#sent me back thousand miles
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spnsmile · 3 months ago
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im not unseeing this 📷 @mishacollins
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marblehazel · 2 months ago
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Sitter
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dbf!Joel Miller x f!reader
You’re spending spring break alone at home while your father is five thousand miles away when all of sudden, you fall sick. Enter Joel Miller: your father’s buddy, sent by him to check on you.
Tags: Explicit MDNI, no outbreak, age gap, no mother in the picture but your father has a named girlfriend (sorry), no bra household, dry humping, footjob while watching SpongeBob, oral (m and f receiving)
Word count: 6.8k
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“Dad,” your voice is hoarse like it has just come out from a dying goose, and you spend the next five seconds trying to clear your throat.
“So like, I’m… sick, kinda, but it’s not really bad, so—” A train of coughs that feels like they are going to tear your lungs apart. “—sorry about that. It’s nothing. Don’t worry too much, don’t even think about it. I just wanted to let you know.” Another coughing fit. “Okay. Have fun, I love you.”
You click your phone screen and let the voicemail find its way to your father’s ancient block of telecommunication. It’s 11 p.m. for you, 5 a.m. in Tuscany, you calculate with your fingers. You might be wrong. Either way, your father is probably asleep. He had been away for a couple of days with his girlfriend Amy for her nephew's wedding. And they plan to spend another week there, because it’s their anniversary, and Amy had always wanted to go to Italy.
“Will you be okay?” your father asked, apologetic. He leaned onto your bedroom door’s frame while you were unpacking your backpack.
“Yeah, Dad, what am I, eight? Go.” you laughed lightheartedly.
“It’s just you came down here from school and then I go, you know. I wish you’d said yes and come with us.”
“And third-wheeling you and Amy for ten days?” you giggled. “Dad, it’s okay. Come on. We’ll still have the weekend together when you come back.”
You heard Amy call for your father from downstairs, followed by a question about his dress shirt. You grinned, gesturing for him to go.
“Me and Amy will make sure the fridge is full, okay?” he says, voice fading as he steps down the stairs. You shook your head. You’ve survived on dry ramens and day-old coffees in college. You would be okay. Right?
Loud buzzer sound. The game show on the TV you put on to distract yourself from the fever is not doing a good job. You try to focus, but the noises coming out of it sound muffled, and the colors are just so bright and saturated that they make your head spin. You click on mute before slamming the remote on the coffee table, and it lands safely on some crumpled Kleenex. A thermometer is sitting next to the box, the tiny display screen blank. It’s broken, and you make a mental note to scold your father for always keeping faulty things around the house as if he’s going to fix them. A few bottles of pills you fished out of your father’s medicine cabinet to at least ease your aching muscles are toppled next to a half-empty Nyquil Nighttime Relief bottle with its cap screwed but crooked.
You second-guess your decision to let your father know that you’re unwell. But again, he hates surprises, so letting him know that he might find your rotting corpse in front of his TV when he gets back is, perhaps, doing him a favor.
It’s dark in the living room, and the leather couch is sticking to your sweaty leg. You should probably put sweatpants and a hoodie on instead of biker shorts and a stretched out shirt that looks more like a rag than a proper clothing item. But climbing the stairs now? No, thank you.
You shift your body, trying to find the best position to fall asleep in since the wrong angle seems to block your nasal passage. A groan leaves your throat when you can’t pull the fleece blanket to cover your body. You find out you are sitting on both ends of it. To hell with it.
You blink slowly. The Nyquil seems to start working. Can’t sneeze or cough if you’re knocked out, you think. You close your eyes, the colors from the TV somehow find their way in and flash washed-out red, white, yellow behind your eyelids. You’re too tired to reach for the remote.
Maybe you’ll feel better when you wake up.
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You jolt when something cold makes contact with your forehead. Within microseconds, you yeet the thing away hysterically, hitting yourself in the process. The thing flies and lands on the wooden floor with a wet, thwap sound.
“Easy, easy,”
If it was just a little bit not so sudden and confusing and designed to constrict your blood vessels until your organs fail, you would have yelped. You nearly snap your neck trying to find the source of the voice, and your tense shoulders fall as quickly as they were raised when you notice the familiar face belonging to a broad frame standing next to the couch.
It’s Joel Miller.
Of course it’s him. Your father likely has him on speed dial.
He and your father go way back. Went to the same school, crushed on the same girls, hit the same bong, and so on. They were even in a band together. Your father has pictures of them from years ago, with greasy hair, earrings, bass and drumsticks in their hands. Cringe.
Well, just your father. Not Joel though.
You haven’t seen him in like, what, a year? And yet he looks good as ever. Well, Joel has always looked good his whole life. When you saw the pictures of him from high school you thought, Oh Fuck, I Would Totally Have A Crush On This Guy. And then you had to sit in silence and ponder, because, well, you are having a crush on this guy. Sort of. Maybe.
He bends over to pick up the thing you just yeeted on the floor, which is apparently a washcloth, and dunk it in a basin on the side table, which is now clean from all the stuff that was previously there.
“Joel,” you chirp. “Hi.”
“Hey.” he smiles as he squeezes the washcloth. Beads of water come trickling down his knuckles back to the basin, gleaming in front of the still-turned-on TV.  “How are you feeling?”
“I’m okay. What time is this?” you straighten up, rummaging around the blanket to find your phone to no avail.
“One-thirty. Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you. Your old man asked me to check on you." He folds the cloth in two and dab it before stepping closer and pressing it against your forehead, nice and cold. His other hand supports your head from the back, basically cradling your skull.
“Your front door was unlocked when I came in.” says Joel, as if you are capable of digesting any kind of information at the moment. “You shouldn’t do that.”
“Sorry,” you say sheepishly. “And sorry my Dad made you come here. You didn’t have to, it’s not so bad.”
“Come on, it’s only a ten minute drive. ‘S okay. I checked your forehead. Not too bad, but still a fever, y’know. You took the Nyquil?”
The thought of Joel Miller touching your forehead with his palm in the dark while you were asleep somehow makes the neurons in your brain stop interlinking for a second. Were you sleeping with your mouth open the whole time? You knew you did fall asleep that way since you couldn’t breathe through your nose. Man.
“I did.” you nod, shaking the thought away. You feel your lungs tighten, though. Another coughing fit incoming.
“Good,” Joel presses his hand to your forehead again as if trying to make sure the wet washcloth is properly glued onto your face. The soft pressure disrupts your composure and you cough like a machine gun submerged in a container full of Elmer’s glue, hacking up thick mucus up your throat. Joel leaves your side with hurried steps and, within seconds, somehow has a paper cup under your chin for you to spit into.
You try to grab the cup, flustered, but he doesn’t let go and instead helps you sit up straight, patting your back.
“Spit.” he says as you wheeze with phlegm in your mouth like an imbecile. You awkwardly grab his wrist for support and spit the mucus out into the cup. Soon you’ll realize how foolish it is to grab someone’s wrist using the same hand you used to cover your mouth while coughing. The string of saliva takes a ridiculously long time to break free from your lips, but Joel is unfazed. He takes a glance at the mucus, likely checking the color and consistency.
“Thanks,” you blink rapidly, still processing.
“You wanna go to urgent care?” Joel asks.
“Nu-uh,” you shake your head. “I’m okay, I promise. I feel a lot better already.”
“It’s probably just a bug,” he pats your back again before walking to the kitchen to dispose of the cup. “How long has it been going on?”
You wait until he comes back because you don’t think you can speak loud enough for him to be able to hear you from the kitchen without tearing your throat apart. Joel thinks you didn’t hear him the first time and is about to repeat his question when you say, “Uh, it got progressively worse last night.” you realize how serious that sounds and quickly add, “But not like, worse worse. I mean, compared to,”
“And before that?”
“Just a scratchy throat.”
He looks like he’s mentally taking notes with arms folded in front of his stomach. It’s the first time that night you take a full look at him under the glow of the muted TV. You can’t really make the colors out, but he’s wearing a dark t-shirt under an unbuttoned flannel shirt and jeans. He’s keeping his beard kind of thin compared to the last time you saw him, but still the same, well-tended mustache that makes a strong presence over his lips. You can’t help but notice the graying strands of hair that stick out among his dark, messy hair, complimenting him so well. You are pretty sure the ratio between light to dark hair has been shooting up this year. You like it.
And his eyes. They’re rich, and dark, and the fact that he furrows half of the time that it creates permanent dents between his eyebrows just makes him ridiculously hotter.
The mucus factory must be working overtime tonight because you can feel the slight slippery feeling of lubrication where you’re sitting. Fucking stupid, you think, read the room.
All of sudden, a lightning flashes, lighting up your surroundings before the grumbling roar of thunder follows through. For a second, you can make out the shapes and silhouettes of everything in the room like a photograph. Joel fits rightly in the left third of this main piece in your mind exhibition. You wish you could take screenshots with your eyes and keep it to admire later.
Joel glances out the window. Heat lightning reveals the blobs of clouds outside, and the strong wind is starting to blow debris to rattle the windows. He shifts his focus on you again. “Did you eat?”
“I’m okay,” you shrug. Storm is coming, Joel better go home before it gets worse.
He chuckles. “Yes or no?”
That chuckle tickles something deep inside of you. You smile shyly. “Yes, Joel. I’m okay.”
Joel stares at you, and you are pretty sure he senses that you did not, in fact, eat dinner. “I’m starvin’, actually,” he gets up and takes his flannel shirt off, and then tosses it on the couch before making his way towards the kitchen. You scream internally at the sight of his biceps like a deranged fangirl.
“Mind if I take a look in the fridge?” he yells while opening the fridge door. Just being polite. He knows your father will let him dismantle the house and take the pieces home if he wants to.
You free the tangled blanket from around your legs, only noticing now how under your old, sweat-dampened, Marlin Club shirt, your nipples are as erect as fireman’s poles. Was it the temperature, Joel, or both, you can’t conclude.
Joel whistles when he finds that the fridge is full. He grabs a can of beer and pops it open, studying the contents of the fridge and thinking of what he can cook for you as he gulps the beer down.
You follow him to the kitchen, jump to sit on the kitchen island as Joel grabs some produce off the fridge and sets them next to you. He looks at you, blinks a couple of times, then occupies himself with the food cabinet over the counter. You try to be helpful by unwrapping the basil and cherry tomatoes.
“So, how’s school?” Joel breaks the silence as he washes his hands. “And don’t just say okay, please.”
“You got me there,” you laugh. “Nothing really amusing, really.”
Then a few more superficial, classic-catching-up questions while you both prepare the pesto. Joel asks about the trip to Italy, how your father mentioned proposing to Amy soon, what do you think about that. You ask about his brother Tommy, work, and the average cost to renovate a room, to which Joel answers in detail really nicely. Then come the usual do-you-remember-when stories, melting down the strange and awkward atmosphere between the two of you. Laughters fill up the room. It’s fun and familiar.
“Did you remember when you used to call me Uncle Joel?” Joel sneers as he tosses a pan to the sink. “You used to be so nice and polite.”
“I was like six!” You snorted. “And you can’t even pay me to call you that again, Joel.”
Then, the once-your-pops-and-I anecdotes. You’ve heard some of them from your own father’s mouth, but you still listen to Joel’s versions eagerly anyway.
At one point, you start to cough again so Joel instructs you to just sit down on the counter. You don’t complain—it means you can just sit back and watch him from the back and imagine how it would feel to run your fingers through his hair.
When Joel stirs the pasta with the pesto sauce, the weather has gone full-blown insane out there.
“You should stay the night,” you try to sound as nonchalant as possible. His presence is sending arrays of erroneous signals to your reproductive organs, which will most likely result badly if he stays, but how can you let him drive home in this kind of weather?
Joel hands you a fork and pushes a plate of fusilli for you to eat. “Eh, we’ll see,” he shrugs. “I don’t mind drivin’ through a storm, but I can’t just leave you alone if you don’t feel well.”
“Dad told me you got a folded chair smashed through your windshield last summer.” You take a bite, the thick sauce coats your tastebuds and you groan in satisfaction, even though you can’t really taste it to the fullest because of your stuffy nose.
“Oh, yeah, that.” Joel chuckles. “I was lucky it aimed for the shotgun.”
He eats standing up across you, one elbow on the counter. When you both finish the meal, he takes your plate and starts washing the dishes. You tell him to do it later, and then offer your help, and he says no to both. You insist on drying the dishes anyway, standing side by side with him.
After the very late dinner, the two of you retreat to the living room. Joel asks you to take some medication again and you decline, stating that you feel better already.
“Headstrong, ain’t ya?” Joel sighs. “Okay, sleep then. Wanna sleep in your bed?”
“Not really sleepy,” you shake your head. “Feel free to take Dad’s bed, by the way. You have work in the morning, right?”
“Nah, I’m alright by the couch.” Joel scoots to make room for his legs and lies on his back, groaning like every other old person when they finally get to be horizontal. His feet are dangling on one side, his head on the opposite armrest. You take the old recliner that doesn’t even recline anymore near Joel’s feet, facing both the TV and Joel at an angle.
The TV is still on, showing the same game show but already on a later season. You unmute it and watch it together with Joel for five minutes before you realize that none of you has laughed yet, and you ask Joel if he wants to watch a movie instead. He says why not.
You open a streaming service and browse for movies on the home page. Joel probably likes action and other classic old man genre types. You pretend to read some of the summaries and see if Joel perks up at one of them, but he doesn’t seem to really care about the TV.
“I don’t know what to watch,” you admit. “Do you wanna pick the movie?”
Truth is, Joel can’t give a single shit about no goddamn movie. He’s been distracted by so many thoughts in his mind. But he gestures for you to scroll back up anyway.  “Let’s see the trending ones.”
You stop at a tally of newly released and currently popular films at the top of the page, giving Joel a chance to read about them before moving to the next one.
“This one looks excitin’.” Joel points at the screen. The poster shows a man in classic Viking attire, staring intently at the viewer with striking blue eyes. Some kind of pelt is draped over his shoulders. His hands are on top of each other, resting on a sword handle, the blade facing the earth. Dried mud and blood are splattered over his face and armor. The Conquest, it says. You don’t recognize the actors listed. The summary says something about revenge, passion, blood, power, blah blah. You click play.
The movie opens with a battle scene. The movie looks like it runs out of lighting budget, and you need to squint to be able to tell what they are actually doing. Nothing can be heard except grunts and blades clashing. You look over at Joel to see his expression, but he’s looking at you. He quickly averts his gaze back to the screen.
Twenty minutes pass, and none of you are really paying attention to the plot. Not until the main guy enters a wooden tub filled with steaming hot water with his asscheeks out, and then a woman enters the scene with nothing but a thin white veil covering her body. She drops the cloth and joins him. The warm light from the torches is highlighting her breasts.
“Woah,” you look at Joel again, but he says nothing, but you can see his Adam’s apple moving awkwardly.
They kiss, and he grabs her bosom with his humongous palms and knead them. Then he buries his face between them, with the woman kissing the top of his head. After what feels like a millenia, he lifts her lower half from the water, and then puts her down to sit on the edge of the tub before performing cunnilingus. She moans.
You start to feel a pool of heat brewing inside of you. This feels invasive of their privacy, somehow, with no soundtrack added, just fire crackling and water splashing and erotic moaning.
Joel clears his throat. “Uh, maybe we shouldn’t watch this,”
“You’re the one who picked the movie.” you say, eyes fixated on the screen.
“Well, it didn’t say nothin’ about eatin’ a lady out in the summary.”
He reaches for the remote and turns the TV off, leaving only the sound of rain hitting your window in your eardrums.
“Hey,” you whine. “That’s not nice. I didn’t say yes.”
“It’s late. Go to sleep.” Joel folds his arms over his chest, partly staying warm, partly because he’s so flustered he doesn’t know what to do with his hands. He then closes his eyes, knowing damn well he’s far from feeling tired let alone fall asleep.
“We’re both adults anyways,” you mutter, but Joel doesn’t move. He’s probably actually tired.
Your gaze is affixed on him. He surely doesn’t look like he’s sleeping in peace right now but he’s still handsome nonetheless. His old shirt is a tad bit too tight around his biceps. You can see the protruding veins beautifully decorating his arms and hands. His legs are slightly crossing with one ankle on top of another, and his breath is steady. He’s gorgeous.
In your wildest dreams, you would jump to straddle Joel, and he would grab your hips and fuck you to death. Is it bad that your immune system is fighting one of the worst battles in your life, and yet your number one priority is somehow to get laid, by this man specifically? It’s both excruciating and foolish. 
The movie you just saw doesn’t help, either. In fact, it makes everything worse. Your mind keeps wandering back to it, the way the man eats the woman out, and then back to Joel, imagining the top of his head would look like when he eats you out. Fuck. You know that if you don’t get to touch this man in the next 30 minutes, you are either going to combust or burn everything in the vicinity.
You close your eyes, try to do the mindfulness practice you once saw in a magazine. Inhale. Hold. Exhale. You repeat “Release me from this earthly desire” in your head like a rookie buddhist wizard trying to cast a spell with a broken wand. You ball your fists in your lap so hard the joints start to hurt.
It’s not working.
Your mind keeps wandering back to different scenarios, different positions, different spots around the house. Low grunts, fingertips pressing your sides, tongue between your lips…
You can’t do it anymore. You need release. You need to at least be able to feel something, a little reward for your throbbing clit. Trying your best to be as casual as possible, you pull your folded legs closer to your body, your left heel even closer to your biker-short-covered cunt, and shift your body weight on it.
The pleasure that has been building up there bursts like a balloon. You sigh.
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There are two things that Joel is not: young, and oblivious.
