#the fic is very
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So I just got caught back up with @okiedoketm's wonderful fic Koby's Awful No-Good Very Confusing Day and- after a brief discussion in the discord- decided to draw the peanut gallery of two of the future Kobys reacting to fails from the current plot. This specific Moment is from Chapter 14 (15th in the ao3 fic if you include the interlude)
Close-ups and individual pics below the cut!
#my art#one piece#koby one piece#koby#op koby#the fic is very#kobylu#so its very tasty#Luffy's complete and absolute lack of boundaries is always a wonder and a delight#could i have done more dramatic shading? yes.#have i already spent 4+ hours on this? . . . also yes.
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Pros of re-reading your own fic
a good time;
Has exactly the tropes you like and the characterization you want to read;
Gratification: yes you did finish a thing and yes you did do good;
just a very fun time all around.
Cons of re-reading your own fic:
Is that another TYpO
#writing#today’s post is sponsored by Trisolar System#where on the very last line I discovered I wrote peace instead of piece#When I tell you I re-read that thing maybe 100 times before posting I am not exaggerating#My fics
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Stumbled upon this random ship (in a fandom im not active in myself) that has like 150 works on ao3 which are all from just two people gifting each other fics about this pairing back and forth and theyve been doing it for 3 years... i think thats true love probably
#theyre also pretty well written but a bit repetitive i found#good stuff tho#i just think its super cute that these two have been doing this for so long and built up such a collection of fics on their own#very impressive#mine
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unstoppable force (desire to write) vs immovable object (tired)
#writing#on the plus side i did make a decent amount of progress on the thesis#on the minus side it sapped my fic writing energy#also we're having a very loud windstorm but that's unrelated#kvetch oc
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Xisuma is forced to play hit video game That’s Not My Hermit by Evil Xisuma every day
Part 2
#hobestly these hermit traits can be very different depending on interpretations but these are my personal hc designs#+ big fan of black hair x bc of a fic#im also very interested in tnmn rn#xisumavoid#xisuma#evil xisuma#grian#docm77#zombiecleo#rendog#hermitcraft#fanart#art#mcyt#hc#That’s Not My Hermit#<- in case i wanna add more to this :3
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Something something 16yo 2k12 Mikey gets sucked into a portal and sent into the RISE universe and ends up helping raise the RISE kiddos AU
#my art#rottmnt#tmnt#rise of the tmnt#rise of the teenage mutant ninja turtles#rottmnt leo#rottmnt mikey#rottmnt donnie#rottmnt raph#tmnt mikey#tmnt 2012#rottmnt splinter#it keeps us dancing au#do i wanna talk about this au#i LOVE the idea that the reason why the rise boys are so funny and jovial and kind#is because 2k12 mikey had a hand in raising them#he kicks splinters butt into being a better parent#and also gives the boys a parental/big brother figure to look up to#and care for them#2k12 mikey would ADORE these babies so much#*holds your hands* listen to me very carefully#he would LOVE on these kiddos so much#and they would ADORE 2k12 mikey back#ohhh the fics i want to write#as soon as i have time its over for you all i am OBSESSED with this idea#they would call him TEE in this too#because i dont think 2k12 mikey would wanna be called mikey#since theres ALREADY a mikey here#and something something shouldnt mess with the different dimensions yada yada#IKUD AU
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does anyone know wtf word-stream.com is or where to send them a takedown request? i just found a bunch of fics, including my own, hosted on this AI slop site—apparently offering what I assume are AI-generated audiobook versions & (equally AI-generated) ratings and reviews. i can’t take a closer look without signing up, which, no thank you, but it looks like they’re hosting the full fics and are peddling a paid subscription for the trouble of hosting them. can someone more knowledgeable than me explain what our options are in this situation?
#i’m not tagging everyone because tumblr tends to hide those posts#but sharing is very much appreciated!#and there are WAY more supercorp authors listed than shown in this screenshot alone#like i’m pretty sure we’re ALL there#supercorp fan fic#supergirl#AI plagiarism#word-stream#cliffweitzman
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The most popular fic in the Steel Samurai fandom had an unexplained seven year hiatus only to update at like 3 am on December 21st, 2027. The author explains that they couldn’t update fic while in prison (huh?) but now that they’re off death row (WHAT??) they’ve transcribed seven years worth of writing (Jesus Christ). The update is 130k words long. Edgeworth and Maya don’t sleep that night.
#ace attorney#aa#simon blackquill#miles edgeworth#maya fey#alternatively Blackquill made Fulbright transcribe and post his fic to ao3. I think he would find that very funny.#he would have to get permission from Edgeworth too he would just outright be like I want access to the internet so I can update my old stee#samurai fanfiction and Edgeworth would be like say no more#eli rambles#edit: GOT THE DATE WRONG.#1k#2k#3k
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Tim froze. "Huh?"
"I mean, you're definitely cute. But I don't feel comfortable with strangers? And I don't want there to be any misunderstandings."
Danny Nightingale looked flustered, nervous, and far too pretty with his cheeks flushing red under the glow of the nearby lamp fixtures. Tim wondered when his brain would finally come back online. Right now it was far too interested in putting everything else on the backburner.
On one hand, he had been trying to get information out of Danny on his connection to Vlad Masters- a connection that had seemed more tenuous with each passing minute of the evening. On the other, Tim could admit it had sounded a bit like he was inviting Danny for something more.
And if he was honest with himself, it was only mostly unintentional.
"It's not even you, I just get attached really easily and don't want something casual. Sorry."
Tim hadn't even realized boundary setting could be so attractive.
"No. Yeah, that's- fine." Smooth. The Drake-Wayne charm at its finest. Tim could hear Jason snickering on the comms.
#danny phantom#dc comics#danny fenton#dpxdc#tim drake#fic idea#vlad is about to have a bad time for many reasons and its not danny's problem or fault#braindead#deadtired#the bats dont make assumptions outside of the very quick and correct one that danny isnt complicit#what did vlad do this time is still up for debate#dick overhears the comms and is both laughing at his brother and cooing at this poor soul who is gonna get dragged into the family now#cass is giving tim thumbs up from behind danny and it doesnt help
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CoPilot in MS Word
I opened Word yesterday to discover that it now contains CoPilot. It follows you as you type and if you have a personal Microsoft 365 account, you can't turn it off. You will be given 60 AI credits per month and you can't opt out of it.
The only way to banish it is to revert to an earlier version of Office. There is lot of conflicting information and overly complex guides out there, so I thought I'd share the simplest way I found.
How to revert back to an old version of Office that does not have CoPilot
This is fairly simple, thankfully, presuming everything is in the default locations. If not you'll need to adjust the below for where you have things saved.
Click the Windows Button and S to bring up the search box, then type cmd. It will bring up the command prompt as an option. Run it as an administrator.
Paste this into the box at the cursor: cd "\Program Files\Common Files\microsoft shared\ClickToRun"
Hit Enter
Then paste this into the box at the cursor: officec2rclient.exe /update user updatetoversion=16.0.17726.20160
Hit enter and wait while it downloads and installs.
VERY IMPORTANT. Once it's done, open Word, go to File, Account (bottom left), and you'll see a box on the right that says Microsoft 365 updates. Click the box and change the drop down to Disable Updates.
This will roll you back to build 17726.20160, from July 2024, which does not have CoPilot, and prevent it from being installed.
If you want a different build, you can see them all listed here. You will need to change the 17726.20160 at step 4 to whatever build number you want.
This is not a perfect fix, because while it removes CoPilot, it also stops you receiving security updates and bug fixes.
Switching from Office to LibreOffice
At this point, I'm giving up on Microsoft Office/Word. After trying a few different options, I've switched to LibreOffice.
You can download it here for free: https://www.libreoffice.org/
If you like the look of Word, these tutorials show you how to get that look:
www.howtogeek.com/788591/how-to-make-libreoffice-look-like-microsoft-office/
www.debugpoint.com/libreoffice-like-microsoft-office/
If you've been using Word for awhile, chances are you have a significant custom dictionary. You can add it to LibreOffice following these steps.
First, get your dictionary from Microsoft
Go to Manage your Microsoft 365 account: account.microsoft.com.
One you're logged in, scroll down to Privacy, click it and go to the Privacy dashboard.
Scroll down to Spelling and Text. Click into it and scroll past all the words to download your custom dictionary. It will save it as a CSV file.
Open the file you just downloaded and copy the words.
Open Notepad and paste in the words. Save it as a text file and give it a meaningful name (I went with FromWord).
Next, add it to LibreOffice
Open LibreOffice.
Go to Tools in the menu bar, then Options. It will open a new window.
Find Languages and Locales in the left menu, click it, then click on Writing aids.
You'll see User-defined dictionaries. Click New to the right of the box and give it a meaningful name (mine is FromWord).
Hit Apply, then Okay, then exit LibreOffice.
Open Windows Explorer and go to C:\Users\[YourUserName]\AppData\Roaming\LibreOffice\4\user\wordbook and you will see the new dictionary you created. (If you can't see the AppData folder, you will need to show hidden files by ticking the box in the View menu.)
Open it in Notepad by right clicking and choosing 'open with', then pick Notepad from the options.
Open the text file you created at step 5 in 'get your dictionary from Microsoft', copy the words and paste them into your new custom dictionary UNDER the dotted line.
Save and close.
Reopen LibreOffice. Go to Tools, Options, Languages and Locales, Writing aids and make sure the box next to the new dictionary is ticked.
If you use LIbreOffice on multiple machines, you'll need to do this for each machine.
Please note: this worked for me. If it doesn't work for you, check you've followed each step correctly, and try restarting your computer. If it still doesn't work, I can't provide tech support (sorry).
#fuck AI#fuck copilot#fuck Microsoft#Word#Microsoft Word#Libre Office#LibreOffice#fanfic#fic#enshittification#AI#copilot#microsoft copilot#writing#yesterday was a very frustrating day
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Imagine catching the eye of a very old vampire. He’s been around for senturies, yet doesn’t tend to leave his castle all too much. However you’ve stumbled into the forest housing his castle, somehow. A sweet treat, and it just so happens he is on a nice stroll to stretch his legs. He noticed you. And the dreck you’re wearing. No no. You’re too beautiful to wear such immodest or scabby clothes (in his opinion.)
He then approached you, and of course a strange man approaching you in a forest at night is a slight red flag. So of course you start running away but he’s much faster and blocks your path. “My dear do not run, I must discuss those unsightly garbs!” You pause in bewilderment nearly crashing into him. “Huh?”
“Let me adorn you with silks and jewels that suit you more dear.” He said in his head rather generously “no beauty like yourself should be in such… peasantries.”
And this is how you’ve ended up being a vampires little dress up doll. He loves putting you in all kinds of outfits, could you blame him? He’s a very lonely man, and you’re just so…. Mesmerizing, so enticing to him in a way he can’t quite describe.
However… the vampire had become quite more dubious with dressing you recently. Before hand he left you to your privacy when you changed, but now he insists to be in the room with you to ‘make sure you put it on properly’.
