#sorry about the formatting i have no excuse

[nyanashima]

Satan headcanons because he’s babygirl and I think about him a lot

Satan is VERY expressive when he’s reading, almost to a comical extent. It started when he was little, and his brothers thought it was cute at the time, so nobody’s said anything. To this day, it’s very common to see him furrowing his brow or saying “No. No, actually, fuck you,” out loud at a book. He’s just too invested to hide what he’s thinking.

Because he’s so well-read on… literally everything about cats, he points out every single inaccuracy in the movies he and his brothers watch. By now, everybody can predict when he’s about to tell them that cats can’t actually have milk, etc.

Satan ABSOLUTELY has a fursona and no one can tell me otherwise. He's not super active in the community though, he just likes to think about it. He found out about the furry fandom through Levi, who jokingly drew him as a cat, and has been enamoured ever since. Sometimes Levi will gift him art of his fursona as a private birthday present. Nobody can know.

Satan occasionally boxes with Beel. It’s a good way to deal with anger and stay healthy at the same time, so why not?

I’m like 50% sure he canonically plays visual novels? He is at least aware of Danganronpa, whether through Levi or discovering it on his own.

This man is DYING to recite Shakespeare/Molière/etc. Give him the opportunity and he will give a spirited reenactment of whatever he’s reciting. It’s not to show off, he’s just passionate. Given that he’s usually composed (compared to everyone else, anyway), he also likes getting to be more animated once in a while.

This guy is so full of autism

Every now and then he goes shopping with Asmo to find clothes that work with his sensory issues.

He doesn’t really stim around others, primarily because he’s never seen anyone else do it before. Talk to him about it; encourage it; if you yourself do it, stim around him. Soon enough, you’ll see his happy hands.

Ever notice that in events, he’ll sometimes use words that seem out-of-character for him? (I still remember the whiplash I got when he said “yo” a few months ago.) He’s still figuring out who he is, and speech patterns are part of it. He’ll adopt words/phrases from books or his brothers for a short time to see what he likes and what he doesn’t. 

Introduce him to My Immortal and similar fanfics. He’ll hate them at first and tell you to get out of his room, but eventually he’ll crack and come to like them. He loves going back and forth, both of you reading to each other and doing silly voices for the dialogue.

Satan 100% has moments of thirteen-year-old snark. He got his ass handed to him for making the “blah blah blah” hand signal to mock Lucifer while Asmo was getting chewed out. Doesn’t regret a thing

More of an imagine than a headcanon, but hear me out. Young Satan got a cat plushie that he loved to DEATH. Like, he took it everywhere with him for decades. Now imagine him going to his big brother Levi, nearly in tears, asking him to fix it after the leg fell off.

Levi panics and is like, “Oh it’s okay!! I’ll fix it, don’t worry,” and gets out his sewing kit. Satan starts to calm down as he watches the plushie get patched up. Levi nervously hands it back when he’s done, and can’t help but feel soft when his baby brother smiles and thanks him

Also think about Satan still having that plushie after all this time, and occasionally knocking on Levi’s door to awkwardly ask him to fix it again

Levi can’t help but smile a little

[fuedalreesespieces]

Inuyasha & Demisexuality

i think halfway into writing this i thought about just cramming all my thoughts into a semi-coherent rant due to a combination of a.) lack of access to decent translations of the manga and b.) paranoia about over-analyzing scenes and coming off as delusional (i think by now it's probably too late to thwart that claim) buuut this headcanon in particular is near and dear to me so i want to try and get as in depth as possible.

what is demisexuality?

in simple terms, demisexuality is when an individual doesn't experience primary attraction - that is, the sort of attraction based on immediate observable (often physical) characteristics - and instead only experiences secondary attraction first: the type of attraction that forms after the development of a deep emotional bond.

inuyasha and kikyo

this aforementioned term perfectly describes inuyasha and his relationships with the only women he's ever loved romantically. you could make the claim that his inability to feel primary attraction first stems from his trust issues and not inherent sexual orientation. and to that, i would disagree - he and kikyo develop an emotional bond despite an unspoken lack of trust, which may have improved had naraku not meddled in their lives. still, both find solace in each other's similarities, loneliness, and "outlier" status (though the similarities are in isolation only, if i'm being completely honest) and establish a connection that persists post-revival.

inuyasha eventually did start to feel primary attraction to kikyo during their time together - in the second chapter of the manga, when he compares kagome to her, he states that kikyo "looked pretty."

[source - viz. i haven't been in this fandom long, but what i've gathered is that there are a lot of mis-translations of this manga, even from viz. since i have yet to buy physical copies of the manga and don't have an account for the site, i'm going to be using fan-scans for the rest of these, which hopefully won't really affect what i'm trying to convey since i'll be looking at character expressions rather than dialogue for most of them.]

i'd also note the order in which he lists those traits: kikyo looked intelligent and pretty. her intelligent appearance is the first part of her he remembers, which i think underscores his priorities in this regard. he values things like intelligence and companionship - facets that come to light when developing secondary attraction towards someone - more than aspects of primary attraction.

inuyasha and kagome

as mentioned before, demisexuals don't feel physical attraction before establishing a tight emotional bond. the most blatant examples i could think of this were any instances in which inuyasha sees kagome nude and his difference in reaction - in particular, during the yura of the hair and togenkyo arcs, which are roughly seventy-three chapters apart. there are two new moons in that time, and from that we can say at least two months have passed.

chapter six: yura of the hair

kagome's bathing below him, and i'm sorry, but this expression literally screams "zero fucks given." he does not care in the slightest. not a blush. not a spot of red on his cheeks. not a sweatdrop. not a tee-hee. if i were to describe what he's feeling in this moment i would say "extreme ire." when she uses the sit command on him, it's on the assumption that he's "peeking," but kaede understands that it's actually because inuyasha is trying to steal a shard of the shikon jewel.

"huh?" - he sounds genuinely confused that she reached that conclusion, even though he was quite literally peering over the cliff's edge in what obviously has very perverse connotations. it's almost like he doesn't understand why kagome would think his actions come from a place of sexual attraction because that sort of thing just isn't on his mind at all, and he doesn't get why it would be in the first place.

another extremely blatant example can be see in miroku's introductory chapter: chapter 51, the delinquent priest:

do i even have to say anything. this scene also further emphasizes my previous point - before, the only reason he was there was to try and steal kagome's jewel shard. if his true intentions had been driven by primary attraction, this would have been an opportune moment to "peep." in his words, however, he just isn't interested. note that he could have said something along the lines of "i wouldn't do something like that" (which, if he was attracted to her in that way from the start, wouldn't have done anyway) but specifically i'm not interested. the primary attraction is not there in the slightest. at least, not until:

chapter eighty two: fateful night in togenkyo

the scene i'm talking about needs no introduction, but for context: kagome's half-freaking out after having woken up in a sake bath. inuyasha breaks down the door to come and rescue her, accidentally seeing her naked in the process. well, i'm sure his reaction won't be that dif-

...it's only one panel-

okay, two-

i think at this point it's fairly obvious that primary attraction has developed. besides the fact that he's spent three panels trying not to look like he's having a quasi allergic reaction, it's been approximately two months since they've met, and by now they've definitely formed the deep emotional bond required for him to begin feeling any primary attraction at all. in fact, the chapter where he tells kagome "there's no replacement for you" - that chapter, where he's vulnerable and honest and opening up to her, strengthening their bond further, (ch. 78, a tender smell) is directly before the togenkyo arc begins, and, thus, just before these scenes occur. these chapters have all been building up secondary attraction, and now that primary attraction is just starting to show up.

several chapters later we have this iconic panel from 173:

this is such a look of awe, as though he's gazing up at a goddess. jaw dropped, eyes-wide, words trailing off awe. he's entranced. fully head-over-heels in love, feeling both primary and secondary attraction in regards to kagome, and this trend only continues throughout the entirety of the manga.

conclusion + extra thoughts

my belief in this headcanon comes from not just the evidence depicted above, but because i just related a ton reading those scenes. i found myself just nodding along (as someone who's demisexual themselves!) plus, since ace-spectrum representation is so rare, it's nice to see it reflected in a character whose story and relationships i love dearly.

tags: @nightshade-lullaby

[lucifer-kane]

One of the things I think held King Falls back narrative (to me) is the over reliance on the fact that all the information came through calls on the radio show. I think there's a point in an audio drama where, yeah, there's this moving force like a tape recorder, or a radio show, that makes it interesting and brings people in.

But I think with kfam, especially towards the later half of the show, I think that was one of the biggest things holding things back. There was a point where information shouldn't have just been coming from on air calls and vague talk of what they did off air. With kfam I think it could have very much done well with episodes that were more narrative focused away from broadcast. People would want more personal things, but honestly doing personal things over the air wasn't as good as just having some episodes take place with just the characters themselves.

It's not a bad thing to move away from what something first started out as, and in some cases it might end up helping it out in the long run vs anything else.

[charmac]

Bit of a (late) long-ass personal post, but this past year has been insanely monumental for me and a lot of it, if not almost all of it, was centered around this silly comedy show.

Starting the year adopting the most perfect cat in the world purely because he looked like Agent Jack Bauer, I've ended up meeting amazing people and making great friendships, both online and in person, I met Glenn and Charlie and MEE and Meg (and Humphrey) and Danny?? got my first tattoo, bought way too much whiskey, and I've just really, genuinely enjoyed my time posting on Tumblr, making shit, and writing fic more than I have in half a decade. It's stupid, and sappy, and probably pretty parasocial, but I owe so many of my best experiences this past year not only to the show, but to joining this community. Because I wouldn't have experienced much of any of this if I hadn't jumped the casual fan on r/IASIP ship and washed up ashore here. And being here has improved my life and my mental health in ways I can't even begin to properly express.

So here's a photo dump of what I have to dub "A Very Sunny 2023":

To everyone here, thank you for being a part of my 2023. I'm not sure what 2024 has in store, but I'm happy I'll be here, creating and experiencing whatever it is, through and beyond.

[nainainomi]

even more on stormbringer

sorry but ever since I’ve read it it’s been rattling around my brain

but like I just LOVE how the book in which we see Chuuya struggle with his humanity so much is narrated by Adam, who is an ANDRIOD/robot?, not human.

LOOK AT THIS QUOTE>>> “People have souls while machines don’t. In that case, what exactly is a soul? What about the last words of his friend? If those words were only uttered because of a formula, then what exactly is it?”

Because Adam feels like a person he has a personality, they were friends.

Adam helping Chuuya decide that even if he isn’t human, it doesn’t MATTER. Chuuya doesn’t need a soul (if he doesn’t have one) to feel anyway. Chuuya finds his self fulfillment in helping his friends. Chuuya has emotions whether he’s human or not and even if he’ll never know, being able to protect those he cares about is enough.

[lemonduckisnowawake]

What if I theologized hanahaki? What then? Like if hanahaki was a symbol of unrequited love that desperately wants to be requited? Because God so loves us enough to want to be with us but also loves us enough to hold back lest His holiness turn us to ash because the flowers have become so embedded in us. So what if the flowers are a sign of our own rejection of God and the desperate craving we all have deep inside for Him...but also our way of melding with something that needs to go and thus being unable to be saved from it because we made it us in a sense? Like...

...

There’s a new wave of people who claim to be without the Flower Rot, also known as Hanahaki and Hua Bing.

These people claim that, without surgery, they have managed to completely remove the Rot. When asked what had caused this, one woman who wished to remain anonymous told the reporters, “It was…God, I guess. But He was also a man. He just…said that because the Rot’s too rooted in us, even if we wanted God we’d just burn with the flowers. But the only way’s to have His love take it away. So He said He’d take Rot and fade because He was a man, then come back because He’s God, and give us love to remove the Rot because He’s both.”

Her explanation aligns with similar ones from other witnesses with the Rot gone. They claim that the risk of fading with the removal of the flowers was taken by a man. But that His Godliness also signified that He could “grant His love” to permanently dispel the Rot.

As a refresher, it is quite unclear why the Rot suddenly began to manifest inside our lungs millennia ago. The most common legend is a tale of how humanity and God once lived in harmony in a garden. However, one day, man rejected God and told Him they could create a garden of their own. Though He offered a chance to repent from their rejection, having told them previously that such an endeavour would bring death upon them, they refused to acknowledge their wrong and were thus severed from His power and acceptance.

The proud declaration of humanity was not a nonsense claim, as they indeed found they could produce beautiful plant life for a garden.

However, that came with the cost of death, for these flowers grew inside them and were expelled through bloody coughs and sneezes.

Such is the duality of this universal Rot—a sign of divine rejection, some say, or a sign of our own ability to create beauty made more glorious through our own sacrifice, as others say. Of course, there are others who say this Rot is more complicated than simply a sign of our glory or a rejection from the divine, but those claims as much less popular.

In recent times, science has discovered that this Rot is simply a natural and inborn function of our body. “In fact, it’s inaccurate to call such a natural part of human experience a rot,” Doctor Kinuyo Yahagi of Hanahaki Research Association said, showing a bloodied purple iris of hers. “Yes, it is unpleasant but it is a fact of life, just like death and hunger and blood.” She then gave an animated explanation how there was a particular genetic wiring within our lungs linked to the brain’s rejection and affection chemicals. If the two are stirred in such a way, a pathway is made from the brain to the lungs triggering the genetic code and causing flowers to bloom.

“It can be removed by surgery,” a surgeon from the local medical center said. “However, studies have shown it is risky as it can affect your ability to love and process rejection, so it’s up to the patient to take the risk or not.”

Activists have cried that a difficulty in loving is not a sign of deteriorating humanity, and that those who choose the surgery are still acceptable.

“Hanahaki or not, we all still die, right?” a video of one academic debate records a professor speaking to one of the new Rot-less people.

The Rot-less person—a professor as well—nods thoughtfully. “Yes, but now, my death becomes a death without the disease signalling our separation from the divine, which is no true death at all.”

The ethics of removing the Flower Rot surgically still are debated, though much support for it has arisen in the past few decades. Research into these new rot-less people has also steadily increased, all done with the utmost legal and ethical restrictions to the volunteer’s rights.

“Hopefully, we’ll get to the bottom of this and find a better way to remove the disease,” Dr. Yahagi’s co-worker who wished to remain anonymous said. “Natural or not, it is still unpleasant. Why continue with something that is now proven to not be inevitable?”