Oh, he is totally aware of what’s happening. You are not doing a good job trying to be subtle. From the non-stop staring, to the constant fidgeting, to the borderline sexual sighs, to the hard nipples, Joel knows you are going through something that is completely different from just being ill.
And he totally understands. He’s been there, done that. There was a time when his back wasn’t hurting and his face hadn’t been ‘graced’ with crow’s feet and age spots yet, when his hormones were at all-time high and his blood liked nothing more than flowing to his cock recklessly at the slightest inducement. He understands what you are going through.
So when you start grinding yourself onto your left heel followed by soft moans, he is not exactly surprised, just mostly in awe of your debauched audacity.
That is too much, even for him. He clears his throat, hoping you’d catch the hint and stop for good. But you don’t, and your eyes are closed and your eyebrows are knitted together in concentration, and your hips are moving slowly, sensually, chasing something, the sight of it stirs something up in his guts.
It is vulgar, and most importantly indecent in every way, but Joel can feel his own arousal creeping up no matter how hard he tries to convince himself that it is not happening.
He calls your name. Your body responds faster than the critically thinking part of your brain and you stop like you just got cursed by Medusa. 
You can physically feel your heart drop to your ass. Your neck moves stiffly to find his eyes like a broken animatronic. “Yeah?” you croak.
“Do you think I don’t know what you’re doin’?”
You blink. Deny? Act stupid? Admit? Deny, deny. Wait, deny? No, act stupid.
“What… Do you mean?” you say, and you realize that you chose the dialogue option that actually sounds the dumbest.
Joel clicks his tongue. “Might as well hump me if you want it that much.”
Wait, what? Your eyes light up. “Really?”
Joel stares at you in genuine perplexity before lifting one hand up to massage his temples. He takes a deep breath, and in the softest way possible—like telling a puppy she can’t eat electronic parts—sighs, “No.”
“Oh,” you cover your mouth. “I thought you meant—“
“Yeah, yeah. My bad.” he sighs again, sounding significantly more frustrated. He then uses his hands to support himself to a sitting position, composing himself.
Silence. You don’t dare to look at Joel, but your cunt keeps pulsing like a metal detector. You understand that the beeping—desire—will not die down unless you get the valuable artefact from the bronze age—Joel—in your hand. Is this time to be bold and brash?
“Joel,” you call, and you can swear that was not a sober decision, but the stage curtains have been pulled back, and you are pushed to the stage to play your part.
“Hm?”
“What if… I hump you anyway?” you stand up, and your knees are slightly buckling but you act tough and bold regardless.
Joel’s jaws opens and stays slightly agape for a while before he says, “That fever is really messin’ with your brain, huh? Sit down.”
“You’re bricked up, Joel.” you accuse. You don’t actually know for sure since Joel keeps a hand on his lap to cover his crotch, but Joel gulps. Gotcha.
“Unrelated to you.” he hisses in defense.
You scoff.
“Joel, please,” you grouse, voice cracking and desperate. “I want this so bad.” you whisper as you take slow, threatening steps towards Joel until your crotch is not even an inch away from his knee. “I want you so bad.”
“This ain’t right, kid.” Joel puts a hand on the outer side of your arm, and it’s worth pointing out that he’s shaking. “You know that.”
Joel doesn’t tell you that he’s battling demons in his head, and he’s currently losing. A million impulses are catapulting burning boulders onto the gate of his conscience, and all he got is one bleeding, sickly troop with a chipped wooden sword. But he puts his best stern expression despite the fact that his body is betraying him.
He could leave now. Push you away. Clear his head. Come back later. Or not come back at all.
But he knows he doesn’t want to. He can hear his blood rushing and his heart singing battle cry. Not to mention his cock, hard and nearly burns a hole through his jeans.
A long pause. You want to push him further, but you know you don’t need to. The black marlin printed on your shirt does a worthless attempt at distracting Joel from your hard nipples, putting him into a trance.
Joel takes a deep breath. He knows he has lost. “You can help yourself, that’s all,” he nods, more trying to convince himself rather than talking to you. “Just to make you shut up and get rest. That’s it.”
That’s an unenthusiastic barf-colored green light, but it is a green light nonetheless.
You put your hands on Joel’s shoulder before putting your left knee next to his right leg and lower yourself down onto his thigh, while your other knee rests in front of his crotch and presses onto his raging hard-on. Your cunt pulsates in pleasure upon contact, and you let out a gasp. Joel anxiously places his hands on your sides to keep you steady, one thumb ‘accidentally’ brushing your nipple, earning a whine. You lock gaze with him, and start moving.
The friction sends buzzes up your head. You make each grind count, and every single one feels like heaven despite the layers of fabric between your cunt and his beefy thigh. Moans and Joel’s name spill from your lips indeliberately, and he tightens his grip on your body until his fingertips turn white as if you would fly away with a gust of wind if he doesn’t. If you weren’t so absorbed in your own pleasure, you would’ve noticed how shallow and rapid Joel’s breath has become. It turns him on watching you getting off because of him, using him, how your eyelids flutter and your pupils are having a hard time staying in place.
Joel wants to break free from his denim, badly. While he consciously thought, planned, and stated that he’s doing what he’s doing only for your satisfaction and be done with it, it isn’t exactly nice having your kneecap pushing button-flies shaped caves on his crotch repeatedly. Especially not when his cock, which probably has its own brain, has been begging to be taken care of, too.
You, on the other side, are having the best time of your life. As your climax is building up in your south region, you smile at Joel, who smiles back. His hand leaves your ribs briefly to brush the hair that is sticking to your sweaty forehead away from your face.
“That feels good, doesn’t it?”
You nod weakly. “So good, Joel, so good,”
For a moment there you consider kissing him. His face is merely two inches away from you, and he looks ravishing, all sweaty and blushing. And how you just want to have your tongue inside his mouth, his lips all over yours sloppily. But that feels like overstepping boundaries, like a whole uncharted area you can’t cross, spreading the flu aside. You opt to put your chin on his shoulder instead, trying to focus on your orgasm.
“I want to see your face,” Joel says in your ear, his beard grazing your cheek. Takes you three whole seconds to process that, and when you do, it tingles your core. Before you can answer, he continues, “You’re so beautiful like this.”
You pull back, meeting his gaze with flushing cheeks. You don’t know what to say, and maybe you don’t have to. You continue to be dumbfounded when Joel stops your motion and helps you to stand up.
“Hold on,” he says as he undoes the buttons of his jeans. “I need to take these off.”
He quickly kicks the jeans off his legs, revealing a dark gray boxer briefs under. A wet patch adorns the bulge right in the center. He then manspreads and gestures for you to come back onto him, to which you comply. “C’mere,” he says, “I need to feel you on me.”
You straddle him, positioning your cunt right on his cock, and on everybody and their mother, it feels good. No, it feels right. Joel lets out a groan that cuts into a gasp when you start to grind. “Fuck, yeah,” he grabs your ass, helping you settle on a rhythm.
The contour of Joel’s cock, albeit still covered by the fabric of his boxer briefs, touches every last nerve ending of your cunt in such a different way that his thigh did. You pick your pace up, getting the pleasure to build up again. 
“Joel, I’m gonna come,” you moan, voice quivering. You rake your fingers through his hair, your noses almost touching.
“Keep going, baby,” he says through a smile. “Don’t hold back. You sound so pretty.”
The encouragement is shooting up fireworks in your lower belly, and you start making more sounds. You’re close. So close.
“Makin’ me so hard all night, you,”
You whimper as you come, hips convulsing. Time slows down, and it feels like your cunt is pulled towards a strong gravitational force within your own body as you are sinking down a quicksand, all while pleasure forces your brain to reboot itself.
“That’s it, that’s it. There you go. You’re so good.”
Joel holds the back of your head while you’re laying on his chest, limp. When you pull yourself away from him, he presses a palm to your cheek, smiling. “Attagirl.”
When you finally gather yourself, you pull away from Joel, leaving a huge wet spot on where you just had your cunt on, and scoot to the spot next to him on the couch. You are about to lean onto his shoulder when he stands up and picks his jeans up from the floor. He sees the wet trail of arousal you left on the fabric in the thigh area and snickers.
“Damn, kid, you’re practically a snail,” he points to it. “Poor thing.”
You wince. “What are you doing?”
“Puttin’ my pants on?” he answers in the exact same tone, fixing the position of his boxer briefs.
“But you haven’t even come yet!” you protest. “What the fuck? Take them off!”
“That’s not what I agreed to, remember? I help you come so you’ll shut up and sleep. You’ve come, now shut up, and go to sleep.” he lays it out like basic math while you press the base of your palms onto your eyelids, confounded.
“You’re a sick person,” you shake your head, and then point to his crotch. “You’re literally still hard.”
“That has nothin’ to do with anythin’.”
You stare at the open space, like you’re trying to break the fourth wall in a sitcom. Can you believe this guy?
“Joel, your line is ‘I’m going to fuck you so hard.’ Now let’s start again from the top.”
Joel, who’s struggling trying to fit his bulge back in the jeans without hurting it, stops fussing with his button-fly shortly to push your head back—softly—to the couch. “Sleep,” he drags his palm over your face to close your eyelids.
“Joooooel,”
“Your line is ‘Yes, Joel, good night.’”
“Yes, Uncle Joel, good night, Uncle Joel,” you mock as you swiftly jump from the couch and pull his jeans down to his ankle and force him to step out of it. You hear Joel yelling hey, hey, hey as he tries to simultaneously fight you and not hurt you. You throw the pair of pants across the room with all your might and it lands with a loud thud.
“What are your pants made of, steel?”
“What is wrong with you?” he takes a step to fetch it, but you stand up and push him back to the couch. Joel is for sure going easy on you, because if he wanted to, he could definitely launch you through the walls. Instead, he just accepts his fate and stares at the ceiling, defeated.
“Nobody sleeps with jeans on, Joel,” you reach for the TV remote again. “Now let’s watch something again and then sleep.”
“We’re not watching the viking movie again.”
“We’re not watching the viking movie again,” you repeat. “We’re watching SpongeBob.”
Joel groans.
“What, you don’t like SpongeBob?”
“Not my era,” Joel says. “I watched Gumby. Tom and Jerry. The Muppet Show.”
“No wonder you act like the heckling old guys.”
“I don’t, but, sure,”
“Oh, you’re more like the eagle. So serious all the time.”
Joel rolls his eyes. You play the first episode of the first season of SpongeBob Squarepants, and the familiar intro begins. You take a look at Joel in the corner of your eyes, how he has one of his forearm on the top of his head, bicep almost as thick as his head. The other hand is resting on his thigh, and you can tell that he’s at least still half-hard. You wonder how he looks under those boxer briefs.
On the screen, Squidward and Mr. Krabs are climbing a post with a sea of raging anchovies under them. Joel’s lips slightly turn upward. Ha, eat that, Mr. Old Cartoon Head.
You shift so that you’re on your back, legs resting on Joel’s lap. He gives you a look, but doesn’t say anything. Minutes later, totally absorbed with SpongeBob pestering his neighbor with a reef blower, he has a hand on your ankle, caressing it without much thought.
They would have written about you in a Greek tragedy the way you’re consumed by greed and lust. When your toes stroke Joel’s bulge, totally by accident and not precalculated at all, you pretend like you’re captivated by the TV. It’s hard and you can definitely discern the ridge of possible veins and the head of his cock.
Joel exhales, sounding so done and tired.  “I know you were going to do this,”
But he doesn’t push you away. And that excites you.
You don’t say anything or look away from the screen, but you keep rubbing the outline of his cock, which is now more visible and grows slightly larger, with the space between your big and index toe. Your brain automatically puts the ice clinking in a vase while SpongeBob is getting dry under Sandy’s treedome as background noise to amplify Joel’s restrained grunts.
You like this. You like having Joel wrapped around your finger. Soon after, you withdraw your legs and sit up, causing him to open his eyes over the sudden halt.
You stare at him, bold. “Would you like my mouth?”
Joel nods.
You don’t even wait for a second. Joel helps you take off his boxer briefs, the length of his hard-on springs out like jack-in-the-box. You admire how it looks, how the tip is totally sticky and glistening, before lowering your tongue. Joal lets out a sound akin to a whimper as you let your saliva ooze down the underside of his cock and quickly retrieve it into your mouth using your tongue. He tastes slightly salty, like sweat. And if you could smell better you’d see how hypnotizing his scent is, like calling you to stick his cock down your throat until the world collapses.
“That’s it,” Joel says, out of breath. His cock is now grazing the soft wall of your cheek, and he wonders how experienced you actually are because you definitely don’t act like an amateur. You use one elbow to support yourself, the other one taking turns massaging his balls and the base of his cock.
The only downside of this is that Joel can’t really look at your face. He craves the sight of you, how your lips are wrapped around his cock, and how your cheek is bulging like a squirrel full of him. One of his hands crawls up your back under your shirt, rubbing it before it finds a new target: your breasts. He kneads on one, thumb flicking the bud. You can’t help but moan and take him deeper, sending vibrations from your throat to his cock.
Joel knows he won’t last much longer, and he would very much like to keep this thing going as long as possible. So he asks you to stop, averting your disappointment by lifting up your shirt and sucking on one nipple. He’s surprisingly tender with it, taking his time. You reach a hand to his cock again, trying to at least get him off with your hand, but he pulls your wrists back and locks them on your sides.
“Joel,” you whine. “Fuck me. Please.”
“No can do,” Joel answers as his lips are trailing down to your stomach, where he peppers kisses all over. You scoot backwards and like reading your mind, he tugs the hem of your shorts down to your ankle before yanking it away, revealing your throbbing, desperate cunt. He then dives down, nose pressing against your mound as his tongue explores the new treasure island.
Just like in the movie.
You try to grab on something, anything, but the leather couch does nothing but squeaks, and Joel instinctively laces his fingers with yours. The view of the top of your head is exactly how you imagined it would be. The moans released from your lips are rather loud, especially when Joel creates a suction cup with his lips right on your clit.
“Joel, Joel,” you grasp his hands with all your might. “This is fucking unfair, I’m so— I’m gonna—”
Before you get to finish your sentence, your body already decides that it’s time for another release. Your heels are planted firmly against the couch as your hips lift to the air, and Joel lets go. He kneels before your cunt, pumps himself to oblivion and comes all over you before you get to collect yourself, staining your stomach and breasts. Later you’ll realize that the first spurt went a little bit rogue and landed on your hair.
“Fuck you, man,” you complain, sticking out a middle finger at him. “I was supposed to make you come.”
Joel rests his head on the couch armrest, eyes closed. “You did.”
“I meant technically,” you attempt to nudge him with your leg, but he dodges and stands up to grab the washcloth he used to compress you with earlier. He then wipes your stomach and breasts with it, the cold water making you squirm.
“What now?” you ask when he hands you your clothes.
“Sleep. It’s four in the mornin’.” he says as he puts his stained, sticky, wet boxer briefs on and sits on the recliner. So you can’t drive me mad anymore, he says.
You whine, but you realize that your eyelids are actually very heavy. “Blowjob first time in the morning?” you offer before letting yourself drift off.
“Thought you were s’pposed to be sick.” Joel shakes his head. But he grins.
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bitterrfruit · 1 year ago
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price….. in a.. a.. cowboy hat
girl... you have no idea what you have done to me with this ask. Cowboy Price!?? I had so much fun with this, I might even do a part 2! I'm sorry this took me so long - I really hope you like it!!! ♡
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18+ mdni - cw: chasing, spanking - 3.2k words
John Price owns the ranch that neighbours your father's. You've got a habit of climbing the fence between them, snooping around Mr Price's property and leaving traces of your misbehaviour behind. This time, he catches you.
Here’s part 2!
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Daddy had warned you about wandering onto Mr Price’s property. The lichen-coated fence that separated his land and your father’s spanned miles; carving through tall dry grass, through woods of oak and pine trees, over a bumbling shallow creek. It was easy enough to climb over, but there was one little gap in the barrier, where the splintering planks had fallen from their fastenings. Tucked under a towering cottonwood tree, hidden by the grass, it was easy to wander through as if it were more of your own land on the other side.
Mr Price was a reticent man. An arguably shadowy figure, who you might occasionally see on horseback up on the hilltops of his ranch, tan cattleman hat bowed as he surveyed his acreage. You had met him, once or twice, as a girl. Then, he was in his early twenties, tall and aloof. Eldest of three sons, all three of whom had enlisted and served, sent to fight a war whose nature you were oblivious to in your innocence. He had been absent for years, and once his father was taken by whatever cancer he chose not to treat, John was the only one of the three to return.
His father you had known, vaguely, only as a man that your father despised with an unwavering passion. Some daft rivalry, dating back long before you were born. Whatever enmity existed between old men had not quite been passed on to the last remaining son, it seemed – where there might have been out-and-out conflict, existed only cold disinterest.
Thus explained your intrigue. You found yourself strangely captivated by him, in a nosy sort of way, once he had finally come home. Suddenly bearded and jaded, no longer the bright-faced young man you had distantly remembered, he had picked up where his father had left off. He lived alone, as far as you were aware, in his inherited six-bedroom farmhouse, atop a five-thousand-acre piece of natural splendour. Don’t bother the man, daddy would tell you, he’s not our friend.
But you had always been at the mercy of your impish curiosity. You couldn’t help it. It was an impulse, a compulsion, to stick your fingers where they didn’t belong. You would habitually explore his acres when you came home from college. You’d peek into his empty old shacks, pet his mooing cattle, pick handfuls of wildflowers from his unkempt fields.
