't you? How I fuck you?" You nodded, it was the only thing you could do while your girlfriend fucked you so good.

Grabbing your thighs, Ella began to move with precision, hitting your g-spot suddenly. Hearing you moan more and more, the woman brought her hand to your clit, massaging it.

"Baby, I'm gonna..." You couldn't even finish your sentence, your words were replaced by screams in less than seconds, while you came hard, wetting Ella's abdomen, her shorts and the sheets.

"Holy shit, baby..." Ella said, bending down and giving your pussy an experimental lick, making you moan with sensitivity. "You're really something, huh?!"

Kissing your forehead, Ella lay down next to you, only to feel the wet sheets, as well as her shorts.

"Okay, Miss Messy, let's clean up."

Laughing, you both got out of bed, - with difficulty - Ella changed the sheets while you were in the tub, and then joined you.

Relaxing her shoulders, she leaned her back against your front, feeling comforted in being so intimately beside you.

"I love you." The brunette said, stroking your hair and kissing your hand, which was holding her comfortably.

"I love you even more." You said, kissing her neck, making her giggle at the tickling.

Now that was a night to remember!

the way I thought of this picture of Ella the EXACT moment I read this request, OMG she looks so hot in this picture 😭😭

How are you guys? I'm working on the bigger requests, so while they're not ready, I thought I'd release some short requests to keep you entertained.

sorry for the absence, it's been really complicated lately. My main blog hasn't seen me in ages 🫣

anyway, stay safe

xoxo, spider.

#ella purnell x reader #jackie taylor x reader #yellowjackets x reader #request #gxg imagine #wlw smut #gxg smut #spiderb00bs

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pizzaapeteer · 1 month ago

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coming from a sleepy girl rn, i just really wanted to write something tiny, about sleepy Mattheo who I wanna wrap up in my clothes

“Mattheo!” Another attempt at calling after the rugged boy falls short on his ears and you huff with exhaustion. Having followed behind the disappearing shadow, and snow covered footsteps for the past few corners struggling with little efforts to catch up. He trudged with his hands shoved in his pockets to battle the cold, walking along the aisles down the courtyard.

He wasn’t even walking that fast, a lethargic dawdle much like that of tortoise - yet it still made for a much quicker pace than your shorter legs. They moved with haste finally breaking into a run, being careful not to slip on the snowy cobblestones. Now within distance, you reach, taking ahold of his arm to grab his attention. “Matty!”

His head jerks with sluggish movements at the sound of your exasperated voice, a soft huh exhaling out as he halts his steps barely having time to grip onto your wrist before you can skid straight past him. His voice is low and filled with heavy sleep, his eyes lifting with recognition and he smiles tiredly. “Oh hey baby...what’s up?”

His body radiates with low energy like a car barely keeping its engine alive, unlike his usual comical suave self. His eyes are weary, while his neck struggles to hold the heavy head nearing a dramatic droop. He doesn't want you to fuss over his lack of sleep, knowing these are the consequences of his overachieving cocky attitude, resulting in another essay left last minute and an all-nighter cram.

So he just continues to give you a smile but doesn't say anything deciding with the little part of his brain still functioning, that keeping his mouth shut is best.

You raise an amused brow at his exhausted tone, and grin at his adorable lazy smile, “Good morning! Are you trying to freeze yourself to death!?” You examine his lack of extra layers with a disapproval gaze, dressed in only sweatpants and a hoodie which you assumed he slept in.

He watches the small scoff you let out, the way those pretty eyes of yours roll playfully at his ridiculous lack of care for warmth. Before the heat and softness of your own beanie is squashed down over his curls with a tight pull snuggly. “You look cold.” You comment with concern. "And tired."

He doesn’t protest too tired to even utter a mere grumble as his head jerks sideways in your assault of motherly warmth. He likes when you do things for him, makes him feel special and needed. “Mm’fine baby, I’m not” he pauses, extending his sentence to mid yawn, “-cold at all.” His soft brown eyes continue to blink back the battling sleep threatening to consume him as he denies your words.

“Uh huh, yeah well I say differently.” Your lips brim into a sweet adoring smile, studying his features closely. The tip of his nose beginning to scarlet from the cold, his eyelashes fluttering again as he looks down at you with a droopy lidded gaze trying to stop another ambush of yawns, the warmth of your clothes making him extra sleepy.

He offers a small smile, finally humming a tired acknowledgement at your comment, he knows better than to argue with you. Especially in his weak and weary state. His fingers tighten their grip around the fabric of your coat bringing you further into his embrace, wishing he was more awake to touch you properly. They drum, flexing in an impatient fidget, while happy to see you he knows he's going to be useless towards you until he continues his original goal of obtaining a fuckload of caffeine.

"Did you sleep at all mattheo?"

"mm, maybe..." He comments, rubbing the palm of his hand into his eyes with another deep yawn. "or am I'm asleep right now?.. I do already dream of you." His body jerks forwards at the sudden tug of your scarf now hung around his neck, his feet shuffling between your legs. "woah hey."

