#just tiny (impossible) wishes | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

sceletaflores · 2 months ago

Text

well, all right i’m bad, but then you’re no prize either…

pair: joel miller x fem!reader

wc: 8.6k

contains: 18+ SMUT MDNI, no ellie, general violence (only referenced), age gap (56/26), swearing, so many spacers lmao, not quite friends to lovers and not quite enemies to lovers but a weird other thing, kinda mean!joel for a good sec, dressing wounds, joel miller TUMMY, loss of virginity (reader is a virgin but she's not completely oblivious and weirdly infantile about it lmao), fingering (fem!receiving), p in v, unprotected sex whoops, size kink, belly bulging, pussy pronouns, porn with a tiny plot, no use of y/n.

nat’s note: well, i finally caved y’all. baby’s first tlou fic! this literally took me forever to write and even longer to post cause i was so terrified LMAO so please give me some grace if it’s shit and he’s ooc and timelines are a little fuzzy cause i barely know what i’m doing. thank you chickens love you mwah mwah mwah. kisses!

dividers by lovely @saradika-graphics!

joel found a lodge house…

You don’t know what you did to make Joel Miller hate you so much.

He's never outright said it, but you know it’s there—in every sharp glance, every clipped word, every deliberate avoidance.

Besides, his silence is worse than anything he could say. A quiet condemnation that settles in your chest like stone.

You tell yourself it doesn’t matter, that you don’t care what he thinks, but the truth is harder to swallow.

You do care—more than you want to admit. His approval, his respect, hell, even a sliver of kindness from him feels like an impossible prize you’ll never win.

And you hate yourself for wanting it. For needing it.

It's not just the weight of his disdain that eats at you, it's the not knowing why. God, do you wish you could ask him why.

What did you do to make him look at you like you’re some necessary evil he has to tolerate. Why does he hold some unspoken grudge that's manifested itself into something you couldn't dream of ever comprehending.

But the thought of confronting Joel feels like standing on the edge of a cliff, staring down into a void that might swallow you whole.

So instead, you do what you've always done. You keep your distance, try to match his indifference with your own, and tell yourself it’s better this way.

You were young when the outbreak hit, six years old.

You’re sure that’s part of it. That that’s how Joel sees you, as some bumbling, naive child who’s more of a hassle than anything else.

Another mouth to feed, another back to watch, baggage.

You've been with him for almost seven months now, traveling side by side when you may have well been miles apart. Trekking through abandoned cities, overgrown highways, and every godforsaken patch of wilderness in between.

In the beginning, you did everything you could to prove him wrong.

You pushed yourself past your limits, hunted, scavenged, fought, kept up. You did everything that needed to be done without hesitation.

All to show that you were more than what he made you out to be. It never seemed to matter much.

After you lost your parents in the early days of the outbreak, it was just you and your sister. She taught you everything you know, taught you how to survive.

It's because of her that you know how to shoot a rifle, how to skin a rabbit, how to start a fire with nothing but sticks and dried moss, how to snap bones and locate which vital arteries bleed out the quickest.

It's because of her that you've been able to hone some sick skill in the maiming of clickers.

A skill you never thought you'd need to use on her.

You were supposed to be safe in the QZ. You weren't supposed to be fifteen years old, aiming a gun at the one person you had left.

Your own flesh and blood wasn't supposed to be the very first in a long list of red tallies under your belt.

It’s been years and you’ve still never forgotten that day. December 19th, 2012, the date burned into your brain like someone took a branding iron to the tissue.

You can’t count the amount of times you’ve been ripped from your sleep drenched in a cold sweat with the tail end of a scream tearing at the skin of your throat.

The image of what was left of your sister, slumped on the ground lifeless as her blood painted the wall behind her flashing behind your closed eyelids. The sound of her last labored breath ringing in your ears louder than any shotgun blast.

You ran that same night, with the weight of her death on your shoulders.

Your entire world spinning out around you as you clawed through barbed wire fencing, not caring where you were going or what would happen to you—just needing to escape.

There was nothing left for you to do after that but survive. And that’s what you did, for years, scraping by in a world that had already chewed you up and spit you out a mangled mess.

You learned how to be ruthless because of it.

How to harden yourself against the loss, the pain, the brutality. But there were cracks, too. Cracks you hid well, buried deep beneath layers of stubbornness and distance.

The endless days blurred into each other. Empty houses, hollow streets. A life reduced to scavenging, hiding, and the occasional, fleeting moment of human connection that inevitably ended in loss.

And then you found yourself with Joel.

You hadn’t exactly found him, though. More like crashed into his orbit by accident.

A few desperate days spent scavenging through the ruins of a small town, a chance encounter that left you both wary and unwilling to turn your backs.

But, inexplicably, you somehow became part of his traveling routine.

He wasn’t like any of the others you’d met before. At first, you thought he might be different. A man who seemed broken, but different nonetheless.

As the days turned into weeks, and weeks into months, you began to see the truth. Joel Miller wasn’t concerned with you. He didn’t need you. And, more than that, he didn’t want you around.

You didn’t know what to do with that.

It’s a bitter kind of irony. You’ve survived all this time completely on your own, fought tooth and nail to stay alive, but with him, you might just crumble.

Joel found a lodge house. It's a small, weathered place tucked away in the dense trees of the wood surrounding it.

He only deemed it suitable after an extensive perimeter check and a thorough sweep of the interior.

It's not much—just another run-down place in the middle of nowhere—but for the first time in what feels like forever, it’s a roof over your head for the night.

The walls are sturdy, though the windows are cracked and half of the floorboards creak like they're about to give out at any moment.

You explored the second floor alone, creeping through the desolate rooms and taking in all that was left behind.

Old family photographs covered in thick layers of dust, worn clothes riddled with holes still hung in the few closets you stumble across.

The oddest of all was an old jewelry box tucked away in a dresser draw, tarnished silver dull and muddy.

The sound of familiar footsteps comes from somewhere behind you. The door creaks open slowly.

Joel. Of course.

He clears his throat, the sound abrasive in the quiet of the house.

“Fire’s low,” he says, voice rough from its lack of use today.

You don’t turn around, not yet. You take the box in your gloved hand, running your fingers across the intricate design of the lid, touch trailing over winding vines and small roses.

“Okay,” you mutter, your voice coming out quieter than you intended. “I’ll grab some more wood later.”

Another beat of silence. Then, “It’s gettin’ cold out, I’ll go.”

Your fingers pause their ministrations, moving to flip the lid open. Empty.

“Suit yourself,” you reply after a moment, your tone just as neutral as his.

Joel doesn’t leave right away. You hear the floorboards groan beneath his weight, his presence lingering in the doorway.

You wonder what he’s waiting for, or if he’s waiting at all.

Finally, he speaks. “Don’t touch anything.”

With that he turns and leaves the room, you wait until you can’t hear his footsteps trailing down the stairs anymore to let out the scoff festering in your chest.

You snap the jewelry lid shut with a little more force than necessary. “Asshole.”

Joel's been gone for a while now. Longer than it takes to chop a few logs for firewood.

You came down from the upstairs a few minutes after hearing the tell-tale sound of the heavy door opening and closing. The main room is quiet, save for the soft crackle of the dwindling fire.

You're perched on an old armchair near the entrance, peering out the dirty window that has the best view of the treeline as you nervously pick the skin around your nails.

You tell yourself not to worry. He’s probably fine, he’s been doing this a lot longer than you. And if Joel is anything, it’s annoyingly competent.

Still, a nagging doubt itches at the back of your mind. It's been at least half an hour, maybe more.

You’re just about to grab your own pack and go looking for him when the front door creaks open.

Joel stumbles inside, the frigid evening air rushing in behind him before he slams the door shut. At first glance, he looks fine—no more haggard than usual.

But then you notice the way he favors his left side, the way his free hand is pressed against his ribs, blood seeping through his fingers and staining his torn undershirt.

You’re on your feet in an instant.

“Fuck,” you say, voice sharper than you expected. “What the hell happened?”

“Raiders.” Is the only explanation you get as he tries to brush past you like it’s nothing. The stiff way he moves and the tightens of his jaw betray him. “S’just a scratch.”

“Bullshit,” you snap, stepping in front of him and blocking his path to the fire. “Sit. Now.”

He gives you a look, one of those deep, withering glares you’ve seen him use to intimidate countless others into submission. But you stand your ground, chin raised and jaw set–defiant.

His stubbornness finally meeting its match in your own.

Finally, with a low growl of frustration, he drops onto the couch. “Happy now?”

"Not until you let me take care of that." You motion toward his side, where the blood is still spreading.

“I’m fine,” he mutters, lolling his head back to rest more heavily on the couch.

“Sure you are,” you snap, crossing the room to rifle through your bag. “And I’m the fucking Queen of England.”

"Said I’m fine," he bites through gritted teeth, but you’re already moving, heading back to him with the first aid kit from your pack.

"You want to bleed out on this ugly-ass couch? Be my guest," you shoot back, dropping to your knees in front of him. "Otherwise, shut up and let me help."

Joel surprisingly doesn’t argue any further, just sighs heavily and reluctantly sinks further into the couch cushions.

You push the front of his jacket open to slide it off his shoulders as gently as you can, peeling back the layer of his flannel next.

The smell of blood hits you immediately.

The gash is about five inches long, trailing the span of his ribcage. It’s deep—but not fatal—just an angry red and oozing blood.

Definitely not the simple 'scratch' he made it out to be.

Your stomach churns at the sight, but you push it down. No time for that.

“Jesus, Joel,” you mutter under your breath, reaching for the alcohol in your kit. “You really know how to underplay a situation, huh?”

He doesn’t respond, just watches you with those dark, calculating eyes of his. Always watching, always assessing.

It’s unnerving, but you focus on the task at hand, grabbing a clean cloth and soaking it with alcohol.

“This is gonna hurt,�� you warn, though there’s a part of you that doesn’t mind the idea of causing him a little discomfort.

A petty, vindictive part that still stings from all the scorn he’s thrown your way.

“Just get it over with,” Joel grits out, his voice low and gravelly.

You don’t give him any more warnings as you wipe the soaked cloth over the wound. He flinches, a harsh curse slipping through clenched teeth, but he doesn’t pull away.

You work as quickly as you can, wiping away the blood and dirt with steady hands, your movements as gentle as possible given the situation.

You let out an annoyed huff when the torn fabric of his shirt gets in the way of your hands for a second time.

You lean back on your heels, glancing up at Joel. “You need to take your shirt off.”

Joel raises a brow at you, his lips pressing into a thin line. “That really necessary?”

“Yes, it’s necessary, Joel,” you huff, already losing patience. “Unless you want me to sit here and cut around every thread of this ratty thing while you bleed out, then by all means—”

He sighs heavily, cutting you off as he shifts forward and grabs the hem of his shirt. He tugs at the fabric, grunting in pain each time it strains his ribs.

You roll your eyes at how slow he’s moving, and your patience—already worn thin by the day's events—snaps.

“Jesus Christ, let me help,” you huff, reaching forward and grabbing the fabric.

Joel jerks back slightly, his hand shooting up to stop yours mid-motion. “I got it,” he growls, a sharp edge in his voice.

You glare at him, your hand still caught in his grip. His palm is calloused, his hold firm enough to make your pulse jump unexpectedly.

For a moment, the two of you just sit there, locked in a silent standoff.

Then he releases your hand and pulls the shirt over his head himself, wincing as the movement pulls at his side.

You wait with your arms crossed, trying to ignore the awkward flutter of nerves in your stomach as the fabric peels away to reveal his chest.

Joel’s broad, solid frame isn’t new to you. You’ve seen him shirtless before—brief glimpses when bathing in rivers or changing in run down houses between stops.

But this time feels different, more intimate somehow.

You’re staring, and you know it.

The firelight cast shadows over his skin, illuminating old scars, faint lines of muscle, the barely there jut of his stomach over the hem of his jeans.

You had been getting more game kills recently, two hunters are always better than one.

Joel clears his throat, dragging your focus back to the present. “You gonna gawk all night, or can we move this along?”

You snap out of it, scowling to cover your embarrassment. “Yeah, yeah. Don’t get your panties in a twist.”

You finish cleaning the gash and grab the small needle and thread lying next to you.

“This’ll hurt worse than the alcohol,” you say, threading the needle easily.

Joel snorts, a rare sound. “Figures.”

The needle pierces his skin, and this time, you catch the smallest hitch in his breath. He doesn’t make a sound, but his jaw tightens, the veins in his neck standing out like cords.

His hands grip the edge of the couch hard enough that his knuckles turn white with it, but he doesn’t tell you to stop or slow down.

He’s too damn proud for that.

You shift closer, your knee brushing against his leg as you position yourself to work from a better angle. You feel his eyes on you, that intense, scrutinizing stare that makes your skin prickle.

“You’ve done this before,” Joel says after a moment, his tone less sharp than before. It’s not quite a question, more of an observation.

You shrug, keeping your hands steady. “Of course I have.”

“Who taught you?”

The question catches you off guard, Joel’s never shown much interest in what your life was before you met him. You glance up briefly, catching his gaze. There’s no malice there, no judgment—just curiosity.

You swallow hard, dragging your eyes back to stitches, half way done now. “My sister.”

You don’t elaborate and Joel doesn’t push.