Sometimes you’d sneak into his stables. You’d coo at his horses, stroke their velvet snouts, feed them the flowers you had plucked with a smile. They had grown to like you, his sweet horses, you wished you could know their names. They probably liked you more than him, no doubt, the mysterious little neighbour that would sneak in at dusk and feed them treats.
But your most regular habit – one that had gotten you into trouble before – was your proclivity for picking bunches of glossy red cherries from his rows of fruiting cherry trees. The orchard was under-loved and weedy, but those glimmering little baubles of ruby were just too delightful to let fall to the grass and rot.
He had caught you, once, while your arms were stretched far above you, reaching among the droopy branches and floppy leaves to pick the brightest sun-ripened cherries. You had heard him yelling;
“Hey! I see you in there, missy!”
Lips stained red, slick with sweet juice, you gave him a puckish grin before you ran off like a rabbit and hopped back over the fence.
“There’ll be trouble next time I catch you over here, little lady,” he had roared after you, watching you clamber over the oaken planks, “You hear me?”
It didn’t stop you, of course, whatever threat he threw at you. If anything, it emboldened you. Now you meandered down the rows of cherry trees like they belonged to you, picking the prettiest ones, popping them behind your teeth and meticulously nibbling the flesh from the pit, spitting them into the grass as you moved onto the next.
You left a trail wherever you ventured. Little wet pits and green tooth-pick stalks in piles around the place; in stables, along pathways, among the cows. Sometimes you’d leave juicy red fingerprints on doorframes, on the planks of the fence, on horse snouts – perfectly incriminating.
Today was no different. You wandered in scuffing sandals along an old dirt road, green sprigs of grass almost covering it entirely. Some old route that settlers may have followed state to state, spotted occasionally with two-hundred-year-old milestones, ignored just enough to have been spared from crumbling to dust.
Shaded by a cottonwood, humming to yourself, you created a little tipi with your cherry stalks on the flat top of a mile marker. Balanced them carefully as you licked the fruity flesh from your teeth. And when a gentle breeze blew it over, scattering your creation, you leaned over the stone to pick them from the dry gravel around its base.
One, two, three, four…
At the familiar rumble of a truck trundling over dirt, you straighten your spine, palms resting on the edge of the milestone as you look over your shoulder. A dusty Chevy square-body had already coasted to a stop behind you, red paint faded and matte after a decade or two of proper use and neglect.
There he was, the enigmatic man, hanging his elbow out of the open window. Mr Price squinted through the glare of the afternoon sun, crow’s-feet pinching, eyes barely shaded by the cattleman he wore even inside his truck. Your throat bobbed with a swallow as you caught his eye; the flitter of adrenaline buzzed in your chest, toeing the line between nerves and excitement.
With a disapproving suck of his teeth, he grumbled at you, “What’d I tell you about catching you back here?”
Plucking the short skirt of your cotton dress downward, to cover where it had ridden up, you spun around to face him demurely.
“You said there’d be trouble,” you answered with a simper, shyly scratching the back of one hand with the fingernails of the other.
“Mhm,” he grunted in agreement, tapping the metal door with his palm. He flicked his head in gesture for you to make your way around to the passenger side. “Get in.”
A crease pulled between your brows as you frowned at him. “What for?”
“I’m takin’ you back to your daddy,” he barked, irate and impatient, “I’ve got some words for him, too.”
You absently kicked the rocky dirt with the heel of your sandal, pouting at him. “What words would those be?”
With a snort, he rocked his head to peer out of his windshield, then back to you. “To keep a fuckin’ handle on his daughter.”
“Don’t think there’s anything you could tell him that he hasn’t already tried,” you mumbled, attempting to subtly flick the handful of cherry stalks you had collected to the ground.
He chuckled at that, breathy and hoarse, a hint of frustration in his throat. “I believe that,” he scoffed, “c’mon. In. Don’t make me ask again.”
You chewed on your lip, squinting in challenge as you stood up straight. “Or what?”
Glowering at you for a moment, his nostrils flared in frustration, as he seemed to swallow what must have been an inappropriate retort. Instead, his arm retracted through his window, and following the thud of the handle he swung open the door with his forearm.
With a hop he landed in the dirt, dust rising from under his well-worn leather boots. You hadn’t seen him up close in as long as you could remember, and Christ, how he towered over you. It may well have been the looming shadow of his sizzling anger that made him seem so daunting, so delightfully thrilling. You felt the shiver of gooseflesh tingle down the nape of your neck as you tilted your head to look up at him, sheepishly watching his steady approach.
“You’ll be in more trouble than I will if you lay a hand on me,” you spat, with a faint curl in your lips, almost daring.
He gazed down the bridge of his nose at you, wearing a snide and thin smirk, curled under his dense beard. But as his gaze raked you up and down, his sneer shifted quickly into a pout of disapproval, eyes caught on your chest.
“Care to explain this?” He queried severely, wide hand reaching for you; you leaned back further against the milestone behind you as if it might evade him. With his fingers he pinched the cream linen of your blouse, and for a moment you feared he was peering down the gap - brazenly inspecting your bare breasts underneath.
But, no, he instead curled the fabric between his fingers to show you the bright red stain dribbled down the front of your dress.
Oops. Your gut reaction was to giggle, yet unsure whether to admit guilt or feign ignorance.
As you parted your lips to speak, his judging hand suddenly moved to your face; a hold of your chin with a thumb and hooked finger. Piercing glare glued to your lips, his eyes sunk into a defeated ire, shadowed under the brim of his cattleman.
Your tongue writhed behind your teeth, heart thumping in your throat; as he tilted your head up and to the side. He used his other thumb to wipe your bottom lip, pointedly slowly, from the corner to the centre.
“You’re a little thief,” he gritted, dropping your head and peering at the red smear of juice on the pad of his thumb. “Aren’t you.”
Were you scared of him? It was hard to distinguish your fluttering heartrate between terror and thrill – perhaps a touch of both. Because you didn’t know him. You couldn’t trust him. You had no basis to assume he wouldn’t club you with a closed fist and throw you in the back of his pickup. But you felt the tingle his touch left behind on your lip. You got stuck on his pinched blue eyes, the glare of the sun reflecting off your dress illuminating them like they glowed from within.
“No I’m not,” you muttered, readjusting your dress after he left creases in the low neckline.
“And a liar?” He scoffed, as he grabbed one of your wrists – lifting your hand to reveal the sticky burgundy juice under your fingernails, red drips dried in your palm. “You’re covered in evidence, missy.”
Snatching your hand from him, you crossed your arms in petulance. “It’s not stealing if you don’t use it.”
“The fuck it isn’t,” he snapped, hooking his hands onto his hips. “Now get in the goddamn truck.”
“I can walk home,” you grumbled, “you’re not the boss of me.”
Huffing in anger, he leaned forward – looming over you with a domineering lour. “While you’re trespassing on my property – yes I am.”
Glaring up at him from under your brow, you nibble at the inside of your lip as you pouted at him. “What’re you gonna do if I don’t go with you. Kidnap me?”
He tilted his head, shrugged his shoulders. “I’ve got some rope in the truck,” he gruffly warned, “you gonna make me use it?”
Did you imagine the glint in his eye? Did you make up the lascivious quip in his tone? Whether or not it was dreamt, it plucked a coy smirk in your lips.
He was daring you, wasn’t he? Goading you to challenge him.
So with a glistening smile you reached for his cattleman hat – plucked it from his head, and swiftly placed it on your own. Too big to sit properly, you perched it on the back of your head so that you could still see out from under the brim.
“Hey!” He barked, lunging to snatch it back from you – but you bolted, kicking off your sandals, ducking under his arm and sprinting across the dirt road. Through the field of grass and dry wildflowers, you bounded like a deer. “Fuck’s sake.”
Holding his hat in place, you peeked over your shoulder in your escape, and he was swiftly in pursuit.
“God dammit, girl, you get back here!” He roared – already closing the distance. You hadn’t expected a man as bulky as him to sprint as fast as he was, charging after you like a grizzly.
You only giggled, leaping over fallen logs and stray planks of wood, weaving between the tall white oaks that littered his prairies.
“If you get so much as a dent in that hat I’ll fuckin’–”
“You’ll what?” You squealed through a grin, holding the skirt of your short dress in a fist against your hips, to allow your legs to sprint in full stride.
You heard him grunt, close to a growl, as he encroached on you. “You’ll be in big fuckin’ trouble!”
Breathless, panting, you failed to think of any witty response as you dashed towards one of the many stables on his expansive property – this one devoid of horses or livestock, simply a storage building for stacks of haybales and racks of tools. You’d perused it before. He might have found more discarded cherry pits in there.
He was behind you already, as you barrelled through the ajar stable door, stumbling into the centre of the dishevelled space. Illuminated only by the cracks of glowing sunlight that broke through gaps in the plywood boards, you stood amongst dust and scattered hay. You turned and faced the entrance, watching in anticipation as he steamed in after you.
Face burning red in fury and exasperation, he jabbed two angry fingers in your direction. “Give me the hat,” he ordered, throaty and severely – no longer joking.
But stubborn as you were, overly enjoying the needless chase, you were not going to capitulate that easily. You stood poised to dash, and with hunched shoulders, he prepared to hound after you.
“I like it,” you puffed, exhilarated, purposefully impudent. You pinched the brim, pulling it down with a disingenuous hat-tip. “It probably looks better on me.”
“Even if it does,” he chided through teeth, out of breath, “it’s not yours.”
You snickered girlishly, pursing your lips. “Maybe it should be.”
“Give it to me.” He thundered, hand outstretched, your heart flipped in your ribs at the sudden eruption of stern rage.
So you spun on the ball of your bare foot, before flitting hastily towards the rickety ladder that led up to the hayloft. Clambering up it like a spider, the old wood and rusted nails squealed in dispute of being used for likely the first time in decades.
But he was blindingly rapid in his chase, and before you made it even halfway up the ladder, his heaving forearm scooped around your waist, hooking you by the stomach.
“C’mere,” he growled through a clenched jaw, as he peeled you from the ladder; hoisting you like a small animal, holding your back to his chest with a constricting arm, leaving your feet dangling high off the ground.
You writhed and kicked, bucking like a goat, still holding his hat tightly to your head to prevent him from snatching it back from you. “Let go of me!” You squeaked, still giggling.
“No,” he snarled, “I’m taking my fuckin’ hat back, and then I’m taking you back to your daddy so he can knock some goddamn sense into you.”
You whinged, clutching his thick forearm in an effort to loosen his grip; nails digging into his bronzed and hairy skin, corded with veins bulged from the exertion of keeping you contained. His body burned like a furnace, pectorals stiffening underneath you as he flexed them, while he hauled you towards the exit.
“It’s just a hat,” you whined, “you’ve probably got heaps of them.”
Your obstinance was aimless – no particular interest in the hat, and no true understanding of why you fought so desperately to keep it. Maybe you just wanted to see how far you could push him. Wanted to see what would happen.
“It was my father’s,” he griped, anger approaching a boiling point as you continued to squirm around in his grip.
You groaned in dispute, still holding the leather cattleman tightly to your head. “Well he won’t be needing it, will he?”
That was a step over the line.
You knew it immediately, quick to bite your tongue after the words spat from your lips.
And his retaliation was sudden and severe; dragging you closer to the exit, he tossed you unceremoniously, almost tumbling down with you into the pile of block-shaped haybales that sat by the stable door. You landed face-down against the bale, winded, a squeak jumping from your chest with the impact; and his hat toppled from your head, rolling out of reach.
He kneeled beside you, with his forearm weighing against your lower back - you were flustered and confused by his haste. Skirt hitched up by the fall, he suddenly swung his free hand down with an open palm, smacking against the bare skin of your ass with a thunderous whack.
“Ah!” You squealed, a shriek, followed quickly by a breathless whine that slipped from your lungs outside of your control. The explosive clap rang in your ears, echoing within the bowels of the stables, loud and shrill. And the sting was sharp, hot and prickling like a brand, no doubt the raised outline of his hand was quick to form in your shivering skin.
A silence followed, pregnant and heavy, and you dared not move nor breathe too loudly – you inhaled and exhaled with trembling breaths, lips parted and wet, eyes wide as you stared into the packed hay.
He was dead quiet, too. Panting throatily, he kept you in place; grip of you not easing, though he stayed utterly still. You thought he might apologise, might express some remorse, might beg for you not to tell your father what he did. But he was silent. Like he had even surprised himself.
You tilted your head slowly, peering at him doe-eyed over your shoulder. “I’m sorry,” you whimpered, close to a whisper, dripping with pleading humiliation.
“For what?” He growled; his glower potently intimidating, a glimmer of voracity in his shadowy eyes, strained like he was suppressing greater hunger.
With a whine you turned your head back, facing ahead into the shack wall, you spoke quietly and nervously. “For taking your hat.”
Followed another swing of his arm, wide hand colliding with your rear in another deafening crack, forcing a laboured squeak from your chest. But there was something more than pain in your throat, wasn’t there? A whisper of thrill, a yelp of delight in your subsequent gasp.
And he must have heard it, took it as encouragement; as you felt the hand of his arm that pinned you down curl into a fist, balling the fabric of your dress tightly in his palm – lifting up the hem even further, you felt the cool air of the stable bite at your stinging skin as your ass was entirely exposed.
“Yeah?” He rumbled, gritting teeth, huffing like a beast. “What else?”
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spacelazarwolf · 5 months ago
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a year ago, i was celebrating simchat torah when my rabbi interrupted the services to let us know there had been an attack on israel. we didn’t know how bad yet, but we prayed everything would be alright. the rest of the service went on as planned, but there was a chill in the air, like we knew something had changed. something big. but we didn’t quite understand it yet.
a year ago, i watched people i’d followed for years celebrate a gruesome massacre of over a thousand human beings before we even really knew what had happened. i watched anons pour into my inbox, demanding i condemn israel even though israel hadn’t even retaliated yet.
a year ago, i talked to my nonna on facetime for her birthday. she was in her 90s and wasn’t as present anymore, and i could barely focus because my thoughts were thousands of miles away. i promised her i’d call her the next day but my next day became scrolling past horrific photos and videos i didn’t want to see, posts celebrating the attacks, posts telling people that if they didn’t celebrate the attacks that they were bad people. she died two weeks later and the same people sharing the posts celebrating the massacre sent me messages telling me it was good my nonna was dead, or extremely crude and disgusting messages about what they wanted to do to her dead body because she was “probably a zionist.”
a year ago, i worked at a synagogue that started getting dozens of calls and emails from people, across the spectrum from neo nazis to evangelical christians to radical leftists saying the most horrific things, telling us it was our fault, that we had to do something, that it was on us. we were responsible. an anon told me i was a zionist because i had a zionist language on my blog (hebrew) and worked at a zionist institution (synagogue).
a year ago, i started losing friends one by one after many of them started to share posts justifying or celebrating the massacre or memes created by neo nazis, some of which didn’t even bother to sub out “jews” for “zionists” but they shared them anyway. i was pushed out of an activist group after months of begging them to stop using antisemitic language because i had the audacity to tell a white gentile in the group not to say racist things about a black indigenous jew behind her back, and said gentile told me he didn’t have to listen to me and that he could “claim” the holocaust too because his ancestors were from eastern europe.
a year ago, i watched in real time as the world i thought i knew, the world in which jews had a future and safety in the united states, crumbled day after day. people that previously went out of their way to take care of me and support me decided that because i didn’t feel comfortable marching alongside pictures of hitler i must be a zionist and therefore no longer belonged. the person processing my government aid didn’t want to approve me because i worked for a synagogue part time and argued that the synagogue should just pay me more because “they can afford it.” my synagogue, which has been involved in social justice since its founding several decades ago, along with its rabbis who have been just as involved, were abandoned by the communities they had put their blood, sweat, and tears into advocating for when they had the audacity to grieve for the dead of october 7th.
a year ago, i learned the hard way that we are not special in this time. antisemitism is a river that has ebbed and flowed for thousands of years, and i felt like a fool for thinking a dam could be built overnight.
a lot of people say that every day of this year for them has been october 7th, but for me every day has been october 8th. the day after the initial shock, when reality started to sink in. the realization that all the people who had shared “happy rosh hashanah” posts or complimented my kippah or pretended to care about harry potter goblins were quickly dropping the facade. that my token minority card had expired and now having a jew in their group didn’t look diverse, it looked “sympathetic toward israel.” every day has been a painful reminder that no one else is grieving like we are, and a large number of those people are angry that we are grieving. they don’t understand that we’re not just grieving the lives lost and the hostages. we’re grieving for the world we thought we knew, a world where we might have a chance to thrive like we did in the golden age of spain. but those golden years are ending. and that is one of the things we are grieving.
a lot of people also say that they wish they could go back to who they were on october 6th, but i don’t. i’m glad the illusion was shattered, that i can see more clearly who will stand with jews even if they face backlash, who will challenge their antisemitic biases and do the hard work to unlearn them, and who did not have to be asked twice to share literal nazi rhetoric if it meant feeling like a hero. i’m glad the masks are coming off because it means you can’t gaslight us anymore and tell us it’s all in our heads. we can see you for exactly who you are now. and we will not let you break us.
i don’t want to be living forever in october. i don’t want the blissful ignorance of october 6th, but i also don’t want the bitter anger of october 8th. i want to stand up for what i believe in, to celebrate my culture and my people, and no amount of intimidation or harassment will keep me from loving my jewishness. you have shown me i can no longer live in october 6th, but i refuse to let you keep me in october 8th.
#ip
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sweetcherriexs · 1 month ago
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good girl; b.e.
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smut...