[one-slice-of-orange]

me: wow, i have finally seen with my own eyes a piece by Monet! i cant wait to share on insta with my friends and fam. hes one of my favs, im sure insta will show my pic of it with me in all its natural glory

insta: crumples it like paper

me: i understand now. the artist's struggle. the desire to post pictures and art on instagram to share with the world only for it to crush your hopes and passions into dust to where not even mere letters are visible. the artist must live with the knowledge that a place dedicated to sharing their creation pushes the resolution of the final piece to the point of despair. what agony

[starshinc]

💿 u know who this is for lmao

send me a 💿 and i'll shuffle my music and write a starter based on the first song i get - accepting!

song: over my head (cable car) - the fray.

everyone knows i’m in over my head.

this had been a common theme throughout the boy’s life. from the moment he was first diagnosed as quirkless. at first, izuku had done his best to carry on as if everything was fine, and he would still achieve his dreams of being a hero. he could become the first quirkless hero! that is, until the world started giving him harsh realities. the first instance the look of pity in his mother’s eyes, the whispered apologies - i’m so sorry, izuku! - which wasn’t what he needed in that moment. he needed her to believe in him, but maybe things would be different at school? perhaps-

the second harsh dose of reality, thrown over him like cold water - the flashing target that was constantly fired at. eventually, as a result, izuku made that decision to simply make the target as small as possible by opting to switch to silence. signing or writing his way through communication, not engaging with his peers or mother alike. that was fine, he simply wouldn’t draw much attention to himself. if he couldn’t be a hero this way, he’d simply become one through the support course. he could build, create - and these would absolutely make sure other people, quirk or not, non-offensive quirks - could become heroes.

i’d rather run the other way than stay and see, the smoke and who’s still standing when it clears

then disaster struck. as katsuki was taken from his class during that supposedly routine training camp. what followed after - desperate struggles to track the movements of the new “ground zero.” walking stupidly right into the fire and flames, risking it all to bring katsuki back from the depths of conditioning - away from the league’s clutches and have recovery period started. in a way, this recovery period seemed to be for the both of them, despite izuku never truly understanding it. a lot of his energy went into kacchan, after all. still, at least in the beginning - and still now, taking the time to think about it - their relationship was still extremely rocky.

i won’t let it go down till we torch it ourselves-

of course, izuku couldn’t give up - even when reversing the conditioning was providing extremely difficult. at times, the only people the blond seemed to tolerate in his room were his parents, aizawa-sensei and maybe izuku himself. though this appeared rare, the atmosphere frosty at best and straight up explosive at worst. it was difficult, too, with izuku still getting used to the hand now covered in scars and sometimes limited movements, a souvenir from his attempt at bringing katsuki back. still, he was absolutely determined.

Good Morning, Kacchan. His signing is awkward, favouring his left hand over the over. How are you feeling today?

He’s way in over his head here, but he wants to keep trying. Katsuki deserved to be a hero after all this.

[pholla-jm]

My Wife is Real

IMAGINE: MY WIFE IS REAL~ GOJO X WIFE!READER GENRE: FLUFF cw: not proof read. use of y/n. use of she/her. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Who do you think he’s texting?” Nobara whispers to her two classmates, Yuji and Megumi. 

Their teacher, Gojo Satoru, sat at his desk. Legs kicked up onto the desk while he was on his phone, giggling here and there. 

It was questionable if Gojo even knew that class had started. 

Megumi didn’t even bother to pay attention. He also sat on his phone, scrolling through social media. 

“I don’t know…” Yuji ponders. “Ugh, he has to be harassing a poor soul.” Yuji gasps at Nobara’s response, “no.” 

Nobara sits up in her seat, “Gojo-sensei,” she calls out. Gojo peeks up, “oh. I didn’t know you were here.” “Maybe if you stopped bothering people, you would notice.” 

Gojo places his hand on his chest and gasps dramatically. “I am not bothering anyone.” “Then who are you texting?” “My wife, duh.” 

Nobara bursts out laughing, “hahaha, yeah… yeah right.” She wheezes. Tears left the corner of her eyes as she tried to take him seriously, but she really couldn’t. 

Yuji just stares at him in confusion, “you’ve never told me about his wife. I don’t believe you.” 

Gojo gasps in shock and disbelief at his student’s words. “Huh?! I do too have a wife. That hurts my feelings that you don’t believe me!” 

Gojo’s full focus was on his students now. Trying to convince them that his wife is indeed real. “She’s literally the best person in the whole world, and the prettiest.” 

Nobara scoffs and rolls her eyes, “stop making things up Gojo-sensei. It’s getting sad at this point.” 

Gojo pouts at her words. He then grabs his phone, typing something in his phone. He puts his phone down with a triumphant smile on his face. “You’ll see.” 

“Yeah… we’ll see.” Nobara says to Megumi and Yuji. 

Megumi on the other hand was not paying attention to a single thing that was going on. He assumed something stupid was going on, so why even bother to pay attention? Yuji just has a thoughtful look on his face, trying to remember any mention of a wife. But there is no mention of one. 

“Yeah… I think you’re making this up… sorry Gojo-sensei.” “This is just getting sad…” Nobara whispers while shaking her head. 

“I can’t believe my student’s have little faith in me.” 

Only five minutes passed of slight bickering between until a knock was heard at the door. The bickering died down and all heads turned towards the door. 

Nobara’s and Yuji’s eyes widen seeing a woman at the door. 

“Who is that?” Yuji whispers to Nobara. She shrugs her shoulders, “has to be someone he hired.” 

Gojo jumps from his chair, a huge smile on his face. “Wifey!” 

He runs over to you, pulling you into a tight hold. 

You let out a strangled gasp from the impact. “Gojo,” you start, “this is the second time you forgot your lunch… and it’s only Tuesday.” 

Gojo pulls back, a faux pout on his lips, “I’m sorry.” You narrow your eyes at him, “I bet you’re just using this as an excuse to see me.” “Whoops, you caught me. Well, while you’re here. Let me introduce you to my students.” 

“Wait wait-” You didn’t get a chance to stop him because he dragged you into the front of the classroom. 

You eye the three students. Megumi had finally put down the phone, giving you an apologetic look. Nobara and Yuji were looking at you in shock. 

“Students, this is my wife, (y/n).” Gojo basically shows you off with a bright smile on his face. Hands in a jazz hand formation. You nervously smiled at the students. 

“Hello.” 

“Hello Gojo-san.” Megumi quietly said, but it was still loud enough for everyone to hear. You gave the boy a sweet smile, nodding at him. 

“What?! Do you know her?” Nobara and Yuji ask him. “Yes…” 

“Yes, they’ve known each other for quite awhile now…. Sorry guys. She’s a bit shy.” Gojo says while you continue to smile at them. 

“They didn’t believe Gojo-sensi had a wife..” Megumi tells you. 

You hum before turning to Gojo, “I see… I don’t blame them.” 

“Huh?! What is that supposed to mean?” You roll your eyes. “Ever so dramatic.” “...so mean.. How can my wife be so cruel?” 

“Ugh, no one cares,” Nobara sighs, “come sit down with us (y/n)-sensei. I have so much to ask you.” 

You just smile at the girl and move over to the desks. 

Gojo looks at you with a shocked look. Not believing that you were leaving his side. 

“What are you doing?” He asks you. You look back at him, “well, you wanted me to meet your students. So I’m getting to know them.” 

You give him a little smirk and Gojo knows that type of smirk. The one where he’s going to regret his actions later. 

Maybe not now, but he knows that this decision will come to bite him.

[pathologicalreid]

extraordinary measures | s.r.

in which your life hangs in the balance after a brutal attack, and Spencer has to hold himself together for the sake of you and your baby

who? spencer reid x fem!reader category: angst content warnings: fetal abduction, potentially inaccurate medical information, entirely from spencer's pov, very violent crime, mom!reader, hospitals, medication, spencer lashes out at jj, rossi's son. word count: 4.41k a/n: the people said dad!spencer angst and i delivered. also! trying something new with formatting my posts. i pay for canva pro and need to get my money's worth.

The hospital staff had moved them into a conference room, giving the BAU more space to spread out – and so Spencer’s pacing wouldn’t disturb the other people in the waiting room. This isn’t real. This isn’t happening. This isn’t real. This isn’t happening. Not to us. Not to me. Not to her.

The statistics on fetal abduction were alarming. Before today, there had only been thirteen cases since Spencer had joined the BAU. Today alone, there had been two.

“Excuse me,” an unfamiliar voice said, followed by two knocks on the door, “I’m so sorry, but have you had the chance to fill out some of the forms that we gave you?”

Answering for him, Penelope grabbed the clipboard off of the table and passed it to the nurse, “The insurance card is on the top,” she informed the nurse. Nervously, the blonde looked between the medical professional and Spencer, “Is there any update?”

The nurse cringed slightly, “I don’t have one. I’ll see if they can send someone to talk to you.” She nodded assuredly before peeling out of the room.

“Can I get you anything?” Garcia asked helplessly. He had already been given tea, water, coffee, and a sandwich, but he didn’t want any of it.

Shaking his head numbly, Spencer dragged his hands down his face as he replayed the events of this morning in his head.

He wasn’t even supposed to be working, you were due any day now, but Emily had called him with the case and gave him the choice of working. He was supposed to go with you to the check-up, but you had encouraged him to go save a life.

The woman who had been found this morning had her abdomen crudely cut open and her baby was born via a botched cesarean section, but her baby was too premature and didn’t make it. They were both found in an alley near the hospital by a garbage man. Then, while he and Luke were at the medical examiner’s office, his phone started to ring.

You had been discovered, bleeding out, outside of your obstetrician’s office, and if you hadn’t been so close to a building full of doctors, you probably wouldn’t have made it as far as surgery right now. The fact that you had been brought to surgery should have been enough to give him hope, but he hasn’t been raised to be hopeful, he was raised to be pragmatic. The reality of the situation was that in cases of fetal abduction, the mothers rarely made it out the other side.

He was left with Garcia to keep him company, she stayed as a watchdog, mainly looking through traffic footage on her laptop as she made sure Spencer didn’t go entirely off the rails. “You’re going to burn a hole in the floor,” she said offhandedly, begging Spencer to just sit down for a moment.

With a huff, he took a seat next to Penelope, leaning his head back on the taupe drywall, “I don’t know what to do,” he confessed.

“We’re going to wait, we are not going to catastrophize, and we will listen to any and all updates that the doctors give us,” she said determinedly, nodding her head as she did so. “We only know what we know and assuming the worst will just lead to feeling worse.”

Closing his eyes, he agreed, listening to the bustle of the hospital from inside the secluded, makeshift waiting space. He wished he knew more about your status when you came in, there were the crime scene photos – which Penelope was under strict orders not to show him – and a quick mention from a resident about blood loss, but nothing else.

“Dr. Reid?” A new voice said, snapping him out of his stupor as he rose to his feet, staring at the doctor who came in with his scrub cap on, “I’m afraid there isn’t much news. Things are still touch and go. They’re hopeful that they can get the bleeding under control, once they do that, we’ll know more. I’ll come out and let you know, alright?”

With the doctor leaving, Garcia reopened her laptop, “You see? We can’t assume the worst because we just don’t know enough yet.”

“Garcia,” he interrupted, hopeful for just a moment of silence to digest the new information – if you could even call it that.

Nodding succinctly, she returned to her work, “Right, okay.”

With the arrival of JJ, Penelope left to check in at the office, and since a profiler was bound to know more information, he asked JJ for an update. His baby had to be almost three hours old now, and he knew nothing about them.

He was left disappointed, there was no information on the UnSub or the baby, “What’s the point of it anyway?”

“Everyone is working on it, Spence. No one is going to rest until this case is closed,” JJ tried to reassure him.

Spencer wasn’t sure he was ever truly going to rest again, “Where is someone supposed to go with a newborn baby? The umbilical cord has to be still attached.” Statistically, women were more likely to commit cesarean abductions, and they usually did so after the loss of their own child or because they told someone they were pregnant and needed to produce a baby. “No one can tell me anything about my child, JJ, don’t you understand that? Can’t you try to understand how that feels?”

Bracing herself, JJ nodded, “You’re angry, I get it, you-“

“No, you don’t. My wife is bleeding out in surgery, and I have no fucking clue where our baby is. I have never met them. I don’t know if I have a son or a daughter or if they’re alive and you have the nerve to tell me that you ‘get it’?” He peered over at the blonde profiler. You should’ve been the first person to hold your baby, and instead, you might never live to find out what happened to you.

She was silent for a moment, “You’re right. I- I can’t even begin to process what you’re feeling right now, but all we can do is keep working on the case.”

Dropping his head in his hands, Spencer shook his head, “Then go work on the case,” he insisted, “I don’t… I need to be alone right now.”

Just as the four-hour mark approached, the glass door opened again, and David Rossi walked in.

“Are you here to lecture me?” Spencer asked, his voice raspy from crying in the solitude of the room, he wondered if JJ had told everyone how he lashed out at her.

Crossing one leg over the other, Rossi answered, “Nope,” he said, popping the last syllable. “I’m just here to sit and wait, same as you, kid.”

Nodding, Spencer leaned his head back and closed his eyes as a protection against the fluorescent lights of the hospital, “How did you manage?”

There were some things – life events – that were left unspoken in the BAU. Traumas that people didn’t want uncovered, horrors that the team didn’t need to relive, but Spencer needed answers, and this was the only way he could think to get them. “Manage what?”

“Losing your son,” he answered, crossing his arms in front of his chest as he kept his eyes closed, wondering if he too would lose a child. Birth and death within the same day.

Clearing his throat, Rossi took a moment before responding, and Spencer wasn’t sure if he was appalled at the question or if he simply wasn’t sure how to respond, “Well, I’m not sure I ever really did. Not for a long time, at least,” he admitted.

Digesting the information, Spencer shifted in his seat, “I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do. Everyone just keeps telling me to wait, but…” he chuckled to himself, “Y/N always jokes that if patience is the companion of wisdom, then I have to be the exception.”

He had always been told to wait. Wait for his turn. Wait for the perfect person to show up. He had waited, and he had gotten you, but all of that waiting had led him here. In this beige room where he had signed papers asking doctors to use extraordinary measures to try and save your life.

“Dr. Reid?” One of the doctors from earlier called his name, knocking on the glass door. Instinctively, Spencer stood up, wiping his hands on his pants and looking at the doctor expectantly, “Oh, please,” the doctor said, “Take a seat.”

Hesitantly, Spencer lowered himself back down into the hospital chair, he couldn’t help but feel like that was a bad sign.

“All things considered, your wife is very, very lucky,” the doctor informed him, “She’s not fully out of the woods yet, but they’re setting her up in recovery right now. I’m just waiting on a message from my colleague, and then I’ll be able to bring you up to see her.”

A flurry of questions flew through his mind at once, “What are you still concerned about?” He asked, leaning over and resting his elbows on his knees.

