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occamstfs · 7 months ago

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No Need to Apply

Here is my 1K special! Though admittedly it is nothing much out of the ordinary- Thanks to everyone who submitted prompts but especially the anonymous suggestion that spurred this transformation of a desperate twink into a cocky slob! -Occam

Brock really needed a lucky break. He had been staying with his ex since they ended it, but now that he’s sleeping with someone it’s clear that Brock needs to get his own place. Unfortunately the market is not being quite so accommodating to his urgent needs. Given that he is now to be living alone it’s evident he also needs the place on the cheap. He had been denied all reasonable accommodations that he could afford and was beginning to contemplate moving back in with his parents when he suddenly received an email from an apparent realtor he’d never met.

It was an invitation to an open house at some ritzy downtown apartment that he was sure was out of his price range. Rather than just tossing it to his spam folder though, he finds himself looking at the handful of images with a voracity, whether it’s simple curiosity or a fantasy to have such clearly luxurious housing Brock reads through the whole listing. Reaching the end of the invitation and looking at the specs he finds the rent impossibly labeled as just under half his monthly paycheck.

Nearly spitting up coffee all over himself in shock, Brock’s eyes flutter to find exactly when and where this open house was. Surely the demand for this place would box him out but god wouldn’t it be nice to just check it out and dream. He sends an RSVP and far too quickly the realtor, Lucas, thanks him for his prompt response, wishes him well, and signs off saying see you soon. Brock went about the rest of his day as normal, if not a little cheerier than he’s been for some time as he keeps finding his mind drift to that almost-too-perfect apartment’s view over the city.

Fortunately off from work the next day, Brock took the bus to the open house, stopping by his favorite cafe that just so happens to be nearby. He grabs a drink and finds himself preoccupied with thoughts of what a convenience, what a windfall, this break would be. He heads inside and takes the elevator up to the suite and hesitates before entering at the door. Odd that there is no one else here, he double checks the room and floor and puts his ear to the door to see if perhaps other visitors are inside already.

In his untrained attempt to eavesdrop he puts his weight squarely against the door, pushing it open and stumbling in, nearly spilling his coffee over the pristine floors as he crosses the threshold into the apartment. Light streams in through the blinds, only magnifying the manicured state of the spotless room around him. The floor is clean enough to see his reflection, mouth agape, staring at how impossibly clean the apartment is. The only record at all that the place had ever been lived in is the furniture that had clearly been procured by someone of great means, though one lacking any critical eye or desire for design. He sees framed posters of some real red flag movies near a large TV and some sports trophies lined on a shelf. Brock can’t help but wonder what could cause someone to leave such personal artifacts behind and feels a chill in the air.

He wanders away from the entrance to stand at the large windows, his phone ringing as he takes in the view of his town. Answering without checking the ID he hears a man’s voice he doesn’t recognize. Though he knows this must be the mystery realtor on the line, “How do you like the place Brock?” he begins to reply before being cut off by Lucas, “Have you seen the view yet, it’s quite something else.”

Brock feels something flicker through his mind as he gazes at the city blocks around him, below him. His eyes briefly catch on his reflection in the glass, though not long enough to see his eyelids droop slightly as he is able to reply, a tad slower than he usually likes to project, “uhh, yeah I know right, how could I not apply to live here? It’s almost too good to be true right?” There is another chill in the air and his body shivers before tensing up, shocking him back to reality and awareness to something strange afoot, “Excuse me actually, I’m so sorry, how did you get my phone number?”

Lucas clicks his tongue and speaks with an almost sickly sweet tone, “Now Brock come now, what can I do to get you to move in today?” Shaking his head in shock Brock is immediately, regardless of the clear sinister air to this man, he really cannot afford to pass up this chance. He clams up as he clambors to express interest, “No I uh! Of course I want the place, just send the lease over so I can read through it.” There is a real weight to Lucas’ words as Brock hears them, the cloying tone impressing itself on his mind, “Wonderful! That is all I needed to hear!”

It is suddenly dark in the apartment, but wasn’t he looking out the window? He can’t tell if his eyes are open or closed but he cannot see. Brock tries to move his head around to see, to feel anything, he strains his mind reaching for any muscle to flex, any tendon to pull, limbs to controt. He loses track of time and reality as he sits in the darkness, trying to grasp anything beyond his own consciousness, unable to affect anything. He feels his right hand move in a familiar way then he feels a warmth, almost a burning, completely engulfs it. He can almost see the shine of a smile, stark perfectly lined teeth that seem eerily inhuman and suddenly there is once more light. He gasps, coughs, and spits up over himself. Immediately grateful that he can feel anything at all. After feeling his body, and seeing the world almost entirely like it was before he lost consciousness, besides a copy of some contract with his name signed at the bottom.

He takes deep breaths feeling his lungs stretch and he starts to read whatever he has gotten himself into in that stupor. He reads the first few lines before he loses where he was on the page. Going again he finds his eyes suddenly dry, doing an uncharacteristically heavy blink that he can’t quite recall ever doing before and as he wonders this he again forgets his work on the contract. He slams his hand on the thigh in a rare show of aggression and gives it one last go. Brock makes even less progress this time as he is almost immediately overcome by a headache. As soon as he looks away from the sheet though, it disappears.

Brock groans as he feels himself starting to lose control of his senses before he hears his stomach grumble, and he finds a purpose he can immediately resolve. He starts to the fridge, clearly something has happened, an episode or something, he can figure it out later, he just needs food in his stomach now. He doesn’t stop to realize that there should be no food in the fridge since no one’s been living there. Though he finds there is no need as in the fridge, under a note labeled: “To Help Moving In -Lucas,” Brock sees at least a week of prepped meals. The thought that this is bizarre beyond imagination, as well as the concern at his missing time, is immediately pushed from his mind as his stomach rumbles once more, his mouth watering as he sees his soon-to-be dinner.

Brock swiftly heats it up and begins to scarf it down, throwing something on the paying no mind or care to the thought that he’s using the account of whomever the previous tenant was. He quickly scans through seeing a handful of shows and movies that he wasn’t quite interested in before stumbling on a reality show he was watching with his Ex. He grimaces and almost loses his appetite as he thinks about his boyfriend for the first time in what feels like forever. He sets his meal down on the coffee table and crashes down onto the couch. He continues to stew in ire at his ex, palming his crotch as his feelings become more passionate. He rolls his eyes in irritation at himself and that jerk, he’s not going to masturbate to that asshole.

He reclines in the couch and hears the sound of paper shifting in the cushions, pulling it out he finds a crusted magazine lodged in the couch. What can he do besides shout “what the fuck” and toss it across the room. How could they have possibly missed that in their cleaning? Brock’s eyes shift across the room suspiciously, though he notices nothing amiss as the room is illuminated by only the television. He looks at his hand that grabbed the porn and blushes, wanting to joke about the absurdity to calm himself down. Though his body makes its priorities known once more as his cock pulses and he looks past to see the magazine once more. He did want to masturbate to anyone besides his ex right?

He shuffles to pick it up, the discomfort and anxiety from handling something covered in a total strangers cum only heightens his pleasure as he sits back down. He grimaces as he sees this is a real hetero-bullshit magazine, he quickly flips through to find something he can work with. His cock keeps demanding his attention as he flips through, almost impatiently pulsing as if to suggest he doesn’t need the magazine at all, just give it your attention. Though soon enough he finds an ad for some protein powder made to emasculate the reader into buying, that almost immediately helps him lose control.

Soon after he once more fades from consciousness, his cum joining the plethora of other stains in the magazine as he tosses it behind the couch. He finds himself in a darkness that this time feels almost familiar and pleasurable. He once more feels his hand, this time though it is wet and warm. He feels it scratching in briefs that are too tight, through pubes that are too thick. He hears snoring breaking through the silence of his sleep, but that can’t be right? He would know if he snores, surely that fucker of a boyfriend would have complained. He feels his head grow warm as if he’s got a fever, though he knows it is a rage. He feels his hand feel even tighter in his briefs as his cock begins to grow in them. He continues to think of every slight his ex made, every shortcoming he was made needlessly aware of, and of how much better things are going to be now.

The heat shifts from his mind through his whole body and as light begins to break through the windows. That is not what wakes him up though, rather it is the heavy scent coming from his now sweat stained clothes. He rolls off the couch onto his face, quickly removing his hand from his briefs to catch himself, landing the stinking hand too close to his face to not smell just how loud his underwear smells. He feels his clothes sit weird on his body as he starts to rise, while his shirt just feels like it’s hanging weird, surely from the sweat, it is impossible to not see how strained his underwear is. He groans as he feels them pull strangely before he just discards them and makes his way to the bathroom.

His eyes immediately latch onto his now exposed crotch, he does a double take as he notices that it seems distinctly larger. He also would have sworn that he shaved his pubes far more recently than it seems. He scratches through them, blushing as he sees dried cum flake off curls that are longer and thicker than he ever remembers them begin. Rather than hoping in the shower like any reasonable person would do he instead tosses on some boxers, not questioning why clothing that isn’t his would just be lying out, or why he would ever put them on. Instead choosing to focus on how right wearing them feels. He pulls them tight and turns wanting to see just how his ass and bulge fill them out, though is waylaid as his shirt blocks the view.

He sneers as he takes off the sweat-stained shirt and tosses it to the floor, stretching high as his reeking body feels the air on his skin. He smiles in shock as he sees the body he has now exposed, he sees hair spreading across his stomach and torso and sweat dripping off of pits that were sure to stain every shirt he is to wear from now on. Beyond that he feels a body that is indisputably powerful, where there wasn’t even fat on his body before there was now muscle accompanied with weight in all the right places. His eyes then trail down to see the weightiest part of him by far as it bulges even lower in his boxers.

He feels an urge to move, to flex, to stretch, fill him as he hungrily takes in every new change in his body. His eyes trace their way past muscles contorting to land on his face, seeing a jaw that could certainly do with a shave. He sees his eager grin begin to turn into a cocky sneer as he begins to stretch once more, trying to will his torso even longer, trying to force his body even taller. His voice grows even deeper to his barely-aware ears as he closes his eyes to stretch, not seeing his throat force itself thicker and longer. There is once again a flicker in his mind as Brock is in darkness once more. Where there was once discomfort and fear there is now only hunger and an eagerness to grow even more.

He feels an itch burn across his body. He feels his hands dig deep into his pits scratching as hair grows thick enough to hold an odor that would never dissipate. He smells as even in this dreamstate he raises his hands to his nose to give them a post-scratch whiff. He feels the same itch cry out from his chest and pubes, from his lower back and his ass. He feels himself move his jaw as it squares up, a rumble in his throat as he feels his groans grow even deeper. He feels his mind thicken and slow as his muscles flex in his sleep. His arms do rep after unconscious rep as he feels biceps that should not be rub against a chest that has never been there before.

Finally he wakes one last time, his hand as it apparently always is, shoved in his pants, once more barely fitting despite wearing the spacier boxers. Brock blearily looks to see lines of takeout containers covering his coffee table. He scratches his beard using the hand from his crotch and he deeply inhales, two birds one stone after all. He sets out to get started with his day, tossing over in his head if he should masterbate again or not, a stain from a wet dream clearly showing through his boxers. Instead he throws Drake on his speakers and starts getting an early workout in, seeing to every part of his body getting a pump as he feels the hunger in his crotch grow only more urgent.

Going about this workout Brock feels totally at home in this apartment. After all he’s lived here for? Uh? His mind empties as he looks around and sees weeks of piled up detritus and filth. He sees dirty clothes and cum stains on his couch. Looking past them there are his American Psycho and Fight Club posters, discarded underwear hanging off the latter, as well as the trophies he distinctly remembers winning back in college wrestling. He smirks and flexes tilting his head to sniff his pit. Beyond feeling at home in his apartment he also feels unequivocally at home in this, in his body, duh. He jumps to his feet with ease, his stomach rumbling as he once more goes to meet a basal need.

Throwing some of his favorite protein powder in a blender with some milk and eggs he hears his phone go off. There are a string of messages from some bitch asking him to come back and for the life in him Brock can’t remember who that little fucker is? Hearing his shake finish blending he stares at the profile picture of whoever this twink is as he starts to down it, wiping his lips on his sweaty arm as needed. The twink he doesn’t know calls him Brock and his eye twitches, ugh. Why is this dude calling him by his, uh? Is that his middle name? Or no he was Brock right?

He finishes the shake, tossing the blender onto the pile of dishes in the sink and his mind finds itself deeply conflicted. As ever though, his body is more than happy to assuage him, the phone vibrates once more and his cock begins to bring him clarity, demanding his attention once more. Brock’s a little bitch name. He smirks as he looks around at his sty of an apartment, not remembering how neat it once was. Peeking from under a particularly dirty dish there’s a contract that he remembers that he meant to have a look at.

Bringing it to his face however he simply can’t find the motivation to even start. Why worry about this when he can masturbate, or fuck maybe he can get that whiny bitch to come over? His eyes trail to the end of the paper and see his signature, written clear as day “Adam.” He guffaws at this, god how stupid can you be, he basically forgot his own name after that twink called him uh, whatever that bitch name was. He feels his crotch grow tight again, that is kinda hot though? He moans to himself, pawing at his crotch and texts whoever this man is his address and to come ready to fuck. Adam feels no real attachment to whoever it is, nor should he, a hole is a hole after all. Saying that thought he can’t help but feel this hole is due to be taught a lesson.

If you enjoyed this I also recommend @fredwkong's The Voice in Your Head which explores a similar idea in quite a unique and captivating way!

#male tf #mental change #masculinization #muscle tf #jockification #reality change #musk tf

923 notes · View notes

phoward89 · 10 months ago

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Banner by me. Dividers by @saradika

Summary: You're the winner of the First Quarter Quell and you awaken in the hospital to Head Gamemaker Coriolanus Snow at your bedside.

Pairing: Coriolanus Snow x Reader (Y/N)

Warnings: Coriolanus Snow is his own warning! Possessive!Coriolanus, Obsessive!Coriolanus, DelusionalCoriolanus, Dark!Coriolanus, Soft Dark!Coriolanus?, Head Gamemaker!Coriolanus, Mentions of death, Mentions of planning murder, Mentions of cheating/infidelity (not on reader), Mentions of poison, Large age gap/difference (Coriolanus is 33 while reader is 18), Manipulation, um...trying to think of anything else.

Story Masterlist

Chapter 1:

When the Head Gamemaker’s baritone blared out overhead, naming you the victor of the First Quarter Quell, you literally collapsed into a heap on the blood soaked ground from a mix of exhaustion and happiness. Your eyelids drooped and the last thing you saw before you passed out was a pair of peacekeepers coming towards you.

When you woke up, you were in a sterile white room. A hospital room. You had drips and IVs connected to you along with some monitor that made beeping noises. Blinking to readjust your eyes to the brightness of the artificial light, you surveyed the room only to notice that sitting in a chair right next to your bed was none other then the head gamemaker himself. Coriolanus Snow.

“What are you doing here, Head Gamemaker Snow?” You curiously asked. Surely he had better things to do then be at your bedside. Like being home with his wife. Oh and you knew he was married because 1.) He was wearing a gold band on his ring finger and 2.) You've seen a dirty blonde woman his age on his arm in a few pictures of Victor's balls and such in the cheap Capitol rag mags that get circulated around District 12 to be used as tp by the poor and destitute.

Staring you down with his icy blue eyes, he said, “I'm making sure that District 12’s first victor in 15 years survives.”

His words made a shiver run up your spine. It was common knowledge that District 12’s first and only victor (until now) had mysteriously vanished into thin air a few months after winning her games and returning home. Nobody dared talk about her. Her name was lost to the wind; she was a ghost that nobody paid any mind too. The fact that the head gamemaker wanted to make sure that you didn't die unnerved you.

Surely you weren't in that bad of shape, were you? Swallowing a lump in your dry throat, you croaked out, “How bad of shape am I in, Head Gamemaker Snow?”

“Please, darling, call me Coriolanus or Coryo, if you'd like.” The platinum blonde, who looked a bit sleep deprived in his wrinkled button up (as if he'd slept in it) told you. “I insist.” He smiled.