Maybe it’s the sudden tightness in your tone or the look you know must be clouding your face that keeps him quiet.

You finish off the stitching, tearing the thin strand of thread with your hands before you’re leaning away again.

“Good as new,” you say, dabbing some more alcohol on your own hands to disinfect. “Try not to tear these open anytime soon.”

Joel leans back, strong arms spread across the back of the couch, his face unreadable as he peers down at the fresh stitching on his side.

“Could’ve done it myself,” he mutters, but the edge in his voice is gone, replaced with something softer, almost resigned.

You roll your eyes with a scoff, not even trying to hide your irritation as you rise from the floor. “Sure you could’ve, right before you passed out. You’re welcome by the way.”

You gather your supplies and turn to head back to your bag, but Joel’s voice stops you in your tracks.

“You’re always like this, y’know,” he says, and the words carry that same gravelly drawl, but there’s something new there—something heavier.

You pause, your hands tightening around the kit in your grasp. “Like what?”

“Pushy. Stubborn,” he replies, his tone cutting, though it lacks the usual venom. “Like you’ve got somethin’ to prove all the damn time.”

You whip around, your patience officially gone. “You think I’m stubborn?” you shoot back, your voice rising. “Coming from the guy who would rather bleed out on a fucking couch than admit he needs help?”

Joel’s jaw tightens, and his hands flex against the couch cushions, but you don’t stop. Not now. Not after months of this.

“I’ve been busting my ass since day one to prove that I’m not dead weight to you. I’ve fought for us, for you. And for what? Just to get more of your bullshit attitude?”

“You don’t know what the hell you’re talkin’ about,” Joel snaps, pushing himself upright despite the obvious strain it puts on his freshly stitched wound. “You don’t know a goddamn thing about me.”

“Because you won’t let me!” you fire back, stepping closer, your voice rising. “All you do is look at me like I’m some burden you can’t wait to get rid of.”

Joel’s glare sharpens, his lips parting as if to respond, but you cut him off.

You really can’t stop yourself now that you started, all the anger and frustration reaching a fever pitch hot enough to burst the tight lid you’ve kept on your emotions.

“If I’m such a hassle, why didn’t you just leave me back there, huh? Why didn’t you just walk away like I know you wanted to?”

Joel’s breathing is heavier now, his broad chest rising and falling as his dark eyes bore into yours.

For a moment, he doesn’t say anything. Then, he stands, and the sheer size of him forces you to tilt your chin up slightly to keep your glare fixed on his face.

“You think I wanted this, kid?” he growls, his voice low and strained, like he’s barely holding himself together. “You think I wanted to be responsible for someone else? To have someone else’s fuckin’ life on me?”

“Don’t call me kid,” you spit, shoving a finger into his chest, ignoring the way his jaw ticks at the contact. “I’m not a fucking kid.”

He scoffs, casting his eyes to the ceiling disbelievingly. “Could’ve fooled me.”

“Fuck you, Joel,” you growl, fists clenching at your side. “If you hate me that much, why the hell are you still here? Why didn’t you tell me to fuck off the second you met me?”

“Because I couldn’t!” Joel snaps, booming voice filling the small space.

The confession slips out like it pains him. His fists clench at his sides, and for a moment, he looks like he might break something.

You’ve never been scared of Joel, even though you’ve seen first hand just how scary he can be.

Now, as he looms in front of you, eyes blazing and jaw working furiously beneath his skin, it’s the closest to scared you’ve felt.

“I’ve seen you out there,” he continues, tone low and dark. “You’ve got a fuckin’ death wish. You’re too damn stubborn to just stop, and I’m not gonna let you go so you can run off and get yourself fuckin’ killed.”

Your heart pounds in your chest, his words hitting far too close to home.

“I’m just trying to survive, Joel,” you snap, your voice shaking. “That’s what we do, isn’t it? Survive.”

“Survive,” Joel repeats bitterly, his gaze burning into yours. “That what you call it? Throwin’ yourself into every goddamn fight, gettin’ stabbed and shot right fuckin’ in front of me and expecting me to brush that shit off?”

You let out a humorless laugh, nodding your head exasperatedly. “Yes, yes I do expect you to just brush it off, because that’s what you always do.”

“Well I can’t,” he grates out, taking a step closer. “I can’t ‘cause despite whatever it is that you may think about me, I don’t hate you. I care about you too damn much and that's my goddamn problem.”

That shuts you up, your mouth snapping closed with a sharp click of your teeth as you stare at him, shocked.

Joel holds your gaze, lips pressed into a thin line. “That what you wanted to hear?”

It’s in that moment that the fire finally fizzles out, the dull hiss of it the only sound left in the room.

You’re quiet for a beat, stunned into silence. The heat of his anger, his frustration, it radiates off him, and you realize suddenly that this isn’t just about you.

It never was.

“Then show me,” you challenge softly, your heart pounding in your chest. “Show me that you don’t hate me.”

Joel’s eyes darken, his head cocking to the side as he searches your face for a sign. You don’t say anything, you only square your shoulders and raise your chin, your eyes just as hard as his own.

“I want you to prove it.”

The tension snaps like a rubber band stretched too far.

You shouldn’t—this shouldn’t—happen. Not like this. Not after everything that’s been said.

But when Joel’s lips crash against yours, hot and desperate and urgent, it makes everything blur into nothing.

It’s not gentle, not soft—this is anger and longing and frustration all wrapped into one. It’s messy, frantic, like a fight that’s been brewing for too long.

He grips your arm, pulling you closer, almost too roughly, but it feels like it’s everything you’ve both been avoiding.

His other hand moves to cup the back of your neck, grounding you as his lips press harder against yours, like he’s trying to pour everything he can’t say into this single moment.

You respond just as fiercely, nails digging into the skin of his shoulders as you kiss him back with all the pent-up emotion that’s been simmering beneath the surface.

The coarse hair of his beard scrapes against the skin of your chin deliciously, the scent of blood and firewood filling your senses as his arm wraps around your waist, dragging you impossibly closer.

Close enough that you can feel the wild beat of his heart booming against your chest.

You pull away for a second, breathless, both of you looking at each other, your eyes wide and pupils blown.

“Goddamn it,” Joel mutters, his voice thick with frustration and something else you can’t place. He presses his forehead to yours, the deep brown of his eyes dark than before. “What the hell are we doing?”

You don’t have an answer. You’re not sure if you even want one.

You reach for him again, arms looping around his neck to drag his mouth back to yours.

This kiss is nothing like the first, it isn’t a clash of frustration–it’s filthier, rawer. A near feral thing, all teeth and tongue, a surge of hunger and need that borders on violence.

Joel groans into your mouth, a low, guttural sound that sends a shiver racing down your spine. His teeth catch your bottom lip, pulling just hard enough to make you gasp.

He takes advantage of the sound, his tongue sweeping into your mouth to slide against yours with wet, messy desperation, like he’s trying to claim every inch of you.

The taste of him—salt and iron and something distinctly Joel—makes your head spin.

Your fingers knot into the chocolaty curls at the nape of his neck, surprisingly soft to the touch. His own hands roam the soft curves of your body, rough and insistent, like he can’t decide where he wants to touch you most.

“Joel—” His name spills from your lips like a plea, and he answers with a deep, guttural noise that sends heat pooling low in your belly. His tongue follows the path of his teeth, soothing the bites with lazy, deliberate strokes that make your knees weak.

You’re moving before you even realize it. Joel dragging you across the room and down onto the couch with him, using the strength he’s built up after all these years to manhandle you until your thighs are spread wide on either side of his lap.

“Joel,” you gasp again, rearing back enough to break the kiss. “Your stitches–”

He cuts you off with a sharp nip to the sensitive spot behind your ear, tearing a high whine from your throat. “Can hardly feel ‘em.”

You make a displeased sound, but it’s undermined by the way you tilt your head to give his wandering lips more room. His hands find a home on your hips, one slipping beneath your shirt to press against the soft skin of your stomach.

His fingers splay wide across your skin, his palm callused and rough. His pinky just barely brushes the underside of your breast, and you’re suddenly rearing back.

“Wait,” you say, your voice barely a whisper.

Joel’s hands immediately loosen their grip on your hips, his brows knitting together in concern. “You okay?”

You nod quickly, your heart pounding in your chest. “I just...I need to tell you something.”

His jaw tightens slightly, but he stays quiet, waiting for you to speak.

You take a beat, chewing at the skin of your bottom lip nervously.

“I’ve never...” You pause, swallowing hard as your cheeks heat up. “I’ve never done this before. I mean, I’ve never been with anyone like this.”

Joel pulls back slightly, his expression unreadable as he processes your words. For a moment, you think he might pull away completely, but then he exhales a long, slow breath.

“Christ,” he mutters, scrubbing a hand down his face. “You’re tellin’ me this now?”

“I didn’t exactly plan for this to happen,” you snap back, crossing your arms over your chest defensively. “It’s not like I had the luxury of a high school sweetheart to pop my cherry out here.”

Joel’s gaze softens at your tone, and he reaches out to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing against your skin. “Hey, hey, I didn’t mean it like that.”

You glance away, suddenly feeling self-conscious under the weight of his stare. “I just...I wanted you to know. But I want this, Joel. I want you.”

His thumb stills against your cheek, and he swallows hard, his adam’s apple bobbing as he considers your words.

“I don’t...” He pauses, the most hesitant you’ve ever heard him. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

It’s the most vulnerable he’s been around you, round eyes shining with something so raw and so earnest it makes your heart ache in your chest.

“You won’t,” you insist, your voice steady despite the nerves fluttering in your stomach. “I trust you.”

Joel’s jaw clenches, and for a moment, he looks like he’s going to argue. But then he nods, his shoulders relaxing as he cups the back of your neck, pulling you closer until your foreheads touch again.

“At least let me do this right,” he murmurs, his voice so soft you almost don’t hear it. “Not here. Not on some goddamn couch.”

You blink up at him, surprised by the tenderness in his tone. “What?”

“Upstairs,” he says, his thumb tracing lazy circles against the side of your neck. “There’s a bed up there. It ain’t much, but it’s better than this.”

You can’t do anything but nod, your pulse racing beneath your skin fast enough to combat the cold night air seeping through the walls.

“Okay,” you say softly, voice barely above a whisper. “Upstairs.”

Joel stands, gently pulling you to feet and taking your hand in his. He leads you upstairs, each step feeling heavier with anticipation. The small bedroom is dimly lit, the faint glow of moonlight filtering through a broken blind.

The bed isn’t much—an old mattress on a worn frame, covered with a patched-up blanket—but it doesn’t matter.

Joel shuts the door behind you, the sound of the latch clicking into place sending a shiver down your spine.

“Last chance,” he says, his voice a low rumble. “You say the word, and we stop. No questions asked.”

Your throat tightens at the sincerity in his tone, the way he’s giving you an out even though you can see the strain in every line of his body, the way his hands flex at his sides like he wants nothing more than to reach out and touch you.

But you don’t hesitate.

You step closer, placing your hands on his bare chest. You bite back a smile at the goosebumps that break out all along his skin at your touch.

“Jesus, Miller,” you mumble teasingly, nails lightly scratching through the salt and pepper hair scattered along his chest. “How long are you gonna drag this out before you get it through your thick skull that I want to fuck you?”

"Christ." Joel huffs, shaking his head as the corners of his lips turn up in a small grin. “Like I fuckin’ said,” he starts, big hands kneading the meat of your hips. “Pushy.”

Joel walks you backward until the backs of your knees hit the edge of the bed, and you fall onto it with a soft gasp.

He follows you immediately, crawling over you, his body covering yours, his weight a comforting pressure. “I’ll take care of you,” he murmurs, his lips brushing yours. “I’ll make it good for you, I swear.”

His fingers are everywhere, unbuttoning your shirt with a practiced ease that has your pulse racing. His lips follow the path of his hands, each touch a branding mark, each kiss leaving you wanting more.

“Pretty girl,” he mutters softly, pressing a kiss right between the valley of your breasts.

You feel his cock stirring against your stomach, and it makes the ache between your legs flare to life, the weight of it, the hardness of it, driving you crazy with need.

You want him so badly you can barely think straight, but when his lips graze over your collarbone, you can’t stop the quiet whine that escapes your throat.

Joel growls in response, a sound that resonates deep in his chest, and you know then that he’s as far gone as you are. His hands slide down to the waistband of your pants, tugging them down your legs with urgency.

As your skin is exposed to the cool air, you can feel the heat of his gaze on you, like he’s memorizing every inch of you.

“You’re fuckin' perfect,” he mutters, his voice thick with desire.

Joel's hands find your thighs, parting them with a deliberate slowness that makes your breath catch in your throat. He positions himself between your legs, his body weight pressing you into the mattress, his chest rising and falling with the same frantic rhythm as yours.

The anticipation is almost unbearable as his fingers trace the line of your panties, the fabric damp with want.

“Jesus, she’s drippin’ for me already,” he mutters, voice rough, as he slides the material to the side, his thumb brushing over the sensitive swell of your clit.

Your body jerks at the contact, a desperate sound escaping your lips, but Joel doesn’t relent.

“You touch yourself down here, baby?” he asks, working tortuously slow circles over your clit.

"Please," you beg, your hands grasping at the sheets, pulling at them as if they can anchor you to the moment.