Nodding, the doctor continued, “Y/N lost a lot of blood in the attack. When you factor in the trauma of having a baby and a four-hour surgery, there’s a lot of healing that has to happen, and right now she doesn’t have the strength for it.” His phone chimed, and Spencer jolted, trying not to get his hopes up if it wasn’t about you, “Come with me,” the doctor said.

Rossi offered to let the rest of the team know and Spencer rambled off a random confirmation as he followed the doctor through the doorway, feeling like he was floating. As they walked through the hospital, Spencer grew more and more anxious.

Your hand was cold. In fact, your hand was so cold that Spencer asked the doctor to turn the volume on your vital monitor up so that he could have the constant reassurance that you were alive.

Blood was being transfused still, he had already forgotten the doctor’s estimate on just how much blood you had lost, but if he had the urge to read through your medical chart, he was sure he could find out. The only problem was, ever since the doctor left, he hadn’t been able to do anything except stare.

Every once in a while, he pinched your index finger, testing the capillary refill time out of his own morbid curiosity while blood was being returned to your body. Agents and officers stood outside of your hospital room in a steady rotation. The BAU wasn’t sure if your life was still in danger, but they weren’t willing to take any risks.

There were countless law enforcement personnel involved in this case now, if not directly investigating the case, they were at least contributing to the search. The Manassas Field Office, DC Metro, the Maryland Police – they were all out there looking. Out the window, he could see news reporters gathering out front to start their afternoon broadcasts.

It had been four hours. Four hours and there was still no word on the baby or the UnSub. The baby would need to eat soon, and Spencer found himself depending on the UnSub to have had the forethought to take care of the newborn.

Every couple of minutes, you would mumble something in your sleep, and he willed you to stay asleep. Selfishly, he wanted you to stay asleep until he knew the baby was safe – until he knew he could have something good to tell you.

Penelope was stationed right outside the door. She likely thought he hadn’t noticed her return, but the clicking of her keyboard gave her away.

Infrequently, his phone buzzed in his pocket, and he tried not to concern himself with it. Garcia had made contact with your mom, being sure to reach out to your family before any other news hit the airwaves.

He adjusted the way the nasal cannula rested on your face before bringing your hand to his mouth, pressing a gentle kiss to your knuckles and resting your cold fingers against his cheek, as if his face had the capacity to warm your whole body. Briefly, he wondered if the team would be willing to have a desk agent bring you a blanket from home.

The team would probably find a way to get him a helicopter if he requested it.

Flowers and cards flowed into your hospital room, arriving from people who knew you to people who had seen your story on the news. He had to look away when a small stuffed elephant was delivered by a nurse, knowing that the baby it belonged to was nowhere to be found.

Much to his surprise, he looked away from the stuffed animal just to find you looking back at him. The sorrow in your eyes a staggering reflection of that which could be found in his own. One glance at you and he knew that there was no need for him to break the news to you – you were well aware.

Spencer remained wholly silent as a slew of medical professionals filtered in and out of the room, a cacophony of directives and questions sent your way as tears filled your waterline. He captured your hand in both of his, holding your hand like it was a lifeline to everything he knew as the truth. He was here, you were here, and you were both alive. Tethered to you in the woven web of life, he refused to falter. Not now. Not when you needed him the most.

He answered the questions that you didn’t know the answers to and watched, tight-lipped, as your doctor kept you informed. Dr. Lasher was picking and choosing from your chart, telling you anything pertinent, and leaving out anything that she thought could wait for later.

Once the doctor had cleared through an extensive list of maladies, everyone let you have the room. “Darling,” he whispered, reaching a hand out to adjust the way your hospital gown rested on your shoulder, covering some of the exposed wires.

“There are no leads?” You asked tentatively, the pain in your voice exacerbated by the swelling caused by the breathing tube you’d had during surgery. Your eyes were glassy, and Spencer didn’t know if it was from sorrow or pain or fear. It was a question he was afraid to ask.

He shook his head, “Not yet, but everyone’s looking,” he fed you the same reassurances that had been given to him. The same reassurances that he hadn’t believed.

You moved your hands, laying your palms flat on the sterile white sheets and starting to push yourself up, only to be met with Spencer’s hands guiding you back down to the pillows. “I’ve gotta go,” you mumbled, “I wanna help. Spence, please let me help.” Fresh tears welled in your eyes as you looked at him in desperation.

The way your bottom lip quivered was what broke him, he tilted his head to the side, “You can help just fine from right here, okay?” He looked out into the hallway, wondering which member of the team was around for you to talk to. “I’ll be right back,” he told you, squeezing your hand before retreating to the hallway, never letting you out of his line of sight.

“Hey,” Penelope greeted, the compassion in her voice giving him pause, “How is she?”

Exhausted, terrified, in pain – all applicable at the moment. Spencer thought about answering for a moment before skipping Garcia’s question entirely, “Who’s around for a cognitive?”

You didn’t quite have the energy for a full interview, but you were so adamant about helping that he couldn’t refuse you, not today. “JJ’s one floor up, do you want me to call her for you?”

He thought about it for a moment, he hadn’t handled his last interaction with JJ with the most care, but you needed someone to talk to and it couldn’t be him. “Yeah,” he nodded, “Please.”

Spencer sat on the edge of your bed, smoothing your hair as he tried to comfort you. In all of the time he’d known you, he’d never need you so defeated.

Not much came out during your cognitive with JJ, either there was a mental block in the way or you hadn’t seen much when you were attacked. Whichever one it was, Spencer was fighting himself internally on whether or not he should be thankful.

“I’m so sorry,” Spencer murmured, keeping his voice low as you fought off sleep. “Close your eyes, sweetheart,” he cooed, “You need to rest.”

You fought sleep with everything you had in you, which wasn’t much anymore. The cognitive interview had gone too long. Your nurse was the one who put her foot down and ended it, even when you wanted to keep going. “It’s not fair,” you cried, slow tears making their way down your cheeks.

Very slowly, Spencer could feel his heart breaking as your exhaustion and desolation worked together to make you as miserable as possible, “I know, lovey. I know,” he assured you as tears filled his eyes.

Glassy eyes looked up at him, “I just wanted to be a mom,” you whispered, your speech slurred with sleep.

Letting his own tears fall to the white sheets of your hospital bed, Spencer nodded, “You are a mom.”

He didn’t add anything. He didn’t have it in him to make a grandiose speech about how you would always be your baby’s mother, and, luckily, he didn’t need to. Your eyes finally fell shut, final tears falling from your face as Spencer found himself grateful that sleep finally took you.

Never leaving your side, Spencer pulled the chair back up next to you, resting his chin on your bed's armrest and watching you sleep. Very slowly, color was beginning to return to your face, yet you still looked so different from when he had left the house that morning.

Unsure how long it had been, Spencer shot up straight when Penelope came rushing to the doorway, placing a finger to his lips, he nodded toward your sleeping form. Even so, the technical analyst waved him over.

Carefully, he slipped his hand out of yours and walked around your bed to Penelope, “What is it?”

Tears filled the blonde’s eyes as she looked up at him, she put both of her hands on his upper arms and cried, “They found your baby. It- they’re pulling up to the ambulance bay right now.”

Spencer’s lips parted in shock, having fully prepared himself for the day to end in undeniable heartbreak. “Are- is the baby okay?”

Penelope nodded, “They’re going up to the NICU right now to get checked out but apparently the EMTs said the baby looks completely unharmed.”

Turning to look at you, still asleep on the bed, Spencer gave Penelope a quick embrace before returning to your bedside, “Sweetheart,” he whispered, trying to wake you up from sleep that you still needed. “Honey,” he said, gently cupping your cheek with his hands as your eyes fluttered open.

You hummed groggily, squinting up at him under the fluorescence of the hospital.

“The baby’s here,” he murmured to you, making sure you didn’t jump up at his words. “They’re headed up to the NICU for a quick check, and-“

“Go,” you cut him off, your eyes wide and full of tears. “Please go hold them, Spence,” you cried, voice rough with sleep.

His shoulders slouched forward slightly, looking between you and Penelope in the doorway, “I’ll stay here,” Penelope offered immediately. “You go, I’ll stay.”

You nodded up at him, closing your eyes as he bent forward to press a kiss to your hairline. “I love you,” you breathed, placing a hand on your chest as if it would slow your racing heart.

“I love you too,” he responded before stepping out of the hospital room, following the directions that Penelope had given him in order to get up to the NICU.

Adrenaline made his stomach churn as he approached the NICU, wondering what he’d say to the people there until someone recognized him as The Dad. He still had to scrub his hands, but they let him through until he saw the bassinet. Even more, he saw the tiny baby kicking its legs inside of the acrylic container.

Emily stood by on high alert, ready to pounce on anyone who even looked at the baby funny, and Spencer just couldn’t stop staring. “Come here,” one of the NICU nurses said to him, obviously having been brought up to speed on the situation. With a smile on her face, she told him, “It’s a girl.”

“A girl,” he breathed, walking right up to the side of the bassinet.

The nurse nodded and adjusted the hat on her head, just slightly too big for the newborn’s head, “If you want, we can get you set up in a chair here, and you can give her a bottle.”

“Please,” he responded, earning another smile from the nurse, who had him take the crying baby in his arms before handing him the prepared bottle.

It broke his heart to watch how quickly she took to the bottle; he still wasn’t sure if she had eaten anything until this. He knew the nipple wouldn’t let her take in too much at a time, but in his subconscious, he was still worried about it being too much for her.

He rocked gently, “Hi, honey,” he cooed down at her.

“She’s a good eater,” the nurse observes, writing something down on a piece of paper. “We’ll keep an eye on her for just a little while, but we know how badly she needs to get down to her mama.”

Setting the now empty bottle down, Spencer looked up at the nurse, “Is she okay?”

The nurse nodded at his concern, “She’s on the small size, but she’s full term. Of course, not everything is going to be noticeable right away, but we did a full newborn exam on her and all of the tests say she’s a perfectly healthy baby.” She looked on as Spencer gently cupped the baby’s head, “Does she have a name?”

You and Spencer had made a deal, he would pick a boy’s name, and you would pick a girl’s name. Smiling softly, he murmured her name to her for the first time, “Genevieve,” he answered. A big name for such a small baby, maybe, but it was the name you had chosen.

He started making his way back down to you, feeling like he was floating through the taupe hallways of the hospital before he finally made it back to your room. Penelope excused herself when he emerged in the hallway.

“Spence,” you whispered, looking up at him with hope in your eyes for the first time since you had woken up after surgery.

Smiling at you, he sat on the edge of your bed, “Five pounds and fifteen ounces. Seventeen and a half inches long. Perfectly healthy.” He glanced behind him as he heard the wheels of the bassinet coming toward your room, turning back to watch your reaction as you saw your baby for the first time.

He was glad for his eidetic memory, he’d never want to forget the way your face lit up with recognition, “Oh, a girl.”

With the baby settled on your chest, there was nothing better for the two of you to do than watch her sleep. Every once in a while, she’d coo or squawk and immediately capture your every attention all over again. “How are you feeling?” Spencer asked you. The blood transfusions had been completed, leaving you on a course of broad-spectrum antibiotics, fluids, and lots of pain medication – two of which prevented you from breastfeeding. Although, because of her size and traumatic birth, the NICU doctor suggested that some formula would help her grow properly.

You hummed contentedly, “Tired. I hurt just about everywhere,” you admitted, not taking your eyes off of your newborn. “I’m so… just grateful,” you whispered, “Is that odd?”

“No,” he shook his head, “I know exactly what you mean.” For as terrible and horrifying as the entire ordeal was, it could’ve been much worse. He almost lost both of his girls in one day.

“Does the team want to meet her?” You asked, worried about entertaining guests with the baby.

Spencer chuckled softly, keeping his index finger pointed within Genevieve’s reach, testing her palmar reflex, “I’m sure they do, but we’ll wait and see how you feel tomorrow and revisit. Okay?”

Your head bobbed in confirmation, watching as your daughter very slowly woke up, “Hi, Vie,” you greeted her quietly, gently rubbing her back with your fingertips. You didn’t have the strength to fully hold her, but she was more than happy to just lay on you, “Sweet, sleepy girl.”

“Do you want me to take her, and you can get some sleep?” Spencer offered, noticing the way you were trying to hide a yawn from him. “We aren’t going anywhere, we’ll stay right here in this chair,” he reassured you based on the apprehensive look you were giving him.

Slowly, you nodded, helping as best you could and pouting in sympathy when Genevieve – Vie – cried out at the sensation of being moved from her warm spot on her mother’s chest to the warm spot in her father’s arms. Thankfully, the newborn calmed down just as soon as Spencer settled her in his arms, “Don’t go,” you whispered, letting your eyes fall shut as you allowed sleep to wash over you.

He hummed, “We won’t,” he muttered in response.

Sleep took you with little resistance, leaving him with Genevieve in the silence of the hospital room – save for all of the machines that you were still hooked up to.

She wouldn’t be up for much longer herself – newborns spent most of their day sleeping – so Spencer took his opportunity to watch her eyes wander around the hospital room. “You can go back to sleep too, little love. I’ll watch over the both of you,” he spoke to her in a reverent tone and adjusted the hat on her head.  “I’ll keep you safe, Vie. No harm will come to you, not as long as I’m your dad.”

[grimm-writings]

Hi there!

I'd like to request something for the Laios party x reader where reader licks rocks like how archaeologists sometimes do to determine if it's a rock or a fossil. They just won't stop licking stuff. One moment you are just having a chat and walking side by side and the next reader grabs a rock and licks it. How would they react to their crush licking things that are certainly not food?

“stop licking the damn thing!”

…ft! touden party x gn! reader, platonic izutsumi & reader

…tags! fluff, some crack, headcanon format, grimm doesn't know shit about rocks

…wc! 342 ; 400 ; 405 ; 344 ; 303 = 1794

…notes! this ask enraptured me i had to complete it posthaste. i’m not an expert in archeology or geology, but i hope you enjoy! 

Laios

“Ooh, can I have a lick?”

His ass does NOT give a fuck.

You could do anything and he wouldn’t be fazed I’m dead serious.

Honestly, once you do it in front of him he’d steer the conversation towards your study and how you figure out each time what is a rock and what is a fossil.

He may not fully take in all the information you give him.  This isn’t a topic he’s admittedly too interested in.

Honestly he’d probably take up some of your advice and see if he tastes monster he can figure out certain things about it.  Considering most monsters are made of raw meat, he has to be held back by your fellow partymates.

Someone (Chilchuck) usually has to encourage you to not “enable his behaviours.”

Overall, Laios simply does not judge!  He’s open and welcoming, and will even take part in your study with you!