Him calling you darling and insisting that you call him Coriolanus or Coryo made your insides churn. It wasn't right. Why would he be so informal with you. He was the head gamemaker, a 33-year-old man from the Capitol, and you were just a victor, an 18-year-old girl from District 12. You two shouldn't be informal with each other.

“Oh, where are my manners? You must be thirsty. Let me get you some water.” Corio- no Head Gamemaker Snow lightly chastised himself while rising from his chair.

Crossing the room to a counter where a tray with a pitcher and glass were, he explained, “When the peacekeepers pulled you out of the arena you had collapsed from dehydration.” Pouring you a glass of water, he further explained, “Your vitals were very low and, in fact, you died once on your way here, but the medics brought you back.”

“What the hell? I died?...” You gasped, struggling to comprehend what you just heard.

Head Gamemaker Snow appeared by your side and placed the water glass into your hand. A hand much smaller and weaker than his large calloused one. “Yea, but you were revived.” Sitting on the edge of your bed, causing it to dip, he motioned for you to drink. “I must have my Victor alive and well, so that's why I've been keeping watch over you, Y/N.”

His words should've made you see a red flag waving in the air, but it didn't. Maybe you were too young and naive to catch onto the true meaning of his words. Maybe they went right over your head because you were still weak, or maybe since you had a stalker back in 12 that you had convinced yourself was just a weird neighbor boy you didn't realize the true possessive meaning of Coriolanus’ words.

“Are you going to stay here now that I'm awake or?...”

“Unfortunately, I have to leave you here and go home.” He pouted. What the hell, he actually pouted? You had to admit that his plush lips looked very kissable when he pouted. Petting your hair, he gave you a reassuring smile. “Don't worry, darling, I've made sure that you'll be well taken care of by the best nurses that money can buy in the Capitol.”

What he didn't tell you was that he threatened the lives of the nursing staff’s loved ones if you so much as had a hair out of place. That was something you didn't need to know. Just like you didn't need to know that when he first laid eyes on you, in your best cotton floral dress; your hair pulled back with a ribbon for Reaping Day, he found you the most beautiful creature he'd ever laid eyes on and just had to claim you as his. Reason why, as the head gamemaker, he might or might not have screwed around with other tributes’ sponsor gifts and made sure you got a few things here and there that would ensure your survival. You had an innocence to you that he had the primal urge to consume. An innocence that was absent in the Capitol. An innocence and a beauty that he carved to have all to himself.

You just being you consumed him with a passionate obsession. One that he would act on soon. Very, very soon. He just needed to take care of his wife, Livia, so that he'd be free to make you his forever. But that wouldn't be hard, considering he was a master at making people drop dead from sudden food poisoning.

Pressing a kiss to your hair, Corio- no Head Gamemaker Snow, promised, “I'll be back in the morning to check up on you before I'm needed at the Citadel.”

“You have to wrap up the game stuff don't you, Head Gamemaker Snow?” You asked, even though you were sure he'd say yes. In fact you didn't even know why you asked that. Maybe as a replacement for goodbye since you hated that word.

Last time you said goodbye to somebody it was your mother and she took off with some officer, leaving you with your older half-brother Rein to take care of you both. He was 15 at the time and you were 5. Safe to say, you never used the word goodbye again in your life.

“I told you, call me Coriolanus or Coryo.” He reminded you, not liking that you were still calling him by his title. “Yes, my darling rose, I must make sure that all the paperwork is in proper order for your prize money and the construction of your house in Victor's Village.” The platinum blonde man, who you just noticed has bags under his eyes, tiredly told you before pressing another kiss to your hair. Tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, he said, “You need to be a good girl and rest for me.”

You blinked at him. What? Be a good girl? And rest for him? Say what? Your brain was short circuiting at his words. Not just his words, but the way his baritone was both dominant and soft as he spoke them.

Pressing a kiss to your forehead, he simply said, “We'll talk more tomorrow. I promise.”

“Okay.” You nodded numbly, unable to comprehend what the hell was happening. You went like your head was spinning, as if you had too much moonshine. Hell, what had your time in the arena done to you?

Coriolanus gave you a pleased smile before rising from his spot on your bed and walking out of your room; making sure to close the door behind him. It was only after he was gone that you realized you were in a private room.

Coriolanus was fucking exhausted when he got home. He could barely keep his eyes open as he stepped out of his black sedan. After you were admitted to the hospital, he dismissed his driver and drove himself there. He didn't want the man to be waiting around on him while he stayed steadfast at your bedside, plus he was more than capable of driving himself home once he saw you open your beautiful eyes. What he wasn't expecting was for you to be asleep for over 24-hours.

So, sleep deprived, Coriolanus walked into the townhouse he shared with his wife, Livia. The townhouse was a gift he received from Strabo and Ma Plinth once he announced his engagement, but he planned on putting it up on the market once he took care of Livia. He didn't want to bring you to this house that held nothing but hatred and misery in it.

No, he was going to bring you to his penthouse on the Corso. Now that's a proper place for you to live with him. In fact, he'd be telling you about your new residence tomorrow morning during your visit. Oh, he was so excited to tell you that you'd be staying in the Capitol with him. Of course, he'd use the excuse that since District 12 doesn't have a Victor’s Village and it must be constructed that he's arranged for you to use his Corso penthouse during the construction period.

It was a great plan. One that was foolproof. He just knew that you, being so young and innocent, would view his offer as one of help instead of one of ownership. Or, dare he say, love? Yes, love. He was sure that he was obsessively in love with you. It was a feeling he swore to never feel again, but yet again one just can't help who they fall in love with.

He always thought that marrying for hate instead of love or even tolerability would give him power, but truthfully all it gave him was a headache and a bad case of blueballs. Livia was a heinous bitch and was a cold fish in bed. She didn't like to fuck. What the fuck? Who doesn't like to fuck? Coriolanus thought that was absurd, unnatural even.

That's why he had to have affairs here and there; then turn the whores into avoxes to keep their mouths shut when he was done with them. What? He was a man after all and had needs. Needs that he knew you'd fulfill without any problems. With you he'd be faithful because you'd be his mind, body, and soul and would do anything for his love since you were so young. All he had to do was show you how in love *cough* obsessed *cough* he was with you and you'd be his forever.

Unknown to Coriolanus, the object of his marital hatred (Livia) was having an ongoing affair with one of the male avoxes in their household. An avox that had once been an equal of theirs in the Academy and the University, but crossed Snow the wrong way with a question about the songbird from 12.

Coriolanus wasn't even to the stairs yet when he heard Livia’s screeching coming from the front sitting room. Great…seems like the bitch was waiting up for him.

“Coriolanus, where have you been? The games ended and you never came home!” Livia demanded in a high pitch scream as her fuzzy heeled skippers clicked loudly against the hardwood floor as she ran out of the sitting room and into the main hall.

“Don't worry about where I was, Livia.” Coriolanus venomously gritted out as he made his way to the staircase.

“You're my husband, Coriolanus. I'm supposed to worry about where you've been.” Livia shrieked while following her husband.

“I'm your husband when I don't come home, but when I'm home we have separate bedrooms and you come up with every excuse under the sun not to fuck me.” Coriolanus spat back as he tiredly trudged upstairs, feeling a migraine coming on from his wife's nagging. Oh, how he needed to poison that bitch yesterday.

“Your tastes in bed are not the same as mine, husband.” Livia said, placing special emphasis on the word husband, while following him upstairs. “You're too harsh for my taste, but that doesn't mean you can stay out for days on end with some whore.”

All Coriolanus could see was red, like a raging bull, after hearing her remark. How dare she insult his prowess in bed? He knew how to fuck a woman and how to fuck her good; he never had any complaints either until he tied the knot with Livia. Damn bitch, won't fuck him and then insults his ability to fuck. Oh, yes, it was time for her to go.

She outlived her usefulness. Livia couldn't give him the one thing he most desperately needed. An heir. What use did Coriolanus have for a woman that refuses to have his child? After a decade of hell with his wife, he was ready to cut his losses. He had control of her family's bank and the Plinths fortune, plus his status as Head Gamemaker and Senator along with his position on the War Council was more then enough to make him a successful candidate for president once the elder President Ravenstill kicked the bucket. He didn't need her for an heir anymore, not when he had you (you were young and fertile enough to give him litters of heirs).

Oh, Coriolanus knew exactly how to make up for never coming home after the games ended with Livia. Oh, yes, he did.

“The victor, Y/N, from 12 was in bad shape and I had extra paperwork to do.” He smoothly lied to his dirty blonde wife as he set foot onto the second floor of his townhouse. Turning to look at her, he gave her a fake smile full of fake sympathy and offered, “How about I take you out to your favorite restaurant for dinner? The one that has that red wine you can't get enough of.”

“Yes, I accept your apology and dinner invitation. Just don't do this to me again, Coriolanus. We might hate each other, but I'm still your wife and deserve respect.” Livia told Coriolanus before taking off to her room, her robe billowing behind her.

Coriolanus smiled wickedly as he retired to his room. Oh, after tomorrow night he'd never have to deal with Livia ever again. He'd be free to have you all to himself, forever and always.

You were walking in the plains, tall prairie grass blowing in the wind. The deeper you walked in it, the more dread you felt. You couldn't describe the feeling, but you just knew that something was wrong. Then, suddenly, you heard a crunching sound behind you. Turning around, you saw the last tribute, a girl from 2, with a knife in her hand running towards you.

You were exhausted and thirsty. The water you had been gifted from a sponsor had run out nearly a day ago, so you were feeling the effects of dehydration. You didn't know if you either didn't have a lot of sponsors or weren't getting any more water bottles because a water source was nearby somewhere, but you did know that it sucked you were dying of thirst.

But your thirst didn't matter now. Surviving the girl from District 2 did and you knew you wouldn't be able to fight her in the tall grasses. So you ran. You ran as hard and fast as your lightheaded feet would carry you.

It didn't take long until you were out of the tall grasses and on a barren field of cracked soil. You had a small pocket knife that was gifted to you, something you were sure cost a hefty penny since sponsor weapons were always pricey according to Lucky Flickerman’s game commentary.

Flipping the switchblade open, you turned around and headed straight towards the girl that had tripped and fell at the edge of the plains grasses and the dry bed of field soil. Lifting up your knife, you made to plunge it into her, only for her to look up at you with a sinister smirk and plunge her knife right into your neck.

Your eyes flew open as you screamed bloody murder. You died! You had died in your nightmare instead of being victorious. That nightmare shook you to your core. It frightened you so much that you screamed yourself hoarse, until your vocal cords were stripped. You were so frightened that you huddled in the corner of your room in a fetal position.

Nurses and other hospital staff tried to tend to you; get you out of the corner, but you just struggled and fought with them. You couldn't let them near you. What if they wanted to kill you? What if they hurt you? Your dream had shaken you up so bad that you weren't quite with it yet. You weren't in reality, you were stuck in your own head and afraid that somebody or something was going to get you. You were scared out of your wits. You were so scared that you cried. You weren't aware that you were crying, but the tear stains marred your hollowed cheeks like scars.

Coriolanus had only been asleep for an hour or so whenever he was awakened by a call from Capitol General Hospital. What the charge nurse told him made his heart clutch painfully. His victor, his darling rose, woke up terrified out of her mind and curled herself into a corner, screaming and crying her head off.

“She's having a nightmare about her time in the arena. Aren't you giving her anything to calm her down?” Coriolanus asked the nurse he was on the phone with as he sat up in bed, flipping on his bedside lamp to softly illuminate his pitch black room in a golden glow of light.

“She won't let anyone near her and you did say to call you with any updates on her condition, sir “ The nurse hesitantly told him.

“I’ll be right there to sign her out since your hospital staff are incompetent and can't properly take care of a victor.” He told the nurse before hanging up on her.

It only took a few minutes for Coriolanus to dress and rush to the hospital. Despite being exhausted, you needed him and he wasn't going to let you down. You were his and he was going to take good care of you. He always took good care of his things. He did like his things to be perfect and if they weren't then he'd make sure that his favorite things were mended until they were perfect. You were his and he'd make sure that he made you perfect once more. Perfect for him, to be by his side as not just his Victor, but as his First Lady. His darling rose.

Dressed simply in a fitted white shirt and black pants, Coriolanus ran up the stairs to your floor and rushed into your room. The site of you curled up, tear tracks staining your cheeks, wide-eyed and afraid pulled at what little heartstrings were in his too small blackened heart. You looked like a wounded animal and he hates it. You were his victor, his darling rose, his future First Lady and he wanted you to recover your senses so that you could regain your strength; be all that he knew you were to him.

He slowly approached you with his hands out in a show of peace. “It's me, my darling rose. It's Coryo.” Coriolanus softy told you in an attempt to let him near you.

Your eyes blinked at hearing his nickname and for some reason you nodded at him. As he crouched down next to you, placing a tentative hand on your shoulder, you clutched the middle of his pristine white shit and sobbed, “I died, Coryo. I dreamed that I died instead of her.”

Your words gutted him. A world without you was no world at all. Wrapping his arms around you: letting you bury your head in his chest, he strokes your hair while offering you the comforting words of, “Oh, my darling, you're alive. You're alive and I won't let anything bad ever happen to you again, Y/N.” You shook in his arms, causing him to simply ask, “You hear me, my darling rose?”

“Mhm…” You mumbled out, too afraid to talk for fear that you'd start crying again.

“Shh…” Coriolanus shushed you like one would do a small, frightened child. “I'm here. Your Coryo’s here and you're safe. You'll always be safe with me, darling.”

If you were of sound mind instead of scared out of it (from the horrors he designed and put into the damn games) you would've ran far far away from Coriolanus. But, sadly, you were too scared and on the verge of a mental breakdown to understand how twisted the man holding you really was. How obsessessive he was; how wrong letting him hold you was. No, you were too afraid to realize that you were letting the creator of your nightmares comfort you.

Once your sobs subsided and you quieted down, Coriolanus pulled back from you so that he could tilt your chin up in order to have your eyes on his. “I was going to wait til morning to tell you this, but you’ll be staying in a luxurious penthouse while the Victor’s Village is constructed in your district.”

You nodded, only to squeakily ask, “How long am I staying here?”

“Oh, just long enough to build your victor's house. I suppose it'll be done by time your victory tour rolls around; maybe even sooner.” He smoothly lied. He had no intentions whatsoever to let you go back to District 12. You deserved more then the mud and poverty stained streets of the coal district. You deserved to be bathed in rose scented oils and salts, dressed in the finest fashions, fed the best foods, and fucked on the best silk sheets that his money could buy.

“Okay.” You nodded, naively believing the lies of the head gamemaker.

“How about we get you out of here and over to the penthouse? Hmm? I'll even call Tigris to come over and spend the day with you, how'd you like that?”

“I like Tigris. She’s nice and was my stylist. Always talked to me like she cared.”

Coriolanus knew that his cousin was your stylist. He's the one that assigned her to you after all. But neither you nor her needed to know that. No…. It wasn't important. What was important was that you two got along, especially since in a short while you'll be family.

“Tigris is my cousin; I'm glad to hear that you like her.” Coriolanus told you while helping you to stand up. “And she does care about you, Y/N.” He told you while leading you over to your bed. “Never forget that the Snows care about you. And that snow lands on top.” He whispered into your ear while helping you sit on your bed.

You just blinked at him, trying to process what he meant. You were so tired and mentally weak from your nightmare that you had no idea that his remark was one of possession. Your throat hurts from all the crying and screaming that you did, so you weren't thinking straight. Infact, your throat hurts so much that you grab the glass of water from your bedside table, quickly gulping it down.

“Be careful, you don't want to make yourself sick.” Coriolanus warned, much like a parent would to a child, while snatching the glass away from you.

“My throat’s dry and hurts. I need water.” You said in a pained whisper, side eying the glass in Coriolanus’ hand.

“Yes, well, that tends to happen when you scream and cry yourself hoarse.” He stated a bit coldly before lifting the glass to your lips and ordering, “Be a good girl and take small sips for me.”