You laugh pushing aside your interest in his bad habits, flattered by his ability to charm you on the brink of exhaustion. "does this happen in your dreams?" Leaning up, your hands caress his cold cheeks and grant him a sweet good morning kiss. A burst of warmth and goodness floods him and he groans, brushing his hand into your hair.

It’s quick and soft and when you part you stay close to him, resting your warm lips brushed up against his. “how are you so cute even when your half dead, and looking adorable in my clothes.”

His laugh is soft and breathless, and he offers a slightly brighter grin, "It's called talent baby, and we do far more than just kissing in my dreams." He sighs, "but fuck if I don't get coffee in me soon I will be a deadless zombie all day.

“What my kisses aren’t enough to zing you awake?”

“Nope.”

You laugh rolling your eyes at his blunt answer, knowing whenever he’s this needy for coffee there’s no schmoozing him over. “Alright sleepy boy I’ll lead the way.” The warmth of your hand slides into his, and with an easy tug you lead your poor sleepy boyfriend towards the only thing with a stronger hold over you; a hot cup of jo.

⤷ navigation. ⤷ masterlist. ⤷ mattheo masterlist. All work is my own and is not to be copied, claimed or stolen. ©️pizzaapeteer 2025. ty for reading!!

#Mattheo riddle #mattheoriddle #Mattheo riddle fluff #mattheo riddle Drabble #mattheo riddle #slytherin boys #slytherin boys fandom #sleepy matty has my heart I just wanna give him all the warmth #i didn't proof read this so lets pray its okie gn!

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dollfacefantasy · 2 months ago

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If you still write for jjk you should write for nanami blindfolding you with his tie :3

kento nanami x fem!reader cw: nsfw (18+), smut, p in v, blindfold, daddy kink/ddlg, brat taming, overstimulation a/n: i totally still write for jjk <3

"ken..." you whimper as your bottom lip juts out into a wobbly pout.

he hums in acknowledgement. a short, low sound that doesn't offer much sympathy or relief to your problem. you're sure his face reflects the same mood. you can imagine it now - that flat line his lips settle into, the unyielding nature of his eyes. if only his stupid tie wasn't wrapped around your head, then you'd actually be able to see it.

"what is it, sweetheart?" he asks, as if he doesn't know. as if he's not the one who tied the knot at the back of your skull.

"i wanna- wanna see you," you plead. your voice breaks between words. it's hard to get out a coherent sentence while he's teasing you down below.

every few seconds, he drags the tip of his cock through your soaked folds. the leaky head nudges your sensitive little clit, drawing more whines from you. he won't stop, but he also won't slip it in. and you're pretty sure your lack of sight only makes the feeling more severe.

you're already all twitchy. the aftershocks of overstimulation still fizzle around in your tummy. he'd spent the last however-long devouring you, lapping at your cunt until you were begging for mercy. now he has you spread out before him. a pile of pillows supports your upper-half while his body between your legs keeps them nice and wide for him.

"i told you what the price would be if you acted up," he says coolly. "you know not to bother me when i'm working."

"but they already make you work so much. why do you gotta do work at home?" you say.

"it doesn't matter why. the reason why doesn't change the fact that i told you i needed some time to finish things up," he says.

"i'm sorry," you whimper. you want to squirm so bad, but you know it'll only get you in deeper trouble. "i just missed you."

"hmm. well, what else did i tell you?" he asks, leading you into answering away your chances at redemption.

"that you would spend the rest of the night with me when you were done..." you respond. the will to argue fades with every word.

"that's right. i told you that you would have all my attention as soon as i finished. but you couldn't be patient, so now as soon as i'm done with you, i'll have to go back in there and stay up for another hour to get it done."

not seeing kento's eyes right now is killer. you can't plead your case as well without your vision. you can't gauge his reactions or predict his next move. and without eye contact, his tone is so much more biting. it actually puts some shame into you. maybe that's why he's doing it...

"i'm sorry," you say for what feels like the fiftieth time tonight. "i know i should've left you alone. i just really missed you. you've been gone so much this week. you know i get a little stupid without you looking out for me..."

"don't give me that. don't try and blame your bad behavior on stupidity," he scolds. "you're a smart girl. you don't get stupid. you get bratty."

and with that, he rocks his hips forward, sliding his cock into you.

your back arches off the mattress, and you gasp at the unexpected intrusion. he pushes all the way inside in one go, not being gentle or giving you time to adjust to his size like he usually does. you whine at first, but the sound melts down into a pitiful symphony of whimpers. your body is on fire, burning in the best possible way. you're aching with sensitivity yet yearning for more all at the same time.

"mhm. my sweet, bratty girl. you're not dumb. you just choose not to think. you want what you want, and you believe you deserve it whenever it is that you want it," kento continues to lecture.

you feel the pressure of his palms dipping the mattress on either side of your head. your wish for the blindfold to come off gets even more intense as images of his flexing biceps and strong forearms fill your head.

"you don't care about my time or what i'm doing," he says with a particularly deep thrust.

you moan and grab at his shoulders. even though you can't see, you know exactly where they are and what they feel like.

"i- i do care. i-" you try to defend yourself. but he cuts you off with a sharp tug of your hips, spearing you further on his length and making you yelp.