Despite your gender he will subtly hand you lingerie and see in you wear it.
If you do? He gets even more… mischievous. His hands go lower and lower on you back as he guides you through his castle.
His eyes lower to your chest and lower as you talk.
His mind wonders far too much recently.
Maybe you should give the old vampire a little treat, hm?
#fanfic#monster x reader#monster#monster x reader smut#monster smut#monster lover#vampire x reader#vampire monster#vampire smut#vampire lover#vampires#vampire#really wanna make this a full fic- a full very SPICY fic
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Can you write a college roommate head cannon for miguel O’Hara ( 18+ f!reader)
ik you asked for HCs but I have no self control... my bad, anon!
College Roommate!Miguel O'Hara Headcanons
(AO3 Mirror), Main Masterlist
pairing: College Roommate!Miguel O'Hara x f!reader
summary: Miguel is your roommate. And he’s hot. That’s it, that’s the tweet.
warnings: 18+ as fuuuck. F-receiving oral, using toys, masturbation, voyeurism (-ish), grinding, praise, service dom (idk?) Miguel, recreational drug use (reader and Miggy smoke a blunt). Minors DNI
a/n: I am a firm believer that modern day Miguel listens to 90s rnb, back when men were men: unabashedly, unashamedly down so fucking bad for their partners. he just gives me those vibes!!
edit: I'm writing a full fic for this! Rigor Mortis, college au fic, read here.
wc: 6k
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I'm thinking you become roommates but he's your last choice.
Very last minute: you have a big falling out with your now ex-boyfriend, and the plans for flatsharing next semester goes right out the window.
So all the good places are taken, and you're going apartment-hunting, but everywhere's either too expensive, too dirty, or there's a predatory clause hidden in the lease: shitty landlords and blaring red flags in 9pt Times New Roman.
When you stumble upon Miguel O'Hara; a student in private accomodation who, lucky you, is in need of a roommate; it feels like a godsend.
Rent is affordable and he's nice enough; refusing to grunt more than a few words to you, but is clean, organised, and from what you can tell, is barely in the apartment.
You sign onto the lease, desperately, hoping you've just been lucky and trying not to look a gift horse in the mouth.
You give a thousand mile stare at the blank document in front of you. A bullshit paper due in exactly 12 hours. Yes, you left it until the final stretch, and yes, it's 10k words. Very doable. You're not fucked. Nope.
You blame it on the banging from next door. Paper thin walls; obscene noises. Cries of Yes Miguel and Just like that, daddy have been plaguing you for almost an hour. His stamina must be superhuman, the way the woman in his bed has been howling. Howling may seem extreme, but she sounds like a dying cat: cock drunk and babbling over Miguel O'Hara?
Your new roommate had been nice enough. Quiet, unassuming, and seemed more than absorbed in his schoolwork. So you didn't expect him to unashamedly fuck the girl he's been tutoring for the past week. It all clicks. The "perfect roommate" turned out to have one teeny tiny little flaw: loud, obnoxious sex, well into the early hours of the morning.
On autopilot, you're clicking through tabs on your bed. Perhaps you're a prude, but the sex noises are abrasive, excessive, to the point of parody. Persistent, Miguel's low voice reverberates in the walls of your bedroom; making heat pool at the base of your stomach.
"You want it, hermosa? Tell me…. such a pretty girl… like that?" It's muffled, but his voice is unmistakable. Low, greedy, heavy with want. God, the last time someone's spoken to you like that was…
You shake your head free of cobwebs. No. You're not rewarding him. You can't . Your roommate is shameless, and inconsiderate, and really fucking annoying .
The smacking noises increase, coupled with banging on his side of the wall. Resolute, your face hardens. From where you perch on your bed, you slam the wall with the side of your fist.
"O'Hara! Keep it the fuck down!"
~~~
He's a biochem major, up to his ass in assignments and he still has time for societies, internships and tutoring.
The only times he'd be in the apartment really was an impromptu session, and you didn't notice at first, but it became more obvious as the semester went on.
As a so-called tutor, he only seemed to pick the prettiest girls - they would twirl their hair on your kitchen counter and bat their pretty lashes at him when they didn't understand. Favours for a couple of friends, is his only response when you ask.
It felt like you'd open the door to a new girl every week and you are baffled. Donned in makeup and short skirts, they'd waddle in asking for Miggy, or drop off half-finished assignments whilst craning their head through, trying to catch a glimpse of him.
The absurdity would make you laugh if it wasn't affecting your sleep.
Not that he's not absolutely gorgeous, but he's so quiet you would never have thought he had it in him: to have a revolving door of women lining up to lay underneath him.
This time, her name is Sarah: pretty little thing in Miguel's Advanced Math class. She perches on a stool, wearing a tight dress that is wholly not appropriate for a tutoring session. She's one of his regulars, if you can call it that, and has been failing for at least 2 semesters. You flash her a smile as you pad through the kitchen, searching the cupboards for a snack. God, she is gorgeous; dolled up for another long session with Miguel, no doubt.
"Where's he gone?" She asks politely.
You shrug. "I couldn't tell you, sorry."
"It's okay… I'm just a bit stuck." You almost snort and catch yourself. For some reason, you didn't think they actually did any work, merely a pretense for the… cardio later on in the day.
You glance at her sheet of paper, scribbles in purple pen with large swathes crossed out. Leaning over, you scan the page.
"Right here." You point and she follows with a manicured finger. "You fucked up with this integral and I think… yeah, I think that messes with the whole thing."
Her eyes light up as she follows you, explaining with a piece of cookie hanging out of your mouth. She's definitely smart, just a few little mistakes here and there that you're happy to point out. Thanking you fervently, she rushes to correct it.
"Ah, it's no problem. I get mixed up with it too." You smile and notice Miguel by the doorway, watching with a strange look in his face. You roll your eyes as you walk past. What a fucking weirdo.
"Thought I was the tutor?" He croons.
You raise an eyebrow, voice low as Sarah is engrossed in her work. "...I don't want to fuck her, Miggy , if that's what you're worried about."
A little cruelly you push past him, shoulders clashing against one another. Is he smiling ? For now, you blame your perpetual tiredness when you think you catch the hint of a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.
~~~
You're a light sleeper, and it all makes for a tired, delirious combo. You sleepwalk through the day, scramble to finish assignments and whilst it's not all O'Hara's fault, you can't help but blame him for a lot of it.
After you successfully get through one long week, you decide to celebrate. That means a couple hours of mindless hedonism: your favourite movie, greasy food…. and your trusty dildo. Not at the same time, of course.
Miguel's not home, and he's not tearing down the walls with some other girl, for once, so you decide to treat yourself.
You've been going through a dry patch, and you'd hate to admit it, but he does sound good through the thin drywall.
It was a joke gift; given to you by a friend for your birthday. An obnoxiously purple dildo with a suction cup at its base. Aptly named Hugh, due to its - ahem - large stature. Standing tall at 7 or 8 inches, far bigger or thicker than any partner you've taken in the past. Sitting around a small diner booth with your friends and opening the bag to reveal him, had been quite the experience, for sure.
It wasn't your fault you had gone through a dry spell in the past few months. With work, with school, with relationship issues, you hadn't had the time or energy to sleep around. Not that you were desperate for drunk, lackluster sex, followed by an awkward dance of ubers and shitty coffee in the morning. Like many, you preferred to do it yourself.
Laptop open, you ease yourself onto the toy, already slick with lube. Prepping yourself with your fingers had been quite the task, tabs open to something on a lewd website. It's cheesy, but you didn't really like the bright lights and plastic of usual porn. The moans felt too fake, the sex devoid of any real passion. So you found a couple of independent creators; couples, mostly; carnal fucking with fervour only borne from real love . It's embarrassing to admit it, but your favourite parts are the little kisses and touches in between, or light laughter after a rough session. As if to say: it's okay and I'm still here.
On your screen now is a longtime favourite video, a broad man bullying his fat cock into his partner. You can't help but think he looks like Miguel, not as pretty but tan with strapping shoulders, and large hands that wrap around the neck of the girl in the video.
" F-Fuck," You breathe, sinking down onto your toy. You bet Miguel's palm on your throat would be deliciously rough, and you imagine how he'd fuck the brat out of you like the man on your screen.
What hadn't occurred to you, however, was that the thin walls went both ways. Whilst you were quieter than many of the girls Miguel brought home, you were fairly shameless with the moans and curses that fell from your lips. Headphones on, you were blissfully unaware that Miguel had slipped into the apartment some time ago. The slap of your thighs to the floor, the desperate whine as you roll your hips over the toy - he can hear it all.
Miguel has a conscience, so he does feel some amount of shame when he slips a hand down his trousers and presses an ear to your shared wall. He closes his eyes and bites down lusty groans, fisting his cock to your pretty noises. Noises he's been wanting to hear from you for months, now, imagining it was you underneath him instead of his usual partners.
He times it just right, squeezing around his tip in time with the steady slap just beyond the wall. Are you fucking yourself? On your knees, hands flat on the floor, churning up your insides with a toy… or maybe ass up, dildo attached to something…? He almost cums with that mental image, wondering what you'd look like on your knees for him. Is the dildo as big as him? He knows you, knows you'd want it to hurt - for his cock to stretch out your pretty pussy when he cums deep inside you.
All things he thinks about with a hand around his cock, and he's already close. But he wants to cum with you, listening intently for the signs.
" Fuck," Your voice comes out muffled, but it makes him buck up into his fist all the same. " Need it… oh God, I-"
He speeds up, wondering what it would be like to have your thighs shake underneath him, what it would take to have you babbling and begging for more. How would he break you? Maybe on his cock, where he'd watch you squirm as you take his length. Or on your knees, choking around him and licking up his cum. Or, God, thighs wrapped around his head, riding out your high with his mouth sealed on your clit, crying for him slow down, for him to-
" H-Harder, Miguel, please."
He releases, sudden and intense, spilling white ropes into his boxers.
" Fuck, Miguel…"
He fucks his fist through it, overstimulated from the way you say his name. It feels like the only way it should be said; spilling from your mouth, haphazard and desperate. Like honey, like treacle; sweet things he didn't know he had the capacity for. He lets that feeling wash over him, panting, bringing his forehead to rest on cool wall.
~~~
He's hot. He's smart. He's a whore.
A total blindspot for you, and no matter how much you can't stand him; you still find yourself stealing glances whenever he's home.
And he does seem to be home a lot more, often choosing to study on the dining table rather than his room. It's like he does it on purpose, using the warmer weather as an excuse to wear tiny tank tops and loose gray sweats - showing off the muscles of his broad back and arms perfectly.
Funnily enough, when he's not around those girls, he's bearable - seems to have grown a couple of brain cells in those short few days between sessions.
You laugh and joke, sometimes, and he surprises you by suggesting a movie one quiet night.
He offers you his sweater to snuggle into, you eat your weight in greasy takeout, and your roommate seems like an actually decent guy??