It had started innocently enough. billie was on tour, thousands of miles away, and the distance was starting to wear on both of you. you’d been texting throughout the day, little updates about your lives, but the conversation had taken a turn after dinner when billie sent a photo of herself backstage. She was leaning against a wall, all sweaty with hair stuck to her forehead and eyes hooded. she had that damn eyeliner on that made your pussy throbb and pulsate with need each time you saw her wearing it. the picture was casual, but the look on her face was anything but.
you had responded immediately. you’re killing me, bils. I can’t handle how fucking hot you are.
billie’s reply came swiftly. I know. and I know you’re lying in our bed, thinking about me.
how do you always know? you had typed back, cheeks flushing.
because I know you, baby. I know how bad you want me right now. for me to be inside you, for my mouth on your wet pussy
The flirting escalated quickly. billie’s messages became more explicit, her words laced with the kind of confidence that only she could pull off.
I’m thinking about how soft your skin feels under my hands. how you whimper when I kiss your neck. how you beg for my cock to be inside your pussy.
your fingers trembled as you typed. I miss your touch. I miss the way you make me feel. fuck, bils, please.
then tell me what you’re doing right now, billie pressed.
you hesitated, heart pounding. I’m in bed… thinking about you.
Are you touching yourself? billie’s message was direct, leaving no room for evasion.
your breath hitched. not yet
mm, will you?
you gulped at the message, hand itching to touch your pussy yes
send me a picture, pretty
The request made your stomach flip. you'd done this before, but it still felt daring—exhilarating. you propped your phone up, took a moment to adjust the lighting, and snapped a photo. your skin was flushed, hand resting on your thigh, and your lips parted. your sent it quickly without overthinking.
billie’s response was immediate. fuck, baby, you’re youre so hot. I wish I could be there to take care of you.
then tell me what you’d do, you typed back, fingers moving faster now, eager to know what billie's thinking about doing to you.
call me.
you didn't hesitate, pressing the call button in a second and she accepted the call immediately, her smooth voice ringing out "hey, baby" she mused, a smirk noticeable in her tone.
"hey, bils..." you panted out, breath heavy even though you haven't done anything. "tell me, please" you begged, already so worked up and desperate. you heard her chuckle on the other line before she spoke again;
"I’d start by kissing you. softly at first, just to tease you. then I’d bite your lip, just hard enough to make you gasp. would you like that?"
“yes,” your breathed, your free hand drifting lower.
“and then I’d move down your neck, leaving marks where only I can see them. I’d make sure everyone knows you’re mine.”
you moaned, fingers brushing against yourself through your pants. “billie…”
"ah- ah - ah... mm, I want you to strip for me, slowly. take off those clothes, pretty" billie's voice was like velvet, commanding yet sensual.
obediently, you began to undress, your fingers fumbling with the buttons of your shirt. billie smirked to herself, listening to your eager fumbling.
"That's my good girl. Now, slide those pants down... god i wish i could see you." billie's words were like a drug, sending a rush of heat between your thighs.
you complied, your movements becoming more fluid as you reveled in her instructions. the cool air caressed your naked skin, and you shivered, not from the temperature but from the intensity of her gaze, even though she was miles away. when the cool air of you and billie's bedroom hit your drenched pussy, you gasped the slightest bit, biting your lip in anticipation.
"good... now lie back" she instructs and you comply, shifting back and lying down with a shaky breath. "now, touch yourself, baby. slide your fingers down and tease that clit. I want to hear you moan for me." billie's voice was hoarse with desire, and you could almost feel her breath on your neck.
your fingers trembled as you brought them to your core, circling your clit gently at first, then with increasing pressure. "fuck, billie!" you whimpered, squeezing your eyes shut at the sensation. "fuck fuc-... mmm, yes, yes. please-" you gasped out almost incoherent phrases.
"that's it, baby. rub that pretty pussy. imagine its my fingers, hmm? stroking you, making you wetter." billie's words were a symphony of filth, and you were her willing conductor.
you moaned, your fingers working feverishly, picturing billie's long, slender digits joining yours, claiming your pleasure as her own.
“keep going, baby,” billie encouraged, her voice a mix of tenderness and authority. “tell me how it feels.”
“so-... so good, fuck." you moaned "I wish it was your hand, though. your mouth.”
billie’s exhale was sharp, as she drank in your words “I’d make you come so hard, pretty, I’d take my time, make you beg for it,"
your hips lifted off the bed, body craving the release only billie could give you. “please…”
"stop" you whined at the single command, but your body knew better, obeying her immediately. "good girl. touch your pretty tits"
you inhaled deeply, moving your wet hand up your body until it reached the plush mounds on your chest, squeezing them.
"that's right, baby. imagine my fingers playing with your nipples, pinching and rolling them between my thumbs and forefingers."
you whimpered again, rolling your hardened nipples between your fingers. tugging, rolling, repeat and anything in-between as you let out soft gasps.
your fingers slipped deeper between your folds, slick with desire, and you moaned as you imagined billie's hand moving in unison with yours, claiming your pleasure as her own.
"that's it, baby. you're doing so good. such a good girl" her voice only intensified the burn in your stomach further, breath coming in short gasps as your fingers pumped in and out of your sopping cunt, the sound of the wet squelching noticeable through the phone as your chest rose and fell with each thrust of your fingers.
"bils... bils- fuck, baby-" you moaned, rutting against your own hand. "I- shit, please-" your wrist was burning, but you couldn't stop. your fingers were plunging in and out of your wet pussy at an erratic pace, desperate and needy for release. for billie's touch.
“you sound so pretty when you’re like this,” billie murmured. “so desperate for me. I love hearing you fall apart.”
"I'm gon- please-... fuck, fuck... I'm gonna cum-" you moaned, eyes rolling to the back of your head as you imagined billie's fingers being the ones fucking you so good. "can-... can I? please, please" you panted, feeling your clit throb, needy for a touch as the knot in the bottom of your belly threatened to snap any second now.
billie hummed, the sound spurring your orgasm on even more and you whimpered. "I don't know, baby... can you?"
"please-" you gasp out again " I've been a good girl, bils. please-.."
billie smirked, letting out a breath before speaking. "cum for me, pretty girl. cum all over your own hand as you imagine it's mine"
the coil snapped, making you gasp loudly, back arching off the bed as you surrendered to the pleasure, your body convulsing as you climaxed, your cries echoing through the night. your body tensed as waves of pleasure crashed over you and you cried out billie’s name.
as you lay panting, Billie's soft laughter filled your ears. "Gosh I wish I was there... tasting your sensitive little pussy" she muttered, breath noticeably heavy and her voice husky.
"yeah?" you breathed out, your heart still pounding in your ears. "I'll do it for you-..." you said and your head came up to your lips, taking your drenched fingers into your mouth and moaning around them, pushing them deeper as you gagged around them before pulling it out.
"fuck" billie huffed "do you taste good, baby? hmm? tell me" she asked, her voice dropping an octave as the desire caught up to her.
"yes, yes I do" you nodded, though she can't see. "wish I was sucking your cock though" you heard billie groan on the other line, then some rustling before she spoke again.
"keep it up, pretty. it's my turn"
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celestialwonders · 3 months ago
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right, puppy? (s.jy)
jake x y/n facetime fun
one shot smut. minors dni.
author’s note: first time posting my writing lol be nice i will cry. shoutout the freakpen gc for forcing my hand (i willingly wrote this for them)
content/context: y/n (afab) and idol!jake calls them “mommy”, switch jake in sub mode, sexytime over facetime, diy bondage to chair, edging, hands free orgasm (bluetooth if you will), soft-ish dom y/n but jake eats it up anyways
.
.
.
“h-hello?” you answer groggily. who the fuck is calling you at 3am?
“hey… uh, its.. jake” you hear the quiet yet rough voice hesitantly say in your ear.
you shoot up from your bed, a chill running down your spin as a rush of memories come flooding in. oh shit.
it’s not as if this is the first time he’s given you a booty call. in fact, that’s how you first met.. sort of.
you’re still not really sure how it happened. one second you were screaming your head off in the crowd of an enhypen concert, dancing and singing along as jake worked the crowd in front of you. the next second, your screaming out jake’s name in his hotel bed, both of you reaching euphoria over and over and over till collapse. and just like that, he had to leave for the next stop. but not without exchanging numbers and starting your “textual” relationship.
and so it had been this way for months, him calling at all hours of the day wanting a quickie as a preshow relaxant, a post show pick me up, or a day off well spent. and of course you were going to give him what he wants. its jake fucking sim.
“i was thinking about you today.” you say slyly, already slipping yourself out of your covers and making your way to your desk.
you put your phone on speaker as you grab your various toys jake has so graciously sent for you over time.
“have you… mommy?” he pants out, almost questioning himself when it comes out.
this makes you stop in your tracks, sparkly pink dildo frozen in hand.
its not like you guys aren’t kinky, if anything sometimes it gets too hot to handle when he’s giving you his instructions as you sit in front of your phone screen, begging for more.
but you’ve never delved into this side of him. his submissive side. talked about it, sure, but actually having to step up as the dom… you felt a sense of insecurity as you put the dildo back in its storage space.
“jake… wh-what are y-“
“please just… just try for me, okay baby?” he’s almost moaning out his pleads.
“im not sure i… can” you say uneasily as you sit back down, placing your phone on your phone stand as you hit the facetime button. the vision of jake that pops up has you struggling to swallow.
he’s sat on his own desk chair, already with his pants down and face flushed to an almost strawberry color. his shirtless chest rising and falling quickly as sweat drips from the ends of his sidebangs down to the waist of his boxers. what you notice next makes the area between your legs pulse.
he’s gotten himself tied to his chair, arms tightly bound on each armrest. completely helpless. you could just jump on him and ride him all night if there wasn’t a screen and thousands of miles between you.
“fuck jakey…” you sigh out, feeling heat rising in your chest as your eyes continue to scan over his sweet, submissive face.
he whimpers at the sound of the pet name, hips slightly bucking into the air. this ignites something inside you, your eyes darkening as you crave more of his desperation.
“you like that? like when i call you jakey?” you tease, earning another whimper from him as he rolls his head back.
“how long have you been playing by yourself, puppy” your voice finding a lower octave to call out his favorite pet name.
“f-fuck… so long. so long just thinking about… you” he whines, hips gyrating as he seeks a touch that isn’t there.
your wetness seeps farther down your thighs as jake whines out with need.
“tsk tsk… playing by yourself? how selfish of you puppy. what am i going to do with you…” you trail off, sinking into your chair as you lift your legs into jakes view.
he moans at just the sight of your wet panties clinging to your core. grunting and tugging at his own bondage.
“i see… jakey needs to learn a lesson. dont you baby?” you almost whisper out, running your fingers down your chest to your panties, flicking the waist band.
“s’driving me… crazy… please” he says between deep breathes, mouth collecting drool at the sight of you touching yourself.
“just saying please won’t work baby… you’ve been playing without me… now mommy has to give you a taste of your own medicine” he lets out a loud moan as you push your soaked underwear aside, letting him get a full view of everything he can’t touch right now.
you begin to touch yourself with grazing fingers, biting your lip to resist interrupting the sound of jake’s whimpers and pleads. your eyes roll back as you enter a finger into your tight hole.
“fuck.. m-mommy please… i want-want to touch myself” he moans, eyes dripping with lust as drool begins to fall from his perfectly plump and pink lips.
“no.” you say sternly, closing your legs, resisting the urge to continue touching yourself to prove your point. “you touch yourself and i stop, got it?”
he nods haphazardly, his mind already fuzzy and full of need for you.
“you’re going to sit and take your punishment and be grateful. right, puppy?” you moan out, opening your legs back up to resume chasing your impending climax.
“y-yes mommy. ill be good for you” he nearly cums from your demanding voice alone, not wanting this new dark side of you to end.
he watches with hunger as you continue pleasing yourself, your eyes dark as they bore into jake’s helpless expression.
“fuck baby… p-puppy” you moan out as a knot in your stomach begins to tighten. closing your eyes tightly to resist climaxing too quickly, loving how jake is eye fucking you.
when you open your eyes back up, jake is mindlessly thrusting into his boxers, eyes glazed over with lust as drool freely falls from his open mouth.
“fuck mommy.. i-im so close. please. please let me… let me cum.” he begs out, his thrusts becoming more sporadic and weak. this drives you over the edge, feeling yourself tighten on your fingers as your eyes roll back.
“fuck puppy, yes cum with me.” you manage to get out as your climax hits hard. your hearing fading as your orgasm muffles the loud, whiny moans and curses that jake lets out as he hits his high with you.
finally coming back to your senses, you slouch into your chair, eyes finally able to refocus on the phone screen in front of you.
jake is completely wrecked, boxers sticking to his descending member, chest slowing the intense breathing pattern he had taken on. his face is devastatingly ruined, with his hair sticking to his forehead and drool beginning to dry on his cheeks. tears roll down his cheeks as he weakly smiles at you.
“i…i really needed that” he laughs weakly, leaning down to use his mouth to free himself from his bondages, his now free hand fumbling with the ties on his arm.
“yeah?” you sigh out, catching your breath. “well next time, do not play without my permission” you seductively say as you pull your underwear back on.
“yes mommy. ill be sure to play with you extra nicely from now on.” he says with a wink, grabbing his phone to share goodnights and go to bed.
you plop back onto your bed, not able to shut your mind off from the image of a needy, submissive jake. pondering to yourself as you google enhypen’s next tour stops. maybe next time you play with your puppy in person.
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pnutbutter-n-j-elyy · 5 months ago
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When You Give Them Space | Chan + Minho | Pt4
pt1 pt2 pt3
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Chan
Chan had been restless for days, pacing his studio floor, his heart heavy with guilt.
You were supposed to be back home in Korea three days ago. But instead he got these strange texts and hadn't heard from you since.
He hadn't texted since either. A part of him wished he did but he was scared.
Because what if-
No. You weren't the type to do that.
He deeply regretted the texts he had sent to you. The replayed in his mind, the words he’d typed out, the anger, the frustration…the way he said he had shipped you off because, as he so rudely put it, you were “nagging” him.
You dumb fuck what were you even thinking sending that??
Sure it was annoying to get notif after notif- especially when he was trying to finish a track for a show that would be premiering in the upcoming weeks. But it wasn't your fault that the company had fucked up with the time management- since he had already had to help three girl groups with their production.
So he had gotten you a ticket home, hoping that maybe he could knock everything out while you were away. Since he knew you would make him take a break if you were here.
You would make him take care of himself.
But even when you were thousands of miles away you still made sure he was taken care of.
And he took that for granted; and was an absolute jerk.
What the hell was I thinking?
Chan groaned, running a hand through his hair, trying to make sense of his own stupidity. His phone buzzed - a message from Han:
Lights are on at Y/N's place. Bro, fix it.
He didn't need any more encouragement. Grabbing his jacket and keys, Chan headed straight for your apartment, determined to set things right, even if he had to grovel.
I'll grovel. For as long as you make me.
Arriving at your apartment, Chan noticed a pair of men’s shoes at the door. Combat boots.
He stopped, confusion twisting in his gut. That wasn’t right. They weren't his. It was brand he was unfamiliar with; one he hadn't purchased from before so who-
No...Y/N wouldn't.
His heartbeat quickened as he pushed open the door cautiously. The smell of food wafted out from the kitchen, and he could hear someone rummaging around. Then, out walked a guy- tall, broad, and way too casual, holding a bowl of ramen in one hand a fork in the other and looking at Chan like he had every right to be there.
"Oh, hey bro," the guy said, grinning as he stuffed a mouthful of noodles in his mouth. "You must be the ex." He stretched out the "x" sound, stuffing a forkful of noodles in his mouth.
Chan froze. The word ex sent a sharp sting through his chest. "Ex?" he repeated, his voice low with disbelief.
"Yeah," the guy continued, setting the bowl down like this wasn’t the most awkward interaction ever. "Heard you shipped Y/N off. A little bit harsh, if you ask me, but hey, Y/N can be a handful."
Chan's jaw tightened, anger flaring up. Who was this guy? Why was he acting like you were-
"Who the hell are you?"
The guy smirked, wiping his hands nonchalantly. "Oh, me? I’m just the guy who loves Y/N."
Chan took a step forward, his fists clenched. "You better start explaining yourself before I-"
Before Chan could finish, the sound of your voice cut through the tension.
“What the hell is going on here?”
You stood at the bathroom doorway, still in a towel with wet hair dripping onto your shoulders, eyes narrowing in frustration.
Chan whipped around, his expression a mix of confusion and anger. "Who is this?" he demanded, pointing to the guy.
The guy grinned, looking entirely too smug. “Haven’t told him yet? Wow, you’re brutal.”
You shot him a deadly look. "You, sit your ass down and shut the hell up. I swear, you have no sense. Must have been all the times Dad dropped you."
Chan blinked, his anger momentarily paused by his confusion. "Wait…what?"
You sighed, rubbing your temples as if dealing with two idiots at once was too much. "Chan, this is my brother. He’s on break from the military. And you," you turned your glare toward your brother, "are being an idiot for messing with him when you know damn well what’s been going on."
Your brother had the audacity to smirk, plopping down on the couch and grabbing his ramen again. "Well, maybe if someone hadn’t sent you those dickish texts, I wouldn’t have had to step in. You've always been a pushover." He stuffed his mouth again, speaking around the food. "You forgive too easily so I had to give your boyfriend a little hell for it."
Chan looked bewildered, turning between you and your brother. "Wait, you sent those texts?"
Your brother chuckled. "Yeah, saw what you sent her before, and well- someone had to put you in your place. ‘Nagging too much’? C’mon, man, that’s some weak stuff. Didn’t your mom teach you better than to talk to your partner like that?”
