#A heavy weight has been lifted from my shoulders (◍¯∀¯◍) | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

sectumsempraaa · 2 days ago

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The Black Blade

Pairing: fem!reader x Mattheo Riddle

Word count: 2k

TW: violence, depression, extreme levels of badass-ery

Featuring: Mattheo, Draco, Lorenzo, Theo

A/N: My first multi-part series! This is part 1 of 3. Y/N is a damn warrior in this one. Enjoy.

Summary: It’s been one year since the Death Eaters finished training you in their ways… and one year since you escaped their clutches. One year since you last saw Mattheo Riddle, the love of your life. And one year later, you’re going back to get him as a full-fledged assassin.

PART 1: A Gift for a Gift

“The usual, please. The steel six inch and the set of emerald daggers, the small ones.” You relayed to Theo as you sat on the worn down couch, tying your boot laces extra tight.

“You sure about this, bella? Shouldn’t we take a second to think about it?” He pleads, his words laced with worry. But you continue on without a thought, Theo helping you stand up while you begin to strap the weapons to your belt.

“The black blade,” you request, your eyes casually feigning down at your gear. You were intentionally ignoring the nerves radiating from Theo’s very being at the risk of second guessing yourself. There was no time for that.

Not when Mattheo’s involved.

Theo’s eyes instantly grew wide with fear as he began to understand how serious you were. The use of the black blade wasn’t to be taken lightly. It was yours, only yours, given to you by the Dark Lord himself.

And now you were going to use it against him.

“Y/N, tesoro, come on, sit down with me. This has to be planned, I can call Draco-”

“It’s been almost a year, Theo. A year.” You reason as he recognizes the weight of the pain in your eyes.

The nightmares had become unbearable. They always occurred right after a beautiful dream, the kind where Mattheo was laughing uncontrollably or telling you funny stories at the lunch table in the Great Hall. In both, his eyes glistened with that perfect, boyish charm he exuded so naturally.

You couldn’t take it anymore, the not-knowing. Something has to be done.

Theo was always so gentle that actually arguing with him was simply not done. The grace of his Italian dialect tugged at your heartstrings as you hastily tied your hair up. He, of course, helps with that too, his fingers softly tugging the loose strands of your hair together.

You stand back, looking to him for approval. He scans you up and down, making sure to fix that one strap on your left shoulder you always left a little too slack.

“Good?” You ask. “Am I forgetting anything?”

“Si, your sanity.” Theo responds as his hands rake through his own hair with anxiety.

The air in the room suddenly weighs heavy as he hesitantly hands you the hilt of the black blade, the grip of it fitting your hand like it was molded special for you.

It feels so real now, your threat, as your eyes study the clean silver details lining the onyx sword. Even Theo steps closer, his eyes drawn to it like a siren’s song.

You lift it over your head, securing it to your back in its leather holster.

You offer him a little smile and meet his stare for the first time since you made this impulsive decision. A moment goes by while you take each other in, silently exchanging your mutual feelings of desperation and sorrow.

And then, your voices collide in a soft symphony, uttering the phrase you were both thinking at the same time, and in your respective accents.

“We’ve got to get him back.”

—

As you turn the key in the ignition, the memories flash through you like a film reel. Things used to be so, so different.

Six years ago, you met Mattheo at Hogwarts. You laugh to yourself, remembering how you beat his ass in a wand duel during Defense Against the Dark Arts. Even Snape got a kick out of that.

That’s all it took for Mattheo to fall head over heels for you. The boy who always looked for a challenge finally met the one he couldn’t defeat. Then there was the pining…

And oh gods, was there pining.

In fourth year, Mattheo wrote (yes, wrote) an argument for why you should be his date to the Yule Ball. It was his first real move on you, and he knew a girl as smart and worthy as you would need some convincing.