You had fallen into an easy routine: O'Hara leaves a flask of coffee for you to snatch up in the morning, hair damp from the shower and all, and you meet him with netflix and instant noodles in the evening. A push and pull that works in the little space - much smoother than your rocky beginnings.
After a truly shitty day, you come home to a quiet apartment. Almost sleeping through an exam, forgetting lunch, missing the bus home, and having to trek back through pouring rain in a thin coat. Everything that could go wrong, did, and you are left with the pieces. You trudge through the living room into the kitchen, the wet squelch of socks on laminate floor haunting every step. Shedding your limp outerwear, you lay the contents of your backpack onto the kitchen counter: clumps of loose paper, the damp leftovers of a textbook, bleeding ink. Your main concern, however, is your laptop slick with rain water.
With baited breath, you put it on the slab, and press the power button. A click, a stuttering whir, and the screen flickers on. Then, just as strained, it putters off. Dead. Completely dead. Your legs almost give out, and you lean on the counter to steady yourself. Half of your life was there; including the final project that would make up a good chunk of your grade. It takes you everything not to collapse onto the floor right then and there.
"How was it?" You hear the click of a door and Miguel calls out from the hallway.
You wince."...F-Fine?"
You hear footsteps, as he gets closer. "Are you asking or telling me?"
You clear your throat, desperately trying to keep your voice steady. "Fine. It was fine. I'm just… it was fine."
Back still turned, you fumble around with the wet contents of your bag, hoping he doesn't notice.
"Long day?" He says warmly, head poking into the kitchen. Haphazardly, you spare him a glance from behind your shoulder. He's dressed in a sweater that fits snug around his chest, rolled up to expose his forearms, and loose sweats. In his hands, he drinks from a cheesy mug - your mug, donning a stupid pun. He looks warm. Cosy. Domestic. For some, reason it makes your heart sink even further.
Long day? "Something like that." You manage to squeeze out. There's a pregnant pause as he comes closer. Rummaging blindly through a cupboard, you try to hide behind its door. If he sees you like this, now, you don't know if you'll be able to hold it together.
You close the door, and all of a sudden he's there, mug in hand.
" Fuck, man- " It makes you jump, as he squints and takes a sip of his coffee.
"You look… wet."
"That's because it rained, Miguel." Snapping at him, your tone is biting. You're tired, stressed and in desperate need of a cry, but he is unrelenting in his gaze.
"Are you ok?" He asks, unfazed.
There's a lump in your throat and all you can do is nod with a tight expression. His eyes flicker towards the counter and you shuffle, trying to cover up the mess. And then you watch it happen; initial confusion, a flash of realisation, and then worry; all in the space of a couple seconds.
Gently, he pulls you aside to inspect the damage. "Mierda. This is pretty bad. You sure you're ok?"
He's got a hand on your arm now, The dam breaks and you crumple into tears in the kitchen floor. Of course, he comes with you, rubbing your back as you blubber through the details.
" Nothing's going right for me… and I've got my final project on there… I'm barely keeping up as it is…" All he does is nod, face tight with something you can't quite name. It must seem pathetic to him, you think, shamelessly crying on the kitchen floor, complaining to your poor roommate. He can't leave you like this, because he's a decent person - but internally, he must think you're going crazy.
It helps, having him there: a steady presence by your side. Slowly but surely, your tears subside.
"You could've asked me to pick you up." He hands you some tissues off the counter, and watches as you mop up the tears. "I would've come, if you called."
"I didn't… I didn't think we were…" You search for the right word.
"...friends?" He offers, with a small smile. "You think I let just anyone steal my sweaters?"
"First of all," It makes you laugh, despite yourself. "You offered. And second, I've seen what you do with your friends, and I don't know if I have the energy for it."
"Ouch." Bashful, he rubs his chest like it aches. He sits a little close to you, knocking your shoulders with his own. "I know this girl who's crazy good with computers. I could ask her to take a look, if you'd like? Might not be able to save it but maybe we could recover the files?"
"...I'd like that, to be honest."
"Muy bien ." He leaps to his feet, palm stretched towards you to help you up. "I'll run you a warm bath or something. You're creating a puddle and it's going to ruin my floor."
"Our floor, asshole. I pay rent here, too."
~~~
You find that you enjoy being around him, and he feels the same.
You can't help but compare him to your shitty ex who you were planning to move in with: and even with his quirks, Miguel is better in every way.
There is harmony in your household, for a while, and you almost look forward to coming home to him after class. Almost.
It doesn't last long, because of course it doesn't. You'd thought you'd come to a tentative ceasefire, able to casually rib and joke with each other - takeout and B-roll movies aside. He leaves you leftovers from food he makes, you turn down your music when he's studying, and he even woke you up the other day when you had slept through your alarm.
Beyond the wall, his music is loud: a playlist you recognise as the one he puts on to (unsuccessfully) mask the noise of his usual late night adventures. Cheesy love ballads, heady RnB that leaks into your own room. You'd rather die than admit his taste in music isn't horrible, but it usually means a long, long night for everyone around. With finals around the corner, there's no way you can let this stand.
What kind of person does that? Lull you into a false sense of security with Snakes on a Plane and pepperoni pizza?
Absorbed in your own work, you hadn't even realised he had someone over; let alone was gearing up for obnoxious sex. You'd bang on the wall, but you feel like you guys are past that: crossed a threshold of intimacy that means you can shout at him up close and personal.
So you stomp over to the hallway, banging at the door to his room. In the short trip there, you've worked yourself into a frenzy. How many times have you told him to keep it down? That it was rude and inconsiderate to flaunt his sex life in your face; to fuck other women so loud you were practically involved? There was something about the little smile he would give you afterwards, when you catch him shepherding his latest out the door in the morning - like he gets off on it, enjoys it, when you react. Even when you think you're over it, he still manages to drive you absolutely crazy.
“Miguel? Open the fuck up!"
You're still fuming when the door opens with a click, and Miguel appears in the sliver of the doorway. He opens it so that his frame is half swallowed by the door, top half peeking through with a lazy hand in his hair. And of his top half, he's bare from the waist up, black band of his boxers sitting low on his v-line and loose sweats.
All the wind is knocked from your sails, and you lose your train of thought.
"Yeah?"
"I…" You clear your throat. "I don't care who you fuck, but when I'm doing work-"
"-I'm not." He chuckles. "There's no one here, hermosa. Just me. And you, I guess…"
There's something about the way he says it, lazily, as if it's his first time saying those words - wrapping his tongue around your name to see how it fits. If it fits, how it tastes. His relaxed posture, the way his hair falls…
"You're high." Your brow shoots up. "... you're high!"
With a finger pressed to his lips, he grabs your hand and pulls you into his room, eyes darting around the hallway.
"Shhh! You can't-" Now, he gets close, whispering like he's saying something he shouldn't. "You can't tell anyone. "
"I won't." You breathe. His face is serious at first, and then you're both giggling. You've never seen him so carefree, and it's nice to see Miguel walking around without the weight of the world on his shoulders.
He's still holding your hand, pressed close, and you see him drag his eyes up and down your figure. "You want do something you'll regret…?"
"...I've got a 9am, tomorrow, I really-"
"-shouldn't?" He finishes, dragging his hand up your bare arm, pupils blown. He gets up to your shoulders, tucking your hair behind your ear. It's sinful, the way his touch is gentle but gaze heavy - violent in the way he practically eyefucks you. You feel bare, in little sleep shorts and a t-shirt.
He steps back, lounging on his bed, and makes for a half finished blunt by the adjacent window sill. Sighing, you sit by him, sinking into the mattress. He pats you closer, dangerously close, and you comply. One arm curled by your waist, the other brings the blunt up close and you wrap your lips around it. When Miguel brings a lighter to the blunt, you lean into it, knuckles brushing your lips.
You take a drag, long, heavy, eyes closed. And when they open, you're met with his own. Maybe it's the weed, maybe it's the heady atmosphere, but you swear his eyes are low and deep with lust.
"Good girl." He rumbles, cupping your chin and tracing a thumb to your lips. He separates, bringin the blunt to his own lips before leaning back to pass it to you. As quick as he gets close, he pulls away; leaning back into the expanse of his large bed. And he looks good, head drawn back and the curve of his tan arm drawn upwards. Tufts of hair from his chest, the trail that leads down suggestively - and without inhibition, you basically drool over him. God, there it is. You feel it kick in and let it wash over you.
His music, long forgotten, blends into your downy haze. You want to sit in his lap, rest your head on his chest. You get it now: if this is the view all those women he tutors get to have, then you finally understand.
"Come closer, hermosa ." You barely register the nickname, only focused on the way he says it, the delicious way it rolls off of his tongue. You nod, and shuffle closer. His siren song sounds sweeter, somehow, up close.
You pass the blunt between you both, and watch it dwindle to the last dregs. Lying down next to him, he clutches your hand and takes the butt between his fingers, letting its flames die as you watch. You giggle and his gaze softens.
"I didn't expect this from you." You look up to see an upside-down Miguel, hiding a smile.
"Expect what?" He drags himself downwards, to rest his head by your side.
"All…" You gesture vaguely. "This. Don't even think I've been in your room for this long, before."
His room looks exactly how you'd expect it: tidy and modest, a row of trophies neatly lined up on a shelf, a telescope pointing out towards a window. There are posters by his bed; science related, mostly. You tilt your head in the direction of one of them.
"Is this what they see?" You mumble to no one in particular.
He manages to catch it, sluggish in his response. "...Is this what who sees?"
"All the girls you fuck." It tumbles your of your mouth, before you can help it.
He tilts his head too, looking at the poster and you watch the sharp lines of his jaw besides you. Even at this angle, he's so pretty.
"Huh. I guess they do."
"It's not very romantic, is it?" You blink, oblivious. Your question is met with a noncommittal shrug. "What was her name last time? Cassie, Clara-something…"
"Katie." He hums.
"Katie." Ignoring the twinge of disappointment at his quick response, you hope it's the weed and not jealousy that made you pretend to forget her name.
You sit up on your haunches, tracing the valleys and mountains of his bare chest with a leisurely finger. You try not to notice the way he shivers at your touch.
"I could hear everything. Every, 'Yes daddy'," You feign a moan by curling your lips into an O-shape. You bring your other hand to your hair, head tilted back with exaggerated movement. "And 'right there, Miggy, right fuckin' there' ."
Technically, you're making fun of him and laughing, expecting him to follow. But he doesn't, head back and eyes boring into you - only bringing a hand to press yours at his chest.
"Thin walls, Miguel." You clear your throat, sensing a shift in the atmosphere. Too far, probably. "Sorry, shit. I didn't mean-"
"I hear you too." He says softly. "I heard you, the other day."
Head filled with cotton, it takes a moment for his words to really click. So he elaborates, lacing his fingers with your own.
"Fucking yourself, hermosa ." He says it lazily, like the vulgarity of the act doesn't register.
Your eyes widen in horror. How much exactly did he hear?
"...and I heard you say my name."