You slapped your brother’s arm. "You idiot! Do you know how much drama you just caused?! Chris is an overthinker!"
“Yeah, well, I figured it was time to teach your boyfriend some respect."
"How the hell did you even figure out my password?!"
"JiminJinfangirl21 has been your password to everything for the longest time. It was an easy guess."
Your face turned read and you looked at Chan. "I can explain-"
Chan, still processing the fact your brother sent the messages turned to you. "Wait- so when I got those texts-"
"I was taking a nap, and he was being an instigating moron!" You gestured to your brother, who just winked at Chan, clearly not sorry.
"But why didn't you come home..."
You rose an eyebrow. "Because I wanted to be petty. And my brother was going to fly out to meet you anyways- it was going to be a surprise- so I just waited so we could be on the same flight."
Chan looked between you two, and then it hit him. Everything. The argument, the misunderstanding, his own stupidity. His expression softened. “Y/N… I-I’m sorry. I didn’t realize how much trouble I was causing by acting like this. You've always been forgiving and I was just expecting to apologize and get your forgiveness like always. Its idiotic of me to think that's a good excuse to say things like that to you. What I said, it was wrong. I have no excuses."
You crossed your arms, your tone firm but softening. "Yeah, well, you shouldn’t have said what you did. It was mean. And extremely hurtful. The fact that you would 'send me away' for it really made me feel like my existence is just a burden to you."
Chan's eyes widened in fear. "It's not! Y/N please please believe me it isn't."
"I know it isn't, pabo..." You sighed. "I do nag you sometimes, but it’s because I care. I care too much because I love you so much. I thought maybe if it came from me, you’d actually listen. But if you don’t want me to, I’ll stop."
"No." Chan stepped closer, his eyes filled with sincerity. "Please don’t. Don’t stop. I’d rather have you nag at me a thousand times than not hear from you at all. I-" he swallowed, his voice catching slightly. "I need you, Y/N. You’re my anchor. I know I’ve been an idiot, but I don’t want to lose you over my own insecurities and frustrations."
Your eyes softened, the weight of his words sinking in. "Chan I don’t want to lose you either. Ever. But you have to start listening when I’m trying to help, not just push me away. Rather than just me everyone. We all want to help. And you can't treat me like that because you know I will forgive you...it's a bit manipulative. And I know that's not you which is why I'm forgiving you. But you wouldn't feel so stressed if you listened." You pouted stubbornly.
He nodded, stepping closer and reaching for your hand. "I promise. I’ll listen, baby. I’ll be better. Just…please, don’t give up on me."
You rolled your eyes. "Chan, what in this conversation made you think I would ever give up on you. You're insufferable." You said giving a breathy laugh and planting a quick and light kiss on his lips.
Your brother, who had been watching this exchange with mild interest, suddenly chimed in, “Aww, look at you two. This is cute and all, but I’m too young to have nieces and nephews.”
Both you and Chan turned to him, your annoyance in perfect sync.
“No, that’s not what-” Chan stammered, waving his hands in protest.
"Didn’t I tell you to shut up?" You grabbed a throw pillow and launched it at your brother, who caught it with a grin.
“Oh, come on, I’m just playing-”
Before he could finish, you charged at him, and within seconds, the two of you were wrestling on the couch. Chan watched in half-horror, half-amusement as your brother tackled you, the bowl of ramen teetering precariously on the edge of the table before falling onto the floor with a crash.
"Y/N!" your brother howled, dodging your attempts to hit him with another pillow. "You’re too slow!"
“I swear, either you’re going back to the military today or we're doing bathroom surgery with my foot and you'll never give me any nieces or nephews." You growled as you tried to kick your brother off of you- him just dodging that DIY vasectomy as you struggled under his weight. “Babe, help me!”
Chan, shaking his head with a fond smile, stepped forward and pulled your brother off you. "Alright, man, that’s enough. She’s gonna break your neck at this rate."
Your brother sat up, wiping a bit of ramen broth off his cheek, still laughing. "Fine, fine, I surrender. But only ‘cause I don't think a 2v1 would be fair." He eyed Chan's muscle definition. "You box?"
You got up, smoothing your hair with a huff and looking at Chan cutting him off before he could answer your brother. "Can we please lock him out of my apartment?"
Chan chuckled softly, wrapping an arm around your shoulders. "Maybe after I get him to clean up his mess." He said squatting down to pick up the fork.
Your brother raised an eyebrow, smirking. "Clean up? If Mom were here, she'd tell you to do it since you started it. Unless your boyfriend wants to-"
This time it was Chan who grabbed the pillow and aimed it right at his face.
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Minho
As Chan’s car rumbled down the gravel road, Minho stared anxiously out the window, his leg bouncing restlessly. A location pin in the middle of nowhere. No explanation although he asked.
His mind was racing, the earlier argument replaying in his head on a constant loop.
"I bet Y/N is fine. There is no reason to lie about being fine in this kind of situation. If there was any immediate danger I'm more than sure there would have been a deeper explanation." Chan said as he swerved through the wooded road.
But Minho's mind was racing with other things.
You were fine. He believe you. But this was a harsh reality check for him.
God forbid if you weren't okay...
He would have lived with an immense guilt.
The words he had thrown at you- inadvertently calling you a moocher, saying you texted too much, basically calling you useless- they weren’t true, not really. Not at all.
He willingly gave you everything he had. And would give you more if it wasn't for you constantly saying he was too generous.
He’d just been frustrated, tired. In the middle of another useless meeting, coming back from an argument with a choreographer. But now, sitting in the car with nothing but the quiet hum of the engine, the crunch of the tires and gravel and his guilt gnawing at him, he wished he could take it all back.
As they neared the spot where you were supposed to be, Minho’s heart pounded in his chest. The second he spotted you illuminated in Chan's headlights standing in the distance, his breath caught in his throat while his Hyung letting out a traitorous gasp. You were hunched over something, and as the car rolled to a stop, his heart plummeted.
Blood.
Streaks of red were smeared across your white shirt. His stomach twisted, ice flooding his veins.
"Oh my God-" Minho’s voice cracked as he fumbled with the seatbelt, barely getting it off before stumbling out of the car. His hands were shaking, his mind racing through a million terrifying scenarios. His entire body felt like it was seizing up with fear. "Are you hurt?!" he shouted, his voice louder and more frantic than he intended. "Jagi, are you hurt?!"
Chan was quick to jump out after him, grabbing his arm to keep him grounded. "Minho, calm down," Chan said firmly, trying to steady him. "Let’s just see what’s going on."
Minho barely heard him, his eyes fixated on the blood staining your clothes. Not even able to notice the utterly calm look you had on your face. Although that hadn't been overlooked by Chan.
His heart was in his throat, his breath coming in short, uneven bursts. Every worst-case scenario flooded his mind in an instant.
"Y/N!" he called again, stumbling toward you, his knees weak. But as he got closer, his eyes shifted to what was in your arms.
Not you.
The blood wasn't yours.
It was a cat.
Minho stopped dead in his tracks, his panic still buzzing in his veins, but slowly starting to ebb as he processed what he was seeing. The cat in your arms was bloodied, its fur matted and filthy. You were cradling it like it was made of glass, your expression filled with worry.
Chan’s hand was still on Minho’s arm, and he felt the pressure ease slightly as his best friend let out a long breath. "See? Y/N is fine," Chan said in quiet relief, though there was still a hint of concern in his voice.
Minho’s chest tightened, his heart hammering in his ears. Fine? You were standing in the middle of nowhere, covered in blood. Sure, it wasn’t yours, but the shock still rattled through him, his pulse thrumming wildly.
You only acknowledged your boyfriend when you looked up to see him hovering. In an instant he was sat next to you.
Minho’s fingers brushed lightly through the cat’s blood-matted fur, his touch so delicate you almost didn’t feel it. He gently took the cat out of your arms and cradled it closer, his thumb running carefully over its ear in slow, soothing motions. You watched as his face softened in a way you rarely saw, his eyes wide with awe, as if this was the first cat he had ever seen.
"Pretty girl..." He murmured as the cat purred lightly. "Such a pretty girl...shh it's okay...tsk tsk tsk." He bopped her nose.
It was almost amusing, the way he looked at the cat like it was a rare treasure. You knew Minho loved cats- he always had -but this was on another level. His gaze was intense, focused entirely on the creature in his arms, like nothing else in the world existed. It was hard not to crack a smile despite the situation. His affection for the cat was so consuming that it momentarily made you forget the harsh words from earlier.
The entire reason you had gone on a walk to clear your mind- which had turned into looking for the cat you had texted him about.
His fingers moved in a rhythmic pattern, slow and deliberate, as if he was committing every inch of the cat’s fur to memory. "You’re okay, baby" he whispered to the cat, his voice barely audible, yet full of so much tenderness it made your chest ache.
For a second, it was like he was in his own world, completely absorbed in comforting the injured animal. It was almost absurd, watching him act like this was the only cat that had ever graced the earth, and you internally laughed at the thought of Soonie, Doongie, and Dori seeing their dad like this.
The way his eyes never left the cat’s mismatched ones, like they had some sort of silent understanding between them- it would have been funny if it weren’t so strangely touching.
"“You’ve seen cats before, Minho," you teased lightly,brushing some dirt off of yourself and picking at the dried blood. "You look like this is the first one you’ve ever laid eyes on."
Minho didn’t even blink, his attention still locked on the cat, but the corner of his lips tugged upward slightly. "This one’s different," he murmured, and his voice held a possessiveness that surprised you. It was like he was staking a claim, not just over the cat, but over the moment itself, like this was something only the two of you shared.
You couldn’t help but smile softly at the sight of him. The earlier argument seemed to fade into the background, and for a moment, it was just you, Minho, and the cat- your cat, you realized. In the moment you had decided she would be yours. There was something strangely comforting about the way he handled the situation, so focused on caring for the small, fragile life in his hands.
"I think it's just a rough cut...like she got her paw stuck in something." He said as he gently prodded the small creature. "She'll be okay if we bandage her up."
"Then I’ll take my baby home," you whispered after a while, trying to reclaim a little of the tension that had ebbed away out of pure pettiness, but it came out more tired than you expected, thus not receiving the response you wanted. You reached for your cat but Minho pulled back.
Without missing a beat, his eyes snapped up to yours. "Our baby," he corrected, his voice firm yet soft, almost possessive as he held the cat closer to his chest. There was a protective edge to his tone, like he wouldn’t let anyone, or anything come between him and this cat.
You blinked at him in surprise. "What?"
"Our baby," Minho repeated, more certain this time, his thumb brushing against the cat’s ear again with so much gentleness it made your heart twist. His eyes were locked on yours now, no longer just on the cat. "Ours."
You opened your mouth to respond, but no words came out. There was something about the way he said "ours" that made the pit in your stomach ease, a warmth spreading in its place.
The ride back to your place was quiet, with Minho still cradling the cat like it was the most important thing in the world. You leaned back in your seat, your mind replaying the argument from earlier. His words had hurt, but now seeing him like this- so tender and protective -it was hard to hold onto the resentment. You glanced at Chan through the rearview mirror, who gave you a small, reassuring smile from the driver’s seat.
After a long moment of silence, you decided to poke fun again, if only to see how Minho would react. "Seems like Minho cares about the cat more than me, huh, Chan?" You tried to keep your voice light, but a hint of sadness and hurt slipped through.
Chan’s eyes flicked to the rearview mirror, but before he could even respond, Minho cut in, his voice surprisingly soft. "That’s not true."
You turned toward him, eyebrows raised in surprise. He was still looking down at the cat, but his grip tightened just slightly, his thumb stroking its fur with the same gentle, careful touch. He bit his lip and swallowed.
Minho’s gaze lifted slowly to meet yours, his dark eyes holding an unusual tenderness. "You know…" he began, his voice quiet but steady. "This cat…it’s our first kid."
You blinked, caught off guard. "Our first kid?"
He gave a tiny nod, his lips curving into the faintest smile. "Yeah. It’s ours. Our baby." He paused as if he wanted to say more. "Y/N I'm...I might not be great with words, but I care." He glanced down at the cat again, his voice dipping lower. "A lot. More than you could ever know."
It was so Minho- awkward, roundabout, but sincere. It wasn’t a straightforward apology, but it was his way of telling you he regretted what he said earlier. His gaze softened even further as he looked at you, his grip still tenderly holding your "child".
Your heart swelled, the hurt from earlier dissipating as warmth replaced it. You smiled at him, leaning closer. "So, this cat is our first kid, huh?"
He hummed in agreement, his shoulder brushing against yours. "Yeah…our first kid," he said, the possessiveness in his voice almost endearing now. "She's so pretty just like you, hm?"
For the first time since the argument, you felt a sense of peace wash over you. The way Minho looked at the cat like it was something precious and irreplaceable made your heart soften.
And the way he looked at you with ten times the amount of affection on a daily basis.
Maybe he wasn’t the best with words, but moments like this reminded you that his actions often spoke louder. And to take somethings woith a grain of salt.
As the car continued down the road, you leaned your head back, sneaking another glance at Minho. He was still holding the cat with the same delicate care, his fingers lightly stroking her fur as she rested in his arm, his eyes filled with a tenderness that made your chest ache. He hadn’t let go of her for a second, as if she was the most precious thing ever.
Watching him now, the earlier harshness of his words seemed distant, like a bad dream that was already fading in the daylight. The Minho beside you- the one who was petting the cat like it was his lifeline, who quietly called it "our baby" -wasn’t the same person who had called you useless just hours ago.
You smiled softly to yourself, feeling a weight lift from your chest. This was how you knew that the hurtful words he had sent your way were nothing more than frustration, born out of a heated moment. They held no truth deeper than the fleeting anger that had fueled them. His actions now- the way he cradled the creature, the gentle way he spoke to you, the intimate words he used; even the panic in his voice at the mere thought of you being hurt -revealed the real Minho, the one who cared deeply, even if he wasn’t always great at showing it.
And somehow, in this quiet moment, that was all the apology you needed.
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Edit: People keep telling me Minho should have groveled😭 🙏 i know guys but i wanted to bring a little diversity cause unfortunately there are people in the world who wouldn't apologize for something like this or they will go about it in a roundabout way 😭🙏 And I figured either Minho or Seungmin would best fit those roles so that's why I wrote him that way - but next time I'll make him grovel 😭 🙏
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buttercandy16 · 2 months ago
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Asylum
Chapter Two: The Fire Inside
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PAIRING(s): Psychiatrist!Agatha Harkness x Patient!Reader x Inmate!Rio Vidal
SUMMARY: Wrongfully imprisoned, Reader becomes the obsession of Agatha, a cunning psychiatrist, and Rio, a fiery inmate. Together, they’ll ensure she’s theirs—forever.
WARNING(s): Obsession, Manipulation, Violence, Confinement, Madness, Dubcon, and Betrayal.
A/N: Sorry for writing them short 😅
Chapter 1
The clang of the cafeteria doors echoed loudly in the cavernous hall as the crowd of patients filed in, their shuffling steps blending with the murmur of guards barking half-hearted orders. Every part of the room felt wrong. From the chipped white tiles to the flickering fluorescent lights that made everyone’s skin look pale and sickly, it was designed to strip you of any sense of dignity.
Your tray clattered as you slid it onto the table, lowering yourself into the corner seat you’d claimed the past few days. The stares from other patients were impossible to avoid. Some were blank and distant, their minds a thousand miles away, but others were laser-focused, studying you like a predator waiting for its moment to pounce.
Rio Vidal was one of those predators.
You had noticed her the first day you’d been herded into the cafeteria. How could you not? She moved like a force of nature, every step deliberate, every sway of her hips radiating confidence. Her olive skin and piercing eyes—blazing with some barely-contained energy—set her apart from the broken shells of the other patients.
She was dangerous. You didn’t need her record to know that. The way she smiled, sharp and slow like a blade sliding into its sheath, told you everything you needed to know.
“Nice seat,” her voice drawled, rich and melodic, as she sank into the chair across from you without waiting for an invitation.
Your gaze snapped to hers, the food on your tray forgotten. Her smile widened, like she could feel the nerves prickling under your skin.
“I don’t—” you began, but the words faltered under her intense scrutiny.
“You don’t what?” she pressed, resting her chin in her hand as if she were utterly captivated by you. Her posture was relaxed, but there was something taut and alert about her, like a tiger lounging just before the kill.
“I—nothing,” you muttered, forcing yourself to focus on your food. You stabbed at a piece of gray meat, hoping she’d grow bored and move on.
Instead, she leaned closer, the metallic scent of the room replaced momentarily by the faint, earthy spice of her perfume. “I’ve seen you,” she said softly, almost like a confession. “All quiet. Trying not to be noticed.” Her grin widened. “Doesn’t work on me, though. I notice everything.”
Your breath hitched, the chill in the air replaced with the suffocating weight of her presence.
“I’m Rio,” she offered, her hand sliding across the table toward yours.
You didn’t move to shake it, but she didn’t seem offended. If anything, she seemed amused, her eyes glittering with challenge.
“I didn’t ask,” you managed, though the words felt weak, your defiance like a candle trying to burn against a storm.
Rio laughed then—a throaty, melodic sound that should have been beautiful but sent shivers racing down your spine. “Oh, I like you already,” she purred, pulling her hand back but not her attention.
For the rest of the meal, she sat across from you, her gaze heavy and unrelenting, even as you pretended not to notice.
Later That Day
The courtyard offered little relief. Enclosed by tall concrete walls topped with razor wire, it felt less like an open space and more like a cage. Still, it was a break from the sterile walls of the asylum, and the pale sunlight brushing your face almost made the frostbite of Rio’s attention worth enduring.