He looks up at you, his gaze dark and filled with an intensity that makes your stomach tighten. “Asked you a question, honey.”

You whine, high and loud in your throat as your thighs clench desperately around his wrist. “Yes, I touch myself.”

Joel’s lips curl into a satisfied grin, sliding his thick index finger through the messy wetness to slip inside your clenching hole, making you gasp. Your hands grasp at the sheets, pulling at them as if they can anchor you to the moment.

“Good girl,” he breathes, eyes darkening at the broken moan that bursts from your lips. “When’s the last time you touched yourself?”

Your brain feels hazy as you search for the answer, pleasure clouding your mind slow and sweet as molasses. “A–a few nights ago.”

Joel hums idly, slipping a second finger alongside the first. The stretch has you whining, his fingers a lot more to take than your own.

Your hands come up to claw at his shoulders, relishing in the way his broad muscle ripples and shifts beneath your greedy palms.

“Joel,” you whine, hips canting down against his hand impatiently.

He just shushes you softly, free hand brushing soothing circles along the skin of your inner thigh. “I know, honey,” he mutters, the pace fingers speeding up. “But I gotta get her nice and ready if you wanna take my cock.”

The gush of your pussy around his fingers is loud in the stillness of the room, a filthy wet noise that burns your ears each time he plunges them into your aching hole.

“I am ready.” Your breath hitches as your body begins to tremble beneath him. “Please, Joel—fuck—please, I need—”

“Need what?” His voice is thick with dark amusement, but there's a hunger in his eyes that has your stomach twisting. “Tell me, baby. What do you need?”

“I need you,” you rasp, your nails digging little crescent moons into his skin, your body pleading for release. “I need you inside me.”

Your hands grab at his hair, pulling him back up to meet your lips in a feverish kiss.

The pressure of his body on yours, the way his hard cock grinds against your trembling thigh, drives you to the brink of madness.

Your hands trail down his chest, past the waistband of his jeans, finally reaching the bulge straining against the fabric.

Joel groans when you rub him through his pants, feeling his cock twitch in response. He pulls back, breathing heavily, his lips curling into a smirk.

“Yeah?” he asks, his voice thick with lust. “You want my cock in this pretty pussy? Want me to show you how good it feels to be fucked?”

“God, yes,” you answer, desperation lacing your tone as your hand moves to unbuckle his jeans. “Want it so bad.”

He lets you push his pants down just enough to free his cock, and you gasp, your eyes drawn to the way his length stands, thick and hard, just waiting for you. The tip flushed an angry red, drooling pre-come onto the scratchy sheets.

Joel pulls his fingers from you, using his hands spreading your legs wider, positioning himself between them with such careful precision that you can barely stand it.

The head of his cock drags through the mess between your legs, slipping all the way down till it catches on your soaked entrance.

Joel pauses, looking down at you, waiting for your signal, but the only answer you give is a pleading whimper, your hands pulling at his shoulders, urging him to move.

His mouth captures yours once again as he slowly slides into you, the stretch of his cock filling you steadily, making you gasp into his mouth.

The slow burn of him carving a place for himself inside of you is almost too much, your body trembling as you adjust to the feeling of him.

“Fuck, baby,” Joel mutters against your lips. “You’re so tight, so fuckin’ perfect for me.”

As he sinks deeper into you, his thick cock finally buried to the hilt inside of you, the feeling is overwhelming. You gasp, nails digging into his back as the pain slowly shifts into pleasure.

Joel groans into your mouth, his hands moving to your hips, guiding you as he rocks gently against you.

The rhythm is slow at first, deliberate, as if he's savoring every inch of you. Your body quivers beneath him, every inch of your skin tingling with sensation. You clutch at him, your legs tightening around his waist, needing more, wanting more.

"That's it," he murmurs, his voice thick with desire. "Take it, baby."

You screw your eyes shut tightly, trying to steady yourself as he thrusts deeper, harder. The angle shifts just enough to make your breath catch in your throat.

Every stroke feels like it’s hitting the deepest part of you, sparking heat in places you never knew could burn so hot.

"Fuck," you gasp, the sensation too overwhelming, too much in the best way. "Joel... please..."

"Please what, sweetheart?" He pulls back slightly, teasing you with a slow roll of his hips before driving back in with a grunt.

Your nails dig into his shoulders, urging him to move faster, harder. "Don’t stop," you breathe, your voice trembling. "I need you to fuck me, Joel. Faster. Harder. Please."

The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room as Joel finally picks up the pace, each thrust harder and deeper than the last.

Your back arches off the bed, chest pressing flush to his as your body coils tighter and tighter, already so close to the edge.

Joel reaches up to take your wrist in his, dragging your hand down to press flat against your lower stomach.

“Feel that?” he asks breathlessly, the speed of his hips knocking the dingy bed frame into the wall with every thrust. “You feel how deep I am?”

His own hand blankets yours, pushing down so you can feel the way his cock punches up against your palm on the next thrust.

Your pussy clenches desperately around him at the feeling, your slick lips dropping open on a loud moan.

You can barely hold on. The heat in your stomach tightens, coiling painfully as your free hand scrambles to find purchase on his skin. "I can't—I'm gonna—"

He grits his teeth, his jaw clenched as he drives deeper, pushing you closer and closer to the edge. "Come for me, baby," he growls, his voice dark and commanding. "Let me feel it."

With a strangled cry, you finally release, your body clenching around him, every nerve igniting in a white-hot explosion of pleasure.

You’re lost in it, your world spinning, your senses overwhelmed by the sensation of Joel’s body pounding into yours, the way his cock brushes against that sweet spot behind your clit enough to make sparks go off behind your eyelids.

Joel pulls out of your velvety warmth, hand coming up to fist his dripping length until he’s bowing over you tightly and coming with a deep groan of your name.

His release paints your stomach with milky strands of white, rope after rope of warm come claiming you in a way no one has before.

He finally collapses against you with one last shuddering breath, both of you breathing heavily, your chests rising and falling together in the quiet aftermath.

For a few moments, neither of you speaks, the only sounds are the soft creak of the bed and the quiet hum of your racing hearts.

Joel rests his head against your shoulder, his breath warm against your skin, and you can feel the tension begin to slip away, the weight of everything that’s happened between you both settling into something new—something different, but still there.

Your hand slips down the sweaty expanse of your stomach, your fingers swiping through the sticky mess of his release curiously.

“Christ, quit that,” Joel groans, tearing his eyes away from the sight to press his forehead against your shoulder.

“Why?” you hum, brow raised in amusement as you drop your hand back to the mattress. “Can you even get it up again?”

Joel pinches your side hard enough to make you squeal, your body flinching away from him as a surprised laugh bubbles from your chest.

“Watch it,” he warns, though there’s no bite to his tone. You only laugh in response.

The two of you settle into a comfortable silence, wrapped in each other as crickets chirp from outside the window.

Then Joel clears his throat, fingers idly tracing different shapes on the skin of your hip as he gathers the courage to speak.

A circle, a square, a diamond, a circle, a heart, a heart, a heart.

“I’m…” he starts, trailing off softly. “I’m sorry. I’ve been a real fuckin’ prick, and you didn’t deserve it. You never did.”

You turn your own gaze to his chest, hand coming up so you can trail your fingers along the jagged scar decorating his shoulder. Your touch featherlight over the rough patch of skin.

All the anger seeps from your body, a heavy weight gone until you feel so light you could float off the mattress and into the cold night air.

“It’s okay,” you whisper softly, so soft you think it gets lost in the quiet darkness of the room. “I understand now.”

And for the first time in what feels like forever, you both just lay there, tangled in each other, not worrying about the world outside, about the chaos that waits.

Just you, him, and the soft glow of moonlight.

tags are now in the comments! if you want to get tagged for any of my works just fill out this form!

mini nat's note: should i add joel to my taglist...i do kinda want to write more for him in the future but i'm not sure yet...lmk chickens <3 bee tee dubs sorry the ending absolutely sucks i could not for the life of me figure out how to end this LMAO

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reiyaus · 20 days ago

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imagine a honeymoon on the coasts of malaysia with nanami.

he’s just retired as a sorcerer after the whole shibuya incident, finally deciding to splurge with all his jujutsu money. the location he’s been praying to go to for years and the woman he’s been dying to marry, both fulfilled at the same time. what more could he ask for?

he tries not to show it, but his excitement is so obvious with the constant drumming on his thighs and occasional squeeze of your hand. his gaze would catch yours, his hazel eyes piercing through you with nothing but pure adoration. the moment you land at the airport, kento does nothing but bring you to all the locations he’s saved on his phone. it tires you, but his happiness is contagious. having him by your side is the only method of recharging you need.

as selfish as it sounds, being the only person to see this side of him felt like all his love just went crashing down on you at once.

from the day you first met, the moment he went down on one knee, the moment he cried for you at the altar, to now- caging you in his arms with only the vast ocean in front of you. in all 28 years of living, you have been the only person to bring kento total tranquil.

and now, he can finally enjoy every moment with you. spend the whole day in bed with you, no alarms from any higher-ups; travel under the sun and shop little antiques for your new home. he feels giddy seeing the baby clothes on sale. you spot it too and laugh seeing his eyes set on the row of tiny onesies. you feel him flinch when you pick one up. it’s a light shade of green, bearing some resemblance to kento’s hair. you hold it up, “should we? as a little souvenir from this trip.”

he’s never brought out his wallet this fast. never in his career did he think about being able to have kids- it was too dangerous to even imagine. but seeing you reciprocate the yearning for a little human with your blood gave him the push he’s always needed. curse or not, kento swears to keep both of you in his arms reach, and to die happily knowing you’re safe.

that night in particular was the definition of intimate. you held each other close even after it was all over. he never let go. if possible, kento brought himself closer to you with only the intention to feel your touch.

to feel your fingers running through his hair, to wrap his arms around the outlines of your waist, to hear the heartbeat in your own chest, and to see the face of the only woman he’ll spend his lifetime with. a dream that seemed so impossible to achieve- complete in under a month.

being able to look forward for the time he has with you, rather than the days he has without you, is the one wish that never left his heart.

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giantkillerjack · 2 years ago

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It is very true that this "kid-glove explaining" IS sometimes the only way to get any assistance at all, and that this is absolutely not the fault of the disabled people who have been put in so horrible a position by their ableist loved ones. You have to do what you must to survive.

But i just want to emphasize how it is also true that the labor of these kinds of repeated forced-calm explanations can be extremely harmful for the disabled person long-term.

I say this because I THOUGHT I had made progress with teaching my family, but in fact I had only gained a LOT of additional trauma and grief during a time when I desperately needed non-ableist support.

I was sick and in crisis for years, and during that time, I repeatedly spent the energy i could have used to ask friends for help on instead begging my family to learn how to stop hLeping me and start Helping me.

This genuinely endangered my life on multiple occasions. Imagine the difference between getting immediate help bailing water out of your sinking ship (ex. my friend Laura metaphorically jumping into my boat with buckets and pumps and no judgment), and having to instead stand in your increasingly-sinking ship explaining (so SO gently or else they will dismiss you entirely, even though the water is creeping up to your neck) to someone that "actually no, adding water to my boat doesn't help please PLEASE just bail it out; I cannot emphasize enough that I can't swim why do I have to keep saying that? no I don't think I could have avoided that hurricane and it hurts that you keep asking; no I am not faking it - why would I fake this?? What kind of person do you think I am??" - as they allow the water to creep up to your chin. That's the difference between help and hLep.

Also, a helper wants you to have all the help you could possibly need, and they recognize that they almost certainly can't provide you with everything you need on their own. (Ex. My partner can't help me with panic attacks most of the time due to her own mental illness. But she helps with all sorts of other stuff, communicates her limits, and actively encourages me to rely on my friends for support.)

Meanwhile, a hLeper might be offended that you would even want ANYONE'S assistance besides their own because it isn't about *your need,* it is about *their pride.*

If the people around me *get angry at me for being angry* when THEY are the ones who hurt ME, then I no longer want them around me. And I hope to have the skill and the privilege to be able to stay in control of that. I hope someday we all can have that.

And to every disabled person stuck waiting for better days: Please survive in the meantime because your survival is the key to a better future for us. It will be better with you there. I don't care if you disagree with me; you won't persuade me otherwise - I am a stubborn Jack. I want you there. Disabled survival is an act of radical resistance. You, along with the other contributiors to this post, are Punk As Fuck.

I go into these concepts some more in this version of the post.

[Also, if you have any trouble reading the opening paragraphs of this post, I edited the original post into a more dyslexic-friendly version, and I've tried to include that link in every version of the post that I refer to.]

Today my therapist introduced me to a concept surrounding disability that she called "hlep".

Which is when you - in this case, you are a disabled person - ask someone for help ("I can't drink almond milk so can you get me some whole milk?", or "Please call Donna and ask her to pick up the car for me."), and they say yes, and then they do something that is not what you ask for but is what they think you should have asked for ("I know you said you wanted whole, but I got you skim milk because it's better for you!", "I didn't want to ruin Donna's day by asking her that, so I spent your money on an expensive towing service!") And then if you get annoyed at them for ignoring what you actually asked for - and often it has already happened repeatedly - they get angry because they "were just helping you! You should be grateful!!"

And my therapist pointed out that this is not "help", it's "hlep".

Sure, it looks like help; it kind of sounds like help too; and if it was adjusted just a little bit, it could be help. But it's not help. It's hlep.