"It was…. i-it wasn't like that-" Fuck. You can't think straight as it is: and his voice is low and silky, rubbing circles on your hand close to his chest. Even now, he oozes confidence, the steady thump-thump of his heart giving away nothing.
"Hmmm? Then what is it like?" You blink at him, unable to answer. "You're a hypocrite. You complain about all these women I supposedly fuck, but then-"
He pulls you closer, so that your lips almost touch his. "-you lock yourself in your room, touching yourself and thinking about your poor roommate. What am I meant to do with you?"
A pause, and in your daze, you can't breathe. For all your theatrics, it's too easy for him - to prod and tease, and for you to chase after him. You move to kiss him, but he grabs your chin at the last second. "Not quite. I want to hear you say it."
"Fuck- " You crumple, hiding your head in the crook of his shoulder. Even in your haze, the nerves bubble up from the base of your stomach. "Fuck me, please , Miguel."
He places a hand on your thigh, leading you to straddle his middle, other hand wrapped around your waist. He grinds your lower half into his, leaning up to bring your lips together.
He tastes sweet, greedily lapping up your moans in the clash. You're not thinking, not really, lost in the heat of his body, desperate and eager when you kiss. To contrast, Miguel cups your chin, pulling you away for air whenever you sink too deep. Somehow, he still manages to look smug, taunting you with a flash of his little fangs whenever you separate. If you weren't feeling the effects of that blunt, you may have had the means to be embarrassed at how much you want him - needily grinding against him and pawing at his chest.
It's too slow, too leisurely, like a punishment; and he refuses to give you what he knows you want. Your whines betray you when he finally slips a hand down your shorts.
"¿Paciencia, hmm?" He grabs a handful of your ass, clothed cock catching on your clit. It rips another moan from you, which he happily swallows with another kiss. "Patience, princesa."
You hump against one another like teenagers, your hands planted by his head for purchase. Hips moving of their own accord, you chase the relief Miguel provides: with his hands kneading your ass, length catching at your clit, and teeth nipping at your bare neck.
He licks a stripe up your collarbone, soothing the blossoming hickeys with a hum.
Fuck, how can he be so casual ? You don't know if it's the weed or something else, but he is in his element, hand dipping down your back to graze at your pussy from behind. He hisses when he realises how wet you are, swiping his fingers down your slit and taking them out to pop them in his mouth.
Now, flushed and face hot with embarrassment, you look up at him with big doe eyes. It makes Miguel feel guilty for stopping you so close to your climax. Beautiful : lower lip hooked under your teeth, plump and swollen and kissable. He'll make up for it later: a promise he whispers into skin.
"You're soaked." He cups your cheek to press a kiss to your forehead, and all you can do is whine. His gaze dips down, to the swell of your tits in that thin shirt..
"What did you think about when you touched yourself?" It's soft, said in the warm press of your bodies; hook-shaped and hazy and you fit like you were made for one another. The thought lingers, plants a dangerous seed that makes you forget that the man underneath you is your roommate : unrepentant whore, Miguel O'Hara.
"You." You've seen it first hand, he eats hearts for breakfast; and yours is on a platter for him to devour.
He laughs, deep and rumbling, hands resting on your waist. "I know that, baby. You don't have fantasies? Fuck yourself to the thought of someone touchin' you just right?"
Not just someone, him, you think. Your voice dies in your throat at the way he looks at you. "Just… n-nothing really-"
He hums, grinding your hips onto his. "Speechless, I can't believe it. Is this what I need to do to get some fucking peace around here?"
You roll your eyes, "Don't be a dick, Miguel. When I shout, it's because you deserve it."
"...there it is." Eyes shining, his face stretches into a shit-eating grin. Wide, unabashed, unambiguous. "You back with the living, sweetheart?"
It makes you laugh, even though you hate to give him the satisfaction.
"What do you want?" He kneads your thigh and pleasure pools at the base of your stomach.
You mumble something begrudgingly.
"Hmm? Can't hear you, baby."
Louder, now. "...want to sit on your face, Miguel."
Lowly, he groans, shaking his head. "Mierda… of course you do."
Expertly, he helps you take your shorts off, dragging the thin material down your thighs. You clambers upwards, wrapping them around his shoulders, watching intently as he kneads the soft skin. It's tentative, at first, and you place your hands on the headboard to perch just above his mouth.
He licks, diving in with the flat of his tongue: a long upwards stroke that ends with him sucking your clit. Moaning, your hips jump and he chases your pretty pussy up, large palms pushing you back down. He concentrates on your bundle of nerves, lips around your clit like a man on a mission.
And, God, does it feel good; he watches and learns from your every movement, committing your body to memory. His moans vibrate deliciously, tension building at that spot faster than your mind can register it. Then, you clench around nothing, gushing into his mouth whilst he eases you through it. The noises he makes are obscene; one leg off the bed and a hand snaked under his boxers. He's getting off on it; watching you crumple and sob around his tongue.
And when you begin to move off, thighs sore, he doesn't relent, sealing his mouth on your pretty little hole.
"Miguel.. fuck-" After your first orgasm, it surprises you when he continues, tongue fucking you with fervour. He presses you close, impossibly close, and your body fights against his ministrations. Heat, everywhere, and it's too much. The haze of the blunt begins to wear off and you are left with biting clarity. You want more of him, deeper; drunk off of just his tongue.
You card your hands in his hair, and he moans: deep and wanton, with his eyes fluttering shut. He wants to look, to watch you when you cum on his tongue for a second time. Back arched, the curve of your tits peeking through a tiny top, fucking yourself on his face. He wants it hard , wants you to take control and use him to get off.
"Right there, fuck… "
Like you can hear his thoughts, you press yourself down harder, riding the deep ridge of his nose for relief. Miguel complies and leans into it. He eats you out like a man starved and the carnality of it all brings you to a second peak. You cum once again, legs wrapped tight around his face. Head back, he laps it up readily.
You separate with a wet pop, and Miguel looks blissful : fucked out and panting, wiping the slick off of his face with a forearm. Exhausted, you lean back onto the mattress beside him.
"That was…" He searches for the right word, and it's your turn to finish for him.
"... good. " Scarily good. So good you won't be able to see him around the apartment without remembering what he looks like trapped between your thighs.
Gently, he turns to cup your cheek and bring your lips to his. It starts off sweet and deepens rapidly, making that thread at the pit of your stomach tighten, again. He grabs your thigh, bringing it closer, and you feel his length poking your stomach. Fuck.
"You haven't…?" Your hand makes for his trousers, and he stops you. "I want to, Miguel. Want you to feel good too."
His head sinks into your shoulder. "I know, baby, I know. Not like this. Not yet."
You nod, still wrapped up in his arms. You haven't even fucked, and it feels more intimate than it should.
"You've got a 9am tomorrow." He smiles with a hand underneath his head.
"I've got a 9am tomorrow," You repeat, sighing. "...and my life is falling apart. I'm failing half of my classes as it is."
He turns to you, lazily.
"I could tutor you, if you'd like."
…
"That's not fucking funny, Miguel."
_
_
Miguel taglist: @d1lf-loverrr, @afro-hispwriter @ilovemiguelohara @weedxgirlx420 @ladydovahkiin180 @aaliyuh3 @sweetanimebakery @vvitcxen @rosecoloredlenses708 @daikondal @magikmina @impettywhenyouare @alonelygirlsuicidenote @plushyplants @javi0ca @rheeves @starrfruit @nikirikii @marsbars09 @foxglove-grove @mimooyi @crosshairclown @dead-by-light @kynamitedessert @naarra @wanderlustingcastaway @sagejin @cookielovesbook-akie @tangerineloverrr @gobblegluckgluckgod @wolfiepirate @jxxey3 @ebrysteria @elliemm @manchuria @youngghostpeachslime @weasleybuns @ilovemuppets @vauriz @bonbyon @aimno256 @ancientbeing10 @tvije @venus1224idkpleaze @neteyamsbulletwound @chickenjefferson-blog @maki-z @jasjasthings
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edit: the full fic xx
#i am very very close to making this a full fic#(implying that this isn't alr basically a full fic lmfao)#miguel o hara x reader#miguel o'hara x reader#across the spiderverse#kat_writes😼#miguel o'hara#miguel o'hara smut#miguel o'hara headcanons#spiderman 2099 masterlist#spiderman 2099 x reader
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i just need to be idk, babied by logan, even though he knows that twenty something isnt a baby, hes showing you how to smoke properly, your sitting on his lap and taking sips of his drink, he lets you lay your head in his lap and cuddles up to him at night with ur cheek against his stomach and he just like, takes care of you? like he pets and humours and tolerates and when ur fucking hes so caring, stroking hair and kissing ur cheeks and forehead ur honour i want him so bad
And you get it soooo fucking bad because the idea of him being so paternal with you is something that just rots me to my coreee you guys. And there's a semblance of casual dominance about it that just makes me sob.
He's in the middle of fucking you. His chest pressed to your back, his skin flush to your own as he stands curved over you on your hands and knees on his bed. He keeps an arm wrapped around your chest, keeping you upright as he rolls his hips into, pressing a long kiss to the back of your head.
You'll be at the counter in the kitchen late at night, working on whatever when he wanders into the room in a grey hoodie and sweats. He makes his way to lean against the countertop, peering over at your notes. "Y'need anything, baby?" He'll eventually ask, running his knuckles over your forearm as you continue to write. "Mm, maybe water," you say, almost jumping out of your seat before you're being pushed back into the leather cushioning of the chair. "Let me do it fr'ya, sweetheart." And you don't get your glass of water until after he's "secretly" stolen a sip. He stands next to your seat at the counter until you're all done.
He's the first time you experience smoking. The smell of tobacco is heavy in the air while he sits on the front porch of the mansion. You've always been one to try new things and Logans never been one to deny you almost anything and so of course he holds the blunt of the cigar to your soft lips and lights the tobacco while you look all pretty fr'him. Takes you a couple tries and a few lessons in watching Logan easily breathe in the smokey tar, but you catch it eventually, earning a "atta' girl." From Logan.
Has you sit in his lap during movie nights at the mansion while he nurses a bottle of Jack Daniel's. He keeps a hand wrapped around your hip and the other on the neck of the bottle. Ever so often, you'll motion towards the bottle, and Logan'll hold you by the chin and tilt the bottle to your lips only for a second before pulling it away. You try to reach for it back, and he's pushing your hand away with a "C'mon, kid, that's enough." And you better not argue, it'll start an hour long discussion on how he knows best.
Or how the two of you will be lying on the couch after finishing a movie. You're resting against his chest as he runs the tips of his fingers up and down your back softly. And he'll just start giving you quick pecks here and there over your cheeks and on the tip of your nose and your forehead and chin before pulling back to look you over. He'll soothe the palm of his hand over the soft apple of your cheek, whispering softly "Yr'my baby, huh."