You sat in the library in the dead of night, trying to contain the volume of your laughter as he laid out his many points, explaining each with a lawyer-like tone and fleshed out support. He even wore something that resembled a suit so you’d “take him seriously.”

The soft, yet explosive kiss you bestowed him afterwards was answer enough.

The two of you became everything to each other. Your whole routines centered on the other, your worlds meshing and mixing and blossoming. You were the first one he told things to, and the other way around.

Your days and nights were spent picnicking on the Black Lake, drinking in the Astronomy Tower, and traipsing around Europe in the summers with the Slytherin gang. Hand in hand, you took on life together.

And it never, ever got old.

You couldn’t wait to see each other after class to exchange gossip and jokes, and you went to lengths to get each other out of detention. Professors had to separate you in class to keep you from constantly giggling and talking.

You were more than lovers… you were best friends.

And then there was now. You look around, your vision shrouded in quiet darkness in the driver’s seat of Mattheo’s old vintage car, this devastating reality hitting you like a tidal wave as the low rumble of the engine and the light patter of rain on the windshield mask the silence.

He had thrown you the keys to this car when you last saw him. And now you sit in it alone.

A distinct sadness had taken its place over you ever since you met his father.

—

Just over a year ago, when Voldemort’s reign commenced, he demanded his son come home to help the cause. You couldn’t stand to leave him, but you couldn’t stand the Death Eaters or their vision for the future either.

So you lied. And you let those monstrous, evil dictators train you. Long enough to learn the ins and outs of the Slytherin manors, their strategic tendencies, and their battle protocols. It took all your mental strength not to slaughter them.

All in the name of love and deceit.

Mattheo grew miserable. The flair of his young-hearted light had faded from his face over the course of those months like a wilting rose. He was to be by his father’s side nearly all day, every day. His once joyous smile was replaced by grim, blatant despair.

The suffering sole heir.

You learned their language for three months… and fled like a shadow the night before your dark mark ceremony.

You had returned to your room that night, quietly packing your clothes, when you were summoned to the dining hall. You opened the large, cavernous doors with all your strength to find Voldemort, alone, sitting at the head of the table.

A chill ran down your spine as his ghostly, echoing voice grazed your ears.

“Enter, child.”

And so you did. Your heart fell closer to your stomach with each step you took closer to him.

He knows. He knows I’m leaving.

You said to yourself as the sweat gleamed on your hairline. As you went to sit down, he stopped you with a gentle slight of his hand.

He stood up, retrieving a light gray box and laying it before you. You stood utterly frozen, observing every one of his devastating movements as that haunting drawl reached your ears again.

“A gift, for a gift.”

The box opened on its own with another graceful wave of his hand. Though rooted in villainy, you were always in awe of his sheer power, how the effects of it hung in the air like vapor.

It was the black blade. A long, old, stunning piece of absolute weaponry. Death seemed to inhabit it, its presence alluring and intimidating. It had hung on the wall above his throne since he took over.

It took you a minute to understand that he wasn’t just showing it to you. The words echoed in your head.

A gift, for a gift.

The last trick of your act. To accept this meant to betray him and his empire. You could only imagine the wrath he would unleash the next day when your spot at the table was empty. For a moment, you worried what the consequences would be for Mattheo.

For Mattheo, who you hadn’t seen for weeks now. For Mattheo, who couldn’t visit your room anymore.

For Mattheo, who was slipping away with each passing minute in this prison.

It had occurred to you then that you had never actually spoken to the lord. He’s never heard your voice, your ideas. He’s only heard of your successful training and completed missions through his Death Eater cronies.

And now he believes your abilities are valuable, your skills honed and sharp, worthy of praise.

So after months of learning and practicing their methods, you decided to leave him with a dangerous, yet brutally honest remark.

“Thank you for this, my lord. For everything.”

And you meant it.

The corner of his snake-like mouth lifted as he bowed his head to you. But you couldn’t ignore the slight squint of his right eye as he replayed your words in his head, your voice tinged with finality.