At its best, it is patronizing and makes a person feel unvalued and un-listened-to. Always, it helps reinforce the false idea that disabled people can't be trusted with our own care. And at its worst, it results in disabled people losing our freedom and control over our lives, and also being unable to actually access what we need to survive.

So please, when a disabled person asks you for help on something, don't be a hleper, be a helper! In other words: they know better than you what they need, and the best way you can honor the trust they've put in you is to believe that!

Also, I want to be very clear that the "getting angry at a disabled person's attempts to point out harmful behavior" part of this makes the whole thing WAY worse. Like it'd be one thing if my roommate bought me some passive-aggressive skim milk, but then they heard what I had to say, and they apologized and did better in the future - our relationship could bounce back from that. But it is very much another thing to have a crying shouting match with someone who is furious at you for saying something they did was ableist. Like, Christ, Jessica, remind me to never ask for your support ever again! You make me feel like if I asked you to call 911, you'd order a pizza because you know I'll feel better once I eat something!!

#original #ableism cw #I'm really happy that the person who added the initial comment to this post has made progress with their mother but #I know a lot of people who would benefit a lot more from no longer having to rely on ableist people at all #not your fault if that is impossible right now. but i got stuck in a loop trying to make tiny inches of progress with my family #for so long that it endangered my life multiple times. and that's why i wish this version of the post was shared less. tbh.#because if someone needs kid-gloves explaining then this is a red flag and they have done you a disservice #and you gotta think really hard about their patterns of behavior relative to what information you've given them when. write it down even.#this post has been brought to you by 'i desperately apologized 2 dozen times for yelling at my big sister #but she didn't apologize for endangering my life bc i was MORE IN THE WRONG in her and my other sister's opinions bc i got angry about it!'#guess what! anger is good and important sometimes!#and it is not inherently unkind to be angry or even to shout if it is a matter of self-defense!#it's absolute llamas with hats 'well you said i did a bad thing and that hurts my feelings. wow. now we're both in the wrong.'#like 'KAARRRLLL. You almost killed your brother Karl!!!!'#emotional abuse #in fact the only reason I even learned about this phrase in the first place was because I talked to my therapist about how #my family says that i didn't ask for help enough when i was in crisis and she just went...#yeah but they don't offer help they offer hLep. and then they blame you and your communication skills.#mind fucking BLOWN tbh #turns out the most progress I've ever made w my family i achieved not through concessions but thru hard boundaries #which was a huge privilege on my part bc if i had less savings and my wife didn't have wealthy parents #then i would not have had the power to have as many boundaries with my family #hLep is the fault of the hLeper not the person they are doing it to

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uravichii · 10 months ago

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"best friends who kiss?"

character/s: bakugo katsuki

summary: recently, your best friend has been kissing you at random times. you have no idea why because he refuses to talk about it. either way, you're not about to let this to ruin your precious friendship.

genre & trope: fluff, best friends to lovers, angry confessions, reader is terrified of love but bakugo wants them so bad 😁, tw kind of ooc bakugo

a/n: i've been watching a lot of pride & prejudice and bridgerton scenes n i'm now obsessed angry confessions 🤩 + this is heavily inspired by that scene in little women :) ALSO i haven't posted in a year 😟 so pls be nice ik my writing's rusty in this :'D

the first time bakugou katsuki kissed you, he pretended he never did.

"what... " you brush your fingers against your bottom lip, your whole face hot. "what the hell was that for?"

"what?" bakugo shrugs, feigning innocence as he takes a swig of his soda.

you try and trace back the events that could have led to the kiss.

you said something along the lines of: "i wish i had a boyfriend. i could definitely pull a cute guy off the street."

then you heard him scoff and say: "no man's sane enough to put up with your insufferable ass." ーor something more insulting than that.

you can't remember what you said in response, and you rack your brain to figure out what prompted him to grab your face and kiss you. it's impossible when all you can think about is the unexpected supple feel of his lips, its faint ghost still lingering on yours.

"that kiss, katsuki! you violated my mouth!"

"dunno what you're talking about. you hit your head or something?"

you blink and second-guess yourself for a second.

"okay, no. you're not gonna gaslight your way out of this." you swat his arm, earning an irked glare from him. "why the hell did you kiss me?"

"you're imagining things, idiot. this stupid game's givin' ya some serious brain damage for sure."

he stands up and swings his bag over his shoulder.

"where are you going? we're not done yetー!"

and he's out of the door.

was he drunk off his soda? maybe he kissed you to mess with your head. he's not that cruel though, you think. maybe he couldn't think of any other way to shut you upー that was something he always struggled with after all.

at least the second time bakugo katsuki kissed you, he was kind enough to warn you.

after enduring the most awkward hour-long study session with him, you decide to put an end to your agony by wrapping it up. you start gathering your things when he stops you with a calloused hand on your wrist.

"what?" you turn to him, your cheeks already heating up from his touch.

there are no thoughts you could read behind those vermillion eyes, and all of a sudden, you don't know your best friend very well anymore.

he walks some tentative steps closer to you until the back of your knees hit the table. he cradles your jaw with such delicacy you didn't even know he was capable of. he slips past your awaiting lips and presses his nose on the side of your head, his warm breath kissing your flushed skin.

"punch me in the face and scram if you don't want this, got it?"

you gulp and forget to answer if not for the gentle squeeze on your wrist. "y/n, you got it?"

"s-sure."

when you two kiss, it's different from last time. it's unhurried, curious, and so intoxicating. the kiss speaks: 'i want you. i want you. i want you' but whose thoughts are these?

he groans into your lips as if to urge you to keep up with the sheer hungriness that has consumed him. you try your best to do so as he deepens the kiss with a palm on the back of your head and practically drinks you in. he doesn't pull away until he hears the tiny whine that escapes you.

"shit, sorry." he mutters, avoiding your stunned gaze.

"t's okay."

"did i hurt you?" the quiet lilt of his voice surprises you.

"no, no. i'm okay, but why'd you kiー"

"bye." he blurts out as he turns to the door and leaves, as if he didn't just invaded your mouth and permanently tainted the years of friendship you two have had. you click your tongue as the heat subsides in your cheeks.

"son of a bitch."

the third time bakugo katsuki kissed you, you let him, and he didn't stop.

you had barely escaped death when you lost your footing while sparring with todoroki. naturally, bakugo yelled the poor guy's ear off and would have murdered him if eraserhead hadn't interfered at the last second.

now, you find yourself heaving in your bed. you don't know whether your hastened pulse is from the adrenaline rush or from the fact that bakugo is all over you right now.

he's planting feather-light kisses all over youー your cheeks, your nose, your forehead, your eyelids, your hands, and your wrist, as panicked murmurs spill out of him in between kisses. 'you scared the hell out of me. you have no idea, fuck. are you okay? are you really okay? tell me you're okay, y/n.'

"i'm okayー" you barely manage to gasp before he dips his lips into yours, desperate and frantic. tremulous hands find solace in your hips as he holds you, gentle enough not to mar your injuries but snug enough to assure his restless heart that you are safe.

your head feels hazy. your limbs ache and lie motionless, and though your lips could barely move to reciprocate his kisses as much as you wanted to, bakugo didn't stop. you tried to ask him about it the next morning, but of course, he ignored you and walked away.

you don't know when he stopped kissing you that night. all you know is that there was a line that was crossed, and your friendship was never going to be the same again.

bakugo katsuki is going to kiss you again. your heart thrums incessantly. whether it's dread or anticipationー you don't know.

you think about the sensation of his lips that's become so familiar to you that you've learned to crave it. it shouldn't be familiar to you, and you sure as hell shouldn't want it. so you do what you think is necessary.

you kick him in the shin.

"motherfー!" sure enough, he's pissed. "what the hell is wrong with you?!"

"what the hell is wrong with you?!"

"i was going toー"

"no! you're not gonna kiss me again and walk away and pretend it never happened. you're messing with my head, katsuki! it's not funny!"

"wasn't trying to be funny!" he barks back.

"okay, so what exactly are you trying to do? what is this? i meanー" you stammer, struggling to find the words. "katsuki, what are we?"

he sighs and shifts his stance, his discomfort apparent. when the silence lingers on for too long, you speak.

"well, whatever it is that you want from me, we're going to stay friends. nothing more, nothing less. that's it." your breath hitches, and you don't know why you feel like crying as you speak. "... so i don't want your stinky mouth anywhere on me again."

silence weighs heavily between you. sometimes you wish you didn't know him too well, then the hurt he veils in his eyes wouldn't be so plain and vivid to you, and you would have walked away by now without an ounce of remorse.

"i like you, y/n." is all he could say when he finally speaks.

you shake your head. "no, you're just confused."

"i'm not confused. i like you."

"katsuki, you've been bitchless all your life, and i'm just the closest thing to a s/o. maybe go take a walk or something."

"i like you." he persists. "i've liked your stupid ass forー"

"stop saying that. you don't."

"i do, and you like me tooー"

"what?!" you laugh incredulously.

'who does this dumbass think he is?' is he right? surely, he's not. then what are you so afraid of in the first place? why have you been counting down the days until he kisses you again? why do you yearn for his touch as if it's something you own? why do you feel so infuriated and so tormented when he leaves the room after kissing you?

you do what is necessary again.

"you're delusional!" you yell at his face, a childish shrill that's awfully familiar to your childhood best friend.

"jesus christ." he inhales sharply in frustration. "you're a fucking pussy, y/n."

you clench your jaw and match his glare. anger surges in your chest and bleeds into your voice.

"i'm not the one who chickens out after kissing their best friend! you can't even acknowledge the fact that you kissed me because you'reー!"

"do you think i want to chicken out? why do you think i run away after kissing you?! if i stayed and confessed all this shit the first time, you would've refused to hear it like the damn coward you are!" he leans close to you, his voice lowering into a ragged snarl that quickens your pulse. "and you're just proving it right now, y/n. you're always going to shut this down and deny your feelings because you're a fucking pussy. you're terrified of relationships, and it's dumbest shit ever. pathetic, really."

you rear back from his words. if anything, you always thought it was katsuki who was afraid of love. now, you can't help but feel small and vulnerable underneath his searing gaze.

"it's not dumb..." you shuffle uncomfortably. "what, i'm supposed to ruin our friendship for a relationship that we're going to break off anyway?"

"we're not going to break it off."

"how do you know that?"

"because i'll be the best goddamn boyfriend in the world!"

"first of all, gross." you scoff. "second of all, it's never gonna work out! you're going to get sick of me in three days max."

"i've known you since we were brats, and i still want you."

"you literally said no man's sane enough to put up with my obnoxious ass."

he smirks. "i said 'insufferable ass'."

"katsuki!" you fight the urge to strangle him and punch that stupid smile off his face.

"wasn't even serious that time." he grimaces and reluctantly continues. "you know damn well you can pull any guy you want, and he'd be the luckiest bastard on earth."

if it were any other day, you'd grin at him and say 'i told you so,' but your lips remain unmoved, and your eyes stay dim. you're afraid you'll never go back to being the same katsuki and y/n again.

"this is pointless, katsuki. i mean, look! we're already fighting." you grouch and tell yourself you don't want this. "i still don't want us to happen so while this friendship is still salvable, let's agree to stay friends, and whatever sappy shit you feel for meー suck it up."

in one swift motion, he closes the distance between you, his face hovering dangerously over yours.

"suck it up?" he breathes, his face taut in frustration. "restraining myself from you is the hardest shit i've ever had to do. it takes everything in me not to kiss your stupid face!"

he shudders, weakly resting his forehead against yours as if this conversation alone has exhausted him. still, he goes on.

"and everytime i failedー everytime i kissed those lips, it was... a moment of weakness, but that's the fucking problemー you're just..." he buries his face into the crook of your neck, a desperate attempt to escape your wide-eyed gaze. "i'm weak for you, y/n. every second. and it drives me fucking insane that you keep running away from me."

he rises to meet your eyes again. the cadence of his voice changes into something weak and desperate, stripped of all the pride and anger he's ever known.

"i love youー fuck. i love you." he lets the words hang in the air, letting the words hear itself spoken because for once, you're not stopping him. "i love you, so please... let me."

after much thought and another agonizing minute of silence, you lean in to kiss bakugo katsuki.

he kisses back almost instantly and revels in the way you wrap your arms around his neck and bear your weight on him completely. he kisses back ardently, his pent-up desires and years of longing etched in the way he seeks your lips, kiss after kiss after kiss.

when you finally pull away, you're met with a devilish smirk, his begging eyes long gone. you wonder to yourself when you'll see those eyes again.

"took ya long enough." he kisses you again. he raises a brow at the way you're caging him in your arms. "jesus, no one's gonna snatch me from you."

"i'm making sure you don't run away again, dumbass."

"i won't." he says earnestly as he props his forehead against yours. "and you won't either. i'll make sure of that."

you nod your head with a giddy smile as he pecks your lips again.

"so..." you say as you exaggerate a pensive look, a cheeky grin spreading across your face. "we're best friends who occasionally kiss?"

he rolls his eyes. "you're impossible."

"recite that speech again, and i'll consider calling you my boyfriend."

"fuck off!"