#the drinking one with him is very much like shhhh occasional drink enthusiast an alcoholic is speaking#will definitely be drafting a first drink fic with Logan later <333#might flesh the rest of these out too <3#logan howlett#wolverine#logan howlett x reader#wolverine x reader
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Four’s colors: standing there awkwardly
Legend: having a flashback to that one time he killed four colorful and identical dark links in the literal Palace of the Four Sword
Thanks for the request anon!
#Lu legend#lu four#lu colors#lu blue#lu red#lu vio#lu green#linked universe#linkeduniverse#ok I honestly think four would tell legend along with everybody else#But I didn’t have the energy to draw anyone besides him lol#Lu memes#lu#request#Also the anime style transformation thingie is probably not very funny but the composition looks wrong without it alas#My art#linked universe fanart#palace of the four sword#For the record the amount of fics I have read with this premise (all of which fabulous) is vast#Hence this is not an original idea XDDD
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Who’s Your Daddy?
Pairing: Stepdad!Joel x Reader
Summary: You get stuck in the washing machine. Thankfully, your stepdad is around to help you out.
Warnings: 18+. Unprotected piv. Deadbeat-Perv-Peepaw LOVES corny porn tropes and women over half his age. Stepcest & dubcon technically bc Reader’s locked inside an appliance, but she’s into it (getting fucked, not stuck). One (1) kick in the dick. Spanking. Brat-taming. Choking. Daddy issues. Size kink. Praise kink. Infidelity. Creampie.
Note: Saw this post by @ovaryacted and started BARKING. For my Old Man lovers/daddy issues crew, this one’s for you.
Word count: 8.3k
It was the closest thing to porn you’d ever done before.
Still, you weren’t quite ready to call it that.
And why should you? Financial straits were no anomaly to a girl your age, especially in this economy, and almost everyone you knew had a side gig of some kind. It just so happened that your job required slightly skimpier attire. And a webcam. And some very special…accessories that would likely send your grandmother into cardiac arrest if she ever took a peek inside your bottom dresser drawer.
Okay, it was definitely porn.
But you never showed your face, so it didn’t really count as the same kind of stuff that your family condemned.
You scampered out of your room the second you heard the front door to the house slam closed all the same. Arms laden with G-strings, stockings, satin bralettes, lace and tulle bodysuits of almost every style imaginable, you ran a quick, perilous path to the living room window and made sure to keep your head ducked low as you did. You peered out through the gap in the curtains and had to squint hard to see anything in the midafternoon sun.
Then you saw it and felt instant relief—they were leaving.
Your grandma for one, your mother for second, and wherever the latter was headed, you knew her shadow would be soon to follow. You saw a thick plume of smoke outside and surmised that Joel was somewhere around the other side of the SUV, smoking and droning on about how he was perfectly fi-i-i-ne to drive, don’t be like that.
By ‘like that’ he meant sensible. And by ‘perfectly fine’ he meant two Miller Lites shy of completely shitfaced. You could already imagine the wry smile on your mother’s lips as she tried prying the keys from his hands. Your stepdad would probably plant a wet, sloppy kiss on her cheek to win a ‘yes’ in return—and when she shyly reminded him that he couldn’t afford to get another DUI, he’d get pissed and yank them out of her fist anyway.
Fucking loser.
Fucking triple-the-legal-limit dumbass motherfucker.
It didn’t bother you as much today because you knew they were only driving a couple blocks away to get to the farmer’s market, but you’d be lying if you said you didn’t hope he’d get caught. Again. Maybe blow a 0.25 this time and land his old, ungrateful, law-breaking ass in Travis County Jail, where his little brother Tommy was likely keeping a cell bench warm for him, per usual.
At any rate, you didn’t have time to be fantasizing now. It was your turn to embody some guy’s grossest wet dreams for the next two to three hours. Stripping away layer after layer of your latest, tightest ‘costume’ while catering to whatever requests happened to float in your inbox, you knew you’d be up to your eyeballs in work. Though almost routine by now, you had to hurry up.
If you could just get the rest of this ridiculous gunk out of your clothing, you’d be all good to go for the job.
TRMAN22: Pour honey on your tits in the next vid???
TRMAN22: Milk too. All over you.
Looking back, you probably shouldn’t have obliged that request. Now you were facing the consequences—forced to throw all your clothes in the washing machine because the milk and honey you’d dumped on yourself for that video had gotten everywhere, and then swiftly congealed while wasting away in a pile of laundry for over a week.
The whole heap smelled rancid. Still felt sticky, too. Presently, you chucked each one inside the washing machine while holding your breath, and as soon as the last was discarded, you sniffed the shirt you had on.
Tolerable. With the rest of your stuff in the wash, you hoped to get at least one request off the checklist:
TRMAN22: Bet you’d look sexy in a schoolgirl outfit!!
TRMAN22: Why don’t you try one on for me?
It was gag-worthy and gross. Slightly alarming for a man who was more than likely twice your age and old enough to remember Watergate, but you agreed to play along. Your old school uniform was, after all, the only clean clothes you had left, and ‘TRMAN22’ was, unfortunately, your top subscriber. He’d paid $300 for this video alone.
TRMAN22: Wear some NEON pink panties for me too ;)
You squatted in front of the washing machine and stuck a hand inside. You sifted around, furrowing your brows.
The brightest undies you owned were in there, soiled, but you figured you could get away with one gross article of clothing, all things considered. You reached a little further and continued to dig. When you couldn’t find it by feel alone, you peered inside the circular, metallic cavern of the washing machine and craned your neck.
Not here…not here…not—
You tilted forward, venturing a closer look with your head, then shoulders, pushing into the machine.
—here, not here, not—
“EW!” you shrieked.
In your search, you’d inadvertently brushed up against a mildewed piece of clothing that had gotten wedged between the grooves of the washing machine’s interior.
A pair of boxers, it seemed.
You recoiled as soon as your fingers grazed the wet and smelly thing. Your skull went crack against the low-sloped ceiling of the appliance, and a jolt of pain was quick to course through you at the contact. You groaned.
Of course Joel had forgotten some old, cum-stained scrap of fabric out of his last load. Always leaving his shit around for you or your mom to pick up like he owned the place. And here you went, again, angrily plugging your nose and pulling as hard as you could on the shorts to get them free from the washing machine. You hardly thought twice, just made a face and then yanked on it.
The boxers wouldn’t budge.
You tugged even harder. The fabric stayed put.
Something akin to a grunt and a whimper, only far more pathetic, slipped out of your mouth, and you slapped the half-hollow steel wall in frustration. Surrounded as you were—fully encased in metal—the sound just echoed.
“Fucking…CUNT.”
You weren’t sure if you were talking to the shorts, the machine, or Joel Miller in the abstract. Or maybe all three. You just hated the thought of washing your lingerie with your stepdad’s skivvies, and no amount of rational thought or practical reasoning could hold you back now.
The tip of your index finger sank deep beneath the same ridge of the wall where the boxers had gotten stuck. You curled it inward, trying to loosen the material up a little. You wriggled your knuckle even further. And just when you managed to get a hold of the cusp of the tangled fabric—just when it seemed the green plaid cluster was about to give way—you heard a low pop. You felt it, too.
Shortly, your finger was pinched inside the deep, blunt valley of steel that had similarly snagged Joel’s boxers. It seemed you’d pushed the tip of your finger so far that you were caught straight down to the second knuckle—trapped between two grooves of unforgiving alloy inside the washing machine tub with no clear means of escape.
You jerked your arm back, panicked. When the metal sank its teeth even deeper, you didn’t stop. Completely heedless of the pain, you operated on impulse and by the feeling of needing to get the fuck out of that little space, quickly, and instead yanked your hand back even harder.
To your horror, your finger was stuck.
“FUCK!”
You stared down at the poor digit, only half-visible inside the wall at this point, then glanced down at the heap of sweaty, sticky, slutty pieces of clothing that were presently strewn about you, and felt an even deeper stab of dread. Stuck inside your family’s washing machine with every bit of damning evidence one could hope to have—and wearing your old school uniform to boot—you realized at once you were fucked if you didn’t get out.
You slammed your palm against the nearest wall once more, shaking your other wrist like an unruly child.
“FUCKFUCKFUCKFUCK!”
You weren’t good at solving problems. In point of fact, you sucked at all things prudent resolution-related and regularly made it a habit to capitulate whenever you sensed loss inevitable. You were a little like your mother in that way, quick to give in to life’s uglier challenges. The only way you could conceivably claim to be stronger, the only place you always had the strength to say ‘no’ was—
“Aw, shit.”
—Joel.
Your throat tightened as soon as you heard the voice. Your eyes went wide, and the rest of you went numb.
Bent at the waist and kneeling with half your body inside the washing machine, you remained there, motionless. Back arched and ass out. Thanks to the way you’d rolled your old plaid skirt, the fabric covered almost zero cheek.
Someone behind you cleared their throat. Then coughed.
And coughed again, again, and again. Evidently trying to clear the smoke out of his lungs and the surprise from his eyes as he drank in your sight from the doorway.
“What in the—wh—th—” You could hear Joel wheeze, beating his chest with his fist, “What— in— the hell?!”
“Help me,” you hissed.
You weren’t sure why you chose that as your go-to. It just sounded like the right thing to say, and frankly, you weren’t sure how else to distract from the fact Joel was probably gawking at your ass as he coughed up a lung.
“The fuck do you mean ‘help’?! What are you doing?”
The coughing subsided, if only momentarily. You tried pulling back on your finger again to get out, but couldn’t.
“I-I’m…I was just…” you stammered, heart racing.
You heard the tread of heavy footfalls. You felt them.
“Just—trying…” you ventured again, suddenly at a loss for words and breath alike as you felt a presence draw in.
You could smell him.
That realization alone made you want to stop taking in air altogether. It happened out of instinct, really—feeling the shift of two huge boots settle behind your feet and then flinching inward, further inside the metal tub for…safety? A pang of abject humiliation? You were far past the point of civility with the man, caring what he thought, or fearing for your modesty in a position like this, but something about the proximity now just made you itch.
You wished your finger wasn’t jammed inside this appliance so you could give that feeling relief, somehow.
At length, Joel’s voice dragged you back:
“What’s stuck?”
Too calm. A second passed. Then he added, more stern,
“This some fuckin’ joke’a yours or somethin’?”
“No!”
“Then what—”
“My finger. My finger’s stuck.”
You tried to crane your neck to see behind you, but all your eyes had to feast upon was denim. Bluish-grey stonewashed denim, faded with years of use. Joel stood back for a second, as if considering what to do, and then you saw two hands descend to brace themselves against his knees. He bent at the waist to get a better look below.
When his eyes locked with yours, you got the same twist in your gut as you’d felt before, only sharper. Shameful.
The look on Joel’s face was abnormally bright.
“And how on earth did that happen, dumbass?”
Your shame morphed into chagrin in a blink, seeing the ghost of a smile bleed into your stepdad’s features.
“‘Cause of you, leaving your shit in here!” you snapped. Your chin jerked toward the green fabric, “I was just trying to get your boxers unstuck—and my finger…”
Your finger was kind of fucked.