As you turned from the Dark Lord for the last time, you captured the mental image of his expression.

You smiled to yourself as you realized you had left the most powerful force of evil in the world utterly and completely unnerved.

—

“WAIT, BELLA!” Theo yelled from behind you as you accelerated the car towards the street. You rolled your eyes, braking and lowering the window as he caught up, nearly out of breath. You couldn’t help but notice his white-knuckle grip on the car.

“I’m coming with you. Open the door, per favore.” He begged. You considered it for a minute, his plea. You had turned him down before, and you couldn’t deny that taking this on alone would be nearly impossible.

Maybe all hands on deck wasn’t such a bad idea.

His face lit up with surprise as you unlocked the car and granted him inside. Theo had just as much a hole in his heart as you did. He was Mattheo’s right hand man, his most favorite friend.

Theo buckled his seat belt and took a deep breath, his exhale telling you all you needed to know. His determination had undertones of fear, but you knew which one would override the other.

You’d go to the ends of the earth for Mattheo, and Theo wouldn’t let you go by yourself. Your mutual mission felt more dire each day, and as a result, had brought you closer together.

His backpack had all kinds of pointy things jutting out the sides, a decent attempt at coming prepared. It seemed he took everything you hadn’t. You take a minute to analyze how this will change the plan, idly rubbing your thumbs together.

“You will stay close.” You ordered him. He nodded, a silent salute. You lower your forehead to your arms resting on the steering wheel.

“Anything else?” he asks, his voice steady and sure.

You only had one chance. If it was all hands on deck, then you were going to make sure all hands were on fucking deck.

“Yes. Call Draco.”

You put the car in drive, the townhouse you had been hiding in for a year becoming gradually less visible in the rearview mirror.

“Theo…” you start, your voice lowering to a whisper, almost embarrassed to utter the words. He looks to you with that signature expression of pure loyalty.

“You can’t let me see Mattheo.” The phrase pierced your heart like an arrow as you tried to swallow the quiver in your voice.

Luckily, Theo doesn’t need an explanation. He’s smart enough to put the pieces together. It broke your heart that your soft spot was already common knowledge.

But you were the Slytherin apprentice… the Death Eater’s infamous protege. You couldn’t afford that level of distraction. Part of you wondered if Theo should even see him.

“I know, bella... I know.”

And as the car ventured forward, two young, beautifully broken and tethered friends were swallowed by the dark and uncertain night.

End of part 1. 🤍

#slytherin boys #slytherin boys x reader #slytherin #mattheo riddle fic #mattheo riddle #mattheo x reader

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regretismyconstantcompanion · 3 days ago

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Albus watched Harry with an ache in his chest he had not expected—an ache that surprised him not for its presence, but for its sharpness. As Harry sat there, shoulders curled inward under the weight of what he'd just relived, Albus felt the stirrings of something ancient and familiar. Not pity. Not even remorse.

Recognition.

He had seen that look before—in the mirror, in dreams, in the still hours of the night that refused to pass. It was the look of someone who had loved and lost, and then turned the loss inward like a blade.

Arianas face came to him unbidden.

Not the final image—no, not the blood or the stillness. Not today, although that imagine haunted him most days. What surfaced instead was gentler. She’d been standing at the window of their childhood home, humming something tuneless while light spilled over the top of her head like a halo. He remembered the way her hands had curled around the windowsill, too small for her age, too pale.

He had failed her.

Not just in the way that mattered most, when the spells flew and the silence fell, but long before that—in the choices he made, the ambitions he let take root in place of responsibility. He had told himself it would be worth it, that it was all for a greater good. But “worth it” was a phrase for people who had not lost someone they loved.