"shhh, shhh. no more excuses," he hushes. his pelvis rolls against you rhythmically, thrusting his cock nice and deep every time. "you were a bad girl earlier, and nothing you say will change that."

a little cry escapes you upon hearing that. nothing you say? nothing can make it better?! so you're just supposed to accept the eternal damnation that is him considering you a bad girl? you can't. your eyes water under the silky fabric of the blindfold.

"but daddy," you whine, the title slipping out under the pressure of both your emotions and physical pleasure, "i don't want you to be mad at me."

"i'm not mad at you," he says simply. "i just want you to understand the consequences of your actions."

kento always wins at this game. it's just not fair. you got all whiny and needy so he'd do this, but of course, he had to do it in a way to make you genuinely regret it.

"you miss me, and you feel neglected, don't you? but instead of talking that out with me like a big girl, you get so fussy and throw a fit. and that never works out for you, does it?" he continues.

you shake your head, lip quivering. your too spun out of place for words.

"mhm, so next time, what are you gonna do?" he asks.

"use my words," you whimper.

"that's my good girl," he praises.

his thrusts are still deep and evenly-paced, but he's starting to pick up some speed now. you loop your arms around his neck, pulling him down close as can be. he reciprocates your desire for closeness with a tight hold on your waist.

he lays some kisses on your face. you feel his lips pepper over your cheeks and jaw, past the strap of silk and up to your hairline. every touch lets you know without words that he still loves you and you're still his even when you act up.

it's easy for you to fall over the edge. you were already half way there at the start from the overstimulation. but kento cums too after a few more breathless pumps. he grips you tight and buries his face in your neck, letting out a deep groan against your skin.

you feel his warmth flood you, and your eyes flutter. he fucks the ropes of cum into you, thrusting erratically against your center.

when he's all spent, he stays on top of you for a few moments, just basking in the afterglow. but once he's come down enough, he starts peeling himself off of your body. he pulls out and sits up beside you.

the first thing he does is pull his tie of your head. he unties the knot with his nimble fingers and then lays it on the nightstand. after that he gets up and goes through the normal routine - puts some clothes on, cleans you up, gets you tucked in.

only this time, he doesn't join you in bed. he stands at the edge, petting your head. you look up at him with guilty eyes.

"do you really have to do it tonight?" you ask.

he nods. "i want you to get some rest. i'll be back by the time you wake up. think about this before you try distracting me again," he murmurs.

he kisses your forehead once more before shutting off the light and slipping out of your bedroom to head down the hall towards his office.

#ch: kento nanami 💌#kento nanami x reader #nanami kento x reader #nanami x reader #nanami smut #kento nanami smut #kento nanami x you #kento nanami x y/n #jjk x reader #jjk smut #jjk imagines #jujustu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen smut

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22ayla21 · 4 days ago

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Hi! I have something for Leona.

Could you do Leona with wife reader where she call him by his full name. How he, his family and kids will react. Maybe bonus that Leona try to coax his wife for his to escape the situation.

Love your writing with my whole heart ❤

Full Name - Full Defeat

One innocent snack turns into a catastrophe when Leona realizes that his full name, spoken by his wife, is not just an address, but a sentence.

The heat in the Sunset Savannah was its usual mild and dry self. The day rolled on: the children were playing chess, servants bustled in the kitchen preparing dinner, and Leona... well, Leona was napping after lunch as always. No one batted an eye – it was his established routine, practically a law of life.

Everything was going as usual until a clear and almost ominous voice echoed from the kitchen.

"Leona Kingscholar."

The yard fell silent at once. Even the breeze seemed to quiet down, not wanting to miss a word.

The children, engrossed in a game of chess, froze. The boy slowly raised his eyes from the board where he was setting up the pieces. His sister, only ten minutes older, mouthed:

"Dad's in trouble."

Farena peered into the yard, papers in hand. He had already opened his mouth to say something, but upon hearing his brother's full name, he immediately darted back into the shade, as if observing a scene in the wild jungle where a lion had suddenly encountered an enraged lioness.

Farena's wife raised an eyebrow and said softly:

"She never calls him that. Only if..."

"...he's really messed up," finished Leona and Farena's mother, folding her arms across her chest and fixing her gaze on the kitchen door.

At that very moment, Leona, lazily stretching after his siesta, appeared in the doorway with a plate in his hand. An empty plate. He licked his spoon. Heard his full name. And froze in place.

"What the—?" he began, but stopped short, meeting his wife's gaze.

She stood tall – not very tall, but her look was formidable, her eyes narrowed, and the towel draped over her shoulder seemed not like a kitchen accessory, but a banner of righteous retribution.

"Please repeat," she said in an even, icy tone, "exactly what you just ate?"

"Um..." Leona, who was unfazed by magic, duels, or even Malleus's tantrums, suddenly felt his mouth go dry. "There was a plate there, and... I thought it was up for grabs."

"That was mine. I specifically left half to finish later. You knew that. I said it out loud. Three times. I even pointed at it once."

He scratched the back of his head.

"Well... it looked kind of lonely. And it smelled really good. I didn't want the food to go bad."

"Leona. Kingscholar," she repeated, and this time it wasn't just a voice – it was a tocsin.