(It’s an added bonus that he really likes how you explain things to him…)

Almost like an eager dog, Laios leans over your shoulder to look at the stone in your hand.  Prepared to explain yourself, like usual, you take a breath. “May I?” he interrupts you.  You still for a second.  Does he mean…? You slowly lift the rock up to the taller man behind you.  You don’t have any words as he leans down to give a small lick. You’re almost flattered from how open he is to it. At the taste, Laios’ eyebrows furrow, and he seems to seriously try to dissect the flavour.  He hums and tilts his head to you.  “Salty?” “Yeah,” you reply, slowly growing a bit more comfortable as you get an excuse to talk about your study, “so that means this rock might contain evaporite minerals.” Laios smiles slightly, leaning back to his full height to converse with you in a more casual position.  “Which are?” Your conversation continues, with Laios taking mental notes that he’ll hopefully remember for later next time he comes across a monster. Maybe if you find a gargoyle…

Marcille

Sorry she is so judgemental.

You are so lucky she likes you or else she’ll loudly give her opinion on how gross it is.

Well, that is until she learns the context as to why.

She’ll still be a little bit unsure, wondering if it’s proper conduct at all.

Marcille is trying her best, she really is, but you can’t just end a conversation so suddenly because you saw a rock, licked it in front of her, and said “hm… sedimentary.”

She wonders every day what she did to deserve such an… interesting taste in crushes. 

Though, like all things, give Marcille some time and she’ll warm up to your habits a bit more.  It may even be that she’ll be wondering about her study of the dungeon, running her hand along the wall, and thinking that she could call out to you to taste the wall and tell her the material.

She may not try out the method herself, but she’ll at least tolerate how you do it.  There’s a science behind it, after all…

Marcille stares as you lick your lips and hum to yourself.  Her mouth is a thin line and she’s trying her best not to come out with a disapproving comment. “Any… interesting findings…?”  She stiffly asks instead, gripping Ambrosia as if you’ll try licking her to figure out the levels of Mana too.  You can never be too cautious, even if she is only made out of wood. You smile at Marcille, either blissfully unaware of her austerity or pretending to be.  You hold up the stone in your hand and outline something with your finger.  “I think if we break this, we might find some fossils inside it.  You can keep it for your research if you want.” Marcille’s ears perk up slightly at that.  “For… me?”  She asks aloud, as if there’s anyone else who’d be interested in dungeon rocks.  As soon as she processes it she’s flushed and avoiding eye contact.  “I mean, this is your field of study, not mine!  I couldn’t possibly…” But you take her hands in your own, and place the fossil in her palm.  Marcille’s breath hitches when you take her fingers and fold them over the stone. “I trust you to come up with something.”  You beam at the elf, and she thinks that she might just have to take a chance in your skills.

Chilchuck

Not exactly open to it, not entirely critical about it either…

…But you will get a bit of a look whenever you do it.

He might be more the kind to make sure you aren’t outright doing it at stupid moments.  You better not get any ideas looking at those statues!

Sometimes you’ll be about to hold the stone up to your mouth, and right when your tongue is about to touch it, you’ll hear Chilchuck sigh a “don’t.”

Honestly this guy is treating you like a dog with something it shouldn’t have in its mouth.  Don’t worry, worrying and fretting is how he shows his love.

Even if he doesn’t like admitting to it…

If you try to explain how licking things helps in your study, Chil is inclined to raise his eyebrow and say that your field must be full of weirdos.

Then again, he’s the one who likes you so maybe he shouldn’t be too harsh…

He’s willing to let you do what you need to do but that doesn’t mean you’re free from his scathing commentary.

Crouched down, you analyse some rock in front of you.  It stands out a fair bit from most of the other geodes down here.  What could it be…? You lean in, your tongue grazing the stone slightly, and you lick.  The tip of your tongue familiarises itself with the taste.  Maybe metamorphic…? “Are you serious?”  You freeze at the sound of Chilchuck’s boyish voice.  On your hands and knees licking rocks isn’t exactly the ideal position to be judged in, even as you turn to look at the half-foot, arms crossed.  “Senshi is in the middle of cooking, no need to resort to eating rocks.” You roll your eyes.  You’re used to how Chilchuck treats your study at this point.  “I was just curious.” Chilchuck scoffs, walking up to pull you by the back of your collar up onto your feet again, which you do with some coercion.  “Yeah sure,” he says, “just wanna confirm you haven’t completely lost your marbles yet.” You look up at him, and squint.  Holding back a laugh, you mutter, “was that…?” “No, it wasn’t a dad joke,”  Chilchuck sighs, leaving you to your devices again.  “Just don’t do anything stupid when no one’s watching.” He hopes even as you giggle and confirm, you won’t notice the bright blush blooming on Chilchuck’s cheeks and tips of his ears.  How embarrassing…

Senshi

Also winning the dgaf war I fear.

He’d watch you lick some of the rocks you had picked out from your travels while resting.

It comes as no surprise that it then crosses his mind if the flavour changes when cooked, which he asks if he can do with some of your selection.

You can use your imagination on how Marcille and Chilchuck reacted when told that today’s dinner is … just rocks.

(Laios is disappointed that it isn’t any cool monster rocks.)

One delightful montage later, and ‘tis finished!  Since they are for your research, Senshi insists you have the first bite.

Crunch… and oh, such unique flavours!

You gush to Senshi about how this is a major breakthrough in how different minerals react to cooking conditions, and he gives you his observations too.

Honestly, just sort of wholesome bonding!

“Aye, this one cooked easily, while this one took plenty more time.” You nod eagerly as you watch Senshi point to two different stones.  “That’s because one is an igneous rock, which is magmatic.  The other is a sedimentary rock, which carries different minerals from lakes and oceans.  Separation in cooking must have resulted in different reactions!  I wonder how different metamorphic rocks would react…” As you mumble to yourself, Senshi happily continues his meal-making, occasionally responding back to you with hums and comments about what else each observed in his experimentation. Even when you had finished up your meal entirely, you thanked Senshi with the widest grin on your face.  He couldn’t help but be just a little flattered when you go on to joke that you should bring him home with you so he can help with your research. In return, Senshi listens to you, and hangs on your every word as you explain your findings to him.  Even if not too nutritious of a meal, the minerals from the rocks provide some calcium and other such buffs! And well…  If he can keep that happiness prolonged with his cooking, then he’s doing a very good job providing for you indeed!

Izutsumi

“Why are you eating rocks?  Looks gross.”

Make way for the #1 hater…

Izutsumi refuses to listen to any such rationalities you make about your study or why you lick rocks (even though she’s the one who asked), she’s still finding it icky and weird.

You’d have to fight fire with fire when it comes to her, you’ll question why she does some habits she does in return – such as licking her hand.

She’ll look at you like you’re stupid, before telling you that it’s a way for her to clean herself and notice if there’s anything caught in her fur.

“Ah, so like how I would lick rocks to identify anything embedded in them too!”

…How dare you try to rationalise yourself with her own logic, heathen.

Jail for reader.  Jail for 1000 years.

She’s not one to so readily accept other people’s weird quirks, but eventually she has to find that she’ll look stupid if she doesn’t…  It’s a bit of a dirty scheme, but it works.

“Come on, Izu, just give it a try!  I promise it just tastes like water.” “What kinda water?!”  She shoots back. You pause.  “W…Water?” This is how the argument between whether or not water has a flavour comes to be.  Izutsumi insists that some water tastes icky while others taste nice.  You have to explain that this pure water simply doesn’t have a taste.  She doesn’t believe you. In fact, Izutsumi makes you give the sedimentary stone another taste before affirming, it just tastes like water.  She’s about to grab your shoulders and shake you.  What kind of water?! It takes plenty of encouragement and an immediate failsafe orange juice Senshi squeezed out for her to ‘get rid of’ the taste when you get Izutsumi to taste the stone. She still hasn’t forgiven you… 

[baby-yongbok]

Don't Go Insane

Neighbor!Bang Chan x afab!Reader

✧Genre - Smut ✧Warnings: Unprotected piv (Wrap it up ya'll) ✧ Masterlist ✧

A/N: I have never ever written a fic in this format but it was the only was for my brain to process the idea😭This is a product of those fucking SINFUL photos that Chan took for Nylon Japan. I'm sorry if it sucks, I'm trying to get back into writing again so I might suck for a bit, sorry! Hope you enjoy! (not proofread)

You weren't expecting to actually like your new neighbor since your previous one was such a dick but when you meet Chan he's more than kind to you. 

He always greets you in the hallway, helping you bring your bags up to your place when you get home from shopping and checks in on you when he hasn't seen you for a couple of days

You find yourself going out around the same time that he would usually get home from his morning workout just so you can talk to him. He's so sweet and charming and hot. Oh so hot. 

He brings you food when he's made too much dinner to fit in his fridge which is code for he wanted an excuse to talk to you and gave you 50% of his meal just to see your face. 

You invite him in to eat the first time that he brings you food and it quickly turns into spending Sunday nights eating together and laughing at his stories. It's your favorite day of the week now. 

You drop by his place to ask if he needs anything from the store every time that you go now. He's memorized the pattern of your knock and jumps to his feet every time he hears it. 

You're in line at the store one day when a magazine catches your eye. Is that…Chan!? You grab it, looking through with wide eyes before buying it and nearly forgetting about the rest of your items. 

You don't tell him that you saw it. He never said what he did for work and yeah he's hot - Oh so hot - but you never thought that this would be his occupation and you defiantly didn't think that this is how you'd find out.

You flip through the magazine all night. Staring at his beautiful chocolate gaze and his perfectly blushed lips. How is he even real?

You may have also stared at his shirtless pics for an hour too long. No one has to know that though.

He brings over a new recipe that he tried this Sunday. Setting up your usual spot on the living room floor when his eyes land on a familiar photo on your side table. It's him. You bought his magazine? He tries to act normal about it but his red ears and blushed cheeks give him away. 

You catch on when he glances at it for a second time and you internally body slam yourself for forgetting to put it away. You both eat quietly, blushing and trying to find the right thing to say next. 

“I'm sorry about that.” You speak first and he glances up quickly, straightening himself up with a shy smile. “It's fine, I'm just embarrassed I guess.” He's shy about being hot?? Why does that make him hotter?

“Are you always the shy type?” Your question was genuine but your tone was suggestive, almost teasing. It creates a shift in his demeanor that makes you shiver. “Not always, no.”

You don't know how it happened. It's all a blur. One second he was talking to you, confident and sweet. He was telling you about the shoot for the magazine when he got to the topic of the shirtless photos. The air around you thickened and the words that started it all slid off your tongue.

“You look so good it could drive me insane.” You chuckled but his eyes darkened in response. 

“Do you want me to?” His eyes are on yours, his gaze is heavy and intense. “What?” You drop your fork, swallowing hard. “Make you go insane?”

That's how you ended up with his lips on yours. He swallowed each and every strangled moan and replaced it with one of his own. His hands explored your body, fast yet cautious. A gentleman.

He pulls you into his lap, one of his large palms gripping your ass over your leggings and the other cupping your cheek to keep you still for him. He pulls you close, chest to chest. He's been waiting to feel you since the moment he first saw you. He feels like he's dreaming and he prays that he never wakes up. 

His breathing picks up when you plant sloppy kisses along his jawline. Mind numbing groans and hisses falling from his lips. “You're gonna make me go insane, fuck.”

His lips feel like heaven against your skin. Soft and all-consuming. He leaves marks along your collar bones, sucking and flicking his tongue over the delicate skin. Your head is spinning as you take him in. This beautiful man that you've been dreaming of for months finally has his hands on you. 

You grind against him, his fingers digging into your hips as he presses up into you. The way that he looks up at you with his lip caught between his teeth is intoxicating. “You're so fucking beautiful.” He smiles at your compliment, blinking a blush away and trying to keep his composure. “Took the words right outta my mouth.”

You pull back, sitting on the shaggy rug and frantically undressing. You're desperate, antsy, absolutely insatiable and Chan isn't too far behind but you could never tell by how composed he looks. How does he have that much self control?

He moves to sit on the couch and watches you as you strip. Taking in every beautiful inch of your body while he makes himself comfortable. You look up at him as he sits, man spreading at the edge of your couch and giving you the perfect view of his aching cock straining against his jeans. 

Fucking sinful

"Crawl to me, baby. Come here." He beckons you with two fingers that you're dying to be acquainted with. The smile on his face while you follow his order is enough to make you explode already.

He leans forward, cupping your face and kissing you with such soft hunger. So much passion and desire. A promise, like his kiss is asking you to be his. You palm him softly over his jeans earning a soft moan from him. "You want it?” He leans back, resting against the back of your sofa, giving you full access to his zipper and button. “Go ahead, take it, princess."

His teeth sink into his bottom lip as he watches you free his cock and his eyes roll back when you fist it confidently. Pumping him at a deliciously slow place. You want to drag this out. You don't ever want this to end. 

He puts his hand over yours once he gets fed up with your teasing. He loves how your hand feels around him but he needs more of you. He taps his leaking cock against your lips and you allow your spit to dribble down his shaft. "Stick that tongue out. There we go, baby. That's my girl. Look at that.”

He holds your hair back as you slide his length into your mouth, swirling your tongue around him. His fingers massage your scalp softly making you hum around him. He's a gentleman, a filthy one. 

He couldn’t wait to switch places with you, falling to his knees so fluidly that you couldn’t help but to groan at the sight of him. His gaze never left yours. His eyes were constantly asking for permission to continue and you eagerly granted it every time.

He ate your pussy like a fucking starved man. Lick and sucking the expanse of your cunt like he’d never see you again. Your moans encouraged him as he lapped at you, he wanted - no, needed - you to cum on his tongue. It’s all that he’s been dreaming of for the last month. 

He made you cum twice and had to hold back the urge to keep going. He’s definitely found his new favorite thing.

Nevermind, kissing you is his favorite thing. The way that you sigh into his mouth, tasting yourself on his tongue and biting his bottom lip drives him wild. 

You’re seeing stars as soon as he slips into you. His strong arms on either side of your head as he hovers, kissing you softly as you adjust to him. “Fuck, you’re a dream come true, ya know that? I’ve dreamt of this, princess.” You can hardly reply once he fills you to the hilt but you try to anyway, moaning out as your vision blurs. “Wanted you so bad, Channie.”

That was enough to break him. He snapped his hips into you, giving you everything that you ever wanted, ever needed, from him. He fucks you deep, speeding up gradually just to hear you moan his name a little louder. He wants to be gentle with you but with a cunt that feels this amazing he can’t help but want to make you fall apart underneath him.

You always imagined being on top when you finally got to be with Chan but it looks like that’ll have to be another day. The way that his cock is splitting you open makes you feel like you might have to call out of work tomorrow. 