Harrys grief echoed his own in ways Albus was not prepared for. A godfather. A sister. Different shapes, same hollow. “I am… sorry, Harry,” he said quietly. “For Sirius. For what his death has done to you. I don’t say it lightly. I have lost people, too—people I loved more than I ever dared say aloud. And I have learned that grief has teeth. It gnaws at the best parts of us, but it sinks in deepest when we believe we could have stopped it.” His gaze dropped for a moment, a shadow moving behind his eyes. “I know what it is to carry that weight. To wonder if you were the cause of someone elses end. If you had made a different choice—turned left instead of right—if they might still be here.”

He didn’t name her. He didn’t have to.

“But Sirius…” Albus met Harrys eyes again. “You went because you loved him. That’s not a mistake, Harry. That’s courage. You risked yourself to save someone who mattered to you. And Sirius—he came for you because you mattered to him. That kind of bond… that’s not weakness. That’s strength the Dark Lord has likely never understood.”

Fawkes shifted again on the windowsill, as if responding to the truth in the words. His feathers shimmered in the light, golden and red, like fire waiting to rise.

“As for the prophecy,” Albus continued, more carefully now, “I do not know the words. Not yet. But what you’ve said… it tells me enough. I can imagine why my future self might have delayed telling you. And I can imagine why someone else might have feared you ever learning it.” He paused, thoughtful. “Knowledge, Harry, is power. But it is also a burden. Especially when it carries destiny in its bones.”

His voice had turned soft again, almost a murmur.

“If the prophecy spoke of why he tried to kill you… then it may also hint at what you are to him. A threat. An end. Something he fears.” A long breath. “Or something he cannot afford to let become.”

Albus looked down at his hands, folded carefully before him.

“Perhaps my older self wished to spare you that knowledge for a little while longer. To protect you from a weight that could never be put down again. Perhaps he even believed that by waiting… he was giving you more time to be a child. Or at least, something close to one.” He lifted his eyes again, his expression heavy with the truth he could no longer pretend not to see. “It doesn’t make it right, Harry. And it doesn’t make it fair. But I believe it was done with care. With love. However flawed.”

A quiet passed between them, the kind that only comes when nothing more can be said without unravelling what’s already raw.

Then, more gently, Albus added, “Even if you had made a different choice that night… there is no certainty the outcome would have changed. You may think Sirius died because you went. But he might have gone regardless.” He hesitated—then offered something truer, from the hidden chamber of his own pain. “Sometimes, we can do everything right, and still lose them.”

And with that, he fell silent again, letting the flickering light from the lantern catch the edge of Fawkes’ feathers… and linger on the face of a boy who was being asked to carry the world far too young.

Harry x Albus D. Time Travel AU.

@regretismyconstantcompanion

( September 1st, 1910)

The very first thing which Harry Potter became aware of, was the deep seated, open wound that was grief. Even behind closed eyes, the image of Sirius' still laughing face flashed within his mind, as the man fell back through the archway. Harry felt as though his heart had been squeezed within a fire-clad grasp. He wasn't sure he would ever be happy again.

The next thing Harry noticed, was that he was lying down. Which was strange, as aside from the death of his Godfather, the last thing he remembered was being sent via Portkey to Professor Dumbledore's office, with the promise of a long awaited explanation from said Headmaster. Instead, he could feel a prickle beneath his hands, as they flexed against what he realised had to be grass. He was outside. And judging by the lack of light trying to assault his eyes as he opened them, it was sometime after nightfall. He groaned as he inched his head to look to his left, blinking groggily until his vision cleared and he could make out the fringe of what he thought was the Forbidden Forest. At least it appeared he hadn't gone too far from his destination.

Forcing himself up into a sitting position, Harry looked more properly at his surroundings. He was facing towards Hogsmeade, which he could see lit up in the short distance. Leaning on a hand, he twisted his body so that he could look over his shoulder. And sure enough, there was Hogwarts Castle, standing magnificently within her vast grounds.

Something about the castle seemed amiss from where Harry sat, but things always did look eerie in the light of the moon, so he didn't pay too much attention to the disquiet forming in his gut.