A quiet movement began in the yard. The children started to slowly retreat towards the back door.

"Hurry, before Mom starts the lecture on personal boundaries," whispered the daughter, nudging her brother.

"Or, heaven forbid, she brings up 'that mango incident' again," he added with horror.

Farena, hiding behind the curtain, whispered to his wife:

"This is worse than when he spilled sauce on the archive maps. Much worse. At least it wasn't his food that was ruined then."

"She was saving that portion," Farena's wife nodded. "It had smoked meat in it; she specifically asked for it to be made. The chef said there are no supplies for next week."

Meanwhile, Leona, still holding the spoon, tried to force a guilty smile.

"Well, even if you're angry, I'm still your favorite, right?"

She crossed her arms over her chest.

"Leona Kingscholar. You ate my food. Without asking. Without apologizing. Without the slightest remorse. This is – betrayal."

"Oh, come on, that sounds a little too serious..."

"You knew perfectly well how much I wanted to finish it. You heard me. I saw you nod. And then... you. Ate. It. All."

He flattened his ears.

"Sorry..."

She rolled her eyes, turned away, and walked out of the kitchen, tossing over her shoulder:

"Make your own meat today. And look for any remaining conscience you might have."

Leona remained standing in the empty kitchen, ashamed, with the spoon in his hand and the face of a man who had finally realized what he had done.

He turned and saw his whole family watching him from the window.

Farena gave him a thumbs-up.

"Welcome to the club."

His mother sighed heavily.

"Well, at least she remembered his name. He's been getting too lax lately."

And only the children, hiding in the next room, giggled:

"Mom won. Dad's knocked out."

#twisted wonderland x reader #twst #twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland leona #leona kingscholar x reader #leona kingscholar #leona x reader

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heich0e · 6 months ago

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"we're having a costume party at school next week!"

sukuna's only acknowledgement of his nephew's words is that half hum/half grunt sound he makes so often—the one that always seems mostly involuntary and entirely disinterested. to the uninitiated, it might come across as dismissive, but thankfully, having spent his entire life around his uncle, yuuji's fluent enough in his unspoken language to interpret the meaning behind the man's sounds without needing him to elaborate.

"yup!" he continues. "will jichan help me pick my costume?"

sukuna looks over at his nephew, finally tearing his eyes away from the screen of his phone.

"me?" he asks with a quirk of his brow.

yuuji is on the other side of the low table at the centre of the living room, bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet in excitement with his two little hands pressed against the table top where his colouring pages and markers sit abandoned.

"yeah! i gotta pick a good one." yuuji nods enthusiastically.

sukuna breathes a short breath out through his nose, but yuuji understands that, too—the sound of his beloved uncle conceding, if not outright agreement to his demands.

"well i'm not paying for any costume, so your dad better be ready to cough up some cash," sukuna says, slumping back against the sofa behind him and stretching his sock-clad feet out under the kotatsu. "what are your ideas so far?"

"dunno!" yuuji comes bounding around to his side of the table, clambering into his uncle's lap and settling in there.

"why don't you just dress up like a tiger cub again?" sukuna asks, shifting to accommodate the squirming brat now trying to make himself comfortable atop him.

yuuji purses his lips like he's thinking about it. "papa said so too."

yuuji's dressed up like a tiger cub almost every year since he was born (sukuna has many, many photos on his phone to prove it.) it's tried and true. both itadori brothers are decidedly weak to the little boy dressed with fluffy ears and a little tail. it must be genetic.

"but kugisaki said she's dressing up like a cat, so nobody else is allowed to," yuuji adds after a moment of contemplation.

sukuna's met yuuji's school friend kugisaki nobara once or twice when picking his nephew up from school, or dropping him off at play dates on the weekend. the kid's a tyrant.

"off limits then," sukuna says—a bit resentfully, since he won't have another series of photos to add to his phone camera's gallery this year. "so what else?"

"hmmmm," yuuji holds his little chin in his hand as though deep in thought. "what about a ghost?"

"boring," sukuna replies immediately.

"a dog?"

"that's too close to a cat," the man shoots that down just as quickly as the first one. “your bossy little friend won’t like that.”

yuuji nods sagely in agreement and then tries again. “how ‘bout a police officer?"

"cops are losers, brat," sukuna says, suddenly stern. he points at him to add emphasis. "they're not your friends and we don't trust 'em."

yuuji's lips form a little 'o'.

"papa says—"

"your dad's a square, don't listen to him," sukuns lifts the hand that had been pointing at his nephew’s chest and flicks him lightly on the forehead. he yelps in complaint.

"if the police is bad then who do i call if i'm in trouble?" yuuji asks through a pout, rubbing the spot between his brows his uncle had just hit.

"me, obviously," the older man answers without missing a beat.

"oh," yuuji says, his expression evening out again as he acceptis this answer simply. “’kay!"

“so what else is there?” sukuna rubs his chin thoughtfully as he reflects on yuujii’s options. kids’ costumes are—decidedly—not really his area of expertise. in fact, the images that come to mind when he thinks of costumes should really not even be mentioned in the same sentence as children.

“i gotta be something cool,” yuuji insists, watching his uncle think.