You obeyed since your throat was aching. The small sips of the cool water seemed to soothe your damaged throat just enough to keep your mind off the pain. When Coriolanus felt you had enough to drink, he put the glass down on your side table.

Petting your hair, he said, “I need to go sign you out at the front desk, but I'll be back soon to take you with me to the penthouse. Where you'll be safe.”

“Thank you.” You weakly smiled at the man that was now both your salvation and your damnation.

If only you knew what life awaited for you at that penthouse. Would you still be thanking him if you did?

Tags: @kuroosbby001, @purriteen, @poppyflower-22, @meetmeatyourworst, @whipwhoops,

@bxtchopolis, @readingthingsonhere,

@savagenctzen, @ryswritingrecord, @erikasurfer, @tulips2715, @universal-s1ut, @thesmutconnoisseur

@squidscottjeans

#coriolanus snow #tbosas #the ballad of songbirds and snakes #coriolanus x you #coriolanus fanfiction #coriolanus x y/n #coriolanus x reader #coriolanus snow x reader #coriolanus snow fanfiction #tbosas fanfiction #the hunger games #the hunger games fanfiction #dark!coriolanus snow x reader #manipulative!coriolanus snow x reader #head gamemaker! coriolanus snow x reader #head gamemaker! coriolanus snow #tom blyth #thg #the hunger games x reader

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sp4ceboo · 11 months ago

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A/N: guess who was going mad thinking how safe it must feel to be with coups and how i need soft aftercare cheol

tw: smutty but mostly aftercare because i'm weak for seungcheol, readers is afab and referred to as she/her and girl (not the young type), swearing, mention of choking and generally cheol and reader having a great fucking time fucking,

your thighs are still shaking with the aftershocks of your orgasm. you're overcome with bliss, lying haphazardly across the crumpled bed sheets, your fingers fitting perfectly into the grooves of the muscles of cheol's back. gently, his hands glide up and down your sides, and you sigh happily at the feeling, head full of cotton candy.

'you alright, love?' he asks, propping himself up on his elbows as his lips connect with your forehead.

'you bet,' you yawn, eyelids drooping.

he kisses you on the lips, sweet and tender. 'i'm pulling out now.'

both of you groan as he does so, your ruined pussy almost sucking him back in when you clench at the feel of it. stretching, cheol rolls neatly off the side of the bed and onto his feet, and you enjoy the view as he pads over to the bathroom - you sure as hell love to watch him go.

he glances over his shoulder, catching the sultry look on your face. 'if you wanted a round four, i'd be happy to deliver.'

you roll your eyes. 'you're a menace, cheol. can't a girl enjoy staring at her butt naked boyfriend?'

cheol has disappeared into the bathroom now, although you can still see his side profile in the faint reflection of the shower glass. a smile tugs at his lips as he takes a flannel from the cabinet beneath the sink and dampens it with warm water.

'only if i'm allowed the same privaleges,' he chuckles as he steps back into the bedroom.

gently, he wraps his fingers around your ankles and unceremoniously drags you until you're lying at the edge of the bed. you're about to open your mouth and give him a bit of sass, something along the lines of handling the goods with a bit more care, but by then he's dipped the flannel between your folds to clean you up.

a squeak slips from you at the feel of it. you're sensitive, and a jolt shoots through your body, making the muscles in your thighs jump. he chuckles, one of his wide hands coming up to cup your hip so he can caress your skin with his thumb, and you scowl at him; his eyes are dancing and full of mischief, but beneath that is a sort of tooth rotting adoration. it's the kind of innocent sparkle in his gaze that makes a whole flutter of butterflies come to life in your stomach - as if he hadn't just fucked you into last week with a hand around your throat.

the butterflies become a whole menagerie when he has the audacity to dip his head and press soft kisses to each and every one of the bruises and love bites he left littered on your torso.

you swear, this man will be the death of you.

'cheol,' you mumble. 'c'mere.'

you hold your arms out, signalling your need for cuddles. immediately, his face lights up, eyes sparkling more than they were before, and he gets to his feet and scoops you up before launching himself, and therefore you, into the middle of the bed. a small oof leaves your chest upon landing, and he laughs sweetly and wraps his arms around you so you can't be mad for his sudden burst of energy.

sighing, you wriggle around in the blankets until you're comfortably pressed into the curve of his body. warm and sure, he holds you in his arms, his palm repeatedly smoothing up and down between your shoulder blades, ensuring that you melt into his side.

'need anything?' he asks softly. 'snacks? water?'

'just you,' you mumble into the solidness of his chest, your eyelids drooping. 'i love you.'

'me too,' he grins teasingly.

you frown, the fingers you'd previously had splayed across his stomach coming up to pinch his chest. slapping your hand away, he yelps, almost falling off the side of the bed in effort to get away from your sleepy but savage attack.

'okay, okay,' he surrenders. 'i love you too.'

'you're full of shit,' you mumble, but flop onto him again, enjoying the heat his body radiates as you press a kiss onto his shoulder.

'says the person clinging onto me like her life depends on it,' he chuckles.

you don't reply, instead just making an intelligible noise, eyes closing. he's doing that thing that never fails to send you to sleep, where he runs his fingers through your hair, almost massaging your scalp. cheol is warm and solid beneath you, safe. he cradles you in his strong arms as if you're the most precious thing in the universe.

if you weren't so tired, you'd probably open your eyes so you could see the stars in his.

instead, you settle for mumbling 'i love you' again into his chest. the small chuckle he lets out vibrates beneath your ear, and he drops a kiss on your hair.

'i love you more.'

imagine he also made her go and pee to avoid UTIs, guess who didnt know how to put it in but it's fanfic not irl what can i say

#seungcheol #ficlet #seungcheol aftercare #seungcheol smut #scoups #scoups aftercare #scoups smut #fluff #scoups fluff #seungcheol fluff #seventeen #svt #choi seuncheol #scoups x reader #seungcheol x reader #aftercare #smut

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seoulmatez · 4 months ago

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— 𝓂𝓎 𝑔𝒾𝓇𝓁 ౨ৎ

boothill x f!reader. 1.9k wc. ﾉ sfw ﾉ fluff ﾉ non-canon compliant ﾉ farmhand!boothill ﾉ reader is intoxicated ﾉ pet names ( little lady, darlin’, sweetheart ) ﾉ jealous boothill :3

a/n: this is an extra to my farmhand boothill series but can be read as a standalone :)

“woah, you might wanna slow down, little lady.” boothill’s voice sounds in your ear, louder than the cacophony of music and competing voices in the cramped bar. the vibration sends a chill down your spine and you giggle as you lean away from him—though the task proves to be a bit difficult with his arm wrapped around you. you should be glad he’s holding onto you, otherwise you would have ended up on the sticky floor trying to create some distance.

it’s been a while since you’ve been out to a bar, since you’ve had alcohol at all, really. that much is abundantly clear to boothill as he watches you from your side. your head is beginning to loll to the side, your eyelashes lazily kiss the tops of your cheeks with every flutter of your drooping eyelids, and there’s a lazy smile pulling at your lips. the man would be lying if he said the sight wasn’t endearing, but his plan for tonight hadn’t been for you to get drunk.

work has been stressful for you the past week, he’s noticed, so his intention for the night was simply to loosen you up and maybe teach you how to shoot pool to get your mind off the demands of the job, but it seems that boothill severely overestimated your alcohol tolerance. there’s no way he’ll be able to teach you the game without you tipping over and he certainly doesn’t trust you to hold a pool cue in this state.

“i think we’ve had enough fun here tonight,” boothill tells you, sitting you up with one arm and waving down the bartender with another. he asks the woman behind the bar for a glass of water and a personal request—that she keep an eye on you for a short moment. she fulfills both of his asks, sliding a glass sweating with condensation in front of you and telling boothill to go take care of his business. “drink this and don’t get up from this seat, alright? i’ll be right back, darlin’.”

“where are you going?” you ask, dipping your head down to take the straw between your lips. you glance up at him with curiosity swimming in your eyes as you take slow sips of the cold water.

“bathroom.” he sets a heavy hand on your head, smoothing your hair down. “i’ll be quick, promise.”

“mkay,” you hum. your focus turns to the cup in front of you, eyes following the way the water level lessens with each of your sips. boothill snorts—it doesn’t look like you’ll be getting into any trouble in the few minutes he’ll be gone.

you’re only able to tell he’s left when the weight on your head disappears.

without his voice and touch to ground you, your mind wanders. a song you haven’t heard before but you’re sure boothill has fills the room. balls from the pool table clank together and thud when they drop into the pockets. and the voices—there are much too many to really focus on any. a group of girls drunker than you belt along to the song, though, the lyrics they sing are partially delayed. a man swears while another hoots in celebration signaling the end of a game at one of the green tables.

“are you here by yourself, pretty girl?” the voice is far closer than any others you hear and despite it not being one you’re familiar with, you spin the stool you’re seated on in its direction at one of the many names boothill has settled on calling you. long white hair that grows darker at the tips doesn’t greet you, however, a man has filled the seat to your right.

it takes his consistent stare for you to register that his question was directed at you.

“no.” you shake your head and it feels like your brain wobbles with it. you speak loud enough so that you can hear yourself, so that you don’t stumble over your words. “my boyfriend is with me.”

the man makes a show of looking over your shoulder to the empty seat behind you. “this boyfriend of yours isn’t imaginary, is he?”

you cover your mouth with a hand to hide a laugh. what a ridiculous thought, you think. boothill might just be the realest thing you know. there’s no way you could think up his charm, his compassion, his humor—none of it. he’s so unapologetically him that it would be impossible for him to be merely a result of your imagination.

“he’s very real,” you assure the man with a definite nod. “he just went to the bathroom.”

at least, that’s what you think he said.

“well, i can’t imagine leaving a girl as pretty as you all by her lonesome.” the man shoots you a smile but it doesn’t make your heart flip like when boothill does. you have a hard time believing anyone besides him could have that effect on you. still, because you’re polite and happy, you offer the man a small smile, one that doesn’t meet your eyes. “how about i keep you company while your boyfriend is away?”

your head is light and maybe you aren’t in the best state of mind due to the alcohol, but you’re sober enough to know that it isn’t the best idea to spend time with this unknown man. you prepare to tell him that boothill will be back any minute and that you’re confident that you can fend for yourself until then but the moment you part your lips to do so, that familiar weight is back on your head.

“no need, buddy.” there’s an audible difference in the voice you’ve come to know—it’s deeper, not laced with its usual lighthearted kindness. the stray from his norm is enough to make you look up to meet his eye. his irises are darker, like storm clouds a second away from raging. despite the severity of his gaze, his lips are curled up in a grin, one directed at the man. “my girl doesn’t need your company.”

you try to fight the smile that threatens your lips at the title—my girl.

the man doesn’t share your sentiment. in fact, the smile he had painted on for you all but drops at boothill’s arrival. “i think the lady can speak for herself.”

you can hear boothill’s tongue click in annoyance from above you. his hand has fallen from your head to rest protectively on the small of your back. even without looking at him, you’re sure that the grin he put on simply as a courtesy has disappeared. you wouldn’t be surprised to peer up and find a scowl in its place.

you’ve never seen the nasty side of boothill—never given him a reason to show you. but you don’t doubt that this guy implying that you’d rather stay with him than your boyfriend might be all it takes to turn the gentlemanly farmhand into a problematic patron. the tension between the two is growing with every second so, in an effort to stop boothill from escalating the situation, you hop down from your stool and take a tight hold of his arm.

“we’re gonna go!” you shout over the music, perhaps a little louder than necessary. you tug on boothill’s arm as you start toward the one door of the establishment. he doesn’t resist—he’d much rather leave with you than waste any more time on that asshat.

a rush of evening air hits the both of you as you push the door open, causing goosebumps to break out over your arms almost immediately. the drastic change is welcome, though—you much prefer this over the stuffy warmth of the bar. and something tells you boothill could use the opportunity to cool off.

it doesn’t take you long to reach his truck but the walk is a quiet one. if you weren’t holding onto him, you might not even know he was there. the silence is uncharacteristic but he’s sure to open your door for you like always. he helps you up to your seat but, instead of sitting down properly, you take a seat with your legs dangling out the door. boothill raises a questioning eyebrow.

“are you mad?” you can’t help but pout as you ask him. you didn’t think talking to that guy would be such a big deal but clearly the exchange left a bad taste in boothill’s mouth. you can understand why he had no desire to smile at that man but don’t you deserve his smiles? “i was gonna tell him to go away.”

“i’m not mad, sweetheart.” he places a hand on your knee and gives it a comforting squeeze. the streetlight casts a shadow over his face, hiding a tiny smile that he wears for your sake.

his answer should be satisfying enough but alcohol makes you curious and this curious variant of yours wants to know what’s going on in boothill’s head.

“then… you’re jealous?” you propose. the suggestion draws a chuckle from boothill’s chest. he doesn’t confirm nor deny the silly thought so you continue. “you thought that guy would just swoop in and sweep your darlin’ off her feet?”

boothill knows you’re kidding around but that had been exactly what he thought when he returned to the counter to find someone talking you up. he can’t blame the guy for trying—of course people are drawn to you. he had been the first time he listened to your grandpa speak so fondly of you, even more so when he first laid eyes on you. all that considered, he was still beyond pissed to see someone hitting on you so boldly.

he wished everyone knew you were his.

jealousy… he can’t say he’s ever experienced the feeling. perhaps it calls for a little self-reflection but as far as boothill is concerned, that can wait. he steps closer to you, until there’s barely any space between your knees and his body. a hand comes up to cradle your face, calloused thumb caressing your cheekbone. his next words are meant to be a joke but he finds that he’s hanging on to your answer before he’s even able to ask. “did he? sweep you off your feet?”

“not a chance,” you tell him, the pout from earlier returning to your lips. how absurd, you think, that he would ever entertain such a thought. you’re tempted to flick him, hoping the little gesture will knock some sense into the man, but you don’t. instead, you reach up and around his neck, fingers tangling in the hair at his nape, and pull him close. forehead to forehead, you whisper, “i wouldn’t pick anyone over you.”

the smile you’ve been waiting for—a genuine one, the kind that stretches wide and showcases the imperfections of his teeth—finally takes over boothill’s face. warm breath fans over your face with his hushed laugh. “‘s that so?”

“mhm,” you hum, closing the short distance between you to press a kiss to his lips. he holds you there a bit longer than you intended but you let him, relishing the feeling of his soft lips against yours. he pulls away a moment later, though neither of you makes a move to separate from the other.

“you’re the only one i want, boothill.”

thanks for reading! if u enjoyed, please consider reblogging or commenting ❤︎

#₊˚ପ⊹ signed: honkai star rail #boothill x reader #hsr x reader #honkai star rail x reader #boothill fluff #hsr fluff #boothill drabbles #hsr drabbles #honkai star rail drabbles

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hier--soir · 1 year ago

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a lover's pinch | three

joel miller x f!reader

pairing: professor!joel miller x f!reader rating: explicit, 18+ minors dni summary: joel gets a little birthday surprise, and you get a little too drunk. warnings/tags: au, university professor joel, age gap [20 something years diff], ethically dubious relationship due to inherent power imbalance, pining, f!masturbation [barely], sending nudes, joel finally locks his office door, dirty talk, the slightest slip of possessive language, uh.. ahem.. biting, protected piv birthday sex, a messy dinner party, excessive alcohol consumption [i'm talking embarassing], irritating men, soft!joel. word count: 10.3k series masterlist | main masterlist a lover's pinch playlist a/n: let the pining commence folks. hey siri, play brown eyed girl by van morrison. special thanks to @bageldaddy for the emotional support as i endured the labour that was the final hour of editing this. hope you guys enjoy! this is part three of ALP. you can read the previous parts here: one, two.

Thursday.

A fortnight passes in the slow blink of a bleary eye.

Fall nudges Summer out the door, solidifying its presence in Maine with flaxen leaves and rolling grey clouds.

The rain comes at night. Rivulets of moisture that leak onto the windowsill, seep into the cracked wood there and fill your room with the sweet smell of petrichor. It clears before the sun rises most days, but you unpack of a box of sweaters and hang them in your closet, nonetheless. You enjoy communal coffees in the kitchen and try not to frown when the morning light doesn’t warm your legs the way it used to. Force yourself not to feel mournful when you get home one afternoon and find Pete on the sofa with a blanket over him.