“Look at me, babygirl. You liked seeing my pictures, huh? Did you touch this pretty cunt while looking at them?” You nod your head with such urgency that you’re positive that you look absolutely pathetic but Chan thinks that it’s cute, he’s in love with how fucked out you look drooling under him. “All you had to do was ask for the real thing.” He rolls his hips into you and your eyes roll back right after. 

He holds both of your hands as he slows down a bit, he wants to make love to you. Wants to treat you like the precious gem that he knows that you are but your cunt keeps fucking squeezing around him. He curses under his breath as he tries to compose himself but it’s no use. He watches as he disappears inside of you, groaning when he sees just how perfectly your pussy is taking him. “You’re gonna make me cum, baby. You’re too much. Too good.” 

Much to his surprise you cave before he does, chanting his name like a prayer while he rocks into you at the perfect angle. You feel dizzy as you unravel under him, nails digging into his strong arms and your legs wrapping around his waist in a desperate attempt to feel grounded. 

The way that you look cumming on his cock drives him over the edge. He picks up the pace, fucking you through your orgasm while he’s chasing his. The overstimulation draws out your climax causing a new wave of pleasure to hit you harder than the last. “Yeah yeah yeah, oh fuck such a pretty girl cumming on my cock like that, that's it baby.” He doesn’t even know what he’s saying but he doesn’t care he’s so close so so so close.

You forced your eyes open when he pulled out, you needed to watch him stroke himself over the edge and cover your stomach in his cum. You need to take in the way his eyes squeeze shut and his brows furrow while he moans for you. “Oh fuck fuck fuck.”

The giggles that you share after may be Chan’s new favorite part. He cleaned you up and wrapped his arms around you. Pressing kisses to your hair as you both talk about what just happened with smiles on your faces 

“This is a bit backwards but uh, can I take you out? Maybe next weekend?” The butterflies in your stomach go crazy as you blush into his chest, nodding happily and answering with a muffled ‘yes’ that makes Chan chuckle. “Maybe afterward I can fuck the sense back into ya, since I drove you insane tonight.”

[bonkhrnyjail]

desert eagle

pairing: young joel miller x f!plus-size!reader (age unspecified, no specific physical descriptions other than plus-size and able-bodied) summary: joel gets reluctantly dragged to the strip club after a long day of work. god knows he wasn't expecting to meet someone like you... rating: explicit 18+ mdni word count: 8.8k (sorry) tags: thigh riding, oral sex, so much oral sex, ass play, 69, reader is a stripper, joel is down horrendous, JOEL MILLER LOVES BIG GIRLS, gentleman!joel, until he's not, sub!joel if you squint, joel and reader are both aggressively texan, i'm midwestern so i do not take responsibility for inaccuracies i did my best a/n: soooo this is based off of the beyoncé song desert eagle, the first time i heard it i immediately thought of this idea and i couldn't get it out of my head and i was having literal sex dreams about it so i decided to write it. this is my first time writing joel too so i'm scared :P anyways i love writing about confident beautiful fat women but i think anyone can enjoy this fic so yeahhh anyways you should listen to the beyoncé song and then read the fic or vice versa ok love you bye

Joel didn’t want to go to the strip club. 

In fact, Joel wants nothing more than to be alone tonight, and yet he finds himself uncomfortably perched on the edge of a half-crescent booth, dragged along by Tommy and some of the idiot twenty-somethings he’d met on their most recent project.  

“Loosen up, old man!” one of the cocky landscapers barked at him when he tried to decline. “A pretty pair a’ tits in your face’ll turn that frown right upside down!”

He almost did say no, almost played the foolproof dad card; unfortunately for him, Sarah had already planned to stay at her best friend’s house the next few nights, taking advantage of the last week of winter break. But he saw the premature wince forming in Tommy’s eye, waiting for the inevitable sting of Joel ruining his chances at making some semi-decent friends in this town—friends that wouldn’t land him behind bars on the weekend, anyways. So Joel surrendered with a begrudging grunt, under the terms that he could stop by home to shower and change clothes. Miraculously, he convinced the other guys to do the same.

Inside, violet and teal spotlights cast a thick fog across the large stage. It illuminates the performers whilst somehow clouding them too, their bodies winding and whirling in a periwinkle haze. Joel’s skin feels humid and suffocated beneath the clinging fabric of his flannel shirt; the glass of Jack Daniels he’d spent the last ten minutes nursing only abets the formation of dew trickling down his neck and spine. The only thing keeping him cool is the wet curls he slicked back sitting at the base of his skull, providing a momentary chill with any slight breeze. He feels claustrophobic, displaced; like his presence was altogether a clumsy wedge into somewhere he didn’t quite belong. 

Nothing another glass of whiskey couldn’t fix.

Joel excuses himself from the group without much notice. The boys are hovering over a meaty stack of ones, attempting to divvy up the bills in even increments without having to count them out individually. He strides across the room with a languid ease, scanning the room and the scattered clusters of men, appeasing his unconscious instinct to confirm safety wherever he is—and to keep tabs on the people he should keep Tommy away from. He stops short for a moment, palming his pocket to confirm his wallet and keys haven’t left his side.

“Pardon me, honey.” 

A soft, seductive drawl takes him by surprise as a hand on his lower back guides him inches to the left. It takes a moment for his vision to focus, the crisp snap of his neck to follow the voice leaving a slight dizziness in its recoil, the trailing scent of cinnamon and honey wafting beneath his nose. 

When he finally sees you, actually sees you, Joel finds himself powerless to avert his gaze. Your body is awash with exquisite peaks and valleys, velvet curves clad only by precarious strings and swatches of fabric covering mere inches of glistening skin. The clack of your heels leaves him hypnotized as you leave him in your wake. His jaw slackens and his lungs become paralyzed as he witnesses the way your body moves like water with every step; like the current that flows across the edges of your figure, rippling as you step onto the stage and coil yourself around the silver pole.

Good god.

The bones in Joel’s knees suddenly turn gelatinous, a huff of air escaping his mouth as he stumbles backward into the bar, bracing himself with flat palms against the polished marble. He steadies himself, blinking out the sting beneath his lids, trying to moisten the dryness in his eyes—a consequence of his bulging stare.

A soft giggle lilts from behind him, piercing through his trance and hammering his conscience back into the earth. Joel turns to the source to find the bartender, shaking her head with laughter as she drags the rim of a glass through a bowl of salt.

“Don’t worry, ain’t the first time I’ve seen a man nearly lose his footin’ around Paloma,” she jeers, a smirk threatening the corners of her mouth. “She’s really somethin’, that girl.”

Joel nods, clears his throat, and swallows the saliva that pools at the back of his tongue. Somethin’ was an understatement, an insult to the ethereal vision twirling before him. The fog and dusky lighting prevents him from capturing a defined image of your face, only catching glimpses of soft cheeks and plush lips as you spin and float with ease, but he’s certain you’re breathtaking.

“You want another Jack?” the bartender offers, pouring out a picture-perfect margarita, the lime hue nearly fluorescent in the lowlight.

Joel grunts in affirmation, his eyes not once straying from your direction.

“Not much of a talker, are ya?” she ribs, chuckling as she reaches for the whiskey.

“Sorry, long day,” Joel winces, suddenly painfully aware of how rude he’s been. “Is she, uh, new ‘round here?” 

“Who, Paloma? Been ‘round for about… six months or so? She’s done real well for herself, honestly blew all us away with how much she was able t’make from the jump.”

He bites down on the tip of his tongue, a sharp, electrifying pain searing through his nerves. It does nothing to fracture the beguiling spell you’ve somehow cast upon him, and Joel finds himself staring again, studying your every move, knowing nothing but need.

“Do you know if she… when she’s done here? Her shift, I mean.”

The bartender laughs exuberantly, a wide smile revealing a far-too-pristine row of pearly veneers that nearly glow under the lilac beams.

“Well, I don’t think I can tell you that, sugar,” she coos, sliding Joel’s drink across the space between them. “But you can ask her yourself! I promise, she don’t bite. Sweet as honey, that one.”

Honey. 

It still lingers in the air, thick and cloying in a way that grips like a hand wrapped around his throat, like a demanding croon singing over and over: Eyes on me. He can taste it too, a whisper of it stagnant on the back of his tongue, a lurking craving impatiently waiting to be satiated.

Joel thanks her in a low gravel, and strides back towards his table with newfound urgency nipping at his heels. He arrives at the booth with no reaction from the boys, the party too enveloped in counting their stack to be stirred by his presence. It’s only when Joel clears his throat, the force of it deep and thunderous, that the men take any notice.

“I’m gonna need me some of those.”

.   .   .   .   .

You didn’t expect the club to be busy tonight. 

In fact, you practically relied on Wednesdays being the slowest day of the week. You often used the opportunity to practice new routines, test out new outfits, try something different with your makeup; pretty much anything you didn’t particularly prefer for a crowded audience to behold.

Tonight you find yourself testing the limits of a string-bikini-esque number, the laces doubled around your torso and triple-knotted in the hope of extra security, and the triangular fabric cutouts stuck down to the curve of your breasts with double-sided tape. You climb the pole with ease, perfectly-formed calluses on your palms and heels aiding you with improved grip. 

It took just a month of pole classes for you to develop an addiction to the burn of sleek metal sliding across your skin. Something about the sting of it, alongside the quiver of your core, the aching clench of your thighs; it was a remarkable blend of pain that spilled through you like pleasure. It soon became an unholy replacement for Sunday worship—melding yourself around the pole; bathing in the sweltering beams from the spotlights; inhaling the musky scent of crumpled bills lying at your feet. It was entirely meditative, and you’d found a sort of spiritual enlightenment amongst it all.

You let your head fall back as the rod swings you around in tight circles. Normally you let your eyes close when you spin, but tonight you feel called to the fuzzy warmth that pools behind your brows when you get good and dizzy. Your surroundings bleed and curve like an Expressionist painting, and an unmoving figure lurks amongst the brush strokes, appearing and disappearing and blending until it’s a constant image: a broad, stoic, masculine body, melting into everything you can see.

The invasion peeves you. Sure, you know you should be pleased that a customer is watching, clearly interested and coming closer, but for Christ’s sake, you’ve been out for less than five minutes. At 6pm. On a Wednesday.

You carefully bring your body to a halt, slowly inching down the pole until your shoes meet the hardwood. Your vision lags far behind you, skipping like a scratched disc, and it’s enough to nearly knock you from your feet. A lightness billows through your blood and tries to whisk you away, but you sink against it, sitting on your heels and fastening your grip on the cold steel.

Lines begin to gain their sharpness again, and the figure in your peripheral starts to look less and less like a Van Gogh portrait. The man’s face is still muddled, dimly-lit and shrouded by the bill of a baseball cap. You smile at him on instinct, and you notice his chest jerk, like he was entirely unaware that he too was being observed; like he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t.

You also can’t help but notice how broad he is, even from this distance. The plaid lines of his button-up sprawl across his chest, his arms, his waist, and though the shirt clearly isn’t skin-tight, you can tell the expanse of him fills it out with ease. With a slight tilt of your head you motion for him to come closer, and your balance finally stills enough for you to trust your feet again.

The man strides across the room with a glimmer of urgency—not fast per se, but with a spirited buoyancy hot beneath his heels. He parks himself at the table nearest to you, pulling the chair from its nestled nook under the table, and makes himself comfortable, splaying his knees and crossing his arms tightly atop his chest.

God, he’s big.

“Haven’t seen you ‘round here before,” you lilt, descending the stairs from the platform and taking a seat on the table in front of him.

One of his hands peeks from beneath the sleeve of his flannel. It looks gruff, firm, and tightly grasps a palmful of ones, and the sheer width of his fingers make the bills look like Monopoly money. 

“Ain’t really been ‘round here before,” he shrugs, his voice exactly as deep as you expected, and steeped in what you immediately recognize as a born and raised Texan.

His eyes are noticeably shifty, ping-ponging between the floor, the stage, your shoes, his watch; anywhere that isn’t your gaze. The majority of his face is still shaded by his cap, and even this close his features remain more vague than you’d like them to be. You realize he must be new to this, and you’ve heard that drawl before; the drawl of a man who was raised to mind his manners.

You don’t make him ask.

“You want a dance, baby?”

You graze your fingers over his, and have to bite down on a grin when his chest hitches sharply against the row of buttons resting over his sternum.

“I… um… no, thank you sweetheart—”

“What’s your name?”

He clears his throat with a stifled, nervous cough.

“Joel,” he blurts, a sober assuredness possessing his voice. “Joel Miller.”

He finally meets your gaze, just as a whirling spotlight dances over his face. A split second of illumination reveals a whiskey-brown stare, dripping with warmth, glinting with a sedated hunger. You bite down on the flesh of your cheek and extend your hand to shake his.

“Paloma,” you croak, imitating his baritone husk, pausing to repeat his cadence. “Paloma Blue.”

A dimple appears amongst a veil of brown scruff, the faint edges of a charming smile peeking through the shadow from his hat. His shoulders remain rigid, hiked with an invisible thread tugging them toward the ceiling.

You really can’t read him.

“Can I do somethin’ for you, honey? You seem tense,” you question.

“I was… I was wonderin’ if you might be interested in lettin’ me buy you a drink. When you’re done workin’, f’course. Wouldn’t wanna get you in any kinda trouble.”

You find it impossible not to let out a chuckle. It’s not the first time you’ve sent a man into a flustered mess of shifting-eyes and stuttering words, though that would usually come after he got too bold and you needed to put him in his place. Joel Miller doesn’t look like those men; college-aged hooligans or machismo cowboys that are all bark and no bite. He doesn’t look like a man who gets nervous; yet here he is, fidgeting profusely with his watch, and you’re quite relieved he’s sitting down.

“Well, ain’t you a sweet one…” you drawl, half-teasing despite the truth to the statement. “I’m s’posed to work ‘til close tonight, but if you can convince my boss to let me leave early, I’m all yours.”

You don’t miss the swell of Joel’s pupils at your affirmation, a look of determination you had yet to witness on the man. The chances of getting out of your shift tonight are next to none, considering there’s merely three of you working the floor and a new hoard of howling youngsters just came tumbling through the entrance.

You point out your boss behind the bar and Joel follows with his gaze, nodding and starting towards her without a word.

You’re a bit shocked at his immediate action; not to mention the lack of the typical prying you’ve accepted as routine. He’s been extraordinarily polite; a man of few words but refreshingly direct despite the subtle shake in his voice, and the honesty alone makes your cheeks flush.

You’re far more used to taking control and providing entertainment for the countless men that frequent the club, always catering to their needs first and foremost, smothering them with flattery—or degradation, if you notice a well-timed “good boy” summons a bigger bill from their pockets. It’s work, but it’s undoubtedly started to bleed into your personal life. The lines between you and your Paloma persona have blurred these days, making you unsure of what you’re supposed to want and what you actually want. You find yourself lost in thought, gazing at the black and white tile as your legs swing underneath you, until the interruption of two dirty boots break your trance.