“yeah, yeah,” sukuna grunts. “what about somethin’ scary?”

yuuji shrinks into himself a little. “i don’t like scary stuff.”

“don’t be a wimp,” sukuna teases him, but he holds the kid a little tighter and doesn’t bring it up again. there’s a black marker on the living room floor by his thigh, with the word WASHABLE printed in thick block letters along the side. sukuna picks it up, tapping it against the ground as he contemplates his options while his nephew does the same.

tap, tap, tap.

“what about a pumpkin?”

“lame. what about a demon?”

“demons are scary, jicha—“

“yeah, yeah.”

sukuna tosses his head back to rest against the sofa cushions, an arm slung across his eyes.

when he opens them again, inspecting his own forearm, he suddenly has an idea.

(when jin comes home from work, he finds his little brother and his son shirtless in the living room—one inked in tattoos, and one sporting a crude approximation of the same tattoos scrawled in washable marker. jin freezes in confusion at the sight.

“papa, i’m jichan!” yuuji beams proudly up at his father, arms outstretched in display. jin’s eyes turn next to his brother, who’s looking particularly smug.

“kid said he wanted a cool costume,” he shrugs.

yuuji goes as a tiger cub again that year.)

#happy halloween from unkuna and little yuuji #this is real dumb but it's canon to the universe bc i say so #uncle!sukuna

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v1rtualsalvat10n · 5 months ago

Text

there is no market for this. this is purely self indulgent guys please don't hunt me down for this.

you're a chemistry student and you steal a bottle of chloroform from your lab. we all know what comes next. obvious tw for (consensual) drugging.

disclaimer that solvents are bad they can kill easily and there is no safe way to use them don't try this at home guys

Luigi sets the brown, glass bottle in front of you, staring you down while he does.

"Was looking for my charger in your room after I left it in there and found this stashed behind your dresser."

You freeze, face flushing red as you look down at it's label. Trichloromethane. God dammit, you knew you should have hid that somewhere better. Absolutely anywhere better.

"You stole this, right? I mean, it makes sense, you're around chemicals all day and you decided to at least make the most of your arsenal, huh?" He raises an eyebrow.

"It's chloroform," you mumble out. He chuckles softly, taking the bottle and running his eyes along the words printed on the label. "I know it is. I looked it up because honestly, I didn't expect you to tell me that's what it was." He glanced up at you as he said the next sentence.

"You gonna tell me why you stole it, or do you want me to wager a guess?"

You fiddled with your hands for a moment, staring down at the table beneath you, before speaking.

"Can I just show you?"

—

You sat on your bed, Lu behind you, on his knees. The sound of him twisting off the bottle's cap made you tense up in anticipation, as he dabbed the liquid onto a pure white hand towel.

"I'm sure you're already aware of how dangerous this is."

"You're the one who agreed to it," you mumble, and he tilts his head in understanding. He brings his arms around you, one hand clutching the soaked rag, the other resting on your thigh.

"If you want me to stop, tap my arm twice and I'll let you breathe." He nuzzled into your neck, looking at you as he slowly pressed the fabric to your mouth and nose. We're really doing this, you think to yourself.

You take a deep inhale of the fumes, being met with a sickly sweet scent that surprised you. It encouraged you to press your hand against his, forcing the rag closer, as you took another breath, reveling in the pleasant scent of it.

"Careful," he coos, and fuck his voice sounds so good. "Don't take too much at once, amore."

You don't listen, chasing the high as you take another huff, feeling it fill your lungs. The tension in your body starts to melt as you lean back against him, maybe a little harder than intended because he holds your waist to stabilize you.

Now the intoxication is clear. Your vision turns hazy and the corners of it darken as the world swirls around you. It looked grainy yet clear, like a sharpness filter, and your overhead light was suddenly blinding, so you shut your eyes softly.

Your breathing turns more shallow as you pant softly, moaning into his hand, feeling his bulge press against your back. What could he say? You were helpless under him, and that turned him on more than he cared to admit.

"You know," he whispers, the sound of his voice making you dizzy. "In movies and TV shows, it takes only a minute or two for someone to black out from chloroform. But in real life it takes quite a bit longer, isn't that interesting?" He pressed the rag harder to your nose, prompting you to take another deep inhale.

A strange, siren-ish whirring makes itself clear, and every time he spoke that sound would ease up, so you pushed your hips back against his to draw a moan out of him. "Fuck," he whined. "I might not be able to wait that few minutes for you to pass out."

The cool vapor against your nostrils felt so good, you couldn't stop yourself from desperately huffing it, one of your hands reaching down to rub yourself through your shorts. He notices, and swats your hand away, replacing it with his own.

"You're soaked," he observes. "The idea of me using you while you're unconscious gets you off, huh?"

You let out a muffled confession into the rag, your body beginning to feel heavy and numb. It was originally used as anesthetic, after all, so that made enough sense - and he had to hold you closer to keep you from toppling.

"What's wrong? Feeling sleepy?" You nodded softly, eyes still shut as you tried to open them, the brightness of your room almost nauseating to look at. You whined in discomfort, and he covered your eyes with his hand, leaning you back onto him.