TAGLIST [1/2] @uxavity @joy-the-reader @kiiraes @escapenightmare @afk-dreaminq @avocamich @theboredvee @wonderwrench @ur-local-simp @p-ol @x0xuglyh0tgrl2005xoxo @cosmonettica @melin-oe @mitzi127 @lilac-o @r2katsu @bakucumsackslut @idunnomynamesince2005 @astralwaifu @taurus852 @creepyproxies @maycat-19-142 @stella-fleurets @veenxys @devilgirlcrybabiey @drawingaddict @kageyama-i-want-tobiors @lexiv-web @angelshimaa @izukus-gf @christiansdior @homosexualjohnwayne @uwiuwi @hirugummies @cupidines @loveisningning (bold couldn't be tagged)

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penascigarette · 2 months ago

Text

Smooth Operator Ch 1. A New Client

Joel Miller x f!phone sex operator

➴wc: 6.7k | summary: You unexpectedly find yourself drawn to a new client during a late-night call, who ignites a surprising wave of desire within you. As you engage in a steamy conversation, you realize this encounter is unlike any you've had before, leaving you eager for more and questioning the boundaries of your professional life.

➴warnings: mdni, phone sex, mxm phone sex, fxm phone sex, m&f masterbation lots of dirty talking, use of princess, shitty moodboard

➴an: hi! i hope you enjoy the first chapter of the first fic I have ever posted. if I have missed any warnings please let me know. feedback is super appreciated! now I will go run and hide lol. and a big tysm to @saradika-graphics for making such lovely dividers!

masterlist | series masterlist | pt. 2

You love sleeping, and just as passionately, you love your bed. Whenever you wake up in the morning, you spend at least ten minutes wrapped up in your duvet, savoring the warmth and comfort as you tease yourself with the idea of a nap.

This morning is no different. The sun shines outside, making your dark purple curtains look lighter than they actually are. If you open your eyes, you know you'll see dust particles floating through the air.

You take a deep breath through your nose and immediately wish you'd opened your windows to let in some fresh air. But you never do, even though you think about it every morning. It's too risky. Open windows are an open invitation to your worst fear—spiders.

Just the thought of their tiny, hairy bodies and long, wiggly legs sends a shiver down your spine. You pull the duvet tighter around your shoulders, practically imagining the creepy crawlies on your skin.

And of course, that's when your roommate, Elliot, decides it’s the perfect time to tickle your ear with one of his long, pink, kinky feathers—used for who-knows-what.

You scream, jump, and scramble off the bed like it’s suddenly caught fire. Your eyes—probably bloodshot with dark bags underneath—narrow at the grinning culprit, who is currently doubled over in a fit of laughter on the right side of your king-sized bed.

“What the fuck,” you huff, too tired to find any humor in this. You were so warm and cozy, and now that feeling is ruined for the next twenty-four hours. “You’re a real dick, you know that?”

“Y-your face!” he chokes out between giggles. He looks far too fresh-faced for someone who’s just rolled out of bed. Still in his pajamas, his messy hair—short on the sides with a wave on top—looks like it hasn’t seen a brush this morning.

“It's not funny!” you argue, your voice rising over the sound of his laughter. You’re this close to stomping your foot at him. “I thought you were a spider!” Standing there in nothing but pink pajama bottoms and a black strap top, your skin prickles with goosebumps. Yet again, you curse him for ruining your warm, safe burrito.

That only makes him laugh harder. It’s hard to believe this man-child is twenty-eight years old when he acts less than half his age most of the time.

At the sound of his snort, you feel your lips twitch against your will. No, you’re pissed at him—there’s no way he’s going to make you laugh. But very quickly, you’re losing the battle. Have you ever tried not laughing with someone who has an impossibly contagious laugh? It’s damn near impossible.

“Whatever!” you say, rolling your eyes as a reluctant smile finally breaks across your face. You cross your arms over your chest, trying to look stern, but Elliot knows he’s won this round

“It’s getting late,” he says, still chuckling. His green eyes are watery from laughing, making them sparkle as he grins at you. Rolling onto his left side, he props his head up with one hand—the one holding the feather—while his other hand runs through his sandy-brown hair, slicking it back. “And you slept through your alarms again, so I thought I’d help you out.”

Damn, have you really? It wouldn’t be the first time. Waking you is like trying to wake the dead.

“Oh,” you say sheepishly. Fair enough, he had to wake you, but—“Did you have to use your kinky, sex feather...thing?” You shiver in disgust. “Who knows where that’s been.”

He shrugs innocently, twirling the offending object between his fingers. “Nowhere gross...” His eyes flick up to yours, and he smiles once more. “Only up Danny’s ass.”

Your eyes widen, and you splutter. “What? Oh, my god—Jesus, that’s just—” You gag in the back of your throat. “You said it hadn’t been anywhere gross!”

He laughs again, sitting up. “I was telling the truth. Danny’s ass was far from gross.” A faraway look crosses his face. “It was heaven,” he muses wistfully before frowning. “God, I miss him.”

“Oh, honey,” you soften immediately, making your way to the bed and crawling toward Elliot to offer some comfort.

You know Danny and Elliot’s breakup was hard on him. He’d been completely in love with that man and was about to ask him to move in—with you both—when Danny decided to end the year-and-a-half relationship. It just wasn’t working was his excuse, but Elliot later found out the truth when Danny updated his Facebook page: he’d left Elliot for someone else.

“He didn’t deserve you,” you say, trying to make him feel better as you drape an arm around his shoulders. Sitting back on your heels, you add, “He was a dick for what he did. You shouldn’t be sad. He’s the one who lost someone who loved him. The only thing you lost was—”

“A twat-waffle who didn’t deserve me, I know,” he cuts you off, reciting your usual line before you can finish. You’ve said it enough times in the past three months since the breakup that he knows it by heart. “Thanks for trying to make me feel better, but...doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt.”

“I know,” you respond quietly, your thoughts drifting to your own breakup. It’s been over a year now, but the pain still lingers. Your ex had been your first boyfriend—hell, your first everything. You’d met when you were seventeen, and you moved in with him before your next birthday. Everything happened so fast, and you didn’t see the cracks until it was too late. “But we have each other, right?” you say, giving Elliot a little shake.

He glances at you, his expression vulnerable. Big eyes, plucked thin eyebrows, a slight bump on his nose from when a bully broke it in his teens, full lips, high cheekbones, and when he smiles, dimples form on his cheeks.

“Yeah?” he replies, hopeful. “Even if I wake you up with a feather that’s been up my ex’s ass?”

You roll your eyes, pulling away to thump him on the arm. “Fucker,” you mutter as he starts giggling all over again. “Remind me why I love you?”

Grinning, he reaches into the pocket of his pajama shorts and pulls out his phone. "Because I'm adorable," he answers distractedly as he stares at the screen. "Oh, my first caller of the day! And it's Simon," he whispers the last part to you as if Simon could hear. "He sounds like a whale when he comes, but boy, does he have a gorgeous sex voice," he informs you. You snort as he accepts the call. "Why hello there, lover."

While Elliot makes himself comfortable against your pillows, you climb off the bed and head toward your wardrobe. You already have your outfit in mind—a pair of leggings and a plain white shirt.

"Mmm, that sounds so sexy, baby," you hear Elliot purr in the background, and you smile, shaking your head. You can’t imagine what people would think about you being in the same room as your guy roommate while he talks dirty to one of your clients, meanwhile, you're getting changed in the corner.

It’s a strange situation, to say the least.

As you remove your shirt with your back turned to Elliot, you can’t help but listen in to the conversation.

"I'd love to touch your nipples," Elliot hums behind you, getting into character. You know how much he loves talking dirty to guys. It’s a turn-on for him. Unlike you, who only really enjoys sex if it’s with someone you love. Elliot is way more adventurous and has had more one-night stands than you can count. "I'd love to stroke them, caress them, lick them. . .”

"Suck them," you add when you hear Elliot hesitate. You pull the straps of your bra up your arms and hook it at the back.

“Oh, and suck them," Elliot says as you pull your top on.

Since Elliot is still fairly new to this, he needs help sometimes. His situation had been very similar to yours—a broken-up relationship, no job, and forced to move back in with his mum until someone came along and gave him hope. For Elliot, that person was you. For you, that person was your boss, Jane.

Elliot's voice lowers as he talks to his client. "Your body is so pretty, honey. I can't wait to trace my tongue up and down your belly, and then start going lower and lower until I reach your—”

You cough quietly to yourself, trying to hide your smile as you change into your leggings and slip on a pair of fluffy pink socks. You’ve heard Elliot talk dirty loads of times, and he’s heard you talk dirty just as many. Part of training him was him having to listen in on your conversations, and then you monitoring his. Neither of you gets embarrassed around it anymore. It’s more amusing, to be completely honest.

Deciding to leave Elliot to it, you grab your phone off your bedside cabinet and quietly tiptoe to the door. Before you leave, you look over to Elliot and mouth, Coffee?

He nods enthusiastically at you and mouths back, Yes, please!

You’re halfway down the steps when you rub your eye and feel the crumbly sensation of mascara under your fingertip. You’ve forgotten to take your makeup off the night before. You curse to yourself before heading back upstairs to fetch a makeup wipe.

When you reach your room once more, Elliot looks at you questioningly before he notices your face. His lips curl into his mouth in an attempt not to laugh. You roll your eyes and put your middle finger up at him before heading over to your dresser, which sits directly opposite your bed. You open the top drawer and feel through the ridiculous amount of makeup and beauty products you’ve collected over time. As your fingers search, your eyes stare forward at your flat-screen TV mounted on the wall. You can see Elliot's reflection.

"God, you feel so tight around me," Elliot is telling his customer, and you bite your lip in an attempt not to laugh. Finally, your fingers grip the packet of wipes, and you pull them free. "I'm gonna come inside of your ass so damn hard—," Elliot is cut off by a muffled roar, and you turn to look at him questioningly.

He is still sitting on your bed, back against the pillows with one hand holding the phone far away from his ear. He has an uncomfortable look on his face, and it’s then you realize the noise has come from the phone. Or, more accurately, the noise is the loud, animal-like groans of a man coming hard.

Oh my god," you whisper to him quietly, now understanding what Elliot had meant by Simon sounding like a whale when he came.

Elliot uses his other hand to cover the bottom half of the phone, preventing Simon from hearing you speak. "Every. Damn. Time," he replies just as quietly, looking so serious it makes you giggle. He cracks his own smile before bringing the phone back to his ear. "Oh, that sounded like a good one, baby."

You’re glad Simon isn’t one of your callers because you’re not sure you’d be able to stay professional with that sound in your ear. You take care of your makeup before finally getting started on coffee.

Your living room and kitchen are all in one room. The only thing separating the rooms is the counter you eat at. Silver stools with black padded seats sit underneath, four of them for when you have guests over.

You walk past the L-shaped sofa and the counter. Once the coffee is on, you get started on breakfast. You decide on some cheesy, ham-scrambled eggs. Just as you start mixing the ingredients, your phone vibrates where you’ve placed it on the counter. You lean over far enough to see the screen. When no name appears, only a number, you figure it must be a new client since you save existing clients in your phone book.

You accept the call and bring it to your ear. "Hey there," you purr in your sexy voice. You never thought you had one until Elliot pointed it out to you. According to him, it’s a hot one too. "Tell me, gorgeous, what’s your name?"

"Josh." He’s breathing heavily, sounding as if he’s already started the party without you. "I-I'm new to all this…phone stuff," he informs you.

"That's fine, Josh," you say with a slight smile. "My name's Angel, and I’m going to take care of you, all right?" Your name isn’t Angel, but for safety reasons, you’re Angel as far as your customers know. And yes, you’re well aware of how clichéd it is.

"Yes," he tells you, his voice rougher than before. He’s probably getting more excited. Now, all you need to do is find out what he likes.

"Tell me, honey, you like it hard or soft, hm?" you question just as Elliot’s footsteps sound on the stairs.

"God. Hard. I like it hard," Josh answers. "I like it when you take control, with a little pain. Yeah, I like that a lot." In the background, you can hear the sound of his hand working his dick. At least you know he’s enjoying himself.

"Okay, Josh," you nod to yourself, knowing exactly where to go from here. Elliot appears in front of you, his lips forming an 'o' shape when he sees you’re with a client. You nod your head toward the food you’ve been preparing, signaling him to take over as you move away from the counter and toward the living area. Elliot passes you on the way, his hand patting you on the shoulder.

You flop over the arm of the chair and onto the sofa, landing with a bounce on your back. "The first thing I want you to do is to strip for me, now," you order him, reaching toward the coffee table when you spot a magazine there. You bring it over to you and open it. "Are you naked yet?"

"Almost," he practically gasps to you. You can hear some more shuffling, and then he's telling you, "Yes, mistress, I'm naked."

Mistress? You sigh internally. You seriously can't believe how many men are into the whole dominatrix kink. In the beginning, it was kind of fun, but by now, it’s getting pretty old.

Mentally awakening your inner dom, you relax further into the sofa and flip through the magazine. "Good boy," you coo, finding a 20 Sex Tips for Women article. Huh, how fitting. "Now, here's what I want you to do, and you better listen closely, pet."

The call ends up lasting 2 minutes and 28 seconds. Not bad for a newbie.

________

“I might have a date this weekend," Elliot mentions casually, making you glance over the top of your book at him, eyebrows raised.