“Boss said you’re good to go. F’you still want to.”

How the hell did he manage that?

Your jaw hangs slightly in shock, racking your brain to make sense of what he may have done to convince her. You can’t help but be impressed by his vigor, by all of it, and a smile lifts your cheeks to the heavens as you recognize the feeling stirring in your tummy, a feeling that has laid dormant for far too long. You want him.

“I’ll go get my stuff, just hang tight.”

.   .   .   .   .

Joel stands by the exit of the club, waiting for you to grab your things. He hadn’t thought a damn thing through before he asked you out, and his voice of reason was nowhere to be found when he forked over 200 bucks to the club owner to get you out of working for the rest of the night. Any semblance of forethought vanished when he saw you, all sashayed hips and strut and so undeniably, deliciously Texan. And your face—oh—once he saw that sweet face of yours… he didn’t stand a fucking chance.

It occurs to him that he doesn’t know where exactly he should take you to get a drink. Should he have asked you to dinner instead? The last thing he wants is you to think is that he’s trying to buy you for the night, or that anything is required of you just because he got you out of work. He just wants to know you, be near you, bask in your presence. He wants to treat you like a gentleman, like he was raised to, because he’s damn sure the kind of men who wind up at that club don’t give a damn about chivalry.

You emerge from the narrow hallway leading towards the exit, clad in gray sweatpants and a flowy white tee that somehow still clings to the most feminine parts of your figure. You shoot him a beaming smile, a playful glint in your eyes as you haul a small duffel bag over your shoulder.

“You’re not takin’ me anywhere too fancy I hope,” you snicker.

Joel offers one hand to hold your bag and swings the door ajar with the other, holding it for you as you pass through. The trail of your perfume—that soft, sugary scent—leaves his eyes rolling into the back of his head as he tightens his grip on the doorframe.

“You need somethin’ to eat? We could get some supper,” he suggests, offering his arm to you.

“Yeah, actually, I usually wait ‘til after my shift, considerin’ work ain’t too far off from a non-stop Tilt-A-Whirl ride. Y’get used to it after a while, but—”

“Better safe than sorry, I bet.”

You look up at him and nod with a half-grin, your eyes sparkling with amusement.

With just a single look, Joel’s stomach flutters and dick twitches at the sight of you. The glow of your face beneath the warmth of the streetlight; your soft features and the intensity of your persistent gaze is beyond mesmerizing. You’re pretty, the epitome of it, all batting lashes and pillowy lips; the very definition of divine feminine. You’re the spitting image of the hazy being that appears behind his eyelids when he touches himself and lets his mind wander; the body he craves to wake up tangled with every morning. 

He follows you to the passenger’s side of the car and opens the door for you without a thought, leaning in to his tendencies and muscle memory. You hum a sweet thank you as he extends his arm to help you into his elevated truck, but you barely need the support, your strong legs lifting you into the height of the car with ease. 

As Joel turns the key in the ignition, the scream of the roaring engine sends a full body cringe snaking down his spine.

“Sorry, uh, she’s a lil’ noisy,” he winces with an apologetic brow. “She’s fine, runs great, just—”

“A bit of a talker?” you blurt.

He smiles diffidently and nods. You’re better with words than he is, and he finds himself thankful for that—lord knows he needs all the help he can get in your presence.

Joel flicks on the radio, an old Willie Nelson tune lilting from the rear speakers. You let out a hearty grunt of approval.

“Haven’t heard this one in forever,” you slurred. “Practically grew up on this music. ‘M sure you did too, I can hear it in that drawl f’yours.”

He chuckles, shaking his head as he reaches his arm around your seat, crooking his head back as he shifts the truck into reverse. 

“That bad, huh?”

“Not bad! Just strong. Just how I like it, really,” you admit, pulling your lip between your teeth, doe-eyed and eager as you catch his gaze.

God, he’s absolutely fucked.

He dials up the volume as he clears his throat and starts down the jagged road. You relax into your seat, curling one of your feet up to tuck beneath your thigh as you hum along to the radio.

He knows exactly where to take you.

.   .   .   .   .

A twenty minute car ride with Joel revealed that he wanted to know as much as he could about you. He asked question after question, about your life, your hobbies, your family, and not one thing about your job, which was honestly quite refreshing. Not that you had any shame about your occupation, but most men were more fascinated about what it was like to be Paloma, and most importantly what it could mean for them at the end of the evening. Not Joel, though. It seemed as though he was almost afraid to breach the subject; out of politeness or avoidance, you weren’t sure. You crossed your fingers that it was the former.

You arrive at a little shack of a restaurant, some sort of fusion between a diner and a sports bar. It looks as though it should be empty, the exterior of it run down in a way that makes it appear frozen in time, but it isn’t. Clusters of customers sit in long-stretched booths that fill the width of the windows and the entrance is shrouded with people; some smoking, some chatting, and some seemingly waiting to get in. You scan the crowd and find that everyone visible to you appears quite innately blue collar, down to the sea of Levi’s Jeans and scuffed up boots, extra-illuminated by the cheap plastic solar lights haphazardly stuck into narrow beds of mulch.

Joel hops down from the truck before you can even say a word, and with a quick shuffle he’s arrived at the passenger door. You have to laugh at the absurdity of it, how it seems he has—cover to cover— studied a textbook of how to be a perfect gentleman. Alongside the frequency of nerves you can sense radiating from beneath his skin, you know you need to get a drink in him. 

He offers his arm as you hop down onto the pavement and swiftly rests his palm on your lower back, guiding you through the crowd of patrons with ease. A cheap, crackling doorbell sound chimes as you pass through the doorway. The hostess offers a wide and toothy smile, hollering to announce Joel's arrival, by name, towards the kitchen. She appears surprised but delighted to see him, making a point to let him know how much she has missed him with a cringeworthy attempt at a bit too much physical contact. She asks about a Sarah, and your stomach tightens with concern—you hope to god she's anything but a wife. He requests a booth, a cozy, curved table in the shaded, sheltered corner of the restaurant, and the staff oblige him immediately, one waitress clearing the tabletop of dishes and the other wiping the surface down in one clean swipe.

“Hope this is ok,” Joel says. “You’re definitely not the only one wearing sweatpants in here, if it makes you feel at ease.”

“It’s good, seems perfect,” you slip the innermost part of your bottom beneath your teeth and let your eyes do the smiling. “They sure are treatin’ you like royalty in here.”

Joel seems to relax a bit, his spine softening into the back of the cushion and legs splaying wide. He isn’t looking at you as you observe him; his eyes dart around and he musters a casual wave to anyone visibly moved by his presence. The constant, worried scrunch of his brow smooths out for a moment, just as the beams of passing headlights rake over his features, and you finally realize:

He’s fucking gorgeous.

You could see him before, sure, but you didn’t actually see him, not with the lingering luminescence of the warm white that shines through the outspread window behind you. He was steeped in shadow, but now he’s colored in, every detail and curvature entirely yours to behold.

The bend of his nose draws your attention first, strong and angular, demanding your eyes pay it mind. Your gaze follows a natural map, a sporadic trail of sun spots that dance across his cheek, conspicuous evidence of long days working outside in the relentless Austin heat. A few silver hairs are sprinkled amongst his umber scruff; a well-kempt beard and mustache sits just above the soft curve of his lips, flushed with ruddy hue.

He’s gorgeous, plain and simple. 

The waitress brings Joel a whiskey before even saying hello. Joel asks what you would like, calls you sweetheart in a low, thick growl. You order a vodka cran and try to ignore the hostess currently staring a hole into the side of your head. 

“You gonna tell me why they treat you like royalty ‘round here?” you tease.

“Not royalty—” he cuts himself off with a chuckle and a shake of his head. “They just ain’t seen me in a while. Used to bring my little girl here for breakfast every Sunday.”

“Ah,” you release with a sigh, the ball of tension sitting in your chest following behind. “Sarah?”

“Mhm,” he hums.

“Was worried she might be a wife for a second there.”

“Oh, no, I- I’m not… I wouldn’t…”

“S’alright. I’ll admit though, I’m real glad she ain’t.”

Joel’s face turns a soft shade of pink and a whisper of a smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. His eyes flicker, lingering on your lips, a flame dancing behind his pupils, before meeting your gaze again. You can’t control the smile that possesses your face, nor the simmering heat that blankets your chest, and you can’t recall that last time a man made you feel like this. 

Every facet of Joel’s appearance exudes an air of dominance. He dresses much like the hordes of men who approach you with their usual excessive bravado and unwarranted sense of ownership over your body, but he seems to act entirely the opposite. He seems apprehensive, wary, like he’s trying desperately to be the right kind of man around you, to treat you the way you deserve to be treated.

You decide to try what Joel orders, some sort of off-menu special order the waitress jokingly calls “The Miller Deluxe”. It isn’t long before you finish your drink, and another appears before you can even ask. You inquire more about Joel’s daughter, his life, his work; returning the line of questioning he surveyed you with in the passenger’s seat of the truck, and you find yourself mirroring his smile as he tells you all about Sarah. He rambles off a brief explanation of his business and Tommy; you immediately know who he is, a somewhat troublesome regular visitor at the club. Joel apologizes for Tommy before you even say a word about him, and your food arrives at the table before you can explain that he’s more of an occasional nuisance than anything else.

The whiskey seems to unwind the tension in Joel’s stature, and words begin to flow with much more ease than they did before you arrived. A natural, charismatic charm seeps through, sticky sweet, until it’s all but enveloped his demeanor, blanketing his palpable apprehension with an earnest geniality that radiates warmth like a fireplace. It washes over you, clinging to every inch of your skin, seeping through to your veins and igniting a flame low in your belly, a flickering heat that demands to be noticed.

You’re fairly certain he won’t be the one to cut through the guarded distance between you. Despite the unmistakable hunger in his eyes, he remains heedful, taking extra care to keep his hand from grazing yours as he reaches for the chip basket and keeping his body at least a foot away from yours. You want—desperately want—to shatter the glass partition he seems to have placed between you, to destroy the self-imposed barrier keeping his temptation at bay.

You start by sliding closer, closing the gap between your knees until they touch. That gets his attention, but he doesn’t retreat, he only meets your eyes with a look of inquiry, curiosity, and a hint of apprehension. You flash him your most doe-eyed, encouraging smile, sanctioning the proximity of your bodies, silently divulging that you want this, that you like him, that he can finally release the imprisoned breath he’s been holding beneath his sternum since he uttered his very first words to you. 

Joel swings an arm around your shoulder, resting against the wooden panel atop the booth seat, leaving a few inches between your skin and the sleeve of his flannel. He doesn’t have to tell you a thing; you oblige him immediately, leaning your shoulders back and relaxing into his forearm. You fit seamlessly into the crook of his elbow, and the warmth emanating from his body makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand at attention.                       

The second vodka cran—the one that you nearly shotgunned—possesses your will for a split-second and you find yourself reaching for his face, whisping the pad of your thumb across his wiry scruff. Despite the rough tickle it leaves behind, you immediately crave the sensation elsewhere, certain that the drag of it across a more delicate area might just feel like heaven.

“Can I be honest?” you whisper in a low lilt, tracing the brim of his cap with lazy fingers.

Joel nods with a thick swallow, his Adam's apple jumping almost comically in his throat.

“Yeah, f’course,” he responds with a strained attempt at nonchalance.

“I don’t like this hat.”

You grip the bill of the hat, wiggling it back and forth playfully. Your actions are outrunning your thoughts by a mile now, and you’re unable to keep your hands from wandering towards Joel’s magnetism. His face transforms into a bewildered, amused grin, one brow furrowed and the other cocked toward the ceiling. 

“Mm,” he hums, a low, resonant sonance from the pit of his chest. “Why’s that?”

“I can’t see you,” you whine. “Can’t see that pretty face of yours, s’all hidden by a shadow.”

“I, um—” he whisks the hat off, running his fingers through a slicked mountain of curls. “My hair’s still wet.”

Christ. The light bathes his face, every detail revealing itself to you in absolute glory. He’s fucking beautiful, his features demanding of your undivided attention, an impossible balance between striking and soft. The flicker of need at the base of your core spreads at the speed of a wildfire, setting you ablaze with a hunger you can no longer ignore.

“Joel?”

His name spills from your throat, sliding off your tongue like a siren’s nectar. Your fingers find their way to his mane, weaving through the strands with a gentle tug. His inhale catches in his lungs, the air held prisoner as your nails trace along his temple and jaw. His eyes finally meet yours as the pad of your thumb drags across his lower lip, and it’s only then that you will his breath to freedom, a stuttering exhale pulsing with anticipation.

“I think we should get the check.”

A momentary shock quickly turns to realization, and with widened eyes and a stifled smirk he nods, wasting no time to flag down the waiter and ask for the bill. Neither of you speak; you find it almost impossible to do so, your gaze spellbound to the curve of muscle and veins that lay beneath his collar, and you swear you can see his pulse jumping beneath his skin.

You want nothing more than to feel the rush of it beneath your tongue.

Joel offers his arm to help you out of the booth, his flannel rolled to his elbows, exposing his thick and freckled forearms and a modest watch strapped to his wrist. He wastes no time whisking you towards the door, his palm flat against your lower back, waving a few rushed goodbyes to the folks he chatted with on the way in. You can feel his heat, his fervor, singeing your skin through your shirt, his fingers curled into the soft skin just above your ass. He holds the door for you as you lock eyes; you’re met with primitive opacity in his gaze, the desperation of it surging straight to your cunt.

You grasp his hand, and book it towards his truck, counting down the seconds before you lose control.

.   .   .   .   .

Joel hums with surprise as you twist the neck of his flannel into your fist, tugging him into you and colliding your lips savagely with his.

Fuck, you taste better than he could’ve possibly imagined.

He didn’t intend for the evening to end like this. In fact, he almost wanted to avoid it, wanted to take you out with the crystal-clear message of no expectation whatsoever. But he’s just a man after all, and the second your eyes started talking and hands started wandering, he knew there was no way he could resist giving you what you wanted.

His hands find their way to your hips with magnetic force, slipping under the hem of your shirt with ease and grasping at the softness that lies beneath the fabric. The strength of his hands is enough to push you flat against the passenger door as he tilts your pelvis towards him, easing your knees apart with an effortless nudge of his leg. 

You gasp into his mouth as he pulls you onto his thigh, grinding you into the thick denim. The sound of you, breathless and needy, stirs a ravenousness in his chest that Joel had thought was long laid to rest, an avidity that only you have managed to awaken. You, in all your glory, drenched in honey and cream, calling out to him to come and taste.