Instead, he got to his feet, stumbling a little from the effects of the Portkey. He hasn't felt this unsteady since the summer before last, when he had first been introduced to the concept. Once he was sure he wasn't about to trip over his feet, Harry crossed to the gravel and started his way up the path towards his school.

He wasn't sure what had happened to the Portkey, but he was certain Dumbledore would have some kind of explanation. He usually did after all.

#harrydore #harry x albus

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lifemod17 · 2 months ago

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Lifted || 04/27/2025

#today was not and continues to not be perfect—HOWEVER— I am so very grateful for this afternoon #we went to mass and it was the first time I'd gone to church where i actually felt light afterwards #like i felt actually blessed after the service idk how else to explain it #all i know is i stepped out of there feeling like the heavy weight on my shoulders got lifted away #and as per tradition: after mass me my sister and her bf walked for about 15mins to grandma's grave to visit her #she delivered with this RIDICULOUSLY GORGEOUS sunset 😍😍😍#i had said out loud—just wishful thinking cuz i know it's not gonna happen—i said “i miss being able to be away from the house and watch #the sun set from start to finish. it had been a long while since i last got to do that.“#but i think grandma heard because as it turned out no Grab driver was accepting our booking so we couldn't go home #not until it was fully dark and the stars had come out. i just thought that was so sweet 💛#oh! and i wore a dress today and it has POCKETS!!! (Pockets In Her Dress by Matt Walden starts playing)#(of course i still wore my Fuckass White Converse with the dress cuz. duh. i am nothing if not on brand)#Sunset Hoe™#mandatory sunset photo at Rolling Hills

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call-me-copycat · 8 months ago

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JUST WITHDREW FROM MY MATH CLASS TO JOIN THE MLT PROGRAM WOOHOO!

I'm registering for spring classes and was told by my advisor that I can join the MLT (Medical Laboratory Technician) Program, and that the only math class they require is one that is two levels below the one I'm in

I was taking a super high level math class for no reason essentially (⁠ ⁠；⁠∀⁠；⁠)

And! Until January I don't have any math classes to take, so I only have 3 classes to focus on now ヽ(。ゝω・)ノ☆

Ahh, I'm so happy!

(The only downside is I have to take a small phlebotomy certification course but veins have always been my worst fear since I was little T_T)

@nonsagewitchhh

@ch33s3mam

(^^^ My friends because I don't feel like repeating this anymore so I'm going to be a bit lazy)

#💬#college #that math class was slowly draining the life force out of me #A heavy weight has been lifted from my shoulders (◍¯∀¯◍)#i hope I'll have time to write more!#maybe draw too ʕ⁠·⁠ᴥ⁠·⁠ʔ

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sinkuna · 17 days ago

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୨୧ ― The hotel room door closes with a soft click behind you, the pale light of the moon streaming through floor to ceiling windows.

Nanami had reserved the penthouse suite, ordered champagne that cost more than most people's rent, and even scattered rose petals across the king sized bed like fallen prayers. The man- your now husband, had ensured every detail was perfect for this moment after your wedding.

Because nothing- absolutely nothing, was ever too much when it came to you.

His hands wind around your waist from behind with the same reverence he'd shown sliding the ring onto your fingers hours ago. It was almost like he was memorizing the moment through touch alone. "Mrs. Nanami," he murmurs against your ear, and you feel him smile at the unfamiliar weight of your new name. "My wife," pressing his lips against your neck, the word still foreign on his tongue but sweeter than any bread he's ever had.

You lean into his warmth, the soft fabric of his tuxedo rubbing against the back of your own dress. "Mr. Nanami," you breathe, reaching back to caress his cheek, and you feel him press into you more at the title, his grip on you tightening, "My husband."

His fingers found the delicate zipper at your spine, drawing it down with practiced patience. Each inch of exposed skin received its own blessing- lips, warm breath, soft touches that made you arch against him.