"Shh, don't fight it. Just let yourself go, amore. I'll take care of you." When you'd closed your eyes, you felt his hand slip back down between your legs, still rubbing his two fingers on your clit, his cock throbbing under his jeans.

Fuck. His voice was so soothing, and your body just felt so heavy that you wanted to give up. You stayed there, teetering on the edge of unconsciousness, mind spinning as he rubbed the last of your logical thinking away.

He slipped your panties aside and pushed his two fingers inside, and that was enough for you. You took another deep inhale, the deepest yet, your head throbbing pleasantly again as you felt yourself slip.

What he did after that? Well... you woke up with tons of hickeys, half your clothes off, and a hangover, so it didn't leave much to the imagination.

But he was there, with a glass of cold water and lots of kisses for you.

"Have you learned not to steal, darling?"

#tw drugs #tw drugging #luigi mangione #luigi mangione x reader #real person fiction #real people fiction 18+#luigi mangione fanfic #rpf #luigi mangione fanfiction #luigi mangione smut #luigi mangione imagine

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crossingthedreams · 7 months ago

Text

do better — gregory house x f!reader

a/n: I got a little carried away, per usual, and now I’m late with day 04 of the angstober challenge (still a wyp), but I plan on finishing it and posting later today. but, omg, I can’t believe I'm posting day 05 — do better on time! this is also part of @angstober‘s challenge, which I'm having a blast writing. I do love some angsty vibes. please, feel free to comment or dm me!

summary: a relationship between the boss and his employee has a million ways to go wrong. one, in particular, hurt them the most.

word count: 2.2k

warnings: angst. House is an asshole. mentions of family death. mentions of cancer. struggles with immigration. inappropriate relationship. mentions of smut.

Let medicine be thy food.

That's the quote, or at least you think it is. After a particularly long shift, words in English seemed to scramble together a bit, with it being your second language and all. Usually, you’re a natural, perfect, fluent speaker. There are moments, however, when understanding what your peers are saying or formulating cohesive sentences becomes a herculean task. You didn’t make yourself unintelligible, but it was a little awkward to be with a patient who clearly had no idea how globalized the world was and how many doctors in the United States were not native English speakers, and who looked at you like you had just robbed the white coat from a “proper doctor”.

Sure, dealing with people was shitty sometimes. “Doctors don’t treat people, they treat illnesses”, your boss had once said. But in your mind, people weren’t that bad. The long hours, the sleep deprivation, the lack of a social life — that was the really bad part. And there were, of course, the very short lunch breaks.

Medicine was fun, but it had nothing on a full plate of pasta with those weird looking meatballs. What once was disgusting, now seemed appetizing as hell. Not eating once while working for the whole night could do that to a person. Medicine was not food, at least not literally.

You had taken off your sweater and your white coat a while before going to the cafeteria, where the rest of the team was. As of right now, you and Chase had spent thirty-six hours working. Cameron and Foreman had taken the long straws and gone home last night while you and the prettiest doctor around worked on some lab tests.

That man who, right now, was not really trying to hide how he lustfully eyed you up and down, stopping on your cleavage. You didn’t blame him for looking, though. Firstly, you did spend the night working together and you mentioned that you did not have sex for the last six months, and secondly, you had nice boobs, which was both a blessing and a curse. Also, he was very much exhausted. Thinking about your coworkers in an unfashionable manner to keep awake was better than falling asleep atop of a patient during a lumbar puncture — you had done both, so you could tell, oops.

“I’ll die if I have to do any more thinking”, the pretty doctor said, accent even more prominent, letting his head drop to the headrest of his seat behind him.

“Yes, thinking just doesn’t come naturally to some people”, you laughingly replied, sitting down next to Foreman. He scooched over, making more room for you and your tray. There was enough pasta on your plate to feed two, not to mention the salad, the dessert, the can of Coke and the can of energy drink.

“Damn, kid, do you not have food at home?” You eyed Foreman, a little annoyed at the comment. Why did men think they had the right to comment on women’s food choices and bodies all the damn time? “Don’t give me that look, you know that’s a lot, especially for a girl who skips lunch every other day”.

“Not by choice” you said, taking a lot of pasta into your mouth. “Nof ba chos”, you replied, mouth full, making everyone at the table let out a tired laugh.

It was an uneventful meal. The team was really tired, especially Chase, who almost dropped his head on his plate twice. The four of you rushed upstairs when lunch was over, after being paged by your boss.

The man himself was pacing back and forth in the conference room, brows furrowed and looking extremely aggravated. Nothing new, then, you think, sitting down across from Cameron.

Allison Cameron and you had been friends since med school, and getting to work together was pretty nice. Women in STEM need each other, of that you were sure. The thing is, she was in a weird place romantically, which made you feel weird about getting along with the people about whom she was confused — which hardly makes sense, but it is what it is. She had a crush on your boss for the longest time, and that didn’t work out at all. And then there was Chase, who she had slept with, but had no interest in further pursuing.

Hanging out with Chase knowing he’d seen her naked was a little weird, but the fact they’d slept together wasn’t the problem. He liked her, and that was her problem. Your boss, well, he was everybody’s problem.