As he bucks your hips a second time, you whine, your hands shooting up and tangling in his hair. You tug his head back, distancing his lips from yours, and he can’t help but groan at the loss of contact. Your gaze bears into his eyes with a newfound ferocity, a determination that leaves him straining against the confines of his jeans.

“You gonna give me what I need, Joel Miller?” you speak against his mouth in a hush.

Goosebumps litter the better part of his neck and chest as his eyes struggle to keep you in focus. The sting of pain at the back of his scalp only swells his desire, a sensation so staggering that he finds his breath caught, full and tight in his lungs, escaping only through labored, silent sighs.

“M’gonna give you whatever you need baby, whatever you want,” Joel pants, slurring his words against your gluttonous smirk. 

Suddenly you’re diving beneath his jaw, dragging the heat of your mouth across the pattern he knows follows a prominent vein in his neck. Fuck, it feels euphoric, his pulse jumping against your tongue, every rush of blood to and fro delivering another wave of want straight to his cock. He gives in, letting his eyes roll back into his skull, no longer able to maintain any semblance of insouciance as he’s damn near collapsing under your spell. He can’t recall the last time he’d been touched like this. On the rare occasion he’d bring a woman home he found himself falling into routine, taking control because that’s what he sensed she would expect, fulfilling some sense of duty as a man that he never quite understood. He’d always felt a sort of magnetism toward assured women, but somehow they were never the ones who ended up in his bed, only wavering ladies who looked to him wide-eyed, waiting for instruction.

He’s quite sure he’ll never go back.

Joel drags your hips against him once again, this time increasing the friction, bearing you down on his thigh enough to feel the damp spot that’s pooled between your legs. You yelp, biting into his neck, the sting of your canines against his skin bordering on vampiric. Joel hisses, the pain once again blossoming into some sort of pleasure, twitching and crying from the head of him. 

“Babydoll—shit—” he curses, stunned as you drag your lower teeth towards his ear, undoubtedly leaving behind a sketch of crimson. “You wanna get in the truck baby? Plenty’a room in the backseat.”

You hum in agreement, your lips wrapping around his earlobe, flicking it against your tongue before giving it a feeble nip. Joel fumbles in his pocket until he manages to unlock the door with his key, wasting no time as he pulls you tight to his chest, swinging the door ajar before offering a hand to help you inside. Despite his lust-stricken haze, his gentlemanly charm seems to be beaten into the very fiber of his being. You step into the car, gracing him with a personal view of the perfect splay of your hips and ass, only revving his hunger as he follows suit.

.   .   .   .   .

You don’t allow Joel but a second before you’re caging him in between your legs, straddling his thighs against the backseat of his truck. The rough grip of his hands on your hips, grinding you down on his knee, kneading into your curves; it was enough to set you entirely ablaze. No more matchstick flickering at the pit of your stomach, every cell in your body is pulsing with need, pleading for release by the hands of Joel Miller.

You can’t help but glide with a sharp rock of your hips across his lap, desperate to return some friction to the pounding ache within your walls. Your eyes lock with his as your clothed cunt skims the sizable tent of his jeans, observing him feverishly as he groans at the sensation.

“Fuck—” he grunts, his chest heaving as you slowly drag away again. “Easy, easy baby…”

His hands find the valley of your waist with ease, slowing your pace to an achingly languid speed. With each brush of your throbbing clit against the seam of your panties, another gush of slick floods from your core. It’s filthy, obscene, soaking all the way through the thick material of your sweatpants and onto Joel’s denim. You can’t even remember the last time you were this wet. It makes you burn that much more, the way his mere presence alone was enough to turn you into a sopping mess.

“Joel—” your palms cradle the curve of his jaw, holding him still to allow you to study him in the lowlight. 

He’s so fucking beautiful, positively mesmerizing, his pupils blown wide with a raptured stare, the sharp curve of his nose like something carved from ancient marble. The pad of your thumb snakes across the pout of his lower lip, pressing down until his jaw goes slack, parting his mouth with an exhale.

Joel seems to lose himself in your gaze, his eyes not once leaving yours as you slip your thumb between his teeth and force him even wider, applying pressure to the tip of his tongue and feeling the muscle flex against your fingertips. You need his mouth, need it anywhere and everywhere and right fucking there, you need him to clean up this mess he’s made of you.

“You know how gorgeous you are, sugar?” you hum, spreading the slick from his tongue across his lower lip and down his chin. “You know I don’t do this for just anybody, right?”

“You’re the gorgeous one, baby, so goddamn gorgeous,” Joel pants, snaking his hands higher, up the bend of your waist until his palms reach the yielding skin that cloaks your ribcage. His thumbs trace the band of your bra; smooth, fluid motions that send chills crawling up your spine. “So beautiful I reckon’ it might jus’ kill me.”

You can’t help but smile at his sweetness, his accent reduced to a slurry of words, appearing to be drunk on your aura. It seems you’ve managed to reduce him down to his very core, the heat from your body melting through the hardened layers of gruff masculinity to reveal an almost desperate eagerness to please, a yearning to relinquish control.

“I can’t have you dyin’ on me, honeypie,” you allow your hands to wander, your fingertips finding their way to the uppermost button of his shirt. “I got far too many plans for that pretty little mouth of yours.”

You lean down to kiss him once again, your thumbs making quick work of the trail of remaining buttons. Your lips move sloppily against each other, the both of you unable to stifle your muffled moans, swallowing each other’s pleasure as your tongues waltz in the in-between.

“Tell me what to do, baby,” Joel croons against your cheek. “Fuck, want you s’bad, jus’ wanna make you feel good.”

Your fingers nestle into the damp mess of curls at the back of his skull. With an innocuous little tug, you guide his lips to the expanse of bare skin on your chest, his mouth settling at the heart of your sternum. You don’t even have to ask, his tongue darting past his lips, savoring the taste of you with a deliberate torpor. The graze of his scruff against your thumping heart feels better than you could have possibly imagined, sharp yet soft, ticklish enough to make your breath catch in your throat. You blanket the backs of his hands, your fingers settling in the spaces between his, maneuvering the wide expanse of his palms to splay across your breasts. You can’t believe the sheer size of his hands, enveloping your tits entirely, calluses harsh against the sensitive peaks veiled beneath the mesh of your bra. 

“Touch me here,” you sigh, unable to keep yourself rocking slowly against his thigh. “Taste me. Show me how bad you want me, pretty boy.”

Something akin to a growl claws from his throat, and you gasp as his nails hook around the seam of your bra, exposing the peaks of your breasts with a relentless tug. He wastes no time, pulling your nipple into his mouth, his tongue flicking at the sensitive bud mercilessly.

“Fuck, oh fuck, that’s good baby,” you bear down into his thigh as his thumb finds your other nipple, rolling it between his forefinger. Your core surges with another wave of need, crying for attention, spilling her tears from your center and dampening the denim-clad thigh beneath her. “I need— shit— I need you lower, Joel.”

In your hungered haze, you push Joel flat against the seat of the truck, his eyes wide and wild as you climb atop him, his chest hiking and falling against your bare tits. He looks downright enraptured, licking his lips like a kid in a goddamn candy shop, fiending for a sugar high.

“You wanna taste me, sugar plum? You gon’ let me feed you?”

“Christ—” Joel curses, his hands wandering along your torso, lifting your shirt above your head and flinging it across the dash. He unclasps your bra with his free hand, sending it flying the opposite direction. “Please darlin’, need’ta taste you.”

You manage to kick off your sweats while Joel holds you steady by the hips, his eager words somehow igniting even more fervor in your movements. His thumbs knead into the give of your lower tummy, meandering beneath the waistband of your panties and twisting the elastic around his knuckles, slack-jawed and nearly possessed by the sight of your bare curves alone.  

Joel gives you a nod, cupping your ass to ease you forward as your knees find a home adjacent to his ears. He pets along the length of your thighs, damn near drooling at the sight between them.

“Don’t hold back on me now,” Joel slips a finger beneath the seam of black lace, teasing against the soft damp skin closest to where you need him the most. “M’a big boy, can handle myself.”

You gasp as he shoves the soaked cloth covering your cunt to the side, brushing your desperate clit with his knuckle as he does so. You’re bare to him now, surely glistening and ripe and ready to be devoured.

“Don’t doubt it, cowboy,” you croon, raking a hand through his curls before lowering yourself onto his eager mouth.

A rocket of white-hot pleasure shoots straight through you as Joel latches on to your clit, nestling the bud between his lips. The searing sensation is enough to make your hips twitch forward, sending your hands to scramble for purchase to keep you upright. You can’t even make a sound; the release of euphoria coursing through you stealing the breath from your lungs, leaving you to choke on empty inhales until Joel finally gives your bud a moment of reprieve.

His tongue dips into the pool of your center, sending another swell of nectar from your core, coating his scruff in sweet slick. You hear him groan, muffled between your thighs, as his arms lock around your hips and push you down even further. 

“Fuck, Joel—” you hiss, trying to keep yourself from grinding against the sharp curve of his nose, pulling yourself away slightly.

You swear you hear a hum of disapproval from between your legs as Joel chases you with his mouth, his grip tightening and his fingers digging mercilessly into the give of your thighs. His tongue is deep, drinking straight from the source of your arousal as his arms begin to rock you against his face, his nose grazing against your clit with an impossible precision; sending wave after wave of pleasure coiling up your spine. It seems dangerous, the way he’s devouring you without a single breath, but he holds you steady, bearing the weight of you onto his mouth with no hesitation.

“Baby, shit sweetheart— you gotta breathe,” you manage a fistful of his hair, pulling him off you with considerable force. 

He looks thoroughly dazed; glassy irises and pink parted lips glistening with your dew, like a man who’s been given a taste but is nowhere near satiated. His chest swells and shallows rapidly beneath your ass, each breath bringing more color to his cheeks and a myriad of pearls forming across his hairline.

“Need more,” Joel pants, his fingers weaving around the lace stretched across your hips. “Need these gone, angel.”

You oblige him with a swiftness, pulling the garment to your knees, dismounting him to allow you to slip it past your ankles. His palms cup your ass and squeeze, his thumbs spreading you open to reveal even more of yourself to him. The stretch feels good, the sensitive muscles fluttering with the shock of the exposure, sticky and soaked from the steady drip seeping from your sex.

“So pretty…” he kneads into your pliable cheeks. “Can I taste it? Please sugar, need’ta taste all of you.”

God, his desperation is like a siren song, your desire burning hot and full in your throat. You hum with approval, mounting him once more but reverse this time, a wave of goosebumps skittering across your skin in anticipation. 

He starts gentler this time, licking a languid stripe from your taint to your tailbone. His tongue splays across your skin, wide and flat, making sure not to miss a single inch. A guttural moan escapes your lungs; an uninhibited response to the forgotten feeling of heat in that region, an entirely distinctive kind of pleasure that sends your eyes spinning to the back of your skull. Your nails dig crescents into the cushions your hands are so violently clinging to, your back arching, matching in a manner to match the little moons left behind by your fingers. 

Joel groans in response to your noises, biting at the supple flesh gathered in his hands, his hunger surely spurred by the sweet sounds of your euphoria. Like a switch, his mouth turns greedy again, lapping against your puckered skin with a ferocity that makes you cry out his name. He gives you no moment of respite, jerking your hips toward him and seizing your clit with his curved tongue and pulling you into him, his nose practically fucking your cunt.

“Ohhh, that’s…” you trail off, your eyes beginning to water from the sheer intensity of it. “Christ, you’re heaven.”

At that, Joel seems to lose control, seemingly possessed by a determination to make you meet God. His palms jerk your hips back and forth, your clit never once escaping the grasp of his lips, his nose delving into your pussy with reckless abandon. Pleasure ravages the whole of you in a frenzy, wave after wave surging in your belly until you’re all but crying, quivering as you white-knuckle the headrest holding you steady. Your orgasm topples through you, your vision blasting with light as your walls clamp again and again, squeezing the length of Joel’s nose buried in your cunt.

Joel doesn’t release your clit from his mouth until you’re yelping, twitching and gasping from overstimulation. His grip softens as you fly forward to your hands and knees, your chest heaving with exhaustion, your muscles bearing through the aftershocks of your release. His lips find the backs of your thighs, trailing sweet, slow kisses across the expanse of skin. They feel like praise, almost like he’s thanking you without words; a mellifluous tempo of graciousness that you had yet to experience from him. 

Part of you wants to linger in the divinity of this moment, but from your position you find yourself face to face with the bulging mass beneath his jeans. It looks painful, the outline of his shaft straining against thick denim and a sturdy zipper. You manage to unbutton the pants with your one free hand, slipping your palm beneath the waistband effortlessly. 

“Jesus, Joel,” you chuckle, astonished by the way his cock fills your palm, heavy and thicker than you would have ever anticipated. You begin to stroke him above his boxers, softly and slowly, swirling your fingertips across the head of him as you feel him groan beneath you, dampening your fingers with his weeping tip. “Lemme help you, sugar.”

Joel grunts out his approval, his palm splayed across your ass, seemingly as a means to ground himself to this mortal plane. The callused pads on his fingertips clutch you relentlessly as you free his dick from the confines of his clothes, holding the base of him steady as you glide the tip of your tongue across his glistening slit.

His hips jerk forward at the sudden contact, sending the length of him thrusting into your open mouth. You welcome him wholly, savoring the salty musk that coats your cheeks and the sting in your jaw as you stretch to accommodate him.

“Fucking—shit—” he growls, his breaths coming in short, shallow bursts. “C’mere, god damn—”

He tugs you back onto his open mouth, burying himself into you once more with a reignited ferocity, drinking the remnants of your orgasm. You yelp, your throat flexing around his tip as he flicks your overstimulated clit, the blend of pleasure and torment accosting your nervous system. 

It’s downright mean, the mercilessness of his tongue sending you straight into overdrive. Two can play at that game.

You take him as deep as you can manage, hollowing your cheeks as you swirl your tongue around his girth. He groans into your pussy, licking you faster, pulling your lips apart with his tongue and spreading them like angel wings. You can’t help but grin, the unspoken competition between you revving with intensity with each passing second, sending the both of you toppeling into bliss, warmth spilling down your throat as you cry out against his cock. Your thighs begin to shake as you reach your peak, tears beading in your eyes as you grasp tightly onto the flexing muscles in Joel’s legs. You choke on his name as his dick falls from your lips, bearing through surge after surge of euphoria. The pleasure is so consuming that it coils itself around your windpipe and renders you mute, holding you hostage until it’s had its way with you and leaving you dizzy when it finally relents.

Your arms give out on you and you collapse, exhaustion possessing you for a moment until your consciousness returns. You feel Joel pressing soft, sweet kisses to the back of your thigh, and suddenly become aware of the fact that you’re likely crushing his dick beneath your weight. You ease off of him slowly, your legs quivering with the effort, turning to face him as he shifts himself to a seated position and fastens his jeans.