And perhaps that’s why when you wake on Thursday to sunshine—to warm bed sheets, to blue sky, to bright whites and yellows coming through the window—you feel lighter. Start the day with a calm countenance that has you blinking sleep from your eyes and smiling drowsily as your fingers trail the windowsill and come off dry. You share a pot of coffee with Pete; let him explain soil vapour extraction to you for the fifth time. Listen, smile, nod, and don’t roll your eyes when he asks do you get it now? And when the time comes to get ready for the drive to campus, you are smiling. Shoulders loose, eyes bright.

It had been a tiresome couple of weeks.

As the middle of the semester drew closer, you’d spent days on end poring over a laptop with tired eyes and cramping fingers. Writing and editing—and then rewriting and re-editing—your first round of essays and analyses. Balmy afternoons spent nursing glasses of cheap wine with your roommates evolved to late night coffees alone in your room, eyelids drooping as you fawned over every word, every quote, every fucking comma – all of it for him.

Him who you hadn’t been alone with in almost fifteen days.

Him whose texts were seared into your memory, left unanswered on your phone.

Him who you could hardly look at during lectures, for fear of losing your train of thought.

Him who you were hellbent on impressing.

Joel, Joel, Joel.

And as busy as you’d been, it hadn’t stopped the stares. Brief, intimate glances from down the hall in the history commons. The flash of a knowing smile as you shuffle toward the exit after a lecture. The graze of fingertips against your elbow, muddling your mind as you rush to meet a text translation study group.

Watching, waiting, wanting – a near insufferable task since that afternoon in his office.

Late into the first week you’d discovered that, upon focusing hard enough, you could still feel the ache in your knees; the rug burns his carpet had left on your skin. And then you shoved the memory of it down; compressed it somewhere deep inside, hidden away until you had the chance to open it back up again, and take your time with him like you truly wanted to.

And it seems today was that day.

You stare out the window for a moment. Sip your coffee and rake in the greenness of the grass, the cloudless sky, the ray of sun shining across your bedroom floor – and decide you’ll wear a skirt to Joel’s seminar.

The pin on his shirt is blue.

Not cerulean, or baby, or steel.

Not like how the sky was blue as you drove to campus with your windows down. Not like clear turquoise waters on a white sand beach in Greece, or like a robin’s egg swathed in leaves and sticks. But a deep, rich colour. Royal blue. A folded circular pin, with two tassels coming out the bottom of it.

It’s the first thing you notice when you walk into the lecture hall – the thing your eyes snag on repeatedly as you wander towards the third row and tuck yourself into a seat. That vivid splash of blue against a plain white t-shirt. No buttons today; formal wear forgone in place of a simple tee that hugs the vast planes of his chest, snug against the thick span of his biceps. His arms are almost enough to distract you from the gaudy brooch.

Joel won’t stop moving at the foot of the room, pacing the same length of floor over and over again, waiting for the crowd to settle. Hands busy themselves at his waist, wiping a small square of cloth against the lenses of his glasses. A muscle in his forearm twitches with every swipe of fingers against glass, and the sight has a hazy flush rising in your neck. Despite yourself, you try in earnest to catch a glimpse of what the pin says. Bare thighs tensed in your seat as you tilt your torso forward, eyes squinting.

The last students wander in, and he’s shifting, sliding those glasses onto the bridge of his nose, and snatching the slide clicker from the desk. He offers a polite greeting to the room.

It doesn’t take long for someone to speak up. “Special occasion?”

Joel’s hands still, chin tilting down as he glances at royal blue and then back out at the group, a wry smile breaking across his face.

“Just a thing the faculty does here,” he clears his throat awkwardly, laughs a little. It’s a soft sound, his laugh. Tickles your ears and makes you want to smile in return. “Some of the others started it a few years back… they make everyone wear one on their birthday.”

A chorus of surprised well-wishes chime from around the room, and Joel waves them away with a broad palm, shaking his head.

Even from three rows back you can see the pink in his cheeks; the resistance in his eyes as he intercepts the kind words soaring in his direction. You recognise a shyness there, an unwillingness to be the centre of attention, and it surprises you. Joel always seems so confident, standing week after week in front of 30 odd people and talking for hours. But you suppose then he can hide behind his words; behind years of knowledge and study and practice. When it’s about him? He falters. Tries to hide. You almost want to curse at him for being so endearing. And maybe you would – if it wasn’t his birthday.

“Nah, none of that,” Joel tuts, shaking his head. “Let’s get started, alright?”

He claps his hands once, and the sound reverberates through the quietening room. The fabric of his pants clings to the meat of his thighs, tightening around muscle as he rests against the edge of the desk. You fight to keep your gaze on his face.

“Today we’re gonna start with talkin’ about the instigators in our parallel texts.”

And you try to listen, you really do.

Try to focus on his words as he talks, spouting thoughts about antagonists of war, about Helen and Menelaus, about Paris of Troy, but you can’t get past the spread of his thighs against the desk. The way his body moves when he finally rises, wandering to-and-fro across the space. How his thick thumb presses against the clicker in his hand, slides shifting on the wall behind him. There’s a dull ringing in your ears, the rough spell of his drawl vibrating inside your mind, spinning it’s yarn, and tangling itself in the space where rational thought normally resides. Birthday. It’s Joel’s birthday. Your hands clasp in front of your face, knuckle snagged between teeth, biting down, clinging to some far reach of clarity; something to bring you back to the ground and halt the dallied trance you seem to come under whenever he’s nearby.

Birthday, birthday, birthday.

As he discusses the Judgement of Paris, your mind wanders to a teacher you had as a child. A stern woman in her sixties who was fearsome among the gang of six-year old’s you roamed in. One year it had rained on your birthday, a spitting storm of hail and thunder. And when you cried, she told you that it only rains on your birthday when you’ve been a bad little girl.

It was sunny the next year, but she wasn’t your teacher anymore, and there was no one around to praise you for how good you must’ve been that year. For how hard you must’ve strived to achieve such wonderful sunshine on your special day.

A wry smile splits your face, tucked into the back of your hand, for you know better than anyone else just how bad Joel has been. And yet today, for his birthday, the sun shines.

He steps closer to the front row of seats, and your eyes glean across the lettering on his pin; the words Birthday Boy laid out in gold. A huff of laughter escapes you, and then your eyes are drifting up, past tan skin and scruffy facial hair, to find Joel staring straight at you. Dark, intrigued eyes. Assessing you, undressing you. Frowning.

“Somethin’ to add?” he clips.

The smile slides off your face. “Sorry?”

“Do you have somethin’ to add?” he drawls, unimpressed. The words slow and paced out as if he were speaking to a fool. “You seemed amused.”

“Oh,” you blink.

You shift awkwardly in your seat, straighten up, aware of every set of eyes in the room on the two of you. Joel’s face is stony, unimpressed. It’s the first time he’s made direct eye contact with you since you stepped into the room, and he is… on edge, clearly.

“No,” you decide on the safe answer, tone firm. “Nothing to add.”

He stares for a moment and then nods. Mutters a stern Pay attention underneath his breath before returning his gaze to the rest of the room. You scoff quietly, and swallow down the stab of embarrassment his words bring. The feeling is sour in your mouth, like the seed of a lemon is stuck behind your teeth.

Two seats to your left you hear a poorly concealed titter. Turn your head to spot a woman, maybe a year or two younger than yourself, giving you a pitiful smirk. You arch an eyebrow. Mouth what?

She simply shakes her head at you and turns to look at Joel, all glossy lips and doting gaze as she listens to his continued ponderings about Menelaus' role in the Trojan War.

You watch her for a moment. Note the way she laughs at his jokes, smiles as he goes off on a mindless tangent about something you aren’t paying attention to; hanging onto his every word. And you wonder if this is how you look to other people when you watch him. Another stark-raving Maenad, thirsting and possessed by the spirit of this Bacchant of a man. The Roaring One. The one with bedroom eyes and cheeks like wine. Joel Miller; fraught, brooding, and willing to embarrass you in front of a room of your peers to feel an inch of the self-control you've so easily ridden him of. A Dionysian fit to oppose the doomed Bacchant inside of you, whose mouth foams and eyes roll in ecstasy at the mere presence of him.

He crosses the front of the room, back and forth, and you imagine him as a bull of a man. Golden locks and thorned head, thyrsus in hand as he commands the attention of an enthralled audience. Corrals them to follow him, to adore him. And yet the image you create is distorted at best, a watered-down version of the truth, for what spites you the most is that he simply… doesn’t have to try. There are no attempts to convince; no persuasion in his voice, no dishonesty necessary as the room swoons for him. As you yourself yearn for him. Covet his touch, his body, akin to that of a God’s.

And perhaps there is some immorality there, some gross misalignment of hubris, that yearns to reset the scale. To remind this man that indeed you have knelt before him, but he knelt for you first.

The thought has your thighs pressing together.

“Well, Juno hates Aeneas because she hates Trojans. And for that we have Paris to blame,” he answers someone’s question with a chuckle. Gains a few scattered laughs in response. “Because we all know how Juno feels about Paris.”

You rise from your chair, legs shifting before your brain can catch up. Take careful, tip-toed steps towards the exit. Joel’s eyes drift in your direction, curious gaze draping over the bare skin of your legs as he talks. Just for a second though, a split second, before he’s looking determinedly back to the room, and you’re disappearing from his line of sight.

“And so, she thwarts the Trojans every chance she gets,” his voice grows softer as you stray farther from the door, until it’s nothing more than a vague purr down the hall. You wander into the women’s bathroom and slip inside an empty cubicle.

Birthday, birthday, pay attention, birthday, they make everyone wear one on their birthday, pay attention.

Your brain is abuzz, nerves alight as you place your phone carefully atop the toilet paper dispenser. Trembling fingers graze the hem of your skirt, the warm skin of your thighs, and yes you’ve been wet since you saw him. Turned on from just the sight of him, the sound of his mellow voice, the idea that maybe, just maybe, today you will get to touch him again. You can feel how it clings to your panties, sweet soft warmth pooling out of you, a dizzying wetness that longs for Joel to come and find you. To take you in his hands, tilt you down to his parted lips, and drink it from the source.

Your fingers are cold against your skin. A delighted shiver swims down your spine as you graze them along the front of your underwear. Barely touching, hardly any pressure, simply grazing over the spot where your clit has begun to pulse. A little firmer now, you press against the thin material of your underwear, let it slip between your soaked folds. You bite your lip to contain a soft sigh, and smile as you feel how wet the material is getting. Once you’re satisfied you pull your hand away, leave a shimmering streak against your leg where you wipe your fingers, and reach for your phone.

Position one foot on the closed seat and rest your back against the cubicle wall, angling the phone between your spread thighs. Tilting your phone this way and that until the camera catches you in the perfect light; the flared material of your skirt bunched around your hips, the shiny smear across your inner thigh, the damp stain of slick against the front of your light blue panties. You take a few pictures. Trail your hand down your stomach and let it appear in some of them as well; fingers poised over the band of your underwear, just a tease. Finally content, you tuck your phone away, splash some cold water on your neck, and wander back into the lecture theatre.

Joel looks up when you walk inside. He’s seated behind his desk now, the room quiet as people jot down notes, eyes flitting between their laptops and the presentation displayed across the wall. Furrowed eyebrows and brown eyes shining with that barely-contained interest they always seem to hold when he looks at you these days. You offer him a nonchalant smile before turning your back to him. Sway your hips with exaggerated emphasis as you waltz up the stairs, slide back into your seat, and take your phone back out.

No one’s watching you now. Not your fellow Maenad, with her sharp judgemental eyes. Not even Joel. Your fingers dance their way into your text thread with him, and you select your favourite from the pictures.

You glance at the two lone messages in the thread, gaze lingering on the second message.

That can’t happen again.

Hesitation grips you, fingers hovering over the screen as you contemplate the seriousness behind the words. And then you hear him answer someone’s question, and the rough drone of his voice has you pressing send anyway.

Happy Birthday Professor x

You imagine you can feel the vibration of his phone. Feel it groan and shift in the pocket of his pants, screen lighting up. You wonder if he’s saved your name in his phone, or if a picture of underneath your skirt just popped up from an unsaved number. You try to focus on the article laid out in front of you. Stare at the messy under linings, at the notes on the margins made in your chicken-scratch handwriting, and wait.

It doesn’t take long to feel the heat of his gaze, almost paranormal in its effect. You can feel it’s weight – how it glides across your skin, sticky, viscous, and impossible to ignore.

When you glance up, you have to resist the urge to shrink into your seat. Joel’s face is a mess of emotions. Square jaw clenched tight; lips sealed. Stormy eyes that dart furiously between you and his lap, where you imagine his phone rests. Previously neat curls are now tousled and stressed over. You watch he glares downward, and drags tight fingers through the locks again. He doesn’t look up for a long time after that. Shoulders hunched forward, chin to his chest as he stares down.

Joel doesn’t stand up for the last 90-minutes of the seminar. Doesn’t smile, doesn’t joke. And he certainly does not look in your direction again. Not until the little hand on the clock strikes 11 o’clock, marking the end of his seminar, does he even entertain your side of the room. And not until the last student files out the door do you rise and meet him by the desk, a knowing look in both of your eyes.

You walk ahead of him the entire way to his office. Joel keeps an all-too casual distance from you, but you can hear the weight of his steps against the hardwood floors. Can feel his looming presence over your shoulder – sense his bursting need to get you alone. You only fall into step beside him when the office door comes into view, and then he’s herding you towards it, palm pressing flat against the small of your back in trivial, insistent shoves.

With a final glance over his shoulder, Joel nudges you inside his office.

There’s music playing inside. Soft waves of sound undulating toward you from the record player, and yet when he drags the door shut behind him you still hear the undeniable click of his key turning the lock. The window is closed, curtains half-drawn, and the air in his space is warm; almost stuffy from lying dormant and empty for hours.

Silently, Joel makes his way across the room to where his record player sits. Your eyes trail him faithfully, trained on how his shoulder blades shift like tectonic plates beneath the thinning fabric of his shirt. The urge to wander forward and pull it off him is intense. To run your nails down his skin and leave marks on his body the way he’s done to you.

“You think you’re funny?” his voice comes, a low murmur that you almost miss through the music. He lifts a hand and pulls the glasses off his nose. Tucks them carefully onto the table.

“Funny?” you reply, mouth suddenly dry.

Joel shifts the needle, restarting the record. Momentary silence swells into a bright intro, and he’s turning to look at you, thick arms folding across his chest. Your heart is a galloping staccato behind your sternum. A bead of sweat glides from the hollow of your throat down your chest, dampening the fabric of your shirt.

“Sendin’ me that picture of your pussy all wet for me,” he tuts softly. “Knowin’ damn well, I couldn’t do anythin’ about it.”

You swallow as he takes a step towards you. His hands drift to the front of his body, and you watch with bated breath as long fingers begin working at the silver buckle on his belt.

“Y’gimme nothin’ for weeks, don’t even pay attention during my fuckin’ classes, and then…” he pauses, almost glaring at you. But it’s not contempt in his eyes. No, it’s something else, something deeper—black brown peppered with frustration and lust and… There’s a lump in your throat. Something heavy that presses against your windpipe and makes it hard to swallow.

“You get off on this, hmm?” he asks, voice gravelly. “Torturin’ me? Makin’ me wait?”

“I’ve been busy,” you murmur, eyes fixed on where he drags leather through the beltloops of his pants. He discards it on the ground between you – an offering, an invitation.

“Busy girl,” he murmurs dryly. “And what about now? Now that I’ve got you here all alone… you gonna make me beg for it?”

Your pussy clenches at the thought of him on his knees, palms clasped in his lap, and it has that slick heat pooling between your legs. You want to denigrate him the way you feel he has done to you. Order him to kneel, to apologise, to fucking beseech you. But Joel’s eyes are dark, face drawn as he watches you. And you know that you’ve already gotten even.