The few patients brave enough to venture into the yard that afternoon kept to themselves, pacing the perimeter or sitting in isolated clusters. You found a quiet corner near one of the dead trees and sat with your knees drawn to your chest.
For a moment, you let yourself believe you were alone. But then you heard her voice.
“Found you.”
Rio’s shadow fell over you as she leaned against the wall beside you, casually twirling a cigarette between her fingers.
“There’s nothing to smoke here,” you said before you could stop yourself, glancing up at her.
She smirked. “Doesn’t mean I can’t pretend.”
Her gaze lingered on you, her weight shifting as she crouched down to your level. Her knees brushed against yours, the casual touch igniting a spark of unease in your chest.
“You’ve been quiet,” she said softly. “Makes me wonder if you’re scared of me.”
Your lips parted, but you had no answer. Were you scared of her? The logical part of your brain screamed yes, but there was something more than fear bubbling in your chest—a strange, reluctant curiosity.
“I’m not afraid of you,” you finally said, though your voice wavered.
Rio’s lips curved into a grin. “Liar.”
Before you could reply, the sharp click of heels interrupted the moment, each step crisp and commanding. You didn’t need to turn around to know who it was—Dr. Harkness’s presence was unmistakable.
“Ms. Vidal,” Agatha said, her tone smooth yet laced with warning. “Shouldn’t you be in session?”
Rio didn’t flinch, standing and slipping her cigarette into her pocket. “You mean the one you canceled, Doc? That’s on you.”
Agatha’s expression didn’t shift, though her eyes narrowed faintly. “Take a walk. Now.”
Rio held your gaze for another second before shrugging and flashing you a wink. “See you later, querida.”
As she strode away, her footsteps blending with the whispers of the other patients, Agatha stepped closer, her shadow falling over you now.
“Are you alright?” she asked, her voice softer than before.
You nodded hesitantly, but the way her gaze lingered on your face made it clear she wasn’t convinced.
“Ms. Vidal has...a tendency to latch on to people,” Agatha murmured, her fingers lightly brushing your shoulder. “If she’s troubling you, I need you to tell me. Immediately.”
You looked away, her touch sending a chill down your arm despite its gentleness. “I’m fine,” you said, though you weren’t sure if it was true.
Agatha knelt, lowering herself to your level. Her eyes searched yours, their steel-blue intensity burning with something indecipherable. “You’re not alone here, [Your Name],” she said quietly. “No matter what you may think.”
Her words sounded kind, but the undertone—calm yet undeniably possessive—made your stomach twist.
_-_-_
Please don't forget to vote, reblog, and tell me what's on your mind in the comments 💚
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astralis-ortus · 9 months ago
Text
placebo effect
✱ boyfriend!bc × fem!reader
— maybe the actual remedy is his smile.
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w.count → 1.2k genre → fluff warnings → reader is sick :(, mild cussing, kissing, cute pet names (baby, love, princess) and generally very much in love it makes me sick >:( heh a.n → based on this request! kinda speeding through this (immediately worked on this after i posted the last fic), but i am in need of just pure fluff so here we are, a few hours later. heh♡ ⋆ see masterlist
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being sick felt like shit.
growing up, you’ve always been the kid with perfect attendance. be it in school or throughout uni, you’ve always made the effort to attend every single one of your classes—and one of the reasons was all because you rarely ever got sick. maybe it’s because of your parents’ good genes, or likely due to how your mom made sure you always took your daily vitamins, but you’re always known as one the healthiest kids in the class.
that record, however, ended after you graduated a few years back.
you’d like to blame it the shift of environment—you know, given that you literally flew thousands of miles away to chase your lifelong dream, but considering you also moved states away from home for uni… that likely wasn’t the case.
“hey there, sleepyhead.”
a soft groan rolled off your lips when you felt your bed dip to your boyfriend’s weight, his fingers gently ran through your surely messy hair. your attempt to crack a peek at chris wasn’t quite a success, considering how even the slightest bleeding light from the gap behind your curtain was quick to trigger the soft throb in your head to return, fetching another set of low whimpers out of you.
“it’s okay, baby. i’m here. how’s your headache?” he hummed; pads of his fingers now gently pressed against the base of your head as he attempted to relief any pain that might still linger.
chris, your angel of a boyfriend, had been taking care of you since your condition started to decline the day prior. despite your stubbornness about still going to work (which didn’t end well, considering you were sent home by lunch anyway), chris didn’t even peep a word and readily picked you up from work, all geared up with your favorite porridge and cold medicine he picked up on the way.
“it’s fine as long as i don’t open my eyes,” you meekly answered, voice still noticeably very different from your usual cheery ones. “which reminds me, we do need a black out curtain, hun.”
his chuckle filled the rather quiet bedroom, involuntarily tugging the corner of your pale lips into a smile. “we’ll get them after you’re all better, baby,” he assured, hand that rested on the back of your neck now pressed against your forehead, “fever’s pretty much gone. think you could sit up for a bit? gotta fill your tummy with food before the meds, love.”
you know he’s right—you do need to eat, but with the way you’re currently feeling, protesting at any request to shift your body was the only available option.
“can i just eat later?” you pursed your lips, attempting to appeal your plea with a dash of cuteness you knew chris have a hard time standing his ground against. “maybe sleeping more will help…”
“nuh uh, no can do, princess,” chris gently tapped his finger on the tip of your nose, “you need the meds. the food too, but most importantly your meds. i don’t want your suffering to prolong just because you didn’t get your meds on time,” he reasoned, pads of his fingers now gently massaging the top of your head and in turn made you sigh in relief. chris always knew what to do whenever you complained about a headache, and you’re grateful for that.
“fiiine,” you exaggerated, reaching out your arms as a signal for chris to help you up. even with your eyes closed, you knew he had that proud grin etched on his lips when he gently pulled you to sit straight. you winced at the ache, but voiced no complaint as chris planted a light kiss on your scrunched forehead.
“a sec, okay? i’ll bring the radish soup for you,” chris left another kiss on the top of your head, grinning at how excitedly you reacted to the kind of food he had prepared before you heard his disappearing footsteps.
you forced a peek around the room, noticing the dim lighting as chris kept the curtains closed for your comfort. after a quick scan of your and chris’ bedroom, one you’ve been spending a little too much time in for the past couple of days, your line of sight then rested upon your locked phone. a single tap on the screen, and the action easily made your brows furrow.
“babe—”
“chris, it’s 10am on a thursday,” you pointed out as soon as you heard his voice from just beyond the slightly ajar door, “didn’t you say things has been hectic lately?”
“well, yeah,” he shrugged, careful footsteps finally returned to your side, followed by the dip on your bed, “but you’re sick. getting you back to health is a lot more important to me than anything else.”
“christopher,” you groaned, pursing your lips in protest, “i told you to not do things like this! you’re important, what you do is important. you can’t let me stop you from doing all that!”
“but i’m not letting you,” he replied nonchalantly, blowing on the spoonful of soup and rice before he feeds you. “it is my decision. i want to take care of you, and nothing is more important for me than you. as simple as that.”
“but—”
“no more discussion on that matter, baby,” chris warned you, stern gaze immediately shutting off any complaints about to leave your tongue. “it’s on me. you’re my girlfriend, and to take care of you is what i need to do, because i love you and i want all the best for you. okay?”
maybe it’s the fever returning, but you could feel your cheeks warming up.
“…fine.”
with his lips blooming into a content smile, his hand returned to the steady flow of bowl-cooling off-feeding you. he’s happy, and it’s apparent through the way his gaze lingers on you every time you take another bite, slowly finishing the bowl of food in his hand.
maybe it’s your head fooling you with some kind of placebo effect, but you do feel better—simply by watching the tenderness in his face every time he looks at you.
“all done,” he cheerily announced after you took your last bite, gently wiping the corners of your lips with the pad of his thumb. “be back with the meds, okay? just a sec.”
his movements immediately ceased when he felt a tug on the t-shirt he’s wearing, eyes immediately returning to you in worry. “yes, love?”
you quietly looked at him, suddenly feeling a little shy—but why would you be?
“…you.”
“huh?” chris blinked, head involuntarily tilted to one side in confusion. “what was that, love?”
oh god.
“i really wanna kiss you,” you reiterated, lips slightly pursed in embarrassment, “but i don’t want you to catch the cold. but like—you’re just so adorable. why are you like this? i’m—"
any thoughts you had immediately vaporized as soon as you felt chris’ soft lips on yours—smile apparent against your lips. his warm hand gently cradled your cheek, and despite it being short, chris successfully left you feeling dazed.
“…wait,” you eventually blinked, face burning in embarrassment when you realized the cheeky grin he’s sporting just inches away from your face. “christopher! you’re gonna get sick!”
“well, what do you expect me to do?” chris shrugged as he walked backwards, away from you,
“my girlfriend said she wanted to kiss me—how could i say no to that?”
“gosh—christopher!”
©️ astralisortus, 2024. | likes and reblogs are highly appreciated♡
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diejager · 2 years ago
Note
a Miguel x f!reader "who did this to you?" Angst fic?
Bittersweet Devotion
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Pairing : Miguel O’Hara x fem!reader
Cw: angst, neglect, canon death, dead wife, tell me if I missed any. Wc: 3.5k
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Miguel’s been distant these days, the world around him coming to a stop. His temper shortened and his patience dropped lower than it was before, but his attentiveness to his work sharpened. He divulged more of his time to the cause, to defend the multiverse from every anomaly that kept popping up in wildly different universes, at the cost of his personal life. Ever since the *Miles issue* had been dealt with (Spots was stopped from ending Captain Morales’ life prematurely, the canon was kept safe and intact, but his parents knew of his identity and his duty to New York and the multiverse.), Miguel shut himself inside the main office, closed off from the wandering Spider-people he brought over to help him protect their livelihood. 
Atop his platform, he worked tirelessly, swiping screen to screen in search of any escaping anomalies. He depended on Lyla to help him search and the rest of the community to capture and contain these anomalies before they could be sent back to their appropriate universe, closing the rifts they used to escape. The brooding Spider-Man locked himself in, imposing shoulder peering from the edge of his high-floating platform while he stayed there most nights; days even, he hadn’t returned to your shared apartment in the building. He ate when you, Jess or Peter B. brought food to him, he drank and cleaned only when you urged him to do so. 
Staying in his den meant that he rarely slept, the dark bags under his beautiful eyes growing as the days passed. Anomalies appeared left and right, Spiders were dispersed to catch them, sometimes in solo missions, and other times in teams if Miguel deemed it necessary for the anomaly (Green Goblins, Vultures and Sandman were some that were harder to deal with for their volatile attacks.). If you weren’t sent away on a retrieval mission, you’d be working around his office, keeping it clean and usable while he moved around, growling and throwing things as he went.
That’s where things became complicated, Miguel hated meddling and you were often in his space. While he was soft and caring in your shared room (the one he hadn’t been in for weeks now), he was domineering and imposing around the others. His shorter temper meant he often hissed and growled at you, brown eyes glimmering red as he sneered your way. You hadn’t made much of it, contributing his issues to the stress and anxiety he felt while shouldering all this madness. His glares and growls meant little, he was under pressure, but his words, his rants in your face hurt.
His words burned you to your core, the degrading things he screamed at you when you did something that might’ve ticked him off or the insults he’d throw your way when you did something he deemed unsatisfactory. They stung, but you ignored the pain that tore into your heart, the tears that threatened to fall and the anger you felt at his shrugs. You simply missed him. 
Didn’t you deserve some affection? To feel the tender caresses of Miguel’s hands on your skin, the loving promises of his dreams and wishes, and the adoring stares he sent your way. Were you selfish for wanting that? For wanting to have your lover back in your arms. Or were you feeling neglected from the time you spent alone in your bed, the faded scent of his musk, the coldness of your apartment and the uneaten and forgotten plates on the dining table? Were you at fault for feeling forgotten? To sacrifice one for the good of thousands. To sacrifice your love for the safety of all universes. Did one outweigh the other?
“Hijo de puta! Why can’t you do anything right?!” He’d scowl at you, talons digging into the metal of his desk. The ear-splitting sound echoed as he dragged his talons to the edge of the table, red eyes brimming with wrath. He seemed on a warpath, ripping into anything he could get his talons in and throwing the things he could lift off the platform. (Motherfucker-)
You skipped around the objects he threw in his fit, ducking under a chair he gripped and swung randomly, over the desk he kicked, and around the cabinet, he swiped at. Every object he used to vent his emotions were light, in comparison to your given strength. He’d complain afterwards about his things being broken and needing fixing, something you helped him with unless they were too technologically advanced for your time. You webbed all the things you could, aiming your wrist and quickly sticking your end to the floating platform when it stuck to the victims of Miguel’s power. 
You danced around him, catching everything without getting too close to Miguel. He acted without thinking at times in these fury-filled moments, eyes tinging red and reverting to his more animalistic side. He’d warned you before about staying clear of him, to wait until he calmed himself down and realized the devastation of his office. Then he’d apologize and kiss you in hopes you’d forgive him (you always did, you knew his biology made him different - more violent - than you and the Spiders.). You’d fix the platform up, remake the broken parts or simply forget about it, like the many cabinets he ended up buying instead of patching them up.
Now especially, his tantrums began more often and lasted longer, a common occurrence when it was rare months ago. You couldn’t fault him, you didn’t want to, even if your heart throbbed painfully at his words, shoulders curving under the immensity of his tone and actions. You loved him, so you’d bare him in his best as in his worst.
“Detente- Simplemente detente!” In his fits of rage, Miguel reverted to his vulgarity, spitting Spanish words at anyone he faced. His voice was low and gravely, body convulsing as he swung at the fizzling, orange screens, dissipating under his aggressive gesture. (Stop- Just stop!)
When his fuse popped, he’d throw words left and right in Spanish, the enchanting slur of his Mexican accent turning hellish, slamming loudly like the Hephaestus’ hammer. Along his hit came the blow, the effects following them. Whether they were positive or negative, he pushed on, frenziedly hammering the weight of his words into whoever was the nearest to him. Which, coincidentally, happened to be you at the moment when you climbed onto his platform to relay the summarised report of last week’s missions from every Spider.
You let him ramble in silence, watching him twist on the spot and walk circles before his desk, turning and gesturing arbitrarily at something that wasn’t there. He’s expressive with his love, his spite, his care, his needs and his fury. He’d make big motions with his hands, voice dipping low and sometimes rising high with the pitch of his impatience. He growls when he’s displeased. He roars when he’s furious. He spits when he’s agitated. He smirks when he’s pleased. If not his voice or his lips, his eyes shine with emotion, showing those who knew how to read him how he felt.
That’s why you ignored the sharp nabs at your person, the low jabs at your work and how you dealt with the other Spiders as his right hand, or at your simple performance of his care. He didn’t want your care when he was busy, he didn’t want your soft and soothing words when he was tracking down another anomaly with vehement hate, and he didn’t want your meddling when he was focused on important matters of the multiverse. 
He was stressed, and pressure mounted over self-expectations made him lose himself. Down went his tolerance for failure and mistakes. Down went his awareness of his needs. Down went his patience with people and Lyla. Every man and woman would buck under intense pressure, some would break and stop working, and others would submit to the fate of their failures, but Miguel persevered, he pushed and pushed, pulling at the strings he could grasp, even the shortest ones. 
“Can you just- Coño- can you just shut up for a second?!” Miguel bucked, slamming his fist into the desk. It’d probably leave a dent for you or him to fix, a hole in the shape of his fist. 
You rushed to him, hand wrapping around his upper arm, supporting his hunched body as you webbed a chair closer to him, pulling on the synthetic fibre until it was behind Miguel. You whispered encouraging words into his ear, easing him into sitting on the rolling furniture. His legs shook, falling limp when he finally sat down, back slumped over and head low. You ran your fingers through his hairline, pulling up his wild mane. His eyes were closed, bags the deepest you’d seen, and his cheeks were sunken, near sickly. 
A chill wracked your body at his deteriorating appearance, his exhaustion had finally caught onto him. You wanted to fuss over him, to berate him for letting it get this far, but his exhausted figure made you frown and rethink your words. You couldn’t let this go on, you’d have to sit him down and talk to him after you took care of him. You lowered the platform, watching Miguel from the corner of your eye until you reached the lowest it could go. 
“Miguel,” you hushed, pressing your lips to his cheek, soft and gentle for his fatigue. “We need to get you to our room, you can’t work anymore.”
He grumbled, feet weakly moving to ease the weight on your shoulders, you wanted to remind him that you were strong and that you could easily carry him back if you wanted, but he liked to keep his pride as the strongest, the boss that people could depend on. You nodded at those who gave you worried glances, shaking their helping hands for carrying him (you knew Miguel wouldn’t have liked others to touch him so casually.) and asked some to run errands for you while you two were busy. Lyla would take over for now, until you took care of Miguel.
“Let me help you, Miggy. Let me take care of you.”
He slept better than night, the best sleep he’d gotten in weeks - months - and was grounded to a week of rest and recuperation. You helped him shower, washing his back and hair. You cooked his favourite dishes, following the Mexican cooking books you had laying around. You gave him daily massages for the aches over his shoulders and back, massing the tenseness off his arms and legs. At night, you’d force him to bed, blocking his access to his office and kissing him goodnight. The sun rose with you, you rode Hélio’s chariot, turning his nights into mornings as you pulled Selena’s moon into the sky.