The moonlight catches the sweat beading at his hairline; the glassy whites of his eyes and the dew on his lips beaming under the cool-toned hue. He looks like art, soft lines and harsh edges painted exactly where you’d want them; masculine shadows dancing across his skin as he shifts his weight, daring you to watch them move. You’ve never been so completely mesmerized by a man. Not once in your life has a man rendered you speechless, but here you are; irreversibly hypnotized and a stranger to the English language. You’re aware of yourself—painfully aware of your staggering silence and your gawkish gaze—and you shake your head, laughing at the unbelievable effect washing over you.

Joel’s cheeks turn ruddy, his irises shifting between you and his lap as he drapes his arm across his chest, giving his own shoulder a hearty squeeze. 

“What’s funny?” he breathes, insecurity creeping in his throat.

You come to suddenly; the stark realization that you’re probably making the man nervous is enough to break you from your trance. You crawl towards him, your fingertips grazing the underside of his jaw, tilting him towards you until your lips are merely an inch apart.

“Nothin’ sugar,” you hum, pressing your lips to his in a gentle kiss. “You’re just one hell of a cowboy.”

[astonmartingf]

THIS IS NOT OUT OF THE BLUE ; YT22

yuki tsunoda x gasly!reader . . . in big brother fashion, pierre wants you to go on a date with yuki to convince him to move closer to milan. however, yuki already lives in milan, and pierre is still not putting the pieces together

amgf see this is what yuki brainrot gets you, i love this omg one of my best works yet, i might come back to this type of format because i am not writing pt2s anymore!!!!!! (lovingly ofc) just like always, enjoy 👍 @viennakarma it's done 🫡

yourusername

liked by pierregasly, francisca.cgomes, and 12 others

yourusername i get why my brother likes him so much now. he's a fucking child! feels like another day spent with pierre.

view comments...

francisca.cgomes awww they're bonding look pierregasly

pierregasly you had me in the first half, wym a child he's older than you

yourusername doesn't seem like it, seeing how you act, understandable

charles_leclerc oh chérie, what is your brother up to?

yourusername he's up to no good as usual, but if he's constantly yapping to you then you must know what he's up to

charles_leclerc i'm more surprised that you agreed to this?

yourusername he threatened to throw me back to university for a master's degree this time FFS

charles_leclerc well, if it's a master's degree or a date... understandable

yourusername control him please, i can't be the victim of his antics no more

pierregasly he said he had fun!!!

pierregasly now go on another date with him 🫣

yourusername ???? what is actually wrong with you

pierregasly you're acting like you didn't have fun, you even posted it for the whole family to see

yourusername get off my back pierre, my account my rules

pierregasly yeah you constantly yapping to your 20 followers which half are our family members

yourusername i'm blocking you next

pierregasly try me bitch

yourusername oh i will, you are no longer welcome in my account, get out

yourusername uploaded a new story

[he's taking me somewhere... i hope i come out alive 😀]

pierregasly replied to your story

oh my gosh, is this progress?

apparently he's in milan, and now we're on the coast so... i guess

wym he's in milan?

he's here?

he's with me atm but yeah

i saw him earlier and he asked if i was free

did he say ask about me?

sorry pierre 😐

non no, it's fine

i'm a bit sad he didn't contact me but i'm glad you're together

francisca.cgomes replied to your story

a boat date 🥰

it's not a date...

we're just hanging out

uh huh... cool

that's it?

wym?

that's it? you're just letting me off the hook like that? no teasing about being yuki's future lover or smth?

you want me to tease you about it?

non, not really i was just thinking about it

you're thinking about being yuki's future lover?

shut up kika, you know i didn't mean it that way

yeah yeah, sure 😏

you're absolutely telling this to pierre huh?

you know, i'm on your side for this one

your secret's safe with me 😉

what secret?

oh yn, for someone older than me you're a bit out of it but it's okay you'll get it one day 😊

get what?

kika?

what are you talking about?

yukitsunoda511 replied to your story

wow, you don't trust me one bit

i thought we had something going on

yeah right, shut up yuki

am i your boyfriend?

🥺🥹😭

yes

good girl 😊

yourusername uploaded a new story

[it's him again... annoying asf]

yukitsunoda0511 replied to your story

why would you lie to your audience like that?

because it's way more fun this way

duh???

everyday i'm reminded that you are pierre's sister when you pull shit like this

excuse me?

are you calling my soft launching methods shit 😕

i'm just kidding

you totally aren't

you're right, i am not

it's just i didn't think he'd be that dense about it

i'm sure i told him we were dating

he's forgetful like that

don't start talking, you didn't even tell him about us

i did!

uh huh....

well, it's funny to me because look, he's so desperately trying to get us together because we're so perfect for each other (ikr) and if he would've just listened like a year ago he would've known about us already

i mean, even alex knows what's up and she's seen us like twice already

alex has seen us a couple of times, even kika but pierre...

he'll figure it out, it's like he's been waiting so long for us to date, i don't know when he'll realize it

let's pray for him

praying for pierre 🙏

yourusername

liked by yukitsunoda0511, charles_leclerc, and 13 others

yourusername road trip with 💋 + we met alex on her field trip, it's a win 😊

view comments...

alexandrasaintmleux it's nice to see you two ❤️ have fun on your road trip

yourusername ahhhh thank you, we'll see you soonest 😠

charles_leclerc come visit us next time ^^

pierregasly are you in monaco? hello? who is that person 🤨 where are you going? you said to update me? where are my updates?

yourusername i told you where we're going dumbass, check your messages be for fucking real

pierregasly oh you did send me updates

yourusername 🙄

pierregasly OWAH? YUKI IN THE LIKES? liked by yukitsunoda0511!!!!! we're winning today

yourusername what is actually wrong with you?

yourusername

liked by pierregasly, yukitsunoda0511, and 22 others

yourusername milan. my man.

view comments...

pierregasly can't believe i'm finding out through an instagram post and not IRL, fake sister 👎

yourusername is it our fault if you didn't listen?

pierregasly i was already shipping you in my head with yuki, i thought of it first

yourusername okay and? doesn't change the fact that we've been mentioning it for a long time already

yukitsunoda0511 i mean yn is right, i did tell you as well

pierregasly okay everyone is ganging up on pierre for not knowing blah blah blah

francisca.cgomes i mean babe, you are the only one who didn't catch up

alexandrasaintmleux it was clear as daylight, they're not only dating but they're clearly fucking you're so dumb in your own delusions to see

pierregasly okay wow, i'm going to ignore the last few texts but first it was my sister, next my teammate, then my girlfriend, next my friend's girlfriend okay charles i know you're with me here buddy defend me please 🙏

charles_leclerc do you want me to add more salt to the wound? because i agree with all of them...

yourusername see? this didn't just happen out of nowhere, it was already happening and you were just too invested to see the truth

yukitsunoda0511 i look good there, next time i'm posting 😊

yourusername noooo i want to gatekeep you 😠 no no non

yukitsunoda0511 okay, whatever you say goes 🫡

yukitsunoda0511 can i soft launch?

yourusername yes 🥰

[norrizzandpia]

okay but how about a tiny blurb where lando or oscar catch reader watching edits or reading a fanfic

lol i love this

Whatcha Readin’? (LN4)

Summary: It was a good story, that was her only argument.

Warnings: nada

Lando’s workout had been grueling, straight from hell and constructed just to murder his entire being. His legs felt like they were about to give out under him as he unlocked his front door. He entered his apartment, an unusually quiet apartment seeing as his girlfriend should have been home too, and looked around aimlessly.

He expected his girl to be bursting from somewhere in the house, throwing herself into his body for a few kisses and murmurs about missing him, yet he came up empty-handed. She wasn’t the napping type, so being asleep wasn’t an option and she wouldn’t have been out, having groaned to him this morning as he got ready that she was so burnt out, she needed a day to stay in and do nothing.

His feet took him through the arch of the foyer, into the kitchen, before he was rounding the corner and finding her sprawled out on the couch. Her head laid against the back of the sofa, her headphones in and blasting music so loud he could hear it, with her phone propped on her stomach. At first glance, it looked as if she was utilizing that Kindle Unlimited subscription he had gotten her for her birthday months before, but he knew the way that app was formatted and when he gave it a second glance, he realized what she was looking at wasn’t Kindle. Stepping closer, he squinted his eyes, not wanting to get too close and spook her, trying to read what was on her screen. Whatever she was reading was quite intense, a couple fighting over the fact that the boyfriend had been neglecting the girlfriend for months and forgetting about important events like her birthday and their anniversary.

Lando’s foot went to step away, deducing that she had found another platform to fulfill her reading addiction. Except, just as he was about to leave it, his girlfriend said loudly, “Lando would never say that, though!”

He froze, turning his head slowly in confusion. His eyes flew over the screen before landing on his name, the character of the boyfriend being filled by him.

A fanfiction.

His girlfriend was reading a fanfiction about him.

He died.

Over the volume of her music, Y/n heard faint hysterics, making her turn her head to see her boyfriend doubled over in laughter. She took the earbuds out, looking at him weirdly as his face turned red from a lack of oxygen.

“What’s so funny?” She asked, standing before him with a look of pure confusion.

He clutched his stomach as he choppily got out, “YOU- FANFIC- ME!”

The color draining from her face sent him further into a state of pure amusement, “Oh my god, Lando…”

He continued laughing although part of him felt bad as her face began to heat up in embarrassment. Pulling himself together, he rounded the couch and kissed her cheek lightly, “Oh, love, I don’t think I’ve ever laughed that hard in my entire life.”

Her mouth fell open, “I’m so sorry. I don’t read it that often. I just-” She began to make excuses before stepping back and looking at him helplessly, “The storyline is just really good, okay?!”

He nodded with a smile on his face, “I don’t care, Y/n. You read whatever you want to read, baby. I won’t love you any less.”

She blushed, opening her mouth to say an affirmation of love back, but he decided to continue his thought, “Plus, I won’t lie, it’s a bit of an ego boost to know that my girlfriend is reading stories about me. Can’t get enough of me, huh?”

He teased her, poking her sides lightly, as she began to laugh with him.

When he pulled her into him by her waist and kissed her lips, she whispered, “Can we at least keep this between us?”

He nodded, “Sure, love.”

He kissed her again, this time with a squeeze of his arms as they wrapped around her. And when he plopped their bodies back onto the couch behind them, he picked up her phone.

“Now, what would I not say?”

[bokunoheros]

🪲author's note :// sorry guys i worked 50 hours this week so this might be bad and also the format for this post is shit.

topics discussed & warnings:// smut, Voyeurism, lowk non con in some way, masturbation, porn watching, sex toys, tenya iida looks through your panty drawer lmao

word count:// 839

ᯓ heed the warnings laid before you, your media consumption is your responsibility! ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ

Tenya was sick in the fucking head. 

He had originally wandered into your dorm room to look for you, having a ‘question’ to ask about homework from your shared class. That ‘question,’ despite its partial legitimacy, was just an excuse to bother you because he has such a sickening crush on you to the point where he can’t help himself. 

Tenya had stumbled into your dorm with a handful of textbooks, calling out your name only to find your room empty. He glanced around, pursing his bottom lip as he surveyed your room, creepily, albeit. His middle finger found the handle to your panty drawer and he slowly slid it open, gazing at your underwear momentarily before he realized there was a sound coming from the bathroom. You were in the fucking shower. And you just turned off the water. 

Shit, shit, fuck, goddamnit! Motherfucker!!!

Tenya choked on his own tongue as he slammed your panty drawer shut, putting the pieces together that you were bound to walk out of your bathroom at any fucking moment. He scampered, hesitating back and forth before he ducked into your closet, throwing his textbooks in with a thud before he launched himself on his knees and closed the door behind him. 

The knob on the bathroom door jingled as you opened it, stepping back into your dorm with a pleased sigh. Tenya curled into himself, peaking out of the small slats that lined the white stained doors. He held his breath as you walked into view: you were in only a thin towel that was lazily wrapped around your middle. You sat on the edge of your bed, facing the closet while you scrolled on your phone. Tenya bit his tongue as he watched you, his ears turning a bright red color when the sounds of sex poured from your phone speakers. You crossed your legs, biting your thumbnail while you paid attention to the porn on your phone. 

Jesus fucking Christ. 

He swallowed, nudging his glasses up his nose. You paid such attention to the pornography that played on your phone, scrolling through different videos as the sounds of moans, fapping, squelching— every raunchy noise under the sun leaked into the air. When you settled in a video you liked, you bit your lip, standing up from your bed and letting your towel drop to the floor while you dug in your bedside drawer. 

Tenya almost blew his cover when your towel fell from your form, choking on his spit as he screwed his eyes shut. You kept digging in your drawer, completely unbothered when you finally found your vibrator against all the clutter you shoved in your bedside. You hopped back on your bed, positioning yourself on your back, using one hand to hold your phone up, and the other to twirl around your nipple. Tenya’s eyes shot open again, unbeknownst to you, admiring your body. Your free hand slid up and down your body, groping what you can as you stared at your phone screen. Fingers dipping towards your sex, you teased yourself until you abandoned your phone and grabbed for your wand, turning it on with an electronic buzz. 

Tenya shivered at the sound, unconsciously leaning closer to the slats on the closet door to watch you. You winced when the buzzing silicone finally brushed over your clit, sighing as you relaxed against the vibration. Your other hand groped your breast as your legs fell open, letting the vibrator work it’s delicious fucking magic on your cunt. Sighs fell through your lips as you teased yourself, inevitably turning on your stomach, hiking your ass in the air so you could hump your toy. 

Tenya is sick in the fucking head. 

His cock is straining against his khaki pants as he watches you slack jawed, his dominant hand pawing at his erection as he presses his face against your closet door. You moan wantonly as you grind against your vibrator, using your other hand to reach around your back to slip a finger into your sloppy cunt. You’re muttering bullshit under your breath as you splice yourself open, your hips grinding down onto your vibrator as your mind fucking melts. Your thumb hits the button to turn up the speed, and you cry out a pathetic mewl into your sheets. 

“Hah— mmm’Tenya,” 

He snaps out of his daze when you moan his name, cum oozing from your pussy as you finish against your toy. You fall limp against the bed, shivering as your vibrator finishes you off until you’re forced to turn it off with a sensitive wince. 

You. You just, you came. You came moaning his name. His. Fucking name. 

He could only dream of you lusting after him as much as he does you, and now he’s convinced you were imagining him while you watched another woman get fucked on a website. Tenya wants to bust out of your closet and take you right then and there, but he knows that’d end his chances with you immediately.