Royal blue swims in your vision and you give him your best smile. Shake your head and say, “Not today, birthday boy.”

Something glints in his eyes, hands twitching by his sides. You mirror him, finally inching forward a step across the carpet. His belt is solid beneath your shoes.

He’s shifting in an instant, swallowing the final stretch of distance between you until his chest knocks into yours. The breath rushes from your lungs at the contact, and his hands are clasping your face, mouth slipping against yours in a brutal collision.

It’s rough, messy, teeth knocking and chapped lips. It’s the first time you’ve kissed since that night at the bar, and it consumes the both of you.

Joel’s body seizes yours, wraps around you and holds you to him, gripping the skin of your arms, your neck, your face, anywhere he can reach. Saliva pools in your mouth and wells into his, low sounds of desire being swapped back and forth between dripping tongues. There’s something desperate about it – how his lips bruise against yours. Something earnest and needy and urgent in the way his thumbs dig into your jaw, fingers tangling in the hair around your ears.

You’re gasping into his mouth, hands dropping to undo his zipper in a frenzied hurry. You can feel him behind the material, a firm bulge that becomes more and more evident as you work to get him undressed. His hands drop to your waist, your ass, and he’s pressing up, up, up the hem of your skirt, nails digging into skin as he squeezes and pulls you flush against him. Broad palms splayed across searing flesh, the tips of his fingers dragging dangerously close to where you’re aching for him. Your fingers shift from his pants to your own shirt, gripping the hem to tear it over your head—but Joel stops you. Bats your hands away and hoists you off the ground instead.

“Shit,” you huff in surprise, holding his shoulders for support as his arms tighten like a vice beneath your thighs and around your waist. He cuts you off with another sweltering kiss, and he’s moving. Stumbling blindly backward, a blurred mess of two people, all harsh exhales and clashing teeth, tilting back, back, back until his calves hit the armchair and he’s dissolving into it, dragging you down with him. Your knees sink into the plush fabric on either side of his waist, and his hands are on you, bunching your skirt up around your hips until your underwear is visible. He breaks the kiss and looks down quickly, lip curling upward as he takes in the sight of your barely covered cunt hovering over his lap.

“Fuck me,” Joel breaths. He cants his hips upward, clothed cock grinding against you. The pressure on your clit is exquisite. It has your nose scrunching up as your shallow breaths flutter the curls across his forehead. “Dress like this for all your classes?” he asks, fingers snapping at the band of your panties before his hand drops to cup your entire sex. “Fuckin’ filthy girl.”

“No,” you gasp as his palm settles over you. “Only—oh fuck, no, no, only yours.”

A rough sound escapes him, and he’s pushing the material of your underwear to the side. Thick fingers glide over the coarse hair on your mound, dipping in between your folds, right to the beating centre of you. You stare at his face while he stares at the swollen mess between your thighs.

“S’damn right,” he grunts. His eyes are ablaze. “Just for me.”

Your eyelids flutter closed, face warming at the words, and you’re whimpering as he rubs firm circles over your clit. Joel’s tongue presses against yours, coaxes your jaw open until it aches.

“So fuckin’ wet,” he marvels into your mouth. “Always so fuckin’ wet.”

A finger drops to your slick hole, slips slowly slowly slowly inside until the tip of it is curling against the soft spot inside you that he reaches so fucking easily. The air in the room is thin, his breaths a hot wash against your face, and a languid moan snakes its way out of your throat.

“Quiet.” Joel adds a second finger. It’s everything and nothing at the same time. Fingers so long, so thick – fingers that pale in comparison to his cock.

“I want you,” you gasp.

“Hmm?” he hums dangerously.

“Please,” your head tilts back, mouth ajar and thighs trembling as he works you open on his fingers. Joel lets out an impatient sound, and then his fingers drop from your swollen core, and he’s holding a condom. He must’ve pulled it from his back pocket, or between the cushions of the chair, but you don’t dwell on it. Don’t care where or how or why, too restless to be filled to ask; just give a pleased nod and lean back so he has enough room to free his cock from his pants.

The thick weight of it rests in his palm. He’s swollen and thick, the tip a deep rosy colour that reminds you of his flushed cheeks, his puffy lips, and has your mouth watering. And it’s wet with slick strands of precome that drip down his length to meet the movement of his fist.

“S’this what you were thinkin’ about?” Joel breathes shakily. “Got your cute little panties all soaked thinkin’ ‘bout my cock?”

“Yes,” you bite your lip. Watch him tear open the foil packet and roll latex down his length. You ignore the familiar urge to say forget it just take me I’m here and I’m yours just fuck me. “Please.”

“Fuck,” he hisses. Drags his cock against the dripping seam of your cunt. “Say that again.”

“Please,” you repeat, fingers twisting in the front of his shirt. “God, Joel, please.”

A sharp wet smack and a trembling gasp fill the air as he taps the tip against your clit, and then rests himself at the notch of your entrance.

“Show me how bad you want it,” he orders huskily, hands drifting to rest on the arms of his chair. “Go on, fuckin’—ride it.”

Breathing heavily, you reach down to grip him. holding his length still as you lower yourself over his lap.

There’s a stinging resistance there – your body pushing back against the size of him, against the angle.

Joel’s fingers drape against your clit and he rubs soft circles above the spot where you’re connected. You grip the back of the chair, face twisted in muted concentration.

“C’mon,” he breaths, jaw set with clear intention. “Fuckin’ drippin’ for me, y’can take it, I know you can. Yeah—yeah, that’s it.”

You sigh, body relaxing, and you’re pressing down, through. Sink down on him another inch, and then another, until he’s bottoming out inside of you and the skin of your thighs is flush with his pants and he’s making this rough, low sound from deep in his chest. Your mind goes blank for a moment, vision whiting out and lungs squeezing as you hold your breath and adjust to the sheer size of him, to the delicious burn between your thighs where he’s stretching you. And everything is soft and hazy around your mind, but you can see Joel’s eyes on you. The glassy, blissed out expression on his face as you clench around him. His hands drift to your waist, fingers groping bare skin underneath where he holds your skirt up.

“Fuck,” Joel pants. “So god damn tight.”

A pathetic whimper catches in your throat as you grind down, clit rubbing against the coarse hairs at his base. You’re so full, every sense heightened by the feeling of Joel, pressing you apart and making a home for himself inside of you.

Slowly—tentatively—you rock your hips forward, rutting against him in short, shallow movements. His hands encourage your body, guiding you along his cock as you gain confidence.

Soon enough your hips are lifting and dropping back onto him, over and over, tilting against him, doing whatever it takes to drag more hopeless sounds from his mouth. The music from his record player is a low, thrumming bassline in the back of your mind, every bright refrain of guitar punctuated by sharp gasps and elongated sighs.

Joel’s eyes shift from the space between your bodies to your face. Pupils blown, sweat beading along his forehead. Watching you, he seems to fall backward, into himself perhaps. His body goes slack against the armchair, head lolling back as he stares.

“Jesus,” he mutters lowly. “Missed this perfect little pussy.”

There it is again. Perfect, perfect, perfect. You clench around him at the word, rut your hips in a particularly rough movement that has Joel’s eyes rolling back and a guttural moan falling from his lips. His chest is heaving with ragged breaths, the tendons and veins in his neck on display as his chin tilts upward. A bright red flush has raised across the exposed skin of his collarbones, his neck. You lean in and lick the skin there, skirt your teeth across his pulsing jugular. Joel’s palm clasps the back of your neck, holding you against him. You can feel his thighs tensing below you, and then his hips begin to snap upward, meeting you thrust for thrust. The angle is harsh, and he's filling you to the brim, the tip of his cock bruising against the deepest part of you. You cry out against his skin, and the hoarse sound only spurs him on.

His wide palm shifts to hover at the base of your neck, slips beneath the collar of your shirt. Splays over your collarbone, dull fingernails grating against the skin above your breast, by your armpit. You lean back to let him see you, and his eyes drop to watch the way your hips roll over his lap. His finger snags on the strap of your bra and it snaps against your skin.

“Take it off,” you mutter urgently. Need to feel his skin against yours. Chest to chest. Heart to hea—

“No.” His hips snap up into yours faster, knocking the breath from your lungs. One hand grips the armchair, one his shoulder, trying to find some kind of leverage as he pistons into you from below. That fucking Birthday Boy pin is still stuck to his shirt, and blue flashes in the periphery of your vision. A particularly rough thrust has a loud moan parting your lips, but as soon as it begins Joel’s hand is crashing over your mouth, fingers gripping your face to silence the sound. Your eyebrows raise, silently questioning overtop his hand.

“Need to shut up,” he grits out. “Gonna—ohhh—gonna get us caught.”

You glide your tongue against his palm, taste the salt on his skin. Feel his fingers squeeze your jaw harder in response. And then your own hand is moving from his shoulder, fingers gliding across the sweaty skin of his neck, to slot over his mouth. You stare at one another, wild eyes locked, palms sealed over slick lips, and something fiery pulls taught between you. Liquid heat spreads through your muscles, tightening and loosening with every movement of his body against yours. You can feel the coil at the base of your stomach tightening. Your pussy throbs in a rhythm sympatico to that of your heartbeat, and your fingers squeeze around his face.

You can feel the vibration of Joel’s moans against your hand, and then his teeth are sinking into the soft flesh of your palm. For a moment you wonder if he’ll pierce the skin. Let your blood seep from the wound and spill across his tongue; a sacrificial offering. Drink you down, devour you as he lies within your body. You bite down on his palm in return, holding his gaze as your bodies grind and rut against each other.

Your back arches suddenly, and your forehead knocks against his as your orgasm steadily approaches. Joel’s eyes stay locked on yours. Your shoulders begin to lock up, thighs burning, but he doesn’t let up. His hips collide with yours at a devastating pace, and his free hand drops between your thighs. The pad of his middle finger circles your swollen clit, and you jerk against him, every nerve inside your body fraying and sparking.

Joel slurs a curse against your hand and then you’re coming with a haggard whine into his hand, walls constricting around him in a vice grip. You close your eyes only to discover that royal blue is stained on the inside of your eyelids, unavoidable. He is unavoidable. Even in the darkness of your own mind, he lurks. The smell of him in your nostrils, the taste of his spit in your mouth. You think you hear a garbled version of your name spoken into your palm, and then a stinging sensation rips across your ass as Joel starts to come, fingernails dragging across skin, as he grinds his cock desperately into your pulsing heat. Your eyes flutter open, body shivering with the aftershocks of your high, and you watch him. Admire the way his jaw softens beneath your grip, teeth retracting and leaving dull indents on your skin in their wake.

There’s a low pinch between your thighs. It rings out minutes later, a sullen ache, as you lift your hips and let him slip from your wet clutch. His hands fall from your body, and you suck in stale air, taking a clumsy step off his lap to stand shaking on the ground before him. There are circular white marks on his cheeks, lingering reminders of how you held him, smothering his wanton groans of pleasure. You watch them slowly fade to pink, and try to settle the unsteady breaths that wrack your frame.

Your fingers drop lazily to adjust your underwear, but then those hands are tilting your hips, encouraging you to turn until your back is to him. They slip beneath your skirt, find purchase on the band of your panties, and slide the drenched material down your legs. You step out of them, and gasp in surprise when he flicks your skirt up again. A shiver travels down your spine as he glides a finger through your swollen cunt.

“Joel,” you whimper, lips poised to say that it’s too much, too soon, that you need a second to breathe.

But Joel exhales a quiet groan, and something sharp nips the sensitive skin of your ass. Peaking over your shoulder, you find Joel’s mouth there, wet tongue soothing over the mark his teeth made on your flesh. There’s a slip of blue clenched in his fist, held protectively in his lap beside his softening cock.

You feel the vibration of something against your skin, a murmur of words that you can’t quite make out, before he pulls back. Retracts all points of contact, carefully removes the condom, clears his throat softly as he tucks himself back into his pants. The tell-tale sound of the moment drawing to a close. You swallow down that familiar tang disappointment and hold out a hand for your underwear.

And then Joel surprises you.

This soft, teasing smirk lights up his face, and Joel knocks your hand away. A huff of surprised laughter escapes you as he rises and wanders toward the desk. You watch, stunned into silence, as he drags open a drawer on his desk and tucks that blue slip of fabric inside. It slides closed with a definitive thud, and Joel falls down into his desk chair. His eyelids must be heavy, because they droop closed while you watch.

There’s a damp patch at the bottom of his t-shirt that has your face in flames, but he doesn’t seem to care, chest rising and falling with deep breaths as his body relaxes into leather. Your legs tremble as you grip the strap of your bag, taking that as your cue to quietly head for the door.

“Liked your essay.”

You pause with your fingers on the door handle. Turn to find that his eyes are still shut.

“You’re only saying that becau—”

“No,” Joel interrupts, the firm tone a sharp contrast to his lax frame. Eyes open now. “It was good.”

You hum quietly and rock back onto your heels. Unsure of what to say, you settle on offering him a small smile. He nods in return. The silence drifts back in, and you find yourself unable to speak until his eyes close once more.

“Happy birthday, Joel.”

So softly, so as to not disturb. And you aren’t sure whether he heard you or he’s already fallen asleep, but you do notice the corners of his mouth tilt upward ever-so-slightly.

Friday.

A crimson tablecloth covers the expanse of the table. Deep dark red, almost brown, reminiscent of old blood.

Plates smeared with remnants of a dinner long-past litter the surface, dirtied knives and forks stacked precariously atop them. Sauces have hardened to thickened globs on the China, sticky and stale and calling out to be cleaned. But the end of the evening is nary in sight, as Ian, your gracious host, deposits another bottle of wine onto the table.

“It’s a Cabernet Franc,” he slumps back into his seat at the head of the table, directly opposite you. “My parents brought it back from their trip to Bordeaux this past Summer. A gift.”

You resist the urge to roll your eyes for the thousandth time in three hours. Pour yourself a generous glass and taste it. Say, “I’m more of a Merlot fan,” despite being drunk as all hell and having zero knowledge to help discern between different wine grapes.

Pete offers a supportive smile, and you watch as his friends light fresh cigarettes that send plumes of smoke to the already stained roof of Ian’s apartment.

Ian’s girlfriend Claire, a wildlife and conservation biology undergrad, is draped across the chair to your left. Eyelids half closed; her slim fingers grip a half-smoked joint for dear life, hand hovering dazed in mid-air between her thigh and her face. You think back on the words Pete spoke to you this morning in the kitchen – there’ll be another woman there, don’t worry. And Claire’s great, I swear. You try to reconcile his words with the girl beside you, and the dank smell of burnt weed drifting toward you through the air. She’d been high when she arrived, and after speaking a measly three words of greeting in your direction, had sequestered herself to a chair and smoked through the entire dinner. When none of the others batted an eye, you held your tongue. And their nonchalance became clear when, upon completion of the meal—overcooked chicken, sticky carrots, and undercooked parsnips—Ian and Henry lit up cigarettes at the table too.

You weren’t sure why you agreed to attend the dinner party.

They’re really cool, Pete had blabbered into his mug that morning. We do it every Friday. It’ll be nice to have you meet some of my friends.

Oh, Pete. Cool, they are not.

Henry and Ian, friends from one of Pete’s environmental engineering units, are filthy rich. The kind that you can smell from a mile away. The kind that radiates from their expensive clothes, their manufactured pearly teeth, their god-awful haircuts. The kind of rich boys that have their own apartments in Portland, paid for by a Mummy and Daddy who holiday in Europe every summer—a trip that Ian has managed to bring up at least once an hour since the moment you met him.

The one beautiful, stunning, gorgeous saving grace is that there is alcohol – enough to ply yourself with in order to deal with Ian, who asked what your postgrad was in and replied slyly, “Oh, a fun one.” Ian, who, upon learning about your translation internship in Greece, said, “Sounds like you had a marvellous vacation.”

In return, you sat like a good little house guest—ornament—and listened to the three of them talk ad nauseam about engineering. Consume glass after glass of wine, decline cigarette after cigarette; you get profusely intoxicated as they debate—interrupt each other—the validity of different pollution control policies.