While he rested, you worked tirelessly to fill in Miguel’s seat, scouring the multiverse for anomalies and sending Spiders to deal with them. You had Lyla run diagnostics and simulations about the chance for future appearances, playing the game of prediction and bettering the percentage after each successful prediction. Peter B. and Jess could help you around the clock, they shared the job you had as Miguel’s right-hand and worked fantastically together when put in charge of it. They were still sent on missions if you and Lyla determined it was too difficult to face alone, they were skilled and had experience, and they would mentor those who needed help. If the case came forward, you would step away from the office and jump through the multiverse, aiding your fellow Spiders to capture anomalies while Lyla took care of the office. 
Miguel came back healthier, stronger and more energetic. He thanked you in the forms of kisses and hugs, gratified words and gestures that made your heart warm, flutter like wings. It nearly made you forget all the heartache he burdened you with within the past months. Nearly. 
Something had ticked Miguel off, his ragged breath simmering in the air, a steady stream of fury. It burned like the lowest pits of hell, ruled by the cold tone of its god, seated at the top-most throne of the Underworld. Powerful and iron-handed, Hades led with strong principles and meticulous habits, much like Miguel did. His fury and anger were dealt by Cerberus, the three-headed dog of hell, as ferocious and dangerous as Miguel’s agitated state was. 
His shoulders shook, waves of unadulterated rage filtered off his back, rippling his sculpted back as metal creaked under his hands. His talons sunk into the metal, drawing lines in his anger-filled moment. He spun to face you with a roar, arms flailing until he faced you. He heaved heavily, shoulders and chest moving as his blood rushed with emotions, eyes dilated and turned deep red. He stalked towards you in all his mad glory, like the form of the Cyclops casting its dooming shadow on Odysseus’ men. Except, unlike his men, who were eaten in a blink, embraced by death in such a violent but swift way, you’d be ripped apart by it, pieces of your being torn apart for a slow and painful descent.   
He moved in big, lumbering steps, looming over you, shoulders broad and demanding. He sneered at you, in ways that would kill others but wound you deeply, to tear your heart out and throw it away like old, wilted flowers. The air seemed stuffy, hot and confining, his breath even hotter, burning you when he stopped inches from you. You gaped at him, eyes wide and fingers trembling, something crossed your mind, a flash of emotion that you never thought possible to connect to Miguel: fear. 
“Why can’t you be like-!” He started, mind dead set on breaking you down to your smallest, his force slamming into your softer one. Then he stopped, body seizing as if he was shot, but his round eyes told you he almost let himself slip, to let the name slip from his tongue in a haze. You knew who he was talking about, the memories that he related to her, that he was simply mad, but it didn’t ease the pain that ripped through your heart.
“Like who, Miguel!?” You cried back, hands clenching and rigid on your side. Your body trembling with disgust, shock and heartbreak. You couldn’t believe he would bring her up, to compare you to her and voice it out. It hurt; it drove the nail deeper into your coffin, adding another thing over the mountain of doubt and pain.
He just stared, he couldn’t finish his sentence, a starch contrast to his attitude seconds ago. It pained you that he couldn’t even say the words, to apologize to you about what he said. He knew how to run, how to ignore, and how to push things back. He did that well, and now he couldn’t face what he said to you was pathetic. 
“Like who, huh?! Like her!? Like Dana?!” Your vision blurred, and your breath hitched as your body crashed down with agony, sadness and betrayal. You shook this time while he looked on with desperation, body unable to make a sound or motion. 
“I- no- mi cielo, no- I didn’t mean to, I swear, ” he reached out, hand (his talons had received back into his pads) extending to touch you, to hold you in an apologetic embrace, but you stepped back, unable to contain your sobs. “Mi vida, please. Perdón, no fue mi intención.” (I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to.)
You backed away from him, his warmth, his adoration, his love. His apology sounded guilty, dripping with regret and sorrow. He winced, watching you step away from him, regret gripping his heart as he moved to follow you. Every step you took backward, he took one forward, copying you, trying to approach you as if you were a wounded and unpredictable animal, to appease and soothe you. 
You shook your head, tearing your eyes away from his teary ones. You fiddled with your watch, opening a portal to your world and shook off your watch. You jumped back before he could catch you, hand extended to you in a desperate attempt to stop you. He wanted to bring you back into his arms, to kiss the tears away and beg for forgiveness until you let him back in, but to leave him, to throw away the watch that connected you to him. It broke him. 
He wouldn’t be able to see you unless you wanted to be seen, the tracker in your watch left blinking before his feet, discarded as you had with him; after he pushed you away, tore you down with his words spurred by the moment’s rush of negativity and pressure. It wasn’t an excuse, he knew that, but it didn’t ease. He sank to the floor, raking it with his talons as he cried out, a pained sob breaking out of his chest as he cradled his head, cursing himself for not being careful, for not heeding your winces and frowns, and not taking your heart into consideration. 
You fell when you landed in your universe, knocking a few boxes as you crashed onto your side. Your body jerked, cold droplets pouring down on your broken figure as you sat back up on the pavement. You hissed, the downcast atmosphere making your body heave a heartbroken sob, clutching your chest - where your heart would’ve been if Miguel hadn’t shattered it - and falling into yourself. You made yourself smaller, hiding your tear-stained face between your knees as you let the rain shower over you, soaking you down to your socks. 
A relationship built on pain, need and desperation was bound to fall. The carelessness of his ways cracked the edge of your relationship, slowly breaking it down into a shell of what it was. You bled for his cause as you bled for your loss. Like Apollo - a caregiver, a watcher of the fates of the people he oversaw, all the good and evil he could do just by saying the word - Miguel loved and felt, he gave and took, but lost it all in the end. His heart was broken and his soul lost over and over, the people he loved and cared for lost to time and fate. Like the Greek god, he loved what he could not have, loved what he could not hold, loved what he could not keep. 
As would Daphne’s story, she loved as much as you did, she cared as much as you did, and she hated as much as you did. In love was the god, as Miguel was with you, heart-stopping in every aspect. He stood like a god over them all, tall, broad and caring. But like any Greek love story, yours was as tragic, the hymn of your love left to fester with hate and anger, with regret and untold pain. Run, you did as Daphne had, crossing where you hoped he couldn’t reach you; where you’d be left hidden from the heartbreaking sorrow.
You didn’t know how long you sat in the rain, perhaps seconds, perhaps minutes, perhaps hours, but every moment blurred into one. The once vibrant colours of New York dulled to a boring monochrome, the world was swallowed in tones of black and white. Your limbs felt numb, you could hardly feel the cold, only the drops of rain and the heaviness of your heart in your chest. You could sit here a while longer, to drown in the sensation of the world falling around you-
Then it stopped raining. That wasn’t right, you could see the water crashing onto the ground by your feet, inches from you. Your side felt warm, a calm, soothing warmth that made your body quake from the cool air. You looked to the side and saw feet, big ones. You followed their body, tracing the lines of their soaking pants, to a warm jacket, broad shoulders and to a familiar face. 
“Oye, who did this to you?” His voice dripped with worry, a calmness that contradicted his frowning eyes. It was a familiar voice. It was a familiar face. It was Miguel’s face. Your lips quivered, staring at the face of your lover - ex-lover now that you thought about it - with newly shed tears. His eyes widened, even more worried than before as he crouched down to your height, hand running down your back soothingly. “Hey, hey, calm down. It’s all right.”
You wished you could believe his words, believe the softness in his tone and the beat of your torturous heart that missed the Miguel you knew. This one - your universe’s Miguel O’Hara (you didn’t even know you had one in your New York, it felt surreal to your depressed mind.) - was a stranger wearing the face of the person you loved. His face was a carbon copy of your Miguel’s, but softer on the edges, calmer and more… human than Spider-man 2099. His voice was gentler, caring more warmth for a stranger in need than yours has, like a whisper from an angel lulling you into a peaceful rest. 
“Vamos, let’s get you out of the rain first.”
Next
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hyunjins3rdleg · 4 months ago
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🍸 What’s Your Poison?🍸
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Hi,I’m A—Jay! Nice to meet you,honey🩷
• Bbygirl of ‘01
• March🌷Pisces Princess
• Somehow managing to work a big girl job in the real world of the USA
Just vibin’ & thrivin’ on my new little blog sharing my cute little ideas with cute little strangers.
(That’s you, babe. You’re the cute stranger💋)
*Hwang Hyunjin bias based!*
(But you’ll see me reblog all the boys!!)
Join me for Happy Hour Gossip!
I’m open to request or a chat if you’d like to giggle,rant,or cry with me!
*Request🔒:fake text(predominately),drabbles,au prompts,etc(I have more time for shorter fics)
*I will not write member x member or poly(just not into that,sorry)incest/step siblings, taboo/hardcore themes, include the members’ real life family, and I will politely decline your request if it’s something I am not comfortable with writing or speaking on :)
*Stray Kids are real people & therefore everything below is completely fictional. This doesn’t reflect who they truly are in any way, shape, or form. I am not trying to misconstrue who they are in real life.
Don’t forget to touch grass,babe <3
✨Everyone’s welcome at Stay’s Bar✨
(especially my fellow Black stays🤎)
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**MDNI & SFW Rules**
Minors(16+)are free to interact with my blog as long as you keep it cute & appropriate.
*SFW* Fics are safe for the younger stays and will usually only have profanity listed as the main warning.
*MDNI* Fics are self explanatory and should not be interacted with unless you are 18+
Keep it cute or get blocked <3
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Angst⛈️/🌩️; Fluff🧸; Smut/Suggestive🔥
FWB!Hyunjin Text Series 🧸⛈️🔥 (MDNI)
A late night text accidentally sent to one of the artist you’re working with leads to a half a year long agreement and Hyunjin wants more…
(fwb to lovers)(IdolxMusic Producer!Reader)
Before You Ruined My Outfit? 🌩️🧸 (SFW)
Han Jisung is your childhood best friend and his attempt at playing Cupid goes horribly wrong somehow thanks to Hyunjin…
Fix Your Face, Please! 🧸🌩️ (MDNI)
Hyunjin’s very vocal about how jealous & possessive he can get, and although it can get troublesome you find it kind of hot…
We Were On Break!! 🌩️🧸 (SFW)
Your ex boyfriend, Hyunjin, has a hard time accepting the end of your relationship and is very persistent on getting back together…
Corporate Gang 🧸 (MDNI)
JYP Co. gets a new IT-Agent and you can’t help but gush about him to your favorite coworkers…
(Nerdy,shy!Hyunjin Series)
Take Your Friends Out ⛈️🧸 (pt.1 ) (MDNI)
Your boyfriend has stood you up 3x this month and you decide that you’re done with being second place. Of course he disagrees…
Don’t Say That To Me ⛈️ (pt 2.) (MDNI)
Months after you took Hyunjin back you have to face the tough reality of falling out of love with him and end things for good…
Stress Induced Fever 🧸 (SFW)
Your job has decided to transfer you to their USA branch for a year and Hyunjin is failing miserably at holding himself together before you leave…
Sad Nudes? 🧸 (MDNI)
You’ve had a shit day and Hyunjin tries his best to cheer you up thousands of miles away…
I Love You. Now Date Me! 🧸🌩️ (SFW)
Your bestfriend has been jokingly telling you he’s in love with you for years only for you to find out it’s not a joke…and oh yeah, he HATES your boyfriend…
Babe, I Broke It 🧸 (SFW)
Hyunjin broke your brand new coffee mug and he’s taking it harder than you are (soft bbyboy)…
I Really Like You, Like Romantically 🔥🧸(MDNI)
Your best friend asks you for an insane favor of helping him lose his virginity and discovers his feelings in the process…
I Will Win! Fighting!🔥🧸 (MDNI)
You and Hyunjin make a friendly bet to survive No Nut November and despite his persistent confidence on winning, he eventually gives in…
Emergency Contact ⛈️ (SFW)
You and Hyunjin had a mutual breakup over a year ago, but apparently he forgot to remove you as his emergency contact and feelings are revisted…
Safe,Loved,& Accepted ⛈️ (SFW)
Bang Chan has been making light of the nasty comments you’ve been getting online until you are put in a sticky situation and he’s worried sick a thousand of miles away…
Have You Always Been This Hot?? 🔥🧸 (MDNI)
Attempting to survive No Nut November with your best friend Chan brings forth feelings neither of you knew existed…and really good sex…
I Just Want To Help ⛈️ (SFW)
Your ex Hyunjin takes it upon himself to help you with financial difficulties after months of no contact, but he never expected you to fight him every step of the way…
Wanna See It Up Close? 🔥🧸 (MDNI)
You always jokingly try to convince your best friend to get laid and he jokingly tells you to take his virginity (except it’s not a joke)…
I Hate You. All Of You. 🌩️ (SFW)
A sneaky picture brings your relationship and trust crashing down and he refuses to let it all go over a stupid misunderstanding….
Keeping Secrets 🌩️ (SFW)
Felix’s antics leaves Hyunjin an over dramatic mess and it takes an entire week before he confronts you about the secret you’ve been hiding…
Is This A Trick Question? 🌩️🧸 (SFW)
It’s not a secret that Hyunjin’s perusing you romantically, but despite returning his feelings your past relationship holds you back. Little did you know Hyunjin was just what you needed to try at love again…
Model!Hyunjin Text Series 🧸🔥(SFW/MDNI)
At the height of his career, Hwang Hyunjin goes down the road nearly every 24 year old with fame in the public eye does - sex, money, and rebellion. You accepted a job set up by his parents to get his reputation and career back on track, and you’ve known no peace since thanks to your very clingy (and unashamedly in love) client…
(ModelxAssistant!Reader)(grumpy gf,sunshine bf)
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angelbarelywrites · 1 year ago
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♡ slashers scenarios | y’all accidentally adopt a kid
♡ fandoms; Halloween, Texas Chainsaw Massacre (original + 2006), Dead by Daylight, slashers (general)
♡ characters; Micheal Myers, Thomas Hewitt, Bubba Sawyer
♡ reader; gender neutral
♡cw; parenthood (?), mentions of violence
♡notes; i work with toddlers all day yet still somehow get baby fever- so here’s this i guess lol.
i can’t see Brahms as a dad so skipped out on him this time, Vincent is iffy too but we might come back to him
•┈••✦ ❤ ✦••┈•
Micheal Myers
> micheal never wanted to be a father before he met you
> he knows for a fact he has something terribly wrong with him
> and while it never bothered him…it was far too dangerous to pass on
> but the way you light up when little kids on the street wave to you
> how you talked about building a family when you got drunk and sappy
> and how soft and gentle you were holding your friend’s baby…
> he knew you’d be the perfect parent, good enough to balance any bullshit he was bring to the table
> so it’s maybe not a complete accident when he stalks into the house with a banged up stroller out front
> the baby is crying, his parents passed out from some shit they snorted in the living room
> it makes his job easier when he slits their throats, and he’s sure as hell not sympathetic
> not that he ever is
> he follows the cries upstairs- a tiny little boy is wailing in his crib
> but he stops and stares at Micheal, blue eyes wide as he looms in the door
> at first Micheal thinks the racket it going to start again and braces for the scream
> but the boy reaches for him eagerly instead, making grabby hands and squealing
> it takes a bit of snooping but Micheal finds some paperwork after he’s secured the child in a carrier
> Miles. The boy’s name is Miles, and he’s ten months old- just tiny for his age
> you think he’s fucking with you when he sets a baby carrier on your table that night
> “…that’s Miles.” He mutters and walks away
> you’re pissed but you can’t say you have anything but an urge to protect this tiny boy
> he has red hair, and light freckles and the sweetest disposition
> he’s perfect, surely Micheal wouldn’t just steal a child…not without good reason
> and you notice Micheal still lingering, watching you both
> you try not to smile
> “…well. Gonna help me find somewhere he can sleep or not?”
Thomas Hewitt
> when Charlie brings in the little girl, Luda Mae is beyond excited
> she had no idea the couple she’d sent down their road had a baby
> her dark curls and chubby legs and ruddy pink cheeks remind her so much of Thomas at that age too
> not too far off from one if she’s got it right
> she’s thinking selfishly, she’s always wanted a daughter
> but Thomas’ eyes go so wide when you both walk in
> he’s in awe of the tiny lil thing sleeping against his mama’s shoulder
> he won’t hold her, terrified of hurting her
> but you’re eager to take her for a bit and he gets real close, chin hooked on your shoulder so he can inspect her closely
> she’s all giggles as she touches his mask
> and you’re nearly in tears when she snuggles up against you
> “…yknow…i’ve been thinkin. i’m much closer to grandmama age than mama age now”
> you say yes before Luda can finish her ask - there was nothing you wanted more than a child with Thomas
> he’s hesitant, but he already adores her
> you have no way of knowing her name, so what you should call her is a bit of a hot topic for a few days
> Charlie wants to name her Charlotte because he’s a self centered bastard , and Luda Mae has about a thousand suggestions that come from baby books decades older than you
> but you let Thomas decide
> Audrey Mae Hewitt is what he chooses
> Audrey from a book he read
> Mae from his mama
> and it suits her perfectly
Bubba Sawyer
> “hey cook! look what i got!”
> Drayton about beats Choptop in the plate when he sees him carrying a toddler under his arm like a log
> but he’s kind of impressed such a scrawny dirtbag can carry a chunky kid like that
> the little boy is a healthy weight for two or so, with lil chipmunk cheeks that dimple when he grins
> and the cutest damn mullet you’ll ever see
> Drayton is getting too damn old for this, and there’s only one person he trusts even a minuscule amount in the house
> so he just. hands him to you when you walk into the front room
> “congratulations, it’s a boy”
> you’re confused but excited
> and a bit concerned with how he and Bubba will feel once the man gets home
> a kid is a big commitment- and a man that wears people’s faces can be scary
> but Bubba immediately squeals and beelines for the little one when he staggers in
> they both tilt their heads curiously before the boy tries to climb up his leg
> when he picks him up, the boy gives a huge belly laugh, kicking his legs
> you choose his name- politely declining your boyfriend’s brothers’ insistence on Lil Choppy or Drayton II
> Jedediah Junior sounds perfect to you - little JJ
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fastandcarlos · 8 months ago
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Long Distance Sucks : ̗̀➛ Pierre Gasly
summary: trying to keep your relationship going is hard, especially when there are thousands of miles between you, but somehow pierre always finds a way
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Your head shook in disbelief as you closed the door behind the delivery driver, your smile wide at the bouquet of flowers that were in your hands. The smell was divine, they looked picture perfect, everything that you had ever wanted.