Particularly yours, considering… you know. The one-night-that-became-every-night. The HR-nightmare. The doing-the-devil’s-tango. The seeing-each-other-scars. The kissing-and-absolutely-not-telling.

It was fairly easy sneaking around. He was inappropriate, sure, but not big on PDA. He treated you like any other dumbass employee with boobs. If anyone saw the two of you leaving the hospital together? You worked together. If you were seen going towards the same place? You’re neighbors, duh. And if anyone happened to see the two of you having breakfast together in the little café a block around his place? Well, it was a coincidence meeting him there!

If they saw you giving him head while he tried to play the piano, well… There’s no explanation for that.

You looked at him coming and going, and you knew his leg must be killing him. Yesterday when you left his home in the morning to pick up your stuff for the day (which turned out to be the day, the night and the next day), he was popping more pills than usual. Shit.

“New case?”, Cameron asked, looking at the limping man with worry and care in her eyes. You liked her a lot, but she had to stop thinking about your limping man with such care.

Sure, she liked him first. And she probably worried for him just as she would anyone else. And it was ridiculous to be annoyed at your long-time friend for caring for her boss. Still, there was a sting of jealousy that made you want to bitch-slap her.

He finally stopped and looked at all of you. When his eyes finally met you, he looked right at your low cut top and let out a “Yowza!”. When you blushed and stood up to pick your white coat, he called your last name, and said, nonchalantly: “Nice boobs”.

You raised a hand to pinch at the bridge of your nose as you sat down. It might seem like sexual harassment — and at first, it was a little bit —, but now it was just him being as inappropriate as always. Hiding from his feelings, keeping his distance with pathetic remarks and cold attitudes. It made you sad when you started working for him, but right now, you pinched your nose to stop you from giggling like a sixteen year old cheerleader being noticed by the boy on the football team. Or rather, the boy on the bench cursing at the stupid players.

Dr. Gregory House had a massive crush on you, and that made all the shit he did go away.

You realized Chase started updating House on the patient you spent all night testing and monitoring. Truth is, that guy didn’t stand a chance for a normal life here on forward. At best, he had a benign hereditary chorea. Worst case scenario, it was Huntington manifesting earlier than it should, as you’d been saying from the beginning.

“Shut up”, House said to Chase, making those blue Australian eyes widen. Poor guy, he looked beyond exhausted. “I understand how DNA testing works. I went to med school too, remember?”

“Yeah, but that was seven hundred years ago”, you let out before you could think twice. You teased House a little for being older. Scratch that, you gave him a lot of crap for being older. You just didn’t do it in front of the team, which was why they all looked at you horrified.

Horrified, but Foreman was holding in a laugh.

The ‘old-man’ hit his cane on the desk, turning the attention back to him. “Ouch”.

You smiled, playing it off like a remark made by an exhausted overworked young woman who disliked her boss. House half-screamed some orders to all of you, even though he already knew you had clinic duty.

The hours left to finish on the clinic were manageable, so you could finish it after you did some of the tests House asked.

Time passed by too quickly, and as your day went by, you remembered you had to talk to Wilson as soon as possible. It wasn’t a life or death matter, but a peace of mind kind of thing. You decided to stop by his office before you It was then that you overheard something you shouldn’t have.

Well, that brought the high school memories right back.

It was the middle of the afternoon, also known as the beginning of your third shift in a row, and you were stopping by Wilson’s office to discuss a private matter. A family member of yours had cancer, and then another one. By the time your fourth relative came down with the diagnosis, you decided to check your genetic predisposition. Although the tests came back clean, meaning you were safe for oncology purposes, you still wanted to know his opinion on how you could be even safer.

You looked cancer in the eyes many times. You didn’t want to look at it in the mirror too.

For some godly reason, you stopped before knocking. That’s when you recognized your boss’s voice, complaining about something, per usual.

“She’s a baby! She had never watched Grease, for crying out loud”, the voice and the footsteps made their sounds in harmony. You leaned in closer to the door, to try and listen better.

“Well, you two barely know each other, now it’s the time to know if there’s a future in this relationship or not. And would you ever marry her?”, Wilson’s voice, and the words made you freeze.

“Not everyone has marriage on the brain 24/7, Wilson”, House replied. Even from behind the door, you could almost hear the engines in his brain turning. “And God, no. I could never marry her. I can do better than a gullible third-world princess”.

You froze.

Of course he’d say that. Of course. Even if he didn’t mean it.

The realization came like an electrical shock flowing through your body. You felt it, and it made the hairs on the nape of your neck rise.

You meant nothing to him.

As an immigrant, the feeling of never belonging is constant. You don’t belong in the place you now live, but you don’t really belong in the place you were born.

You had felt for a fraction of a second that you could find your place here. In House's department. Perhaps, even with House. God, you were stupid. You were a device for him to finish his puzzles, and an object to finish… Well, to finish himself off.

As you left your transe and heard the voices again, you ran as fast as you could back to the clinic, where you had a couple hours left to finish. There was something you needed to arrange with Cuddy, too.

Hours later, you were in the department’s room reading some exams when House walked in.

He eyed you up and down again, eyes lingering on your breasts a little longer than a boss’ eyes normally would. “So”, he took his bootle from his jacket and opened it, popping a couple of pills, “your place or mine?”