It’s not until early in the fifth hour of the dinner that Ian raises the topic of philosophy.

“It’s curious, that’s all,” he says, cigarette hanging limply between wine-soaked lips. “That these old guys would just hang out all day and… what, talk? Never understood why people rave about Socrates and Aristotle all the time. Just a bunch of sad sacks that liked the sound of their own voices a little too much, if you ask me.”

You hum against the rim of your glass, decidedly unbothered. Nothing you haven’t heard a hundred times, in a hundred different ways. His dining chairs are stiff, and your ass is aching against the heavy mahogany. Pete shifts awkwardly to your right. You can feel him looking at you, trying to gauge your impending reaction, and your face remains placid, numb from all the wine rushing through your veins.

“Is that what your degree is like?” Ian asks. “A bunch of old guys who love to listen to themselves talk?”

And that almost makes you crack a smile. You respond with a lacklustre shrug that neither confirms nor denies his suspicions, and definitely don’t think about—

“I don’t know,” Henry slurs, shooting a pointed glance in your direction. “I used to date this girl—”

“You fucked her once,” Ian interrupts.

“—Rita—"

“Rose.”

“—and she studied all that shit. Used to tell me about that guy who, he, uhm,” Henry pauses. Belches loudly. “He said something about God committing suicide and like, we’re his body or—wait what is it?”

“Mainländer,” you nod, mildly surprised. “Yeah, it’s a creation theory of sorts – God commits suicide to create the universe, and we’re all living on his decaying corpse.”

“What do you think of that?”

“Of a potential God’s potential suicide?”

“Yeah,” Henry grins dopily.

You sigh. “Would’ve been cooler if he left a note, I suppose.”

Henry guffaws loudly, leans back until his chair is balanced precariously on two legs. The cigarette falls from his fingers to his lap, glowing orange cherry leaving charred ashy marks on his jeans. If you were more sober you might’ve said something. But as if were, you just laugh and drain the final dregs of wine from your glass.

“So, your degree involves stuff like that?” Ian asks then.

“Sometimes,” you hum, already bored with the hint of mockery you sense in his tone. “We study the societies as a whole, so yeah, there’s talk about philosophy on occasion.”

“And mythology,” he wiggles his eyebrows from across the table, fluttering his fingers in the air. “Must be fun to talk about made up ideas all day.”

Henry clears his throat roughly and plucks the cigarette out of his lap, all remaining hints of laughter filtering into silence.

You stare. Feel your hackles rise. Sharper this time, as a more acute sense of irritation floods your system. “You do know that Greece and Italy are real countries with real histories, right?”

Claire moves for the first time in fifteen minutes, takes a long drag from her joint. Exhales in your direction.

“Sure,” Ian shrugs. “But you have to admit, all the stuff about the Greek Gods is a little silly.”

You spare a quick glance in Pete’s direction and find him wearing a tight, awkward smile, looking at you with something apologetic in his eyes.

“Silly,” you repeat the word slowly. It as though your brain is working at a thousand miles a minute, desperate to catch up with the conversation. Constantly two steps behind wherever Ian is dragging you. And he’s giving you this smarmy, sympathetic smile that screams oh your poor thing, you have no idea how poor your future job prospects are, and you’ve seen that smile a hundred times, had this conversation a thousand more, and you can suddenly envision yourself reaching across the table and pouring your glass of wine into his lap.

“And what about the rest?” you ask tersely. The collar of your shirt scratches against your neck, and his cigarette is spilling ash onto the fucking table, and he’s an asshole, and you want to throttle him for getting off on belittling you.

“The rest?”

“The rest,” you nod. “I suppose I can admit that those gods are silly, so long as we’re also admitting how fucking laughable biblical Gods ar—"

Pete says your name sharply. You pause, seal your lips shut. He shakes his head almost imperceptibly, the wary glint in his eyes a reminder that you’re a guest in Ian’s apartment. Ian’s apartment that was paid for by Mummy and Daddy; Ian’s apartment that has a crucifix above the kitchen entryway.

“More wine?” Pete asks smoothly. He’s rising from the table before you can respond, lifting the bottle and pouring a swell of red into your glass. Ian’s grin broadens, and a fresh round of irritation flares across the back of your alcohol sodden brain.

“Gimme a second,” you mutter, pushing your chair out. Your body sways as you stand, blood rushing to your head. Blinking the dizzy spell away, you grip Pete’s shoulder for leverage and make your way past him, shuffle down the hall and into a swanky bathroom. Your feet are heavy, mind a blur, as you collapse onto the toilet seat and rest your face against the cool tiled wall.

“Silly,” you grumble under your breath. “You’re fucking silly… asshole.”

Digging your phone from your pocket, you squint against its harsh light. Fingers fumble across the screen to your messages app. Tap Nora’s name, and hold your finger against the voice memo button.

“Nora,” you mumble, nose squished against tile. “It’s awful, you... I need you to save me.”

There’s a roar of laughter from the dining room.

“Why do men always have to be the smartest person in the room?” you continue as the sound dies down. The tile is cool against your skin, a welcome reprieve from the boozy flush that’s taken over your body.

“Pete is such an—” hiccup “—asshole for inviting me to this, I swear—”

Your phone hits the ground with a sharp clatter, and you curse, torso tilting forward as you reach clumsily for it. When you tilt the screen back to your face, a jolt rushes through you. You stare for a moment, dumbfounded, at the picture. There’s the soft sound of rushing water in your ears – your pulse, you realise.

“No,” you mutter, senses sharpening the longer you stare at the picture; your soaked blue panties. At the voice memo underneath said picture, that had certainly not gone to Nora. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, no.”

A moment of painful clarity comes when you make out the delivered sign below the voice message. Blurry eyes dance across the screen, vaguely deciphering the capitalised word MILLER. Panic swirls in your stomach, a churning writhing thing that feels a lot like nausea.

And then a text appears.

Are you drunk?

Your thighs are still numb from sitting for so long, so you slink dejectedly onto the floor and type out a response.

yes

that wasn’t for you

Ten minutes pass. You stare at the bright screen until worn-out tears prick in your eyes.

Doing okay?

tired

ate bad food, drank alotta wine

Probably time to go home.

cant drive

thought you hada phd? telling me to drunk driev

bad profeseor

Five minutes. Pete knocks on the door to ask if you’re okay and you assure him that you’re fine.

Where are you?

You type out the address carefully. Wash your hands in the sink and combs wet fingers through your hair to tame your appearance before skulking back into the dining room, where the vulture awaits you.

“I’m going,” you announce blandly. Claire is asleep, you think. Ian and Henry are playing an aggressive game of cards. Only Pete looks up.

“How are you getting home?” he frowns.

“Got a ride,” you mutter. Collect your things and give his shoulder a brief squeeze before slipping out the front door.

The air is cool outside the apartment building. A sharp breeze whistles through the parking lot, snakes it’s way beneath your clothes to curl against your skin. You welcome the chill. Rub lazily at the goosebumps on your arms as you glance at the last text from Joel.

Be there in 20.

You’re perched on the stoop when headlights finally appear. You curse, eyes smarting as you duck to avoid the harsh fluorescents, and then a black truck is idling a few metres away, engine purring. The passenger door kicks open and you squint, trying—and failing—to see inside through the darkness. Until—

“Get in.”

You’re barely in the car before Joel is pressing a bottle of water into your hand. The plastic is sweating, damp with condensation, and you sigh in relief. Press it against your neck, your face.

“Drink it,” he says sternly. You crack an eye open and look at him. He’s so close. Just a hairsbreadth from you, in a soft t-shirt and jeans. Glasses on the end of his nose. Fluffy hair—bed hair. There’s a soft frown on his face that dips and rolls in your vision. A downward tilt to his mouth as he puts the car in drive and tears away from Mummy and Daddy’s apartment.

“Hey,” you give him a lop-sided smile.

“Hey."

“Were you in bed?”

“You stink,” Joel ignores your question. “You chain-smokin’ in there? Christ.”

“Not me,” you huff in frustration. Take a small sip of water, careful not to spill on the seat. “They were smoking at the table. While we were eating.”

“Who was?”

“Pete’s friends.”

“Who’s Pete?” Joel grunts. He’s got a white-knuckle grip on the steering wheel, and his eyes are set on the road. Only when you don’t respond does he look back at you.

“Who’s Pete?” he repeats. Something stony in his voice. You smile.

“One of my roommates,” you offer. “Why? You jealous?”

“Quit it,” he bites out. “You gonna tell me where you live or am I s'posed to guess?”

Your smile spreads into a full-blown grin as you type your address into his phone. He snatches it from your hand and tells you to drink it all. You sit in silence for a while after that. Roll down the window and let your hand rest outside the car, fingers fluttering as the wind whips past them. He’s driving fast, green traffic lights blurring in your vision, and you feel your head spin faster, harder. Mumble under your breath.

“What?” he asks, voice too loud.

“Slow down,” you repeat, inhaling a deep breath. You feel him ease his foot of the gas instantly, a hand coming to hover over your knee.

“You feelin’ okay?” he murmurs.

“Mm.”

You let your eyes slip shut. Just for a second. A minute. And then—

“Hey.” A firm hand is on your shoulder. Thumb pressing into the skin beneath your collarbone. “Wake up.”

You jolt upright in the seat. Rub a palm roughly against your eye. Forget that you’re wearing makeup until you see black smeared across your hand.

Joel is saying something as you climb out of his truck, but you don’t hear it. Too busy pressing the door shut behind you and stumbling up the paved path to your house. Cool metal slides in your palm, numb fingers grappling for purchase. You scratch the key against the door’s aperture once, twice, and then feel it slip from your hand. A wave of dizziness hits as you watch it clatter against the ground.

“Shit,” you grumble. Bend down to pick it up. Rise and try a third time as silver swims in your vision. You hear a car door slam, the sound of heavy footsteps approaching, and slur another impatient curse under your breath.

“Let me help,” he says from behind you.

“It’s fine,” you protest, skin searing with embarrassment.

“C’mon.” Joel’s warm hand covers yours. Pries the key from your palm and unlocks your front door in a one easy movement. “Let’s get you inside.”

“I can do it.”

“Just let me help you.”

You practically float down the hall, buoyed by the thick arm around your waist, towing you along. In your room, Joel clicks on the lamp in the corner. Dim orange light envelops the space as you fall back onto your bed with a huff, shirt riding up to expose a sliver of your stomach.

“You need more water before you sleep” he says. “And a fuckin' shower.”

“Mmm,” you agree, eyelids fluttering. “I'm… just gonna lie here for a second.”

The responding sound is that of heavy footsteps disappearing down the hall. A fleeting rush of liquid somewhere in the distance. Your eyes close for a minute, maybe two, and reopen to find Joel’s broad frame hovering in the doorway, holding a glass of water and gripping the doorknob as he assesses your most private space. Your eyes are hardly open, but you can see him in the dim light. Glancing into the darkness of the hall and then back to you, slumped messily against the pillows. After a thick moment of silence, he steps decidedly across the threshold, and closes your bedroom door behind him.

As you watch him, you begin to feel a sense of startling clarity.

Joel Miller, in your house. Joel Miller, in your bedroom. Joel Miller… seeing you make a complete fool out of yourself.

“Oh fuck,” you blurt out.

“What?” Joel asks sharply. He rounds the bed in two quick strides, and then he’s pressing a glass of water on your side table and sitting beside you. His weight on the side of the bed has the mattress dipping, your body tilting onto your side to face his back. A wave of nausea strikes suddenly, and you suck your lips into your mouth. No.

“Y'oughta warn me if you’re gonna be sick,” he warns.

“M’not.”

“You better not.”

“I won’t.”

“Think you’ll need about ten of those,” you hear him say. “But one glass is a good start.”

But there’s already an ocean inside you. Rocky, white-wash waves that lap at the walls of your stomach, press against your lungs, and have your mind swaying even as your body lies still. Fingers, moving faster than your brain, seek purchase. Crawling across the sheets to snag your index through a belt loop on the back of his jeans. Chilled skin against worn denim, an anchor. Something sturdy to calm the eddying current inside you.

“What’re you—”

“Did you have a good day yesterday?” you interrupt, eager to distract yourself.

Joel is silent for a while. Keeps looking down at you until he finally says, “Yeah,” so quiet that your ears strain to hear it.

There’s a hint of something there that you can’t quite read. An emotion that he holds clasped in tight hands, just beyond your reach. You let it be, mind distracted by the soft orange light emanating from the lamp. When you close your eyes it glows against the back of your eyelids, vibrant swaths of sunset and marigold that make it hard to fall asleep just yet.

“Seventy, right?” you tease.

An indignant scoff rings out, and you squeak as a set of rough fingers pinch at the skin of your exposed stomach. The quickest touch, just a graze of flesh, before he’s pulling back. You laugh easily, open your eyes to look at him again.

“Careful now,” he warns. But you can see humour in the lines by his eyes, the quirk of his lip.

Your finger wiggles against his belt loop, tugging on the material there once. A tired patience in your eyes as you wait.

“Fifty,” he finally concedes, smile wavering as his gaze darts to the sheets.

“Mhm,” you murmur. Lips part as you let loose a low, impressed whistle. It comes out as more of a lacklustre exhalation of air. Joel’s shoulders are shaking with silent laughter when he meets your eyes again, a little more relaxed. “The big five-oh, huh?”

“The big five-oh,” he repeats simply. Tired as you are, you can see the question in his eyes. This searching, curious thing that rakes across your features, waiting to note any hint that you might be perturbed by the fact.

“S’nice,” you offer quietly instead. “Get any good gifts?”

The muscles in his neck strain, shirt tightening around his shoulders as he turns to look at you head on. Soft eyes gleam with something darker, teasing, as his lips pull into a lazy smirk.

“Sure,” he agrees, voice low, suggestive. “Good’s one word for it.”

Warmth floods your stomach and your toes curl. But you falter under the intensity of his gaze, a weary heat rising in your cheeks as your gaze lowers to his collarbone.

“Hey," you say quietly. “Look, I appreciate you helping me out tonight, I just…”

Joel’s eyebrows pinch the middle of his forehead, relaxation dissipating as he stares.

“Sorry,” you grimace, skin on fire. All of a sudden, your finger feels swollen in his belt loop, a promise that you can’t keep, the fabric branding hot against your skin as the words tumble out of you. “I’m just, I’m pretty wasted, and I’m grateful, you know, but I don’t think I can—we probably can’t fuck tonight—"

Joel says your name quickly. His hand is gripping your bedsheets, sun-kissed skin against pale yellow. “We’re not fucking.”

Unwitting relief courses through you, and you nod slowly. “Yeah, okay, I just wasn’t sure if you thought maybe… I don’t know—"

“Thought that if I gave you a ride home you owed me a fuck?” he asks plainly, expression tight. A dark, frustrated laughs spills from his lips and his shoulders are tightening, muscles shifting beneath his t-shirt. “That’s not how this goes, darlin’. So don’t go thinkin’ that way, ever, y’hear me?”

You blink, eyes wide. Suddenly alert. Feel the warmth in your stomach spread to your chest, your thighs. Darlin’.

“Okay,” you murmur. “Yeah, that’s—how does this work then?”

The indent between his brows only deepens as he gazes down at you.

“You call the shots,” Joel says. “I thought that was well established by now.”

His brown eyes look so soft in the dim lighting of your bedroom. Honeyed and golden in the warm orange haze. You stare at them for so long that you lose track of whether or not he’s answered your question. Forget everything that isn’t the lines beside his eyes, the dark speck of his pupils, the wild hairs of his eyebrows. You feel yourself drift closer to sleep again.

“Pretty,” someone says faintly. You. “You’ve got brown eyes.”

“Jesus.” He’s still frowning.

“Brown-eyed girl,” you sing—slur.

“Alright, Van Morrison,” Joel grumbles, the lines in his face softening. “Drink up.”

You do as he asks, gulping down half the water while he watches. His fingers rest cautiously at the base of the glass in case you drop it. And when you’re finished, he takes it from your hands, stands. Another wave crashes inside you when the mattress shifts in the absence of his weight, and you drift, unmoored, onto your back again.