A few hours have passed since breakfast, and you've had at least seven phone calls since. The two of you are relaxing in the living room, you on one side of your L-shaped sofa and Elliot on the other.

"And why is this the first I'm hearing of it?" you respond, feeling rather hurt. You tell each other everything. You know the penis size of every boyfriend he's had. How can he share that information so easily yet let something like a date stay secret?

He cringes, and you just know you're not going to like what's coming next. "Because..." he hesitates, takes a deep breath, and rushes out, "BecauseitswithDanny." He says it so fast it almost doesn't register, but the name Danny sticks out like a sore thumb.

"What!?" you exclaim, book falling forgotten onto the floor as you sit up. You're completely shocked, and you imagine your expression says everything before you even open your mouth. "How can you—why would you want to after what he did?" You can't understand what's going through Elliot's head, but you seriously want to knock some sense into him.

"I tried hinting to you this morning!" Elliot tells you, sitting up. The magazine he'd been reading earlier falls onto his lap, his attention now completely on you. "I told you I missed him!"

You scoff at that. "A hint is, 'Oh, by the way, I'm thinking of going on a date with my ex.' Not, 'I'm going to tickle you with Danny's ass-feather, complain about missing him, and hope that you get the hint that I'm going out with him this weekend despite the fact he broke my heart!'" You take a deep breath, oxygen running low after that rant. "Look, I know it's none of my business—"

"Of course it's your business. You're my best friend."

"—I just don't want you to get hurt," you continue as you both stare at each other with similar expressions. You're both desperate for the other to understand how you're feeling without wanting to cause any upset. "I love you, honey...and it destroyed you when he left."

"He said he's sorry," Elliot tells you quietly, making you realize just how much they've been talking. A pang of hurt goes through your heart, knowing that Elliot felt like he couldn't talk to you about this. "He said it was a mistake, one he wouldn't make again. But I don't want to jump back into things so...I told him we'll start slow."

"Well," you nod slightly. "That's something, I guess." It comforts you to know that he isn't rushing into the relationship again. Maybe, if they start from scratch, it could work this time. Unfortunately, your gut tells you different. "I'm going to be honest with you, okay?"

Elliot gives you a lopsided smile, causing a single dimple to form on his cheek. "I wouldn't have it any other way."

You smile back for a moment before turning serious again. "I think...you're thinking with your heart and not with your head," you tell him softly. "I think you're in love with him, and you miss him, and you're not thinking rationally about this. Which I totally understand, honey. You love him; I know you can't help that. I just worry that Danny knows how you feel about him, and he's going to use it to his advantage." You watch Elliot's expression closely; he's nodding, letting you know he's listening.

You give your lip a quick nibble before continuing. "But if this is something you feel like you need to do, then I'll support you, you know that."

"Thanks, babe," he responds sincerely, but his eyes are sad. "You're right. I know you're right, but...my heart wants this so damn badly."

"What's your gut telling you to do?" you ask him curiously. You’ve always believed in following your instincts.

"Run," he answers with a painful laugh. "Run and don't look back because he's only doing this as a rebound."

You frown at the information. "Rebound?"

Elliot nods, tears filling his eyes. He crosses his legs underneath him, which surprises you given how skinny his jeans are. One arm goes to the back of the sofa while the other runs through his slick-backed hair. He pulls his lips into his mouth for a moment, a habit of his, before telling you, "Him and Voldemort broke up. Danny says he broke it off because he misses me, but I checked Voldemort's page, and it looks like he's gone and gotten himself a new guy."

You hold back a snort at his nickname for Gary. Voldemort. It suits him. From Elliot's information, you're guessing that Danny is only after a rebound, but Elliot doesn't want to admit it because he still wants to be with Danny.

"Honey..." you sigh, scooting across the sofa so you can give Elliot a cuddle. He immediately returns the gesture but stays seated, whereas you lean up on your knees, making you higher than him. You rest your head on top of his, your arms around his neck. You know you don't need to say anything. Elliot knows he's burying his head in the sand. You think he just needs to find out the hard way; otherwise, he'd always regret not trying.

"I'm here for you," you assure him. This is something he needs to do, and you can't protect him from it, no matter how much you want to.

"Thank you," he tells you tearfully. You can hear how upset he is, but he's trying to hold it back. You squeeze him tighter, wishing you could take away all his pain. "You're the best friend a guy could ask for."

Your lips curve at that. "I know," you joke because really, you're not that big-headed. "Now," you say as you pull away but keep your arms around his neck. "What do you say we turn our phones off for a while, get a Chinese, and watch some crappy chick flicks?"

His eyes are bloodshot and wet with tears, but the smile he gives you is genuine happiness. And that you completely understand because food makes you feel the same way. "I love you so much."

The film you end up watching is beyond cheesy, but the humor is awesome, and you find yourself giggling along. Your Chinese food is now in your overly-stuffed belly, and the only things left are the containers sitting on the coffee table in front of you.

You sit side-by-side with Elliot, shoulders touching, a leopard-print blanket draped over your laps. Both of you ordered a beer with the takeaway. It isn’t enough to get you drunk, but that wasn’t the plan since you need to turn your phones back on for work later.

By the time the film ends, Elliot seems to be in a much better mood. Hopefully, he’ll stay that way for the next few hours.

“Gosh,” Elliot starts, reaching behind the sofa to the side table where a lamp sits. He switches it on, making you both blink against the sudden brightness. “I haven’t laughed that hard in ages.”

“Same,” you say, squinting as your eyes adjust. Your muscles feel cramped, so you throw off the blanket and stretch. As you straighten your body, you begin to slide off the sofa but don’t bother stopping it. You let yourself slip onto the floor.

With the coffee table in the way, you have to arrange yourself so you’re lying between the sofa and the table. The wooden flooring is cold against your right arm, while the left side of your body enjoys the comfort of the fur rug.

“Weirdo,” Elliot snorts from above.

“Don’t judge,” you respond, letting out a yawn. Watching films always makes you tired. Maybe it strains your eyes. The floor is oddly tempting right now—so cozy—or maybe Elliot is right, and you’re just a weirdo.

“Ah, ah, ah,” Elliot speaks again, his foot nudging your side. “Can’t sleep now. We’ve got horny customers waiting.”

It’s only then you realize you’ve closed your eyes. “I’m up,” you mumble, forcing yourself to sit upright. The smell of Chinese food still lingers in the air. It was absolutely delicious, but your stomach protests now, begging you not to even inhale another whiff of it. You pat your belly proudly, knowing it did a good job handling the feast.

“Good,” Elliot says. “We gotta get to work.”

Neither of you moves.

“For fuck’s sake,” Elliot sighs after a moment, making you crack a smile. “It’s so much effort. I hate... effort,” he says, spitting the word as if it leaves a bad taste in his mouth.

You tilt your head to look at him better. “Just think about all those handsome, horny men stroking their dicks, waiting for you to—”

“I’m up!” Elliot exclaims, jumping to his feet. His hands dive into his pockets as you laugh loudly. “Christ, where’s my phone? My customers need me!” He’s being overly dramatic on purpose, and it makes you giggle even harder.

“It’s not funny!” he tells you, though he’s trying his hardest not to smile. “Who’s going to give those guys their orgasms? This is a serious situation!”

You giggle again, but then you try to put on a straight face. “You’re right. There could be a riot!” you gasp dramatically. “I’ll get on the phone to the prime minister right away!”

“And the president!” Elliot chimes in, but then you make eye contact, and the two of you burst into laughter. Sure, you can act pretty silly sometimes, but it’s healthy. At this age, you feel more mature than most people your age, but that doesn’t mean you can’t be childish once in a while.

Once you both calm down, you know playtime is over. It’s really time to get to work. Sighing, you take Elliot’s hand when he offers it to you, and he easily pulls you up from the floor.

“Thanks, kid,” you tell him, standing on your tiptoes to ruffle his hair. You know he hates when you do that.

He lets out a high-pitched squeak and backs away. “You know my rules!”

“No one touches the hair,” you recite dutifully.

“Yes!” he says, rolling his eyes. “And yet you always forget. And what do you mean ‘kid’? I’m older than you!”

“Yes, well, mentally you’re the age of ten, so…”

“Bitch,” he says, lightly punching your arm, and you laugh.

“Is that all you’ve got?” you tease.

He plants his hands on his hips, cocking a hip at you and raising an eyebrow. “Honey, you can’t handle what I’ve got.”

“I’m heading upstairs. Gonna talk dirty to some dudes, grab a shower, change into my pajamas, get some more horny people off, read a book, then go to bed.”

Elliot takes the phone and nods. “Sounds like a damn good plan,” he says, holding up his hand.

You smile and give him a high-five.

One of the hardest parts of your job is keeping things fresh and coming up with new ideas. That’s why you love working with Elliot. He’s a guy; he knows what men like, so whenever you feel like you need something different, he’s your go-to.

New customers are always the easiest to please. No matter what you say, it’s fresh to them. Exciting. It’s your recurring customers who require more effort. There are only so many ways to describe a blowjob before it starts feeling repetitive. When you get that feeling of déjà vu, you worry your client does too.

Oh, and trying to figure out what a guy likes? That’s another challenge. Sometimes, it feels like a seriously fucked-up game of I-Spy.

“I spy with my little eye…” Imaginary-you says in a hopeful voice. “A foot fetish? No? Fuck.” You’re rocking back and forth now, losing hope. “I spy with my little—oh, I know! Voyeurism?” you practically beg, thinking about pulling your brains out with a spoon if this doesn’t work. “…Golden showers?”

Okay, maybe you’re being a bit overdramatic, but you get the point. It’s frustrating, especially when the client is shy and doesn’t know what they like themselves.

Deciding you’re getting cranky—probably because you’re tired—you decide to finish half an hour early tonight. You shouldn’t, especially after already losing a few hours of work earlier, but you’ve made enough money to cover your half of rent and bills this month. You’ve still got a week to earn more for food and anything else you need.

So yeah, you’ll finish early.

Yawning, you pull the covers out from underneath your ass before throwing them over yourself. You’re already in your pajamas—a loose pair of pink shorts and a white strap top—and your book sits next to you, waiting to be read.

But just as you pick up your phone, ready to turn it off, a new number flashes on the screen. You stare at it for a moment, wondering if it’s worth leaving. The problem is, with it being a new customer, leaving a bad impression could mean they wouldn’t come back.

“Damn,” you mutter under your breath, knowing the professional businesswoman in you can’t risk losing what might end up being a recurring customer. As far as you know, this phone call could change your career. You snort at that. Highly unlikely, but it’s going to bring in extra money, which is a good enough reason. “Just this last one, then I’m going to bed,” you tell yourself.

You place the earphones back into your ears and press the green button on your touchscreen. “Hey there, handsome.” There’s a pause, and you briefly wonder if they’ve decided to hang up when he finally speaks.

“Hey,” he responds simply, sounding kind of awkward.

“You caught me just in time,” you say naughtily.

“Oh?” he sounds intrigued, though the awkwardness remains. He’s probably just shy or clueless about what to do. “Why is that?”

For a moment, you’re taken aback by how much you’re attracted to his voice. That’s never happened to you before, and he’s barely said five words. Masculine, educated, and gruff. Swoon.

“Um...” You try to get back into character while scolding yourself. The conversation has only just started; you can’t screw it up already. Get your head in the game, girl. “Because I’m wet and needing a man to help me out.” Internally, you wince. That’s pretty weak considering how good you usually are at this.

He doesn’t seem to think so because he releases a sexy, “Shit. I—” He’s breathing heavily, and you wait for him to finish, sensing he has something else he wants to say. “I don’t know if this was a good idea,” he admits after a moment.

Fuck, you’re losing him, and you’re losing him fast. You need to think quickly if you want to keep him on the line. You don’t want to admit it, but your interest in this man goes beyond the money you’re earning from him. He’s ignited something in you. “Wait! Please,” you breathe. “I—I’m so horny. I need you. Please? Just stroke your dick for me. I need it.” There you go; you knew you could do better.

“Damn it,” he hisses, and then there’s the sound of a belt buckle, and you know you’ve got him. “What’d you need, sweetie? Tell me,” he demands, and for the first time since doing this job, you feel a wave of lust hit you.

Swallowing in an attempt to bring moisture back to your dry mouth—it all seems to have headed south, if you know what you mean—you respond truthfully, “You.” Jesus, you shouldn’t be doing this, but before you can stop yourself, your left hand is slipping underneath your strap top and finding your breasts. “I need you, please—” You pause for a second. You don’t know if it will work, but if you’re right about him, this is going to go down a treat. For both him and for you. “—sir.”

And you’re right because he lets out a loud groan, making you squeeze your thighs together in response. Jesus, you haven’t wanted someone this badly in what feels like forever.

“Fuck, you’re going to be such a good girl for me, aren’t you?”

You’re already nodding before he finishes his sentence. “Yes, god, yes.” You move your right hand so it’s also caressing your breasts. In this moment, you completely love your headset, which allows you to talk and touch at the same time.

“Mm, you’re so obedient, baby,” he tells you, approval evident in his husky voice. “Tell me, Princess, tell me are your nipples hard?”

Your pussy clenches almost painfully, and you try to remind it to calm down because it’s only just started. “They’re hard. So hard they’re showing through my shirt.”