"So beautiful,” he breathes against your vertebrae, "always so beautiful." his breath ghosts over your bare shoulders as the white gown slides away like shed silk... "Perfect," he adds, voice hitching as the fabric pools at your feet in waves of ivory and lace, leaving you in nothing but intricate lingerie. The garter belt sits high on your thigh- his gift to you, adorned with a diamond that matches the one on your finger.

Turning you in his arms, "Gorgeous," his lips find yours in a sweet kiss, hands tracing your jaw, "Stunning," he whispers, cupping the nape of your neck as he draws you deeper, tongue coaxing a quiet moan from your lips… "All mine." he says with a low growl. All these words heavy with the weight of a man who's never been careless with language. When Nanami Kento calls you beautiful, gorgeous, stunning... perfect, it's because he's catalogued every detail that makes them true.

And it was all reserved just for you. Only for you.

Your hands reach up to push the jacket from his shoulders, fumbling with the buttons of his shirt- needy and impatient until he caught your hands. "Slowly," he commanded gently, "we have all night."

His mouth traced the column of your throat, pausing at your pulse point to feel your heart racing. "I love how responsive you are," he murmured, teeth grazing your collarbone, "how you tremble when I touch you here..." his thumb traced your nipple through delicate white lace… "How you make those little sounds..."

A soft moan escaped as he took the lace covered peak between his teeth, rolling gently until your knees buckled.

"That sound," he groaned, steadying you against his chest, "I'm going to spend tonight learning all the new ones you'll make as my wife."

"Mmph~ K-Kento~ oh god I-"

"Shhh, I'll take care of you," he promises, fingers ghosting along the lacy edge of your panties, "just like I always do, only this time..." his thumb rubs circles through the thin fabric of your thong, a teasing pressure against the bundle of nerves that has you moaning and rocking against his hand, "i think i'll make sure this whole building knows you're Mrs. Nanami now."

His strong arms hook beneath your legs, lifting you effortlessly to settle you among the rose petals. The bed dipping under his knee as he follows, hovering over you like a man worshipping at an altar, fingers caressing your face as he takes a moment to simply admire the picture you make- sprawled out beneath him.

"I love you," the words barely audible as he leans down, lips finding the delicate skin of your inner thigh, teeth grazing the delicate skin, "so much." Your back arches involuntarily as he finds the diamond adorning the middle of your garter, giving it a flick with his tongue before tracing the silk band with calloused fingers. "I'm so glad you didn't toss this earlier," he admits... "When you told everyone you were keeping it... I was relieved you wanted to skip that particular tradition."

The diamond catches in the moonlight as you bite your lip, a sweet smile playing at the corners of your mouth, "Well~ I was thinking," you card your fingers through his styled hair, mussing the soft strands, "maybe I could wear just this when you come home from work from now on."

His eyes snap to yours, "Don't," his tone serious- the careful control he's maintained all evening fracturing at your words... "Don't tell me things like that unless you want me taking extended lunch breaks to come home… I don't think I'd be able to control myself if you did." he confesses, and the honesty in his voice has your heart skipping a beat, "I barely manage now."

Without breaking eye contact, he catches the garter between his teeth, his lips grazing your skin as he drags it achingly slow down your thigh, "do you know how many nights I’ve dreamed of you greeting me at the door wearing nothing but this?" With a final tug, he slips the garter free, letting it dangle from his mouth before tossing it aside with a smirk.

"K-Kento please~" You squirm under his heated gaze, thighs squeezing together, trying to relieve the throbbing ache between your legs, but the action only makes it worse… "Please don't tease me tonight. I can't-"

"Please what, darling?" a lock of his hair falls in his eyes, "Tell your husband what you need." He runs his hands up the back of your thighs, lifting and spreading them apart. The sight of his head between your legs, looking up at you from beneath the fall of his hair has you biting the inside of your cheek...

"Please