Joel is staring at you. Towering over the bed, hands jammed awkwardly against his hips. His presence so large, so looming. He crowds your small space, his size ensuring that there is no room for another; only you and him, you and him, you and him, and you call the shots. You squeeze your eyes shut, determined to block that thought out.

“I think I’ll go to sleep now,” you mutter. “If that’s alright with you, teach.”

Joel says something, but it’s a far away sound. You tuck your face further into your pillow.

You think you hear him say good night, or some version thereof, but you don’t hear him leave. Don’t hear his boots on the hardwood, or the creak of your bedroom door. Don’t hear his truck start up outside.

And when you wake, alone, you find that droplets of rain have settled on your windowsill, marking another wet September morning. But you don’t frown as you drag a sweater from your closet, nor as you draw the curtains and clamber back into bed. Don’t yearn for the warmth of Summer as the dull ache of a hangover ricochets inside your skull. For you can smell Joel on your sheets; can still feel his presence lingering in the corners of your room.

And that’s warm enough for you.

tags: @lovely-ateez @nana90azevedo @stevie75 @evyiione @dameron-grant-spector @brittmb115 @ashhlsstuff @casa-boiardi @sinfulrock @bbyanarchist @murc0cks4eva @hopplessilse @joeldjarin @anoverwhelmingdin @bluevxnus @kelp-dreaming @prettyinpunk85 @spacelatinos4life @iluvurfather @daisies-yellow @mrsquill @sarap-77 @sunnywithachanceofjavi @alleyy-katt @zeida @mendessi @love-the-abyss @myrealmofchaos @a-roving-woman @punkshort @gracie7209 @whichwitchwanda @fellinfromthetop @bitchwitch1981 @suzmagine @lmariephoto37 @harriedandharassed @cumberpegg @tonysttank @ourautumn86 @my-tearsricochet @shotgun-shelby @5oh5

thank you for reading! x [and idgaf okay i was gonna put that birthday boy pin on him no matter what shitty excuse i had to come up with]

#my writing #fic: a lover's pinch #professor!joel #ALP #joel miller x reader #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller #joel miller smut

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6okuto · 10 months ago

Text

IS THAT ALL?

gn!reader | 900ish words, really just fluff despite the opener ^___^

megumi fushiguro considers himself a coward.

it’s sunday, 10:00am bright on the clock behind you. wings flap outside as the birds that like to adorn the neighbour’s fruit tree caw, and the blanket is pulled up to his chest, up to your cheeks.

your face is only a few inches away, and all he can think about—besides the curl of your lips as you smile at him again—is whether his breath still smells like mint from brushing his teeth the night before. whether you can see his skin breaking out on his temple and forehead, or the scar on his jaw from falling when he was seven—if you’d notice them after he said the three words that’ve been sitting on the tip of his tongue for weeks.

because megumi’s realized he can do a lot of things, plan more, fight even more, but it all crumbles apart when it comes to you.

“why are you staring at me?”

“i’m not,” he answers too quickly, muttered as he looks to the pillow underneath your head instead of your eyes.

you squish your face further into it to meet his gaze again. “is there something on my face?”

“no.”

“is there food stuck in my teeth?”

“we haven’t even had breakfast.”

“because if i turn on my phone and see either of these things, i’m going to be very angry with you, megumi fushiguro.”

the sound of his name draws him back to you, your squinting eyes and frown that holds no anger.

his lip twitches up, only just. “there’s nothing on your face or in your teeth.”

you hum, keeping your accusatory facade, even while reaching for his hand beneath the blanket. “swear i don’t look bad?”

megumi’s fingers easily slide into place between yours.

you could never look bad.

he huffs. “seriously?”

“‘seriously’? oh, wow, forgive me, my dear, for not believing your plainly spoken words while you still won’t tell me why you’re staring.” you ruffle his hair and push strands to cover his eyes. he rolls them as he pulls up the collar of your shirt to muffle your laugh.

it’s a lovely sound.

he hopes you let him hear it again and again.

a bird caws at the same time you swat at his hand and the hold on your shirt loosens, his fingers moving to smoothen the evidence.

“you just look nice.” he finally says as his eyelids droop, and he lets himself look at your lips for a fraction of a second. “that’s all.”

you smile and ignore the heat in your ears. “that’s all?”

the words claw at him again, and his throat constricts the same time his stomach ties into a knot.

it should be something special, megumi thinks—saying it out loud for the first time.

maybe at a fancy restaurant, with candles and expensive meals between you, his best suit on, quiet jazz and clinking glasses in the background.

maybe outside somewhere, in a nice meadow or under a tree, a picnic blanket sitting underneath you.

maybe after a long-winded monologue of how his curiosity grew to infatuation, a crush, something more. after he’s told you he wishes he could spend every morning with you, turn to you when the neighbour’s kids laughing and screaming wakes you up in place of an alarm on a saturday, watch you playfully groan and complain about today’s youth.

after he’s laid his heart out to you, instead of now, a random sunday morning, as the sound of cawing and birdsong fills the space between you instead of his voice, and all the words he wants to say before the three.

he wonders how long he’s been silent when you scrunch your brows and confusion shifts your smile. “hello? earth to megumi?”

“i love you.”

and across megumi’s face, there’s a fleeting shadow as a bird flies past—the blue of his eyes darkening, but not hardening, never hardening—not while looking at you.

you blink at him.

he blinks back.

the birds caw loudly outside.

and it’s all he can do to not bite his lip, to ignore the sudden tightness in his chest as you open and close your mouth—a sensation that he usually comes to you for to get rid of.

you blink again, twice, three times, and a different three words find their way to the tip of his tongue at the sight, heavier than the last, a little more strained.

but then you smile, just like always.

let out a laugh of disbelief that makes his apology disappear.

your reply comes as a murmur, it flows over him and muffles the noise outside, easing the clawing at his gut with expertise—“i love you, too.”

and it really is a random morning; megumi couldn’t tell you the date if you asked. but your grip on his hand tightens, and he promises to write it down (sunday, 10:07am) when you both get up.

he lets all his tension loosen as he finally smiles back.

your own smile widens into a bright grin at the sight, and though his mind’s reeling, he can hear what you’re going to ask before you do—

“is that all?”

it’s silly, and megumi almost rolls his eyes, almost pulls the blanket over your head and threatens to take it back,

and he loves you.

even, and especially as he hears the neighbour’s door creak open, and the first sound of the kids yelling—as he pinches your cheek and snickers when you let out a surprised noise. “that’s all.”

noo nia don't make something that's supposed to be big happen in a mundane warmth again nooo don't make another guy completely in love w reader noooo... does i'm sorry technically count as three words btw. lol? well. obviously totally unrelated but i'm hungry as fawk rn. goodbye everybody i'm gonna eat toast. yaaaaayy!!!

🏷️ | @danyisapingu @lilithlunas @anime-ships-gay @todorokiskitten @tooruchiiscribs @curiouslilbeast @fiona782 @cvhenia @mitskiologist @sleepyxxhead @milkbreadforlife @sirimirihiro @aria-chikage @leiiii-i @chocopuchino

#jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk fluff #jujutsu kaisen fluff #megumi x reader #megumi fluff #i have conflicting feelings over this But if i stare at it longer or let it sit in my drafts i Will set it on fire #hopefully im asleep when this posts. honk shoo....

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cailinsblog · 15 days ago

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boy dad quinn please gorgeous

Omg yess thank you for the request love getting them💕 hope you like it

A Little Fan’s First Game | Quinn hughes

Quinn hughes x reader

Masterlist

The hum of excitement filled Rogers Arena as fans streamed in, donning their blue and green Canucks jerseys. Among the sea of supporters, Y/N stood out, balancing a squirming little boy on her hip. Nate, their two-year-old son, was dressed in a miniature Quinn Hughes jersey, complete with the number 43 on the back. His eyes sparkled with curiosity as he took in the bustling arena around him.

“This place is huge, huh, buddy?” Y/N murmured, kissing the top of his head.

Nate responded with a series of excited babbles, pointing at the ice. “Daddy! Daddy!”

Y/N laughed. “We’ll see Daddy soon, Nate. Let’s get to our seats first.”

They made their way down to a prime spot near the glass, a perfect view for Nate’s first hockey game. Y/N settled into her seat, setting Nate on her lap. The little boy immediately leaned forward, pressing his tiny hands against the cool glass.

The Canucks were warming up on the ice, and Y/N spotted Quinn almost instantly. His smooth skating and effortless puck handling made him stand out. He glanced toward the stands, searching, and when his eyes landed on Y/N and Nate, his face lit up with a smile.

“Daddy!” Nate squealed, banging his hands on the glass with enthusiasm.

Quinn skated over, tapping his stick lightly against the glass in front of Nate. The toddler’s laughter was infectious, drawing smiles from fans seated nearby.

Y/N waved, holding up Nate’s hand to wave too. “Say hi to Daddy!”

“Hi, Daddy!” Nate shouted, his little voice muffled by the glass.

Quinn chuckled, then skated to the bench, where he grabbed a puck. Skating back, he tossed it gently over the glass, aiming it perfectly into Y/N’s hands.

“For Nate,” he mouthed, giving them a wink.

Y/N showed the puck to Nate, who clutched it tightly in his tiny hands. “Look, Nate! Daddy gave you a puck!”

The little boy held it up proudly, his eyes wide. “Daddy’s puck!”

The warmups continued, but Nate’s attention stayed fixed on Quinn. He clapped his hands every time his dad skated by, cheering loudly with an energy that belied his small size.

“Can’t wait to tell Daddy how good he’s doing, huh?” Y/N whispered in Nate’s ear, earning a giggle from the boy.

When the game began, the excitement only grew. Nate bounced on Y/N’s lap, clapping his hands along with the crowd. Every time the Canucks scored, he’d throw his arms up in the air, mimicking the celebration he saw on the ice.

By the second intermission, Y/N could tell Nate was getting a bit tired. His eyelids drooped, and his head rested against her shoulder, but his little hands still clung to the puck as if it were his most prized possession.

During the third period, with the Canucks holding a narrow lead, Quinn made a great defensive play, stealing the puck and sending it down the ice. The crowd roared, and even Nate, despite his fatigue, perked up, clapping his hands slowly.

When the final horn sounded, signaling a Canucks win, Y/N stood, holding Nate up so he could see the ice better. Quinn and his teammates skated around, waving to the crowd. He stopped near their section again, tapping his stick on the ice and pointing up at Nate.

“Wave to Daddy one more time,” Y/N encouraged, helping Nate lift his hand.

“Bye-bye, Daddy!” Nate called out, his voice sleepy but full of love.

Quinn grinned, giving them a final wave before disappearing down the tunnel.

---

Later that evening, back at home, Quinn sat on the couch with Nate nestled against him. The little boy was clutching his puck tightly, his eyes half-closed as he fought off sleep.

“You were my good luck charm tonight, buddy,” Quinn said softly, running a hand through Nate’s dark hair.

Y/N sat beside them, her head resting on Quinn’s shoulder. “He was so excited the whole time. You should’ve seen how he was cheering for you.”

Quinn smiled, leaning over to kiss Y/N’s temple. “I saw. Thanks for bringing him tonight. It meant a lot.”

Y/N smiled back. “It was perfect. He’s going to be your biggest fan, you know.”

Quinn looked down at his son, who was now fast asleep, the puck still clutched tightly in his little hands. “He already is,” he whispered, his heart full.

💕💕Remember reblog helps a lot guy💕💕

#hockey #nhl #nhl x reader #fanfic #quinn hughes x oc #quinn hughes x you #quinn hughes imagine #quinn hughes x y/n #quinn hughes fluff #qh43 #quinn hughes x reader #quinn hughes #vancouver canada #vancouver canucks #nhl fic #nhl fanfiction

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rottiens · 8 months ago

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⊹ ˚. GOJŌ SATORU┊18+ , bf! gojō, somnophilia (noncon), oral ( m -> f ), canon au, female-bodied reader, petnames (angel). divider creds: cafekitsune. WC. 1.4K

Gojo promised himself not to touch you. Instead he admired you from afar, struggling with the carnal desire that asks him to slide his fingers through the nooks and crannies of your body— you, sprawled on the sheets, becoming one with the bed and your tousled hair. Carefully, he removes the glasses that were lying on the bridge of your nose, crooked and just a shake of your head threatening to break them.

The light illuminating you from a lamp on the bedside table does little to brighten the room. The opaque rays show your relaxed face sleeping pleasantly and a little further on, they show your hands resting without a defined posture at the level of your hips.

Gojo holds the book open at the edge of the bed and closes it to put it aside on the bedside table along with your glasses, without them, you look much younger even and the idea makes him smile because if you were awake you would tap his shoulder and tell him to shut up.

Still with the grin on his lips, he sits on the bed carefully avoiding waking you up, you're so comfortable that it's the last thing he would want… that's when he really intends not to wake you up, he doesn't want to interrupt your sleep, he just…. He just wants to admire you a little more.

The tank top you're wearing does little to cover you. One of your breasts escapes slightly outward giving gojo a flash of skin and your erect nipples that he can't stop staring at. He bites his lower lip, controlling his thoughts that rushed to take him to places and corners of his head that he shouldn't, thoughts that end and begin with him grabbing your tit without caution and taking it into his mouth to lick and abuse it with his teeth.

He stretched his hand towards you, your chest rises and falls placidly just like the waves, the opposite of his that heaves with each new dangerous thought his unconscious whips him with. His finger traces your collarbones in a touch that never comes, his cursed technique prevents him from touching you and he purposely keeps it active because it makes him feel less guilty. Restless, he searches for your erect nipple and makes the attempt to touch it in circles, in that instant you move seeking the comfort of the sheets which would seem a coincidence that gives him the opportunity not to continue disturbing your sleep.

"Fuck." It's the exact moment where he realizes he won't be able to keep his promise.

With one hand he squeezes the soft bulge forming a tent in his pants, with the other, he mimics the action of grabbing your breast and carving your nipple back and forth but once again, he never manages to touch you. Getting up from the bed and moving far enough away from you to admire you again, gojo removes his uniform shirt leaving it lying somewhere in the room along with the blindfold.

The yellow dye sticks to his naked torso right away, illuminating his overworked abdomen and moles that seemed to have been put there specifically.

He's late. And he is sorry. He will apologize to you tomorrow because he knows how important it is for you to spend time with him, he feels guilty for not being there on time and making you wait for him, but he feels guiltier for what he will do next.

Gojo again sits on the edge of the bed but this time he goes to your feet. His fingers spread your knees apart to make a space where his big body can fit in between. Your thighs spread to either side without effort and he takes the opportunity to make a house of your thighs and place them on top of his shoulders still with infinity in between.

Still not allowing you to feel him, gojo pushes your panties with his nose. His eyelids droop at the sensation of the heat emanating from your pussy onto his tongue, his mouth is soaked with the thought of how it will feel to finally taste you and this makes him push further into you in an invisible thrust.

His body tenses with need yet desperation, squeezing his eyes shut he sees only black and flashes like white dots, however the taste of your natural scent guides him through the gloom making it clear to him that there is nothing wrong with this, this is the right thing to do, he knows that if you would be awake you would approve. Finally and without his infinite technique getting in the way, his nose snakes between the folds of your pussy, parting your lips until his nose pushes against your clit and rubs it back and forth sniffing shamelessly.

Gojo stands still for a moment, every muscle inside him grinding with desire as he waits for you to say something, a moan, a prayer… seeing the state you're in only urges him to continue. Mouth open and hands clutching at the sheets struggling not to grab the flesh of your thighs hungrily seeking more of that which makes him moan against your panties.

His spit helps the fabric become a mess and he soon finds it annoying that he can't feel you directly, so with the help of his fingers he pushes them aside to finally taste your naked pussy.

Gojo took exactly five seconds to admire the mess he had made of you. Swollen lips dripping with excitement, a plump little clit poking just a little from between your labia and a pussy throbbing and twitching just begging him to keep going.

Along with a grunt louder than he planned he plunges into your hole parting it with his tongue until he explores deep. His tongue curves, expertly, seeking more, fucking you in and out and alternating the motion to move up to your needy clit and give it the attention it deserves by crushing it with the flat of his tongue.