You’re getting so hazy with lust you’re not sure what to do with yourself, so you pinch your nipples roughly and almost cry out in frustration, knowing it would be so much better if he were doing it for you.

“Damn, that’s beautiful, sweetheart,” he tells you, and your belly does a funny flip. “You touchin’ them? Want you to roll them between your fingers. Not too hard, just enough pressure to leave you needing more.”

It’s not easy to admit, but you think he’s better at this than you are, and it crosses your mind that you should probably be paying him. “I already am,” you confess with a guilty laugh. “Your voice... it’s, uh, fucking hot.” You hesitate because you’re not sure if you can say that to him. It’s not very professional, but then you remind yourself that you’re only second-guessing it because you’re actually getting off on it.

"You that eager for me, princess?" he sounds pretty damn pleased with himself. "Tell me how it feels. You know, I'm stroking my dick to this. Getting hard over the noises you're making, and the pretty picture you're giving me."

The image of this man, who you are undoubtedly attracted to, stroking his hard cock over the thought of you pleasuring yourself drives you crazy. He seems so generous, something rare nowadays.

"It feels..." you breathe, trying to find the right words. "Like it's not enough. I need more. Christ." You throw your head back against your pillows, frustrated with yourself and the way you're acting. Completely unprofessional.

"Shh," he coos softly. "I've got you. I'm going to take care of you. Okay, princess?" He's so freaking good at this. You're practically shivering in anticipation of what he might say next. "I want you to get naked for me. And tell me, baby, you got any toys?"

"Um," you think about his question as you pull your strap top over your head. It gets caught on the earphone wire. "Wait a second." You quickly untangle yourself before placing the earphones back into your ears. Moving on to your shorts, you push them eagerly down your legs. "Yes, I have one of those little bullet vibrators."

"Good. I want you to get it for me, princess."

You bite your lip for a moment, feeling extremely dirty about what you're about to do. "Yes, sir..." you say before reaching toward your side cabinet and opening the bottom drawer. In an old, tiny, purple purse with a single zip sits the bullet. You take it out before getting comfortable on the bed once more. "I've got it."

He hums in approval. "Now, I'm more than happy to go slow, make this last, but I'm sensing that my girl wants to come hard and fast, am I right?"

You suck in an unsteady breath. Being called his girl really shouldn't make you feel as giddy as it does. Why and how does a complete stranger have such an effect on you? You're never one of those girls who fall for a man's charm easily. Yet here you are, swooning over a guy because he's good at talking dirty and has a sexy voice.

Apparently you were easier to seduce than you originally thought.

"Yes," you choke out, wondering if you'd wake up if you pinched yourself hard enough. You wouldn't try it, though, just in case you were dreaming. You really aren't ready for it to end. "God, yes."

"All right then," he chuckles, the sound warm. "I'll do what you want this time. Next time, what I say goes, okay, princess?"

Before you have a chance to respond, he's giving you more orders, and in no way are you complaining.

"I want you to spread your pretty little thighs for me, baby." His voice, and the way he's breathing, gives you the impression that he's getting just as excited as you are.

"Okay," you squeak rather embarrassingly. Cool air hits your most sensitive area as you do what he orders, your hands resting against the inside of your thighs, fingers clutching your vibrator as you wait impatiently for his instructions.

You have yet to turn the bullet on, but it already feels like your insides are vibrating.

"Now, take your hand and spread your pussy lips for me."

And there you go, once again speechless—and breathless—because of this man and his words. Seriously, he could do this job better than you. You have to admit, you're storing parts of this conversation away for both personal and professional use later on.

Your hands automatically do as he says, your body desperate for some kind of release. You feel overwhelmed and don't know where to start or what to do in order to relieve it. Thank God you have him to guide you; otherwise, you might combust. Then again, if he wasn't here, you wouldn't have this problem in the first place.

"Okay," you breathe, feeling more and more like a client than a sex line operator. But taking control is obviously something he enjoys, so who are you to put a stop to this? What’s the saying? ‘Customers are always right?’ Well, you absolutely, completely, one hundred percent agree!

"Stretch yourself out," he continues, his voice starting to strain. "Force your sexy little clit out of its hood. I don't want it hiding when you start fucking yourself. All right, princess?"

Fuckkk. Just when you think he can't possibly get any hotter, he goes and says that. Your pussy feels like it’s on fire; your clit is so swollen it hurts. You wouldn't be surprised if you came the second you put any pressure on your nub.

"Now," he continues. "Turn your bullet on and press it to your clit. You're not allowed to stop until your legs are shaking and you're calling out my name. Got it?" You can hear how hard he's pumping his dick now. For a moment, you feel guilty. Are you neglecting him? But then you remind yourself again that this is what he wants.

You know you're not going to last long. You're too excited. Not to mention, it’s been a while since you've spent some time with your right hand. You twist the top of your bullet, putting it on the highest speed. You know you're worked up enough to take it; usually, you start on low and build your way up because you're overly sensitive. Right now, you know it won’t be an issue.

The bullet starts to shake violently, but the noise is low, like a quiet buzzing. Your left hand holds yourself open, fingers forming a 'V' and spreading your lips as far as you can, just as he instructed.

You don’t need to tell him what you’re doing; the moment you press the bullet to yourself, a half-gasp, half-moan escapes your lips. You’re right—you definitely won’t last long. The vibrations are intense, and you draw small circles on yourself, pushing yourself even closer to the edge.

“Damnit,” he hisses. You’re quickly learning it’s one of his favorite words. “You sound fucking sexy. Wish I could see you. Watch you,” he inhales sharply. He’s just as close as you are.

“What’s—” you attempt to speak but end up gasping instead. Wetness gathers below, soaking your entrance and trailing toward your clit. The added lubrication lets the bullet slide more freely around your nub, the sensation unbelievable. “What’s—”

“Princess?” he chokes, likely having the same problem as you.

So close now. So fucking close. You just need a little more. The rhythm is perfect, and you can hear him breathing in your ear, letting out the occasional groan. It’s too damn much, but you can’t let yourself go—not without— “What’s your name?”

"Joel."

"Fuck - Joel!"

You see stars, as cliché as it sounds. Your whole body breaks into spasms, your left hand falling to the sheets and gripping the fabric desperately. Your right hand forces the bullet between your slippery lips, and your thighs clamp around your hand. Incoherent words tumble from your mouth: “Oh god,” “Fuck,” and Joel’s name.

As you come back down to earth, you can hear that Joel barely followed two seconds behind.

“Damn it, Princess. You’re so fucking good. Sound so pretty. Done so well,” the words spill from his mouth like sweet wine. He probably isn’t even aware of them. The sound of him fisting his dick is irregular and off-beat. “Fuck. Damn. You’re such a good girl.”

You remove the bullet from yourself—if you leave it there any longer, it’s going to become painful—and let out a giggle. Your cheeks are flushed, your body buzzing with pleasure. Lightheaded and giddy, you think to yourself that this guy must be amazing in bed. “That was fucking amazing.”

“Yeah,” he laughs breathlessly. “You can say that again. I can’t believe I almost hung up.”

“That would have been bad,” you reply, wondering if your heart will slow down anytime soon. “Very, very bad.”

“Oh yeah,” he agrees, then pauses before adding, “Let me ask you something.”

“Go ahead.” You hesitate for only a moment. It’s unusual for clients to stick around afterward, but you’ve quickly realized this guy isn’t a normal caller.

“What’s your real name?” he asks. “No way is it ‘Angel.’” He snorts, finding your alias hilarious.

Is Angel that bad of a name? You think it’s kind of cool. The company is called Angels and Demons, with you being the Angel. Elliot’s alias is Daemon because it’s close to “demon” but sounds way better. When a customer calls, they get an automated voice instructing them to press the number for their chosen operator, complete with a brief description.

You’re losing your train of thought; you can’t give him your real name, can you? It’s against the rules. If Jane found out, she’d be pissed. She wouldn’t fire you, but her anger is almost as bad. With the image of facing her wrath in mind, you tell Joel, “I’m sorry, I can’t.” Your tone is regretful because you’d really like to tell him. “My boss would…it’s against the rules.”

“Ah,” he responds, masking the disappointment. “It’s all right. I understand.”

“Sorry,” you apologize again, hating the idea of letting him down, especially after how amazing he just made you feel.

"Seriously, Princess, it’s fine,” he reassures you, easing the guilt. “I had a really good time tonight. You can bet I’ll be expecting a repeat tomorrow.” You just know that if you could see him right now, his eyes would sparkle with mischief.

Your pussy throbs again just thinking about it. God, he makes you insatiable. “I’m really, really looking forward to it,” you tell him honestly.

“Me too.” There’s a brief pause, then, “Goodnight, Princess.”

“Goodnight, Joel.” Hanging up the phone, you place it against your lips, letting everything sink in. Alone with your thoughts, you can’t believe you just had full-blown phone sex with a client. It’s so unlike you. It’s more like something Elliot would do. Speaking of…

“Elliot, you won’t believe what just happened!” you shout at the top of your lungs.

#joel miller smut #joel miller x reader #joel miller #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller fanfiction #joel x reader

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kitten4sannie · 7 months ago

Text

dolce and gabbana

pairing: san x guest! reader (fem)

genre: pure smut with a tiddlywink of plot

summary: san can’t seem to get you off his mind after sitting next to you during the latest D&G showcase, so he has no choice but to get you on his dick instead.

w.c: 3.3k

warnings: some alcohol use, subby until he’s not! san, dommy mommy who folds instantly when san asserts himself! reader, both reader and san mutually go after one another despite knowing one of them is MARRIED (hoes will be hoes what can i say <3), reader’s husband is a dick ofc, misogyny (from said husband), cheating, seduction, exhibitionism, mommy/daddy kink….. (i’m weak okay,,), teasing, ITS BIG BTW AND CURVED……, only praise and pet names (omg who hacked k4s???), groping, fingering, kissing, dry humping on a couch in a very crowded room, one neck bite, san cums untouched, oral (receiving), squirting, one singular pussy slap, san puts reader into a mating press on her husband’s side of the bed just for funsies, manhandling, size kink, breeding kink, creampies (sannie cums a lotttt)

a/n: as a pudding since day 1 i am in absolute shambles thanks for asking <3 and YES im very aware i posted yesterday but the fic demons cannot be silenced!!! and just fyi i’m sure san was very grateful and absolutely brimming with excitement to be at the show!! the way i wrote him here does not reflect his actual feelings towards anything,, its just a silly fic and i wrote what i wanted lol. also i wish i could tell you how many times “dolce and gabbana that’s on my titties~” played in my head while i typed this out 😭😭 (also i did not proofread this whatsoever so forgive me if there are errors) but anyways, i hope you enjoy :33

song recs: la romana by bad bunny, rover by kai, planet goddamn by mac miller

San knew eyes would be on him. Why wouldn’t they be? He was dressed to the nines, his hair slicked back to showcase his alluring, feline-like eyes, his sharp, angular features that could give someone a fatal cut if they looked for too long, and most importantly, he was all decked out in a sleek black custom-made top that perfectly adorned his broad shoulders and chest, one that even cinched securely around his impossibly tiny waist. Of course it did. It had been custom fit and made just for his body. Even the tailor had jokingly mentioned that Michelangelo himself must’ve sculpted him to perfection in the heavens before San was born, but San wasn’t laughing. He perfected his body through his own sheer willpower and determination alone, to be the best that he could be for his own self — and if people just so happened to drool over the results of his hard work, then that was simply a perk.

Holding his hand up to shield his eyes from the many camera flashes, he continued to make his way down the walkway, offering many of the starstruck guests a courteous, though charming smile, wondering if their wandering gazes were due to his breathtaking ensemble or what was sitting just below it. The thought tickled him. It continued to amuse him throughout the afternoon, taking picture after picture with eager guests and wealthy tycoons alike, quite pleased with himself when neither man nor woman could seem to control themselves around him, their eyes always drifting downwards to look San up and down like he were next up in an auction, their mouths pressed to their champagne flutes in an effort to quell the thirst they felt, their free hands lingering just a little too long on the small of his back when they bid farewell to him.

San relished the fact that these poor starving individuals could never get a taste of him, no matter how incredibly rich or influential they were. None of them would get a bite of the forbidden fruit without permission from God.

It was then that the show started, various eye-catching models sashaying their way across the aisle to showcase the latest D&G collection, all displaying their own unique set of features and charm. All flawless and angelic in their own right, but they were almost predictable in that way — like mannequins made solely for the rich and beautiful to gawk at. San couldn’t help but look past them, only focusing on the expensive, tailor made clothes that were framing their perfect bodies. And after a while, he almost seemed to grow bored. Of what, exactly? He wasn’t sure. Maybe it was the sheer gaudiness of it all, the lack of self awareness for things that really mattered in the modern world, and the almost nauseating amount of self-sucking the rich individuals around him seemed to be fond of doing. San would’ve pondered it more when somebody near him gently patted his thigh, causing him to look down at the small manicured hand, the diamond ring around your finger glinting in the light like a warning sign.

“Are you bored like I am?” you whispered softly into his ear from beside him, giving him a quaint smile when he turned his head to face you.

San blushed, leaning slightly in your direction. “Am I that obvious?”

“No, don’t worry. None of these drones will be able to notice.” You motioned your head to the crowd around you, their phones in hand, all whispering to each other about how revolutionary the new collection was, despite it looking eerily similar to the fall one from the year before. “You could whip your cock out and no one would bat an eye.”