Joel cast a look inside at the source of your frustration. He extended his left arm and reached over your torso, and as he did, you felt the slightest, albeit solid, sort of warmth press in. The man let out a low groan of exertion—likely at the strain the movements placed on his joints.
The warmth got worse. You weren’t sure where it started.
Vaguely, you were aware of Joel’s thumb pressing into your hand. Gliding down your finger, stroking across the spot where your knuckle had gotten caught, he circled over it, slowly, and made another sound in his throat.
“Well that ain’t…good.” Not one to mince words.
By now, your whole body was on fire. You barely had the strength to keep kneeling, much less speak to the man thumbing your hand and pressing his heat so close—
“Just get me out!” you shrieked.
You heard your mother’s voice in that. A shrill, impatient lilt in her speech that came out, invariably, around Joel. Normally, he would have done something to deserve it. But today, with his hand splayed over yours and his breaths as calm and even-keeled as he could hope to have them while he tried to help, he was blameless.
Evidently, he heard a trace of your mother too, because you heard him laugh. You felt the reverberations of his amusement travel up from his belly all the way to his lips.
“Cool your pits, kid.”
For that, you would’ve loved nothing more than to reach back with your free hand and hit him in the balls. But, as it was, this man was your only hope for escape, and he was being tolerably polite, anyway. He pinched your finger between the tips of two of his and gave it a tug.
“Okay, lemme just—” Joel started.
“Why are you home, anyway?”
The question came out more clipped than you meant it.
“Why are you dressed like that?” Joel countered evenly.
“I asked you first.”
“I asked you second.”
You reckoned he could probably feel you roll your eyes, even if he wasn’t able to see you do it right now. He waited another moment, then leaned back on his haunches and withdrew his arm from the tub.
“Mama don’t like me drinkin’ and drivin’, you know that.”
With that, the warmth was gone. Joel retreated.
“Like that’s ever stopped you before.”
You heard him exhale a little harder through his nose. When he’d steadied himself against the washing machine, gave his knees another second to prepare for getting up again, you could feel his eyes back on you. Maybe he lingered longer than his legs really needed.
Maybe if he hadn’t stayed crouched like that, he wouldn’t have gotten the chance to give your surroundings a second look. He wouldn’t have stopped to watch the rate of your breaths pick up or the way your skin startle to bristle with some strange, unknown sensation. He certainly wouldn’t have felt for himself the fever leaking out from the base of your spine right then.
Today just wasn’t the day for keeping secrets, it seemed.
“And what’s this?” You could feel Joel lean back in.
He was looking again. Peering inside. Steadying his weight with the edge of the washing machine gripped in one hand, while the other snaked its way back inside.
You’d already squeezed your eyes shut by the time Joel got a hold of something. You didn’t know what it was.
But it became painfully clear that it wasn’t just one ‘thing’ that had grabbed his attention at all, but rather a series of items that his hands were just now getting to explore. You didn’t have to see his broad and tan, callus-streaked fingers to feel them roaming over your clothes.
Gross.
Gross.
“Gross,” Joel agreed, as if he’d read your mind. Grinning.
If you thought the embarrassment was bad before, you really only knew a fraction of what humiliation could be. Your finger throbbed along with the pulse in your skull.
Your mother’s husband whistled and lifted something.
“Darlin’, this is just…disgusting.”
You winced. You tried not to pry an eye open, to steal a covert look through the frame of your lashes in that dim and crowded spot, but the inducement was too great—Joel was dangling one of your lime green G-strings like it was a fish he’d just caught out on the lake. Boasting it.
Doting, almost.
“Well I’ll be—”
“Will you quit?!” you snapped.
You grabbed the thing out of his hand and threw it aside.
“Can you be serious? For one fucking secon—”
“Oh, I’m bein’ serious, sweetie,” Joel cut in. Cool as ever, “Serious as the business end of a .45, I swear.”
He paused. Then he reached for a white nylon bustier, drenched in a layer of honey that was as hard as a rock.
“Do you always keep your little…skank tanks so filthy?”
That was it. You kicked your heel back—and up—and made a pass to hit your stepdad square in the balls.
Your aim wasn’t the best it’s ever been, seeing that half your body was trapped inside a home appliance at the moment, but what your jab lacked in accuracy, it made up for in force: your foot plunged into the seam of Joel’s jeans full throttle. From the way the back of your heel plowed into his crotch, and the sound that clawed out of his throat the same instant, you reckoned you did okay.
What you weren’t expecting was a smack in return.
An answer in kind—delivered by the palm of Joel’s hand.
A taut, thoughtless THWACK on the swell of your ass.
Your mouth fell open. Your body barely had the chance to recoil when, shortly, another blow landed on your cheek.
Joel spanked you.
Spanked you.
“Fuckin’ brat,” he spat. His palm had slid up with the weight of his last slap, and now his fingers were clenched in a fist in the back of your skirt. You couldn’t see it, but you could feel him gripping fabric. It was firm.
He was firm—unrelenting in his hold.
Kneeling behind you, yanking back a handful of tartan skirt like it was nothing, then sidling up behind you.
And just when your attention was drawn to some other firm thing, it was shortly diverted by another sensation.
“JOEL!” you shrieked as he gave you another spanking.
The bare skin of your cheeks was on fire. Joel hit hard. Just when you feared you might legitimately whimper with the sting of that last blow, and while the imprint of his palm was still fresh, you felt it move again. Lower.
“Joel.”
That came out more like a whine than a cry of protest. And how could you, now, when he was soothing the raw bite of his hand with a touch that was kneading the skin?
Working the soft, supple flesh of your ass in his hand like he’d never dream of being anything else but gentle to it.
“Good?” Joel said.
Your head flinched to nod, but your brain thought better.
It did feel good. So good, in fact, that your eyelids were starting to droop just a bit and your back was subtly arching into the touch, but those were only instincts. Stupid, useless, brain-rotted reflexes born of years of paternal neglect and replete indifference, the likes of which could bring a grown man to his knees, begging—
“Please.”
But the entreaty was your own, and the voice that spoke it was hoarse. Your belly sank into the circular aperture of the washing machine, and you could feel your ribs scraping close to metal. Nevertheless, you didn’t mind. That ditzy lizard brain of yours was starved for physical touch, and who were you to deny her at a time like this?
No, not when Joel was squeezing like that.
Groping was the more appropriate word for it, really. Notwithstanding the decades of sexual experience that no doubt preceded the man that was standing before you—behind you—today, Joel was unduly coarse. His broad, weathered hand made as if to cool its former sting, but the motions themselves were jerky. Desperate.
He needed this worse than you, the fucking pervert.
Just when the realization had begun to settle over your mind and your legs were getting to feel a little less like jelly, knowing you weren’t the only weak one here, Joel’s palm slowed down. He pressed the heel of it into your flesh as if to force himself to stop, then he took a breath.
“Now use your words.”
“But—” you sputtered.
“I said,” Joel resumed, and you could sense it was through gritted teeth. His movements came to a halt.
“We use our words when we want somethin’, hear?”
It was the first you’d heard Joel attempt to enforce anything close to discipline with you in your life.
That had to warrant a little defiance, no doubt.
Under your breath, quiet: “So ‘we’ includes ‘you,’ too?”
Beneath that one, seemingly innocuous question was lurking another, and both of you knew it: Remember that time you put a fist through the kitchen wall? Was that a good example of what it means to ‘use words,’ Joel? Whether it was adequate provocation or not, you could sense what was coming next before you’d even finished. When the spank landed on your right cheek so loud that it echoed, you didn’t flinch. You did snag your lip between your teeth to keep a sound from spilling out.
“A dad makes rules. Ain’t his to follow,” Joel growled.
You blinked and bit down harder. Watched the broad, amorphous shape of the man’s reflection shift along the back metallic wall in hues of grey and blue and wished you had the strength to turn around and face him then.
“You aren’t my dad.”
“Said ‘a’ dad, didn’t I?”
“You’re not that either.”
Heat was rising to your cheeks again, this time for different reasons. For a cause you were far better acquainted with to date—annoyance at Joel.
“So that means I’m—”
“Nothing. You’re nothing to me,” you finished, tone wry.
Nothing to anyone, you wanted to add. Not with a shiny gold band latched onto your left hand to tell the world that you’re married to my mother, a pack of smokes tucked away in the jeans she washes every week, or a couple years spent under the same roof as me. Nothing.
Your teeth clamped back down—and almost sank clean through your lower lip this time—when next you felt a touch at the plush, covered mound that was normally shielded between your legs. The spot that was hardly ever tilted up in a position like this, exposed to the air and a man’s hungry gaze, now invaded by the press of a single thing: a warm and soft middle finger at your core.
Joel brushed the tip of it against your entrance, through your panties, and sucked a breath through his teeth when both of you felt a tiny squelch at the pressure.
He pressed harder, and the wetness only spread.
You didn’t have to be in Joel’s position to know what he was seeing, but the feeling from his finger overpowered any better sense to speak—or tell him to stop. He traced his slow, cruel circles against your warmth and moved it up to where he knew he’d find your bud, and when you whimpered, he simply added his index to the mix. There wasn’t a doubt in your mind you were leaking heat at that point. You could feel it seeping beneath his touch.
“Nothin’, huh?” Joel breathed, voice low. Your arousal made a sickening hiss beneath his fingers as he rubbed you even harder, “This feel like nothin’ to you, honey?”
You couldn’t speak. He knew you weren’t capable of it.
“‘Cause this sure don’t feel like nothin’ to me.”
Wet and tacky beneath his touch, your warmth supplied the answer that your mouth couldn’t form. It came out in more of a tap, tap, tap, punctuated by breaths that were toiling in earnest not to turn into moans too soon. But, as hulking and clumsy as his hands had once shown themselves to be, the old man knew where to put them, at least. He made circles on your clit with practiced ease.
“You can try lyin’ to me, but she can’t.”
He was right. ‘She’ was a traitor.
You could deny it all you wanted, but the proof was there.
Indeed, she was crying. Aching. Bleeding with desire. Throbbing beneath the pads of Joel’s fingertips and growing only more desperate as he increased the speed of his touch. When he notched the drenched cotton to the side, you had to grit your teeth to keep in a whimper.
Joel whistled.
“See? Seems like she likes me just fine right here.”
Your jaw stayed wired shut with the weight of your own humiliation. Instead of answering aloud, you hummed. Made a sound low and soft in your throat like, ‘Uh-hmm’ and tilted your hips, as if you didn’t know how else to ask. Joel couldn’t see inside the washing machine, but he must’ve felt the gesture, because he greeted it with a motion of his own: he chuckled, and he puckered his lips.
And when you felt the warmth of his spit hit you between your folds, your shame should’ve tripled. Should’ve made you flinch away from his touch and tell him that was so fucking gross, Joel, stop, but then he smeared it up your slit. He pressed in and mixed it with the rest of your arousal; any reproach died on your tongue in an instant.
A part of him was on you now. Trickling in, sticking to the most sensitive part of you, and settling into your skin like a glaze. With his other hand, he found your skirt again.