You mewl with a barely audible whimper, indicating that you'll probably wake up soon. Confident now he does hold your thighs, he opens them to give him room for his head to sink deeper into you opening his mouth wider to take as much of you as he can. The warmth and taste of your juices is addictive, gojo wants to drink you and then sink so deep into you; this is the idea that leads him to, intoxicated with ecstasy slide a long finger inside you.

Your confusion sets in as you call his name. His cock aches, you sound so drowsy, your voice barely a murmur that is replaced with a broken moan after he sucks hard on your clit.

You meet his cocked smile in the middle of your legs. His eyes are two full moons that greet you shining with desire and need, his hair is a white tangle that sticks to his forehead and falls tousled over his ears. You take note to cut it off when they're not in such a… compromising situation and instead help him by pushing the sweaty strands aside back to get a better glimpse of what was going on.

"What are you…" you can't finish the sentence because of the sudden feeling that hits you. It's that tightening and loosening rope in your belly warning you that you're on the verge of orgasm. So fast? It's what makes you wonder, how long has gojo been eating your pussy?

"Let it all out." He commands you. And your body obeys him, "All in my mouth," he adds in a purr. You can't even protest or assimilate the sensations that hit your body.

And only when you start to break into his embrace do you realize that two of his fingers are stretching you to the limit and his tongue keeps licking you back and forth and up and down. You try to pull his hair back, tell him you're sore, but Gojo doesn't stop until he's satisfied, not until you've finished squeezing around his fingers.

Gojo pulls out of you with a grunt, your body unravels again on the bed as if in a liquid state and your eyelids give in to exhaustion and close again. Your chest rises and falls desperately seeking oxygen, and every fiber in your body feels on fire.

He leaves one last kiss on top of your clit and rises from between your thighs with soaked lips and wet chin. "I'm going to push my cum inside you now, okay?" a loving hand emerges caressing your navel through the thin fabric, you stare up at him from below between heavy lashes. "Just keep sleeping, angel. I know you're tired, just let me take what I want."

a/n. this was going to be darker but I'm a chicken and I regretted it.

#wr #gojo x you #gojo x reader #gojo drabbles #jjk drabbles #gojo satoru x you #gojo satoru x reader #gojo smut #gojo satoru smut #cw somnophilia #cw noncon #gojo x y/n #gojo satoru x y/n #gojo satoru scenario #jjk x y/n #jjk x you #jjk x reader

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heartfullofleeches · 6 days ago

Note

PLEASE ELABORATE PELASE

Shout out to you and the anon who wrote this:

[Please elaborate about consensual intox play with Sammy, I miss my masochistic guard dog of a boy <3]

For enabling me-

[ (consensual) Drugging, Submissive Yan, mentions of alcohol and weed]

He plays it off as a passing thought- A reoccurring fantasy he knows will haunt him until he hears your opinion on the idea.

"I don't really drink... Everyone I've drank with says I'm a lightweight which some think is funny due to how tall I am.. One beer is enough to get me tipsy.."

Sammy bites his lip hard enough to make them bleed- It's so embarrassing, almost humiliating to speak about his desires aloud. You're the only person he'd ever want to play them put with, so it's better out than in.

"Would you ever be interested in... using me while I'm under the influence?"

There's nothing Sammy yearns for more than being under your complete control. Eyelids drooping as you inch closer, encouraging him to take just one more sip. His fingers unable to properly suction to the glass as his weight slumps against the couch, motor skills lose to a battle he had no hope of winning as whatever you gave him hits his system.

"Having a little trouble, Sam? It's okay, I'll take good care of you. Why don't I help you get out of that stuffy sweater? You're burning up, sweet boy-"

Teasing him more, strip him bare and ravage him to your heart's content. Call him useless, useless without you there to pick up the pieces. He can't do a thing without you in this state - so hopelessly dependant as his lips struggle to form the sentences needed to beg you for all you can give.

All this, but with a Stoner Darling instead-

Sammy writhing in anticipation waiting for the edibles Darling gave him to kick in. Watching them take a puff from their smoking method of choice, wishing they'd force it down his throat in the next breath. Poking fun at him for being so out of his mind from one heavy hit when it takes a trained professional like them several to be as totaled as Sam is. They'd never do that to him, but a man can dream-

"Out like a light, already? We're gonna have to build up that tolerance of yours a bit, Sam. Think you can take another kiss?.... Haha, what am I even asking for? I know you can, Sammy..."

Sammy and Darling having a cute date together with consent established prior- Sam's hanging onto their every word, wondering when they'll make their move when he suddenly begins to feel the effects of whatever they slipped into his drink without him noticing. Darling smiles and laughs like nothings out of the ordinary as they drag their flustered, slurring boyfriend back to the car-

I'm feral for this man.

#Sammy my oc #yandere imagines #yandere x you #yandere headcanons #yandere scenarios #yandere blurb #yandere insert #yandere x reader #male yandere #yandere #yandere oc #sub yandere #suggestive #yandere smut

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hazbinshusk · 4 months ago

Text

husk x fem!reader. based on a wonderful idea from @mckeeks. when you fall asleep at the bar, husk finds himself enamored with the way you look when you're asleep, the way your hair feels under his touch. what's a kitty to do? 2.1k

featuring: pure pre-relationship fluff, huskerdust friendship & a smartass angel dust.

“Husk!”

The bartender looks up at the sound of your voice and the doors closing with a bang behind you, letting out a little mrrp of surprise as it drags him out of his revery. He swallows back the cattish sound distastefully, training his expression into one of detachment despite the affection he feels bloom in his chest at your smile.

Which means nothing, obviously.

You’re hanging off Angel’s arm and laughing, stumbling slightly over the polished floors as the two of you approach the bar. Angel’s face is equally flushed, but a quick assessment tells Husk that he hasn’t slipped in his mission to stay off the hard stuff. Angel takes your hand and lifts it above your head, the two of you giggling as you spin under it and fall into a barstool.

“We missed you,” you continue, smiling crookedly up at the cat behind the bar. Angel takes the stool beside you, winking at the bartender. You pout childishly and Husk reaches automatically for a bottle of schnapps. “The guy at the place was an asshole.”

“The guy. At the place.” Husk repeats dryly, a smirk playing at the edge of his lips.

“The bartendah,” Angel explains, snickering. He raises his shot glass in thanks to Husk before tossing it back. “She fuckin’ told him so, too.”

“Christ.”

“Almost like she’s got a preference for a certain fluffy faced fucker back here at the hotel,” Angel insinuates snidely, and Husk shoots him a glare. The spider shrugs, undaunted, and sing-songs, “’m jus’ sayin’…”

“You say too much,” Husk deadpans back at him, and Angel grins.

“You should’ve come with us,” you murmur, your cheek in your hand. “Angel said he missed you, too.”

“Pretty sure I said ‘Husk makes a stronger drink’,” Angel retorts. “You’re the one who got all moon-eyed over the idea o’ Huskie getting’ handsy on the dancefloor.”

“Shut up,” you laugh, bumping your shoulder against Angel’s. Your cheeks warm as you meet the bartender’s eye. “That’s not what I said.”

“What I heard.” Angel shrugs, sliding his glass back towards Husk. “Ya should hear the mouth on this one, Husk. What she said she’d do to you…”

“Shut the fuck up.” you and Husk say in unison, and the porn star laughs boisterously. Husk swallows against the thoughts Angel’s words have conjured, tipping a bottle your way in offer.

You shake your head, eyelids drooping now that you’re back in the familiar warmth of the hotel, sleep quickly settling into the drunken embrace of your mind. You keep talking even as your eyes close.

“Should’ve come, though,” you repeat. “Would’ve had so… fun…”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Husk finds himself almost hyperaware of your presence at the bar; a feeling that doesn’t seem to dissipate even as the night drags on into the into the very early hours of the morning. You’ve long since passed out, your arms folded on the bar in front of you, your cheek resting on your forearm. There’s a soft rosiness to your cheeks, your lipstick so faded that it’s barely more than a blush against your full bottom lip. It stirs something inside him that he tries to ignore, but his tail waves slowly behind him all the same.

Angel is bending his ear with the latest tales from the studio, and Husk is more than happy to listen to his friend vent about the more vanilla crap he has to put up with. Apparently, Valentino has been distracted of late, leaving the directing to some other perverts in the studio. This has meant that Angel has been able to actually enjoy some aspects of the job more than he usually would. Namely, the embarrassing faux pas and fuck ups of his costars.

Husk is chuckling over an overly descriptive recount of a mishap involving raspberry flavored lube and an overly-complicated sex swing when he turns to see Angel tearing up a napkin and sprinkling the pieces of it in your hair. A soft, warning growl rumbles out of Husk instinctively. “Leave her be.”

“I ain’t doin’ nothin’.” Angel says innocently, holding up his top two hands in surrender. Husk raises an eyebrow at him as one of his lower hands picks up another handful of makeshift confetti and drops it on your head. Your nose twitches as a few pieces fall over your face, tickling at your skin.

“Wake her up an’ I cut you off,” Husk warns. “You’ll be stuck swillin’ the cheap shit I know you’ve got stashed in your room.”

“Ooh, look at you, Huskie… I think your heart might be growin’ three sizes in there.” He leans over the bar to poke Husk in the chest with his finger. He goes on to walk his fingers down over his furry stomach. “D’ya plan on showin’ her what else you’ve got that’ll grow three size—”

Husk knocks his hand away just before his fingers can make contact with the waistband of his pants. “Watch it.”

Angel cackles, settling back into his seat and picking up his glass. Husk glowers at him for a moment before his attention is drawn back to you when you shift slightly, burying your face deeper into your arms. He reaches out without really thinking, picking a few pieces of napkin out of your hair with careful claws. Husk pointedly ignores the raised eyebrow and knowing smirk the spider gives him.

Their conversation shifts and Angel launches into a new story, and each time he finishes refilling the porn star’s glass he finds his paw returning idly to your hair, even after he’s fished each piece of napkin out of your locks. Instead, he just trails his claws gently through your hair, softly detangling it and enjoying the way the movement teased the scent of your shampoo into the air.

You sigh happily in your sleep as his claws scratch so lightly against your scalp and down to the nape of your neck, and Husk feels the small smile that touches your features reflected on his own. Angel has long since stopped commenting on his actions, secretly enjoying the way Husk’s expression has softened as he dotes quietly on you.

“She is sweet on ya, ya know,” Angel says quietly, and Husk snatches his hand away from you, shooting the spider a glare.

“Can it.”

“’m serious,” he insists. “Two o’ you are like Romeo and fuckin’ Juliet the way you look at each other… without all the teenage angst bullshit ‘n’ waaaay more sexual tension.”

Husk scoffs, busying himself pointedly by running a rag over an already clean glass. “She can do better than me.”

“Sure,” Angel shrugs jokingly. “But this is hell, baby. Pickin’s are kinda slim.”

“So… I’m the best of a bad situation?” Husk says with a small, self-deprecating smirk. You whine softly in your sleep and Husk’s hand returns automatically to your hair. You relax under his touch with a quiet exhale, and Husk returns to the slow, comforting rhythm his paw had had in your hair before.

“Ain’t that all we can be down here?” Angel shoots back, finishing his drink. He stands, running a hand through his hair and swaying slightly on his feet as the booze hits his system in earnest. “’m jus’ sayin’… jump on it while ya can, ‘cause an ass like that gets a hell of a lotta attention in the clubs. She won’ be single forever.”

A quiet growl escapes Husk unbidden, and Angel’s grin widens.

“Alright, let’s wake her ass up, already. ‘s time for bed.”

“I, uh…” Husk clears his throat, color staining his muzzle. “I got her. You head on up.”

“Ohhhh, you takin’ my advice then?”

“I swear, Angel, you don’t let up, I’m gonna kick your scrawny ass.”

Angel winks at him, blows him a kiss. “Be careful, baby. I might like it.”

Husk rolls his eyes as Angel turns on his heel and traipses upstairs, humming a taunting melody that echoes off the high ceilings. The bartender is pretty sure he recognizes it as being one about ‘sitting in a tree’, and he grumbles quietly under his breath about ‘asshole spiders’ as he rounds the bar.

He comes to a standstill by your side, the color in his cheeks burning deeper. Husk finds that he doesn’t want to wake you. He knows this sudden reluctance is stupid, but… as strange as this strange, one-sided intimacy he’s concocted between you is in this moment, he knows he’ll crave it again as soon as he breaks it by waking you up. He strokes his claws through your hair and down onto your shoulder, casting a glance back up at the stairs before squeezing your arm gently.

“Hey, sweetness,” he murmurs, the pet-name slipping out unbidden. He touches a hand to the strands of hair that have fallen over your cheek. “’s time for bed.”

You stir reluctantly, your mind conjuring images of soft hands and a softer voice as you edge back into wakefulness. Your voice comes in a rough whisper, weighed down with sleep. “…Husk?”

He smiles softly as you meet his eye, making move to pull his paw away. He stops when you lean into it, your brow furrowing slightly. “We’re closin’ up for the night, doll. Time to go.”

You groan, the furrow between your brows deepening. “No… stairs…”

He breathes a quiet laugh, carefully pulling you up against him. You turn into him as soon as you feel the warmth of his fur, resting your cheek against his chest. Husk freezes for a moment, lips parted slightly in surprise. Not just at you… but at his own body’s reaction.

Husk has done just about everything in Hell. His time as an Overlord… well, he’s pretty sure he’s done some things that’d even make Angel blush. But you… just the feeling of you leaning into him like this… it’s making his heartrate rise like nothing else has before. Warmth that he hasn’t experienced since… since he was topside was spreading through every part of him.

“C’mere.” he mutters, bending down and scooping you up into his arms. You make a soft noise of surprise but don’t complain, and Husk smiles to himself as you settle into his embrace. Curling your hands up in the fur of his chest, you tuck your head up under his chin, nuzzling into the warmth and softness of him. Husk’s breathing hitches slightly, his eyes closing for a moment before he begins to make his way up the stairs.

“Strong…” you murmur into his chest, curling fur around your finger idly.

“Years of tossin’ drunks.”

“’m not drunk,” you slur, lips brushing against the base of his throat. Husk shivers. “You’re… drunk.”

Husk hums in amusement, tapping his chin against your hair reassuringly. “Don’t worry, sweetness. Wouldn’t do that to a girl like you.”

“Good,” you smile tipsily into collarbone. You lower your voice further, speaking in a stage whisper. “’Cause, I’m… drunk.”

“I noticed,” he chuckles, grateful for the elevator Lucifer installed during the rebuild. He manages to extend a claw and press the button for your floor, stepping into the little room as the door ding open. “’s our little secret.”

“Mmm…”

“Got your key?”

You nod, digging into your pocket clumsily. You almost drop it as soon as you hold it up, a drunken giggle slipping out of you. You let your head fall back against his shoulder lazily as he carries you to your door. Husk turns his head to bump his cheek against your temple, and you reach up with your free hand to scratch your nails under his chin. A purr rumbles through him before he can stop it, but embarrassment doesn’t have a chance to take root when he hears the happy little gasp you let out in response.

The purr continues as he sets you down on your bed, bending down to tug off your shoes before meeting your eye again. “You good? You need anything?”

You frown, shaking your head, lower lip pouting. Fuck, he wants to kiss it. “Where’re you going?”

“To my room,” he tells you gently. He smooths hair away from your face with careful claws, letting them linger against your cheek. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

You groan, rolling onto your side to better face him. You’re already waning again, your eyes falling closed and your voice barely more than a mumble. “When’s morning?”

“Sooner than you think,” Husk says; the sky outside already beginning to burn with the first haze of the blood red sun. He hesitates a moment before he bends down again, brushing a kiss against your temple. “Goodnight, love.”

“Mmm…” you sigh, tugging a pillow to your chest. “Night, Husk.”

#husk #husk fic #my fic #mckeeks #hazbin husk x reader #husk hazbin hotel #husk x reader #husk fanfic #husk fanfiction #hazbin hotel x reader #hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel husk #hazbin husk

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