“Oh?” San studied your flirtatious smile, then looked down just to make sure his eyes hadn’t deceived him. Yep, the ring was still there — and it probably cost more than a starter house. Delighted by your forwardness, San took it upon himself to tease you, reaching down to slowly unbutton his slim-fitted pants. “Well, if that’s the case…”

Your cheeks turning bright red, you reached downwards to shield his crotch from view, looking up at him with wide eyes, your faces now impossibly close. “I-i was fucking with you! Don’t actually take out your dick…”

San’s sharpened eyes flitted from your gaze to your cherry red lips, letting go of his zipper to gently take your hand in his, pressing it firmly down onto his thigh. “Yet…?” he challenged huskily, wondering if you were like all the others and would yank your hand back, scoff in disgust, and pretend as if it had never happened. It was then that San felt you squeeze your warm hand into the meat of his thigh, your fingers just barely pressing into the inseam of his pants.

“You can be a good boy and wait till the after party, can’t you?” you asked in a lower, sultrier tone, pressing your lips to his cheek to leave your mark on him, your hand moving further up his thigh, only pulling away when you felt something hard press into your palm. Smiling sweetly, you leaned in again, this time allowing your lips to brush over his. “Good things come to those who wait.”

And just like that, you turned forward to focus on the models all gathering onto the stage at once along with the designers, clapping along with the rest of the crowd when they all took a bow. You blew a kiss to one of the designers who caught it and pretended to put it in his pocket.

Still breathless from your short encounter, San nudged your thigh with his own, biting into his lip and tasting the sweetness of your lipstick. You nudged him back, glancing at him through the corner of yours eyes, licking at your own lips, like a predator would before pouncing on their prey.

San couldn’t believe he had finally met someone like you. There was a serpent in his garden — and he couldn’t wait for it to swallow him up.

The after party was predictable as always — strangers binge drinking and snorting powder off of your previously pristine marble tabletops, others telling embellished stories about their latest trip to their private islands to various locked-in acquaintances, some off doing god knows what in your many empty guest rooms, and you could not, for the life of you, care about what your husband was currently cackling over with his close friends, focusing on the crackling wood sitting inside the fireplace you were all huddled near. When you inevitably ran out of champagne, you patted your husband’s leg so that he could remove his arm from your waist.

He looked down at you with indifference. “What is it?”

“I need more champagne, honey. I’m going to get some.”

Your husband’s face scrunched up. “Haven’t you had enough? If you drink anymore, you’re going to lose your nice figure.” He looked to his friends for validation who simply nodded along in agreement.

Your husband’s chauvinistic comments didn’t bother you anymore, just his persistent presence in your life. He was like a mosquito that was always trying to drain you, one that you could never seem to swat away. Well, nothing a little dick couldn’t fix. “That’s funny, because I seem to recall the tailor coming in this morning for an emergency visit to alter a certain suit,” you mentioned, this time pushing your husband’s arm away from you, surveying his now quiet friends with an unbothered look, before wandering off, not registering the insecurity driven ramblings that your husband was sending your way.

Once you made your way into the crowded loft, you searched your surroundings for what you were looking for, humming at the sight of the pretty boy from earlier sitting on the large plush couch in the corner, a half-empty champagne flute in hand, his attention on one of the models that had walked for your husband’s collection a few hours earlier. He was even more handsome now that you could study his captivating details, your eyes drifting over his bulky frame, from his large arms and shoulders, to his delicate waist, and down to his spread thighs, zeroing in on what was between them, knowing that the beautiful stranger was blessed in more ways than one based off what you had felt earlier.

Without hesitation, you slowly made your way across the room, your stiletto heels digging into the fur carpet below with each concentrated step, licking your red lips when the model placed one of her hands on San’s thighs and squeezed it, his suddenly submissive expression causing more knots to form within your core. You were going to make him yours.

San could barely hear the pretty model’s words over the loud music and the many overlapping voices inside the loft, not knowing what to say when she moved closer to him, clearly going in for the kill. It was then that someone stood over him, their heel nudging into his loafer. He looked up, his once hazy eyes opening wide at the sight of you standing above him with a bottle of champagne in one hand, your other hand already cradling his face. “M-miss…there you are…”

“Here I am,” you purred, running your fingers along his jaw, satisfied with the fact that your lipstick print was still visible on his tan skin.

San gulped, just about spilling the drink he was still holding onto, unknowingly spreading his thighs open further, as if he was giving you an unspoken invitation to climb onto his lap.

Humming, you lowered yourself into his lap, your plush thighs and ass pressing snuggly against his lower half. “Look at you,” you cooed softly into San’s ear, not caring to give the now fuming model any attention, lowering the cold champagne bottle in between your bodies, chuckling at the soft whimper he let out when it pressed into the exposed sections of his skin. “You’re such a good boy, saving a seat for Mommy like this. Aren’t you, baby?”

“Y-yes, I am, s-so good for you…”

“Then, be good and open your mouth,” you purred, lifting the almost empty bottle and pouring some into your mouth. San’s jaw slowly dropped, not knowing that he was already beginning to drool. You didn’t mind, clutching the sides of his heated face and pressing your parted lips onto his, transferring the sparkling alcohol to him, but not without running your tongue over his.

San brought his hands up near the sides of your ass, his fingers trembling, not knowing if he was allowed to touch you, whimpering into your mouth when you sucked the alcohol off of his tongue.

“You can touch, baby.” You reached for his wrists and brought his hands underneath the hem of your short dress, gasping when he squeezed the softness of your ass in between his ringed fingers and began to slowly guide your hips, your clothed cunt rubbing back and forth over his stiffening cock. “Mm, someone’s eager, hm? You’re a naughty one, making the main designer’s wife grind on your cock like this in front of everyone.”

“It’s…Mommy’s fault…” San murmured near your ear, rolling his own hips up into yours, making you feel every inch of his trapped throbbing cock each time he ground himself into you, biting into his lip at the sound of your breathless moans, swearing he saw your grimacing husband from over your shoulder.

“My fault, huh? Mommy should make up for it, shouldn’t she?” you sighed back onto his heated skin, pressing kiss after kiss onto his collarbones, dragging your tongue along the constellation of freckles he had on his neck, making him shudder underneath you.

“Uh-huh…” San moaned out, your hand suddenly squeezing into and sliding back and forth over his erection, your thumb repeatedly rubbing over the pronounced tip, knowing he was staining his expensive pants with sticky pre-cum. “F-fuck, I’ll cum if you keep doing that…”

“So sensitive, baby, you’re so cute…but you’re not the only one, you know? Look what you did to Mommy~” You gave his balls a gentle squeeze just to hear him whimper, before letting go, instead reaching for his hand again and leading it between your legs, moving your soaked panties to the side just in time for San to fill you up with two thick fingers.

“You’re so wet…” San groaned, unable to keep himself from adding another digit inside your slick hole, beginning to pump them in and out of you, allowing the both of you to listen to the obscene squelching sounds your cunt made each time he finger-fucked you. Something switched inside of San when you began to whine and whimper, and fuck yourself back on his fingers, your eyebrows screwed upwards, begging him for more with your teary, half-closed eyes. “So fucking wet just for me, huh? Hey, Miss, did you know your husband is standing just across the room? Think he’s hard knowing I just got his pretty little wife wetter than she’s been in her entire life?”

“B-baby, don’t tease me like that,” you whispered, not wanting the control you had over him to slip out of your grasp, grabbing onto his shoulders, accidentally causing pieces of his solid outfit to fall off and land onto the leather couch.

“It’s San, Miss, but you can call me Sannie if you wanna be a good girl for me,” he chuckled, shoving his fingers into you up to the knuckles, rolling your clit around underneath his heavy thumb. “And, I’m not teasing you, my love, he’s really watching us, and he looks like he wants to kill me.”

Just as you looked behind you to catch your husband’s displeased gaze, San began to ram his soaked digits into your spasming cunt, feeling his lips, tongue, and teeth on your neck. “O-oh my god, Sannie, oh, fuckkkk…”

Just as your warm arousal began to pour out onto his fingers and lap, San bit down into the area where your neck and collarbone connected, letting out a few stunted groans, his hips jolting up into yours, coating the insides of his designer pants with white.

“Did you just…?” you began, before San stuffed his fingers into your mouth, growing quiet and sucking your arousal off of them. He pulled them out with a pop, but you didn’t even get the chance to continue your question because you were suddenly being lifted up into the air, strong hands clutching your thighs, your legs hooked around San’s waist.

Your defeated, emasculated husband was just a blur when San carried you through the crowded room and up the stairs, not stopping until he got to the largest room at the end of the expansive hallway.

“Which side does your husband sleep on?” San asked, once he stood at the foot of the kingsized bed.

“On the right. Why do you–O-oh,” you gasped as he quickly laid you out on the right side of the bed and lifted your dress up, forcefully spreading your thighs open so that he could bury his face in your cunt, repeatedly lapping at your slit and clit over your soaked panties until he couldn’t take it, reaching up to tear your panties off with ease. “Sannie, baby boy, what’s gotten into you?”

San looked up at you with dark, dilated eyes, reaching up to his broad body to rip off the rest of his outfit, his solid muscles flexing as he closed his fingers around your waist, yanking you lower so that your cunt was closer to his face, looking like he was about to eat you alive. “Daddy’s hungry,” he simply replied, diving back into your cunt to lick and slurp up your juices, tonguing your hole just to feel you clench around him, his nose nudging your clit as he ate you out like a starved man.

Sooner or later, you began to shudder and pant, tugging at the ends of San’s sweaty hair, your thighs pressing into the sides of his head until he forcefully held them down, quickly moving his head up and down as he dragged his tongue roughly over your throbbing clit, his focused eyes never leaving yours. “S-sannie, I’m really, fuck– I’m gonna cum…!”

“Cum for Daddy,” he demanded gruffly, stuffing three fingers into your cunt and pounding them into your g-spot, lifting your ass up with his other hand so that he could catch the stream of arousal that suddenly squirted out of you, some of it inevitably soaking into the satin sheets below you. San licked your juices from his lips, going down to give your puffy cunt one last lick to savor your taste, before standing up from the bed and unbuckling his pants.

“Y-you….Did you get possessed by a demon?” you asked half-jokingly, unable to keep your thighs from trembling, wiping the sweat from your forehead with the back of your wrist.

“And if I did? You’d still let me fuck you, wouldn’t you?” San smiled devilishly, his dimples appearing, kicking off his pants and running his closed hand along his curved, dripping length. He pressed his thighs against the side of the bed, running the tip of his cock over your lips, watching fondly as you sucked and licked the beads of pre-cum that leaked from the slit.

“I would.” Lifting yourself up so that you could completely rid yourself of your disheveled dress, you reached up for the handsome stranger, licking the saltiness from your lips. “Now, come here and show Mommy just how much Daddy wants her.”

San wasted no time climbing back onto the bed and folding you up into a mating press, leaning back to send a few wads of spit onto your cunt, smacking his hand against the wetness for good measure, before he plunged himself deep inside you.

You just about screamed, not ready for San’s unusual size and shape, the curve of his cock rubbing deliciously along your tightening walls each time he pounded himself into you. “S–ann–ie…! It’s so big, fuck– so good!”

“Aww, poor baby’s never had a big cock stretching out her pretty pussy before, huh?” San cooed into your ear, pulling all the way out, just to slam himself back in, hitting your g-spot dead on, making you cry out deliriously. “You’ll never be able to go back to your husband after this. You’re gonna be begging for me to take care of you from now on….” San pressed his lips against yours, sucking on your tongue as you moaned out for him. “Want you to cum for me again, baby…Squirt on my cock, okay?”

“S-Sannie, it’s too much,” you whined out, dragging your nails down his broad back, your toes curling just as San punched your next orgasm out of you when his curved cock once again came in contact with your g-spot.

As you began to cry from the overwhelming pleasure, San licked your tears away, gently pressing his lips into your cheek and jaw, shushing you. “Don’t worry, baby. Daddy’s here for you.” He clutched you close, holding still inside you, as his cock began to twitch. “Here it comes, princess, just for you.” A hot, creamy stream of cum began to shoot out into you, completely drenching your insides with his load.

You could hardly speak at this point in time, solely concentrated on the pleasure that still had a hold on your sore body and the warmth that was filling you up to the brim, suddenly realizing that your husband really wasn’t going to be happy with you. “Y-you shouldn’t have…nnnngh….”

San continued to roll his hips into you, his eyelids fluttering, groans spilling from his throat, your cunt still milking his pulsing cock for all it had, which was a lot, to say the least. Once there was nothing left to give you, San leaned down, pressing one last kiss to your lips, not caring that you had left your lipstick all over him. “Can I ask you something, baby?”

“Y-yes, San?”

San smiled, his glossy brown eyes glistening in the light. “When you have my baby, will you have the heart to tell your poor husband that it’s actually mine?”

Panting heavily and trying to process what the handsome stranger just said, you finally came to the realization that you let someone who didn’t even know your name possibly impregnate you. Well, at least you had something to talk about over breakfast with your husband, rather than hear him go on and on about his latest collection.

“I’m not sure about that one…”

“Can I ask you one more question?”

“Hm?”

“Should I name our baby Dolce or Gabbana?”

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