“Who’re ya wearin’ this for, sweet pea?” Joel murmured.
“No one.”
Another glob of spit landed between your cheeks. Now, the man used the lubrication to sink two fingers inside you—pushing them in until the rim of your cunt met his knuckles. You whined at the stretch, felt him coax your walls open with a consciousness and a carefulness that felt almost mean, but then he stroked down the base of your spine with the hand that still held onto your skirt. He soothed your startled cry with a curl of his fingers.
And he found the soft, spongy patch of flesh inside that made your eyes roll straight to the back of your skull, quickly. Working his fingers in and out, flattening the base of his free hand over the skin exposed by your flipped-up skirt, and watching your body give way to the force of his fingers, he was uncharacteristically patient. Exacting in the way he worked your body open to him.
“What do you care?” you groaned. You winced when you felt a squelch signal that he’d stretched you even wider.
“‘Cause,” Joel started, slow. Pumping his fingers through your folds and likely wondering when he’d add a third, “You got your hand stuck in a fuckin’ washing machine, a treasure trove of this slut stuff piled in a heap…I mean…”
“They’re just clothes!”
“Just clothes?”
In the wake of those terse, incredulous words, you tried your best to match his tone—call his bluff—but the only sound that came out of your mouth was punctured by a pitiful whine. He tried another finger but couldn’t fit it in. As wet as you were, and as strong as he was, your cunt wasn’t quite ready to accept all three of Joel’s thick, probing digits inside. You’d fit more than a thing or two with a girth even greater than that in the past, but you figured your nerves might have something to do with the way you were tightening around the man’s fingers now.
Why you couldn’t take more of him in, as much as you wanted him there, felt, at present, like something of a shortcoming, and a pathetic one at that. You let out a breath, and a second later, Joel slowed his motions.
You didn’t expect him to stop. Didn’t hold out a hope he might curtail his pace and talk you through a quiet, gentle arrangement for fitting a third finger inside you—that just wasn’t him. You didn’t have to share a paper-thin bedroom wall with your mother and her husband for the last however many years to know that Joel Miller was not a tender lover. It simply wasn’t in his nature to care.
So when you heard the clink of a belt coming undone a moment later, your senses strangely flooded with relief. He wouldn’t care, wouldn’t inquire, wouldn’t coddle with false, romantic ideals of how a woman should be treated.
In that way, Joel shared something in common with your father after all: he set standards as low as they could go.
“Just clothes?” he repeated, snapping your underwear against your ass and jerking the fabric further aside.
Then somehow send those expectations even lower.
There was a hand splayed out across the small of your back. Another fiddling with the front of his pants, wrestling the button and zip of his jeans in little more than one, two, three careless seconds, before he drew in closer to your rear. Your slit was messy, wet, and exposed to his eyes once again. For a second, you almost took comfort in the fact that your hand was still wedged inside a groove of steel and you couldn’t meet his gaze.
That was, until Joel slid his bare length along the seam of your cunt. When the inability to see him made it so you had no other choice but to be surprised when he finally touched you was unnerving, to say the least.
And when the head of his cock blended seamlessly between your folds, was drenched in less than a blink and nearly notched straight into the place you needed him most—well, that had an effect on him, too. Joel moved his flat and sweaty palm up your back, found purchase in the hem of your blouse, and gripped it. Tugged it down a little more and let a low groan billow out of his throat while he rocked his hips back and forth.
Desperate, clumsy, pussydrunk Joel was back before you’d even realized he’d left. Only now he was keen to put the disquiet and hesitations to rest; he needed to fuck you before either one of you wisened up just then.
Your parts and his commingled again. First, with the lethally warm trail of precum leaking out from his tip. Then the intrusion that followed, inevitably, glossed with self-indulgence and desperation—soiling any semblance of platonic affection or parental attention—as he fed you the first inch of him. Barely half the head got fitted inside and your grip on that was like a vice. Joel’s was bruising.
Suddenly firm on your hips, carving crescents in the skin:
“When’s the last time you got fucked, baby?”
You reckoned Joel had a guess—and it wasn’t correct.
“Last…week,” you whimpered, words punctuated with a sigh as his cock tried to make room for more of him.
Joel sucked in a breath that almost sounded like a laugh. He’d barely gotten an inch past his tip, facing more resistance than he’d felt in a long, long time, and you were wet, but so tight. He was big but not so massive as that. He couldn’t fathom what you were saying was true.
“That…fratboy fuckstick you went out on a date with?”
“Didn’t think you even saw me leave.”
Joel withdrew, gripped your hips even tighter, then drove his cock to nestle three solid inches inside your cunt. It was extra snug, but he made sure to try to loosen you up with a couple short, shallow thrusts and a hand gradually drifting down between your legs. Of course he saw you.
The circles on your clit and slow-growing movements may as well have been kerosene in your veins. With what limited range of motion you had in that grey, compact space, you let out a sigh and dug the fingers of your free hand into the closest scrap of fabric beside you. Joel’s own touch gradually moved from your hip to drag your hand behind your back, clasping his. He fucked in deeper
“So that’s who this is for?” Thumbing your skirt.
“Y-Yeah,” you lied.
“Wanted to send naughty pics in the schoolgirl getup?”
“Yes,” you lied again. You closed your eyes when Joel sank his cock even deeper and made you stretch inside.
“‘Atta girl,” he praised.
It might’ve been the first he’d validated you in your life.
“Grippin’ this cock extra tight, ain’t ya, sweet girl?”
Never in a million years would you have imagined it’d come this late—or leave Joel’s mouth in a way like that.
‘Elastic’ wasn’t a word you’d ever used to describe your body, either. Frankly, there was no need for it to be; every one of your partners before had been average-sized, and every other object that went inside you, too, had almost always been a comfortable squeeze between your walls. Outside of maybe your first time and a once-off awkward hookup now and again, you were never forced to feel a stretch to this degree. Joel felt huge moving inside you.
He was nearing your cervix and still nowhere close to the base of his cock. Meanwhile, you were stuffed to the brim, saturated with arousal and his spit, and practically keening at every stab of his hips. You couldn’t reach back because Joel’s fingers were still enmeshed with yours, gripping them hard behind your back. As wore down, fucked out, and desperate as you already were, you were less than only a second away from asking him to ease up.
And then he stopped.
Joel pulled out, let go, and pressed onto the old washing machine, where you heard his touch echo through metal.
He was leaning against it. You were about to turn around. Before you could, though, you felt his form mold into yours—this time not in it, but on it, as he drew closer and once more reached into the space where you were stuck.
“Can you be brave for me, baby?” Joel murmured.
“Wh—” you started, soft, only to feel the words plucked straight from your lungs as Joel leaned his body inside. Carefully, and with concerted effort, it seemed, he was trying to squeeze his way into the O-shaped hole of the washing machine, snaking his arm around your torso.
Pinching your finger again. Breathing just gently enough for his exhales to tickle at your shoulders and your neck.
“Can you be brave?” he repeated, and you weren’t sure you’d ever heard him so soft-spoken, or felt him so close.
You nodded, not knowing why.
Without another word, your stepdad pinched the digit even tighter and yanked it out from where it was stuck.
It all happened so fast. Joel freeing your finger, squeezing it tight, helping you out of that hot and crowded space while your legs gave way like mush beneath your weight—and your hand throbbing in pain. You’d never thought a single finger could cause a feeling as strong as that, but it stung like hell. You almost raked your nails through the man’s arm when he tried to hold you back, holding you up just as well as you stood.
“Joel!” you screeched, like the whole thing was his fault.
You flexed your hand and wanted to sob. You could feel the streaks of pain start to claw up your wrist, were just about to shove Joel aside and wallow in agony, when at length, he did something strange and unexpected again.
This time, he lifted your index to his mouth and kissed it.
It wasn’t a sensual kiss. Coming from Joel, it hardly even seemed affectionate. His lips were so warm and firm and decidedly unacquainted with anything approaching a threat of tenderness that his act read almost aggressive. He let your finger rest loosely against his mouth, and he kissed it again, while his eyes burned holes into yours.
‘You’re okay’ came out muffled against your hand.
“You’re okay—hey—baby, you’re good. Don’t cry.”
You hadn’t even noticed the tears had started to form. You blinked and felt one trickle down your cheek. With the hand that wasn’t holding your wrist, Joel brushed his thumb against that lone trail of moisture. He didn’t cup your face, hold you close, or stroke your cheek in the seconds that followed, though he did keep kissing you.
Or, rather, it—your finger.
Joel didn’t have to care for you at all. He just feared he might’ve pulled on your hand too hard in getting you out.
‘You’re okay’ was being mumbled away like a fractured refrain, touch descending gently to your hip, and his eyes grew softer by the second, surely he had to be thinking it.
Sinking inside you, again. He was standing; your hips were tilted to his, and your ass was pressing flat against the front of the washing machine. All it took was an inch or two off the ground and your limbs hanging limply around his hips for Joel to fuck back into you. He sucked on your finger so hard you feared the skin might actually bruise—a hand hickey, of all fucking things—and when his grip tightened on your side, you knew he felt it too.
His teeth succeeded his lips in an instant, and he was biting, gnawing pathetically as a groan shuddered through his chest. If you didn’t know better, you might’ve said the sound was veering perilously close to a whimper.
Fully sheathed inside you, Joel Miller didn’t seem to care. His lids fell like lead across the upper half of his brown, glossy eyes, and the expression behind them was blank.
Safe.
“‘S’alright, baby,” he grunted. Maybe he’d just seen you wince, as he cradled your hand and withdrew another inch, “Keep squeezin’ me, it feels real good. Right here.”
Out of instinct, your gaze drifted down to the spot where his body joined with yours. The sight was hardly a shock, but the feelings it evoked were not—he had you split along two-thirds of his dick, a pretty shelf of belly protruding beneath and gleaming with the arousal he’d drawn out from your body. Tufts of silver and grey littered his skin in every direction, aged muscles tensed with the weight of each thrust, and the warm weathered hand that hadn’t dared touch you once before today was now cupping your chin. Tilting your head closer to him.
“Right here, baby. Look at daddy.”
Wild, unbridled heat flooded your brain in a second. The thing seared the insides of your skull with all the force of a fire and stole the air from your lungs just the same—still, you couldn’t refrain from making a face in disgust.
“What the fuck, Joel?” You shouldn’t have liked it.
His hand ascended your throat in a blink.
“Ain’t that what you want, sweet pea?”
“I—”
Just as you started to answer, though, his cock took a dizzying plunge, hitting exactly the right spot inside you. Like clockwork, your mouth fell open, a whine tumbled out, and Joel took that as his chance to grip your neck even tighter and push your hips against the washing machine, where his height afforded him an easy hold.
“What you want—”
He squeezed harder.
“—what you need—”
You gasped, starved for air. It wasn’t every day a man took your breath away. Not like Joel could, anyway.
“—is me, ain’t it?”
The gaze fixed on your face was alight with desire.