It didn’t take long for you to figure who the mastermind was behind them. Pierre had pestered you most of the day to make sure that you were home for the day, desperate for you to be there to receive your delivery, only wishing that he could also be there to be able to see the wide smile on your face.
Once you set the flowers down, you reached for your phone, finding your favourite contact to try and call.
“Do you like them?” Pierre quizzed as soon as he picked up the phone.
“I can’t believe you sent these to me,” you laughed, delicately placing your fingertips under a few of the petals, admiring their beauty.
“I just wanted to send you a little something to remind you that I love you, and that I miss you,” Pierre smiled, sitting down on the bed of his hotel room. You had a clear picture in your mind, you knew that he’d be wearing a smug smile, proud of himself for being able to pull off such a sweet surprise. “It’s not the same without you.”
“Flowers are cool, but you being here would be cooler,” you responded.
“Every time you pass the flowers you can be reminded of me now,” Pierre chuckled, knowing exactly where in your apartment you’d put them too.
“The table in the kitchen,” you both said at the same time, chuckling to yourselves. It was your favourite spot in your home, decorated full of things that reminded you of Pierre.
“There’s plenty more where that came from,” Pierre told you, “I’ve got four more weeks until I get to see you again.”
“Time will fly by,” you tried to insist, attempting to reassure yourself more than you were Pierre. “We’ll be back together soon enough, you’ll be fed up of having me around when you get home, I won’t be able to leave you alone.”
Pierre didn’t want you to leave him alone, he wanted you by his side constantly. He loved his career, and he knew how much yours meant to you too, but he was sure that the two of you were cursed sometimes with how mismatched your calendars were.
“I might have to go in a minute love, we’ve got team meeting,” he informed you, hearing a soft sigh down the other end of the line.
“It’s alright,” you replied, forcing a smile to your face.
“I’ll speak to you tonight if you’re still awake,” Pierre told you, yet another ‘if’ that seemed to happen so frequently in your relationship recently.
“I’ll try and stay awake just for you,” you spoke, saying a quick goodbye to Pierre before you heard the line cut off, letting go of a heavy sigh.
Your eyes glanced back to the flowers again. Four weeks would fly by, right?
˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚*
Over the next few days you had been surviving on a few scattered texts and calls, trying your best to align your time zones. Your conversations were broken, half the time you were sleepily reading messages, barely able to understand exactly what Pierre was saying to you.
It was the same for Pierre too, he continuously looked at his phone, dejected each time there was no message from you.
Like always, you were counting down the days to Pierre returning home to you, busying yourself with work. It was almost night by the time you returned to your apartment, lost in your own world when you felt your foot hit against something when you got to the door, glancing down at a cardboard box.
You picked it up as you entered your home, taking it with you as you sat down on the sofa. You quickly tore the tape off of it, intrigued as to what was inside. You had no recollection of ordering anything, but with how exhausted you were, you couldn’t be sure.
A gasp came from you as you opened up the box, glancing down to see an Alpine hoodie folded inside. You carefully lifted it out and held it up, chuckling to yourself, knowing straight away who the hoodie belonged to. The size was perfect for Pierre, you’d washed, and worn, plenty of them to know.
Thought you might want a reminder of me, I wore this at the race this weekend, hopefully it still smells like me too. P x
You brought the hoodie to your nose, inhaling deep as you smelt Pierre’s familiar scent. It felt like home as you threw the hoodie over your head, allowing it to fall over your body, knowing that you had no plans to take the hoodie off until the day that Pierre was home again.
˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚*
“I might have to go to the garage for a couple of days before I come home,” Pierre spoke, watching your smile drop.
You were only days away from being reunited, only for another obstacle to get in the way. “It’s work, you’ve got to do it, I’m sure I’ll survive another few days.”
“I promise that I’ll be as quick as I can to get things done.”
“Don’t rush, you need the car to be the best it can be for the next race,” you tried your best to assure him, “we’ve done weeks, a few more days won’t hurt.”
“Thank you for being so understanding,” Pierre weakly smiled, “I promise that I’ll make it up to you when I get home.”
“It’s fine Pierre.”
Your voice was far from convincing as you ended the call, laying down on the sofa as your hands ran across your face.
˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚*
Pierre tried to keep you as updated with his plans over the next couple of days, but each day his estimations changed. One day you were told he’d have to be there for a week, the next day he’d insist he only needed two more days, you somehow found yourself wondering whether Pierre would even be home at all.
You kept keeping yourself busy, heading out around the city, exploring as much as you could. You were busy scrolling on your phone as you headed into one of the nearby clothes shops, finally deciding to treat yourself to the item of clothing that you’d spotted in the shop window several times in an attempt to cheer yourself up from the feeling of missing Pierre.
Your shop was soon interrupted by the sound of your phone buzzing in your pocket.
“Hey, how’s it going at the garage?” You quizzed as soon as you saw Pierre’s name appear, using your free hand to take the top off of the railing.
“I don’t know,” he chuckled, “but what I do know is that that top you’re holding will look beautiful on you.” Your eyes darted around as Pierre continued to laugh down the line. “Look back at the door amour.”
You almost dropped everything as your body turned around as fast as it could, chuckling in disbelief as Pierre stared back at you, the biggest smile on his face as he beckoned you over, waving his hand across at you.
You could hardly move fast enough, desperate to have the feeling of Pierre’s arms wrapped around your frame again. You’d both completely forgotten that there were other people around you as your bodies crashed into each other, holding one another tight out of fear that somehow the other person would slip away again.
“Y-you’re home,” you smiled as you pulled away, cupping either side of Pierre’s face. Your eyes studied him closely, making sure that it really was him in front of you. “I thought you still needed to fix some things at the garage?” You scolded, hitting gently against his chest.
“I told them I couldn’t wait any longer, I couldn’t stay away from you any longer my love,” Pierre whispered, pressing a kiss against your lips. “It’s been torture being away from you for this long, but I couldn’t resist the temptation to surprise you,” he sniggered.
“How did you even know where to find me?” You quizzed.
“Trust me…I’ve got my sources.”
˗ˏˋ 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 ! ´ˎ˗
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lushrue · 8 months ago
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thinking real heavy about phone sex with price while he’s deployed (afab!reader, nsfw under the cut, minors do not interact!!)
cw: mutual masturbation, very light breathplay, author has never written smut before 😅
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you can hear it in his voice the minute he picks up the phone. he’s tense, frustrated, wired. he’s got this growly tone that you jokingly call his “grizzly bear voice.” it only comes out when too many somethings or somebodys have pissed him off, and that’s not uncommon when he’s out on a mission. he’s so passionate about what he does, one of the things that made you fall in love with him. so the least you can do is provide him with some relief, right?
“love,” you murmur into the phone, cutting off his rant about some recruit running off half-cocked and almost compromising their position. he sighs exasperatedly and you can almost hear him slumping back in his chair. “yeah, dove?” he replies, crossing his arms over his chest. you smile despite his sour mood, determined to set him right again. “it sounds like you’re in need of some stress relief, hmm?”
you swear you hear him perk up. it was the trigger phrase the two of you had adopted after you had gotten particularly spontaneous and john almost got walked in on by one masked lieutenant. now, those words meant he was rushing to lock the door and set his phone to do not disturb. “i could use some, yeah,” he said, his voice low and husky. he’d already begun to chub up in his cargos, his palm pressing down on the firmness between his legs.
you smile, getting yourself into position as well. after all, it was only fun if you both got something out of it. you slid your shorts off and settled back against the pillows of your shared bed. “i thought you might say that,” you purred, your voice lowering to match his. “you’ve just been working so hard, lovie. and the days are so long, aren’t they? just so pent up and frustrated.”
the telltale sound of his belt buckle clinking meets your ears, followed by the rustling of fabric and a low groan from your boyfriend. “mmm…yeah, doll, ‘m all pent up,” he replied as he thumbed at his head, pre already leaking from the tip of his hard cock. his breath caught in his throat and you knew from that little hitch that he’d started. so you did too, your hand sliding below the waistband of your underwear to find that delicious little bud.
your fingers pinched at your clit, eliciting a gasp and breathy moan from you. you imagined the look on price’s face, the longing he no doubt had to be with you and replace your hands with his. just the thought of having him home in bed with you made your pussy clench, your breathing starting to speed up. his did too, starting to stroke himself slowly. you loved how he dragged sex out when he was home, but with so much distance between you, you’d almost prefer he dropped some of his characteristic restraint. he was a military man first and foremost, and that meant almost supernatural control over his body and its urges.
“touchin’ yourself, pet?” he asked, which you responded to with a whine and murmur of assent. words wouldn’t come to you at the moment. his chuckle sent shockwaves through you, the wet shlick of his hand barely audible through the tinny phone speaker. “good. tha’s my good girl. just keep on like that, keep makin’ y’rself feel good for me.” even thousands of miles away, he still managed to control you. it was scary and exhilarating all at once, the hold he had on you. price shifted on his cot, the pace of his strokes picking up as he shut his eyes and let his own personal porno play out in his head. he’d been with you long enough that he had your body memorized. he could see exactly how you looked sprawled out beneath him, face flushed and so eager for him. the image made him stiffen harder, if that was possible.
you obeyed, of course. you were his good girl after all. the sound of his heavy breathing was enough to get you going good, your chest heaving as the pleasure built in you. your fingers traveled lower, gathering your own slick on your fingers before pressing two inside. it wasn’t the stretch you needed and you whined, scissoring your digits to mimic the width john provided. you heard him coo condescendingly, a blush rising to your cheeks. “what’s the matter, sweet girl? your fingers not doin’ the trick?” you shook your head in reply before remembering he couldn’t see you. “nuh-uh,” you mumble, thrusting in and out in time with the sound of his strokes.
price groaned at the sound of your breathy voice, the way you got all high-pitched and squeaky when you were horny. “need you, i need you so bad,” you continued, putting the phone on speaker so that you could have both your hands free. you laid the phone on the pillow beside you, your now-unoccupied hand coming up to circle your throat. if you went far enough in your head, you could pretend that it was price’s thick palm pressing against your windpipe, squeezing your neck to give you the head rush you loved. “feels so much better when you do it.” that stroked his ego good, his nostrils flaring as his hand worked more furiously at his aching cock. god, the things he would do to you when he got home.
“you can do it, dove. come on, curl your fingers the way i do. hit that pretty little spot for me.” the moan you let out was all he needed to know you obeyed him. his hand tightened around himself, cum threatening to spill out of him right then and there. but he choked it back. he wanted this to play out just a little longer. “tha’s it, good girl,” he crooned, focusing in on your breathy whimpers. your fingers worked furiously, the pressure in your belly building as you got closer and closer. “god, you sound like heaven. nothin’ sweeter in the world, love.” 
his words carried you closer to the edge, each press of your fingertips against your g-spot sending a bolt of pleasure through you. your back arched, the phone slipping down off the pillow to be closer to your hips. with this new position, he could hear how wet you were, the sound of you delicious in his ear. he groaned, deciding to just give in. he wouldn’t last long with those sounds in his head. “come on, dove, need ya to cum for me,” he breathed out, the wet sounds of him stroking his cock resuming. “wanna do it together. give it to me, baby, i know ya can.”
his encouragement helped, your arousal pulling taut like a rubber band. it was ready to snap, you could feel it. your fingers set a relentless pace, abusing your pussy as the heel of your palm pressed against your clit. “john! john, fuck, i’m gonna-” “i know you are, sweet girl. go ahead, cum for me.” and you did, hard. stars exploded behind your eyelids, low groans echoing in the empty bedroom as you worked yourself through it. the sound of your boyfriend, your captain, finding his own release reached your ears from where your phone sat against the plush of your ass. you picked it up, your breathing heavy as you came back down to earth together. price flopped back down on his cot, a hand over his chest as he willed his racing heart to slow. he was getting too old for this shit.
“good, baby? feel better now?” you asked, taking a moment to relax before cleaning up. you heard him sigh, the sound one of contentedness rather than exasperation like it’d been before. “yeah, dove. you always know just how to make me feel good.” that makes you smile, blinking slowly as you sink into the mattress. “miss you, john.”
“miss you too, lovie.”
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constructive criticism greatly appreciated, i wanna write more of this type of stuff but i am very inexperienced when it comes to writing smut!!
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worstscholar · 1 month ago
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What if you catch Law jerking off with your panties? 👀😌
hhh ^ this actually sent me into a coma
⋆。° ໑ Immediately he's so flustered, his whole face goes red, from the tops of his ears to his chest. He splutters and fidgets, and hides his leaky cock with his hands, your panties trapped between them.
⋆。° ໑ If you tease him about it, he might actually just cum ( '~' ' )
⋆。° ໑ He's insanely embarrassed, and he kind of wants to die, but that little part of him that got him into this situation likes getting caught and being watched.
⋆。° ໑ If you leave he'll sulk for a few weeks and avoid you, going bright red every time you're so much as in the same room as him.
⋆。° ໑ If you stay and help him out, he'll be so happy, but still so embarrassed at the same time
~~~
Law exhales shakily as you pull his trembling hands away from his crotch, he's so embarrassed he thinks he might die right here. He cant bring himself to look at your face, his eyes darting all around his room, struggling to stay on a single object, before they settle on your hands. His thoughts are running a thousand miles a minute as he watches you slowly reveal the pathetic sight of your stained panties covering his cock.
He misses the grin you give, refuses to acknowledge how hungry your gaze is. "I'm surprised you're not wearing them." You tease, your voice low and as hungry sounding as the look you're giving him. Law's face goes crimson, and he fists his hands into the sheets on either side of himself- how could you say something so perverted? In the same breath Law neglects to acknowledge that he's the perverted one, that he's been caught doing something perverted, that you're about to do something perverted to him- Law's heart skips a beat, and he faintly hears you chuckle, over the roaring sound of his heartbeat in his ears.
When he looks up and finally makes eye contact, he feels like hes being swallowed whole by that look in your eye. His face feels hotter, but Law inst sure that's possible, from how red he is already. "Why would i- Why-" Law stops himself, his heart is beating too fast, he cant organize his thoughts, you're so close- too close. He can feel your breath on his face, smell your mint toothpaste. His lips part without him allowing them to, and he exhales shakily.
You take that as permission to lean in further, so close your lips brush. Law's heart jumps, and his hands reflexively push at your shoulders, but before you could actually move back, Law pulls you back in, unable to make up his mind. "Silly boy," You tease, reaching up to cup the side of his face, "Do you want me to kiss you, or leave?" You ask, you're being mean, unfair. You know what he wants, but you're denying him for fun, if that cheshire grin on your face means anything.
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squinch-depraved · 5 months ago
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Thinking of Schlatt and mutual masturbation/phone sex. Thinking about him just moaning into your ear from the other side of receiver and talking you through it while also getting off 💕💕💕
i like this. short but sweet hopefully :3
"'s okay if you don't wanna doll," schlatt's voice rang through the speaker pressed to your ear. "i've got plenty of pictures of you i can use."
you shook your head, forgetting he couldn't see you, and jumped onto your bed. "nono, i wanna!" you assured him as you got comfy. "it's just new, that's all."
he didn't speak, leaving you to babble on. "i'm down for- for whatever you want, i promise. i just don't know what it is you want from me yet," you rambled.
"touch yourself, doll," he ordered you simply, voice gravelly. he waited for you to do so, listening carefully for the small whimper that left your lips before beginning to stroke his cock. his eyes and yours fluttered closed at the same time, thousands of miles apart, and he grunted when you mewled into your phone's mic. "you bein' a good girl for me?"
you moaned at his words, rubbing circles into your clit as you pictured how hot he must look at his desk right now. "i'm being so good for you, j, promise," you crooned. "just wish it was your fingers instead of mine."
he groaned desperately and you could just see him bucking his hips up into his hand. "need more noise from you, toots. 's all i got right now," he instructed. you obeyed, not holding anything back, and continued producing lewd wails, crying out his name as you wished more than anything he could be here with you.
the sounds he let out were surely ones that he wouldn't let anyone else alive hear him make; only you could draw these low, frenzied moans from him. you knew this and appreciated it for what it was: him being absolutely whipped for you.
"i-i'm getting close, j," you said airily.
"me too, doll, c'mon, keep goin'. finish with me," he whined, impatient from not having you on his cock like he wanted. the two of you continued, panting and writhing, craving only each other until you cried out and gasped, unable to catch your breath for a few moments as your orgasm crashed through you. "yeahhh, attagirl, toots!" he praised you before sighing an, "ahh, fuck," and spilling all over his stomach, staining his plain black shirt.
"we gotta do that more often," you murmured hazily.
"yeah, we do, doll. it was great. you should go to bed though, 'kay? i'll call you in the morning," he agreed lovingly. you protested for a moment before he convinced you and hung up. it wasn't long before he sent you a selfie of his thick, leaking, red cock, still standing at attention against his torso and cum-stained shirt. you groaned, insatiably horny for him, and threw your phone down. there was no way you could sleep now.
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