“You suck”, you murmured, angrily, but pouting a little. He’d never admit it, but he loved seeing you a little aggravated, crossing your arms in front of your body in a way that made your already eye-catching torso irresistible.

He smiled a little, putting the medicine back in his pocket. “No, sweetheart”, he now fully grinned, “that’s you.”

You rolled your eyes, but let your arms fall and a cold smile creeped into your face.

“Yes, I do, actually”, you rose up from the chair and walked all the way towards him, hitting your hand towards his chest and pressing the paper you were holding against him. “I’m a full on sucker, and ass-kisser, as you like to point out. That’s why your so called mortal enemy offered me a job in New York”.

He took the paper, blue eyes never leaving yours.

“Consider this my two weeks notice”. It was hard to say, but it felt a little good, too. Logically, there were no downsides in this opportunity. Then, why did it hurt so much? “I guess everyone was right. I can do better”.

The double meaning was not lost on House.

Your hand finally left his chest, and he didn’t look back as you left.

Looking at it now, it all seems so simple. It never is, though, is it? Especially with House. And you, an intelligent, kind, talented and ambitious young woman, could definitely do better than attach yourself to a crippled, bitter, odious older man.

You were doing better now. So, why, pray tell, why did this still hurt so much?

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captain-huggy-bear · 1 month ago

Note

Please do a little blurb of your reaction to Quinn’s haircut

Look, Quinn is handsome all the time, but Quinn with long hair and a beard? That's peak Quinn, that is Quinn who tells you what to do you and you just say 'yes, sir'. Like, we all know bearded, long haired Quinn is the ultimate form. We all know we'd cry too if he came home with a surprise hair cut. Big requests/full fic/big idea requests are closed at the moment but drabble and prompt requests are still open. Writing Masterlist

He doesn't tell you he's going to do it because he knows you'll beg him not to cut it. You're almost obsessed with his hair, attached to it being longer, to the way it curls out of his helmet and how you can grip it firmly when you make out. He knows how much you love his hair long, but it's starting to irritate him. Sticking to his skin each game uncomfortably and getting in his eyes when it's windy.

So he waits until after a team practice to do it, knowing that once it's done you can't stop him. That you just need to get used to the new cut and then you'll be okay. Or that's what he tells himself.

"Hey, baby, I'm back!" He drops his stuff by the front door, pulling his beanie off, shorter hair shaking free. You pad down the hallway and turn the corner to greet him, only to stop short.

"He-" It's the moment he knows you've noticed, almost instantly clocking his shorter hair and stopping your self mid sentence.

When he looks up from taking his shoes off you're frozen, mouth downturned in a frown, eyes wide and watery. Just staring at his hair like he's committed some sort of crime against humanity rather than gotten a haircut.

"You cut your hair..."

"Yeah, baby, it was getting annoying."

"You cut it...It's okay, it's just hair..." You're sniffling as you talk to yourself, trying to reassure yourself that this is fine even though he's just cut one of your favourite things about him at the moment. You know you're being dramatic but you're hormonal, on your period, in pain, tired and Quinn has just cut his long hair, your favourite hair on him when you were just getting to appreciate it.

You love his hair long, love it even more when he's got a bit of a beard going. You love the way you can run your fingers through it, the way you can tug on it, that you can braid it when you're bored...you like the way it tickles when he kisses your neck and how it frames his face when he's been on the ice.

"Hey, hey! It's okay, baby..." He's reaching for you the moment you start sniffling, pulling you into his arms into the sort of tender hug that has you melting even as you try to hold in the few hormonal tears that want to escape.

"But...I love your long hair, I like putting my fingers through it..."

"I know, sweetheart, but it's still long enough, see," Quinn takes your hands and forces them into his hair, briefly closing his eyes because God, does he love when you play with his hair.

You test the waters, running your fingers through his dark waves, tugging at the length to get a feel for it. Your heightened emotions easing with each pass of your fingers through the strands as Quinn tugs you closer, hands pressing into the back pockets of your jeans.

"Oh..." Your starting to come to terms with it. He's handsome with the shorter hair, just like he's still handsome when he shaves, but it's not...what you were expecting to see when he came home. You like that he's kept it long enough for you to run your hands through it, like he knew it would upset you if you couldn't.

"It's not so bad, huh?" He can see the acceptance start to fall over you as you mess with hair, smiling down at you because he knew you'd come around even if it was an initial shock.

"Yeah...it's okay, you look handsome." You feel bad for your reaction, not wanting him to think your shock and upset at the long hair being gone meant he wasn't handsome...because Quinn was always handsome.

"Yeah, baby?"

"You always look handsome, still miss your long hair though..." Your fingers drift to the ends of his hair, where it rests against his neck, pressing into his skin gently, nails scratching lightly.

"I know, sweetheart, but it'll grow back out again and next time you can decide how much I cut off." Next time he promises he won't hide it or surprise you with it, next time he'll give you some warning, some control even if that means you only cut an inch off.

"Promise?

"Promise, baby."

#huggy bear writes #quinn hughes/reader #quinn hughes x reader #nhl imagine #nhl x reader

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