“Bet you miss him somethin’ awful, huh? Been needin’ a man to fill that spot ever since he left, haven’t ya, baby?”
‘He’ required no further clarification. The words stung. You communicated as much by wriggling your hips back and pressing your hand against Joel’s chest, just quit it.
Keep fucking me, but shut the fuck up about my father.
“I don’t miss shit,” you sniffed. Felt the head of Joel’s cock carve a shape somewhere deep inside your body and couldn’t pretend it wasn’t filling a metaphorical void someplace else. You hadn’t got this much attention from a man as many years your senior since…well, ever, really.
You preened beneath his touch. Wanting to feel. Wanting to please. Wanting, more than anything, to be needed.
Joel sated each craving with a simple hand smoothed over your face. His palm moved from your throat to your chin to the hinge of your jaw before coming to rest at the nape of your neck. This time squeezing lightly, bringing your face in close while he fucked you. He pressed a kiss to your forehead, and your stomach tightened inside you.
“That’s alright,” he said, words hardly above a whisper, “No need to miss that man at all, ‘cause I’m right here.”
For once the assurance came as somewhat of a comfort. You suspected it had something to do with the fact he was balls deep inside you and pushing you closer and closer to the brink of release with each painstaking stab of his cock. You fisted his flannel, holding him there. Spreading your legs, accepting his thrusts, taking each movement with ragged, shallow breaths and moans that blended with his own, you felt your body grow warmer.
Almost febrile beneath him as he tilted your head again.
“Who’s your daddy now?”
You winced, shaking your head. You hated that word.
“Who’s your daddy?”
Joel lowered his hand and began to thumb at your clit. Hot pleasure coursed through you, made you whine at the contact and dig your heels even deeper in his back.
“Who’s your daddy, baby? It ain’t that hard to say.”
But it was. Joel stroking your clit, stuffing you full, ghosting his lips against yours without ever furnishing a kiss, just goading you on with: ‘I know you wanna say it.’ Tough grey stubble teased your mouth with each word.
“I know she needs to cum, sweet girl. Know that poor little pussy’s taken a beating—and she’s done so good for me—but she needs to let it out now. All over me.”
His gaze held yours. You couldn’t turn away.
An unmistakable tenderness pervaded that look, and it didn’t seem keen to depart. No matter how tightly you pursed your lips, made fists in his shirt, or choked his cock between your walls in fluttering, desperate pleas, the man remained calm. Attentive. The eyes didn’t stray.
“It’s okay to say it.”
“C-Can’t—”
“Sure can. Be the easiest thing you ever do—D-A-D-D—”
“Please. Please.”
You hardly even knew what you were asking for at this point, only beholden to that big, swollen something in your tummy starting to give way beneath the push of Joel’s cock. Tightening up, leaking out, practically drooling down the length of this man who seemed relentless in his current pursuit. Two more circles on your clit and you were keening, whimpering pathetic as ever:
“Pleasepleasepleaseplease.”
“Say it now. Who’s it for?”
Above you, Joel’s teeth gleamed in a smile—or a snarl, you couldn’t tell. All you knew was the pleasure, the concomitant pain of having to contain this desperation while his thrusts sped up. You were bouncing on him, getting fucked against the washing machine in the raw and terrible central Texas heat wearing a sheen of sweat and a set of clothes that no longer fit your body, but that was just fine. You were okay. Joel was here, and he was holding your head, lips hovering less than an inch away.
“Who’s. Your. Daddy?” His words were slow. Coarse. Spilling into your mouth with every short puff of breath.
You couldn’t take it. You felt a band of pressure come to a head in your belly and the brush of Joel’s cock making its rounds in and out of your swollen cunt, pushing hard, and you knew that you’d had enough. He knew it, too.
“Y-You.”
“Who?”
“Joel.”
“Who?”
Your wet, pearly slick rang a deafening pitch. Enough.
“You, daddy! Daddy—please, fuck—I-I-I’m gonna cum.”
“Gonna cum for me? Make a mess of your old man?”
“Make a m-mess— yes, daddy, yes—” you slurred.
Joel drove his cock, fully coated in you, down to the hilt. He captured your lips in a kiss and didn’t even mind your mouth was whining, hissing, whimpering its filthy pleas for him to fuck a nice, big orgasm out from your body.
“—want yours inside,” you added, without realizing it.
“Sweet girl…” Joel groaned.
You didn’t know what you were asking him for. How badly he wanted it, too. His cock dragged in and out of your precious cunt and was barely more safe from the threat of its grip when you spasmed, at the last. Joel should’ve expected no less, after all the time he’d spent teasing and edging, then begging you gently, in grunts, ‘Cum for daddy, baby. Let me have it, that’s it, good girl.’ Still, somehow, he wasn’t prepared in the slightest.
When you squeezed your eyes shut and kissed him back—that was all it took. When you clenched on his cock, gave the front of his shirt a tug, locked your ankles about his hips so you could more properly increase that friction by fucking him back, grinding in place, he feared he might fairly make an irreparable, unforgivable mistake.
And when the whites of your eyes appeared again—eyelids fluttering open while your lips were glossed with his spit and a lazy smile—and said what you said next, he sensed that his fate was sealed. The old man was fucked.
“Cum inside me, daddy. Please.”
Joel couldn’t have stopped himself if he tried. He shuddered, then flooded your insides with rope after rope after rope of his spend, burying his face in your neck and taking your hips in his hands like a looser grip might lose you to him forever. He fucked his cum deep, deeper, darlin’ don’t move, can’t lose a drop, baby, please, he let out a whimper that made your walls pulse again. You felt him fill you to the brim and keep rutting his hips. Your body and his were shaking by the last of it.
And when he was finished, Joel dropped a kiss along your limp, glistening lips. He slid you back on the metal. By the expression on his face, it was plain to see he was loath to withdraw, but he had to. That tender little hiss and the sounds of your shared fluids trickling out were all the impetus he needed to act quick. As soon as he’d pulled out, Joel was back leaning against the washing machine—tilting your hips back a little, then lowering his sweaty, handsome head to the spot between your legs.
The wrinkles to the sides of his eyes grew more pronounced when he smiled. A happy grin, plastered across his lips, would have struck you as almost smug, were it not for the look of sheer adulation that followed it.
Joel was enthralled, watching his cum leak out of you. He kissed your thighs, flickered his gaze to your own, briefly, then damn near sank his nose inside the place he was watching before your fingers stopped him cold.
It was your body, after all. He had already had his fill.
Hardly knowing what came over you in that moment, you sank two fingers inside your wet, drooling hole and watched the eyes of the man beneath you go wide. He soaked in that sight completely: you pushing his cum back in, drawing it out, using the viscous white liquid as a lubricant of sorts before releasing a pleased little sigh.
Joel closed his mouth reluctantly. It took him more than a second to tear his eyes from that place, but when he did, the motions were quick to grow assured, by turns.
As if remembering something.
In a second, the innocent smile you’d seen before was being infiltrated, slowly, by a look you couldn’t place. Joel’s grin morphed from gentle to contented to plainly enthused and beaming ear-to-ear with a conceited glint. With his finger, he tugged your panties back into place.
“Baby—” he started, only to be cut off lightning-quick.
“What? What is it?”
His smile stretched even wider. By that act alone, you were half-tempted to forget the events of the last hour and set your jaw in a scowl. You looked down, unamused.
“What?”
“It’s just…” The man trailed off, and as he did, his gaze descended with it—straight down to your bare pantyline.
You cast a look there too—“What the fuck is it, Joel?!”
At that, two brown eyes flitted back up to you.
“I thought I asked for neon pink underwear, baby.”
Your breaths slowed. His gaze didn’t waver. Your heart came to a standstill in your chest, and you were amazed you had even half your present willpower then to speak.
“Wait, Joel, wh—”
“Shame you couldn’t get around to filmin’ today. Had me hard as a fuckin’ rock with all that milk and honey stuff.”
You nearly choked on your spit. Joel kept grinning.
“You’re—”
The guy. That fucking subscriber. The one who’d paid almost $500 in commissions in the last month alone.
You stared at Joel with eyes as wide as saucers, and were about to press on, when you heard the front door to the house shriek back on its hinges. Two sets of footsteps followed it, and their entry inside was loud.
Immediately, Joel rose to his feet. It seemed that grin wasn’t meant to stay long on his lips, because the next thing you knew, he was dropping a kiss somewhere soft and sweaty on your face and flipping your skirt back into place, holding his index up to his lips and stepping away. Your mouth twisted into a frown but stayed zipped out of sheer necessity. Seeing this, and likely unable to help himself, your gross, depraved, grinning old man leaned back in and planted his hands on either side of your hips on the washing machine. His nose nudged into your own.
“Between us—” he began, slowly.
“Get fucked,” you finished for him.
Joel nodded his assent, smirk faint. He cast a look over his shoulder, and, hearing what sounded like your mother’s footsteps drawing closer, lowered his voice.
Rubbing his thumb under your chin, making you tip your head back to meet his for one final look—then a kiss:
“You keep my secret, I keep yours, alright?”
—
Note: I’ve never done a real writing challenge before, but hopefully this fic will work for #hotdilfsummerchallenge !!! @hellishjoel this is such a fun ass idea & i hope you enjoy❣️
#‘WHAT ARE YOU DOING STEP BRO????’#BUT IT’S JOEL#AND HE’S VERY CONFUSED BUT ALSO VISIBLY ER*CT#don’t ask me to elaborate because i have no idea what i just wrote#joel miller smut#joel miller x reader#joel miller x you#joel miller imagine#joel miller one shot#joel miller#joel miller tlou#joel miller fic#joel miller fanfiction#joel tlou#the last of us fic#the last of us#tlou#stepdad joel#hotdilfsummerchallenge
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Act I ~ The Prince
A tapestry for Let No One Sleep by @azalawa-scroggs on ao3
#narumitsu#wrightworth#phoenix wright#miles edgeworth#nmbb24#happy nrmt big bang!!! there are two more of these…..#but you’ll have to wait for them#fan art#aa#ace attorney#dick gumshoe#maya fey#manfred von karma#…bro is creeping…#wHEEWWWW ok took me a bazillion years to catch up with my day but HERE ARE MY THOUGHTS ON THIS ONE:#the border is intended to be read in counter clockwise direction#so: top -> left -> bottom -> right#and YES the sun and the moon are intentionally associated with the attorney's and prosecutor's badges respectively#phoenix and miles are our sun and moon throughout this story so be sure to look for that in the fic too!!#this style was very experimental for me but i wanted it to mimic the feeling of a tapestry hence me referring to it that way#i WISH this was fabric that would be sick as fuck#i will eventually share a proper breakdown of the thoughts and intentions behind everything but for now...#im gonna miss Phoenix’s cloak bc im obsessed with the design actually. wish that thing was real too#miles is my cunty little bitchboy in this wearing his thousand pound fur coat and the suitor stompy boots#if you thought that was a rug and went Oh. ...that was on purpose :^)))))#rendevok#id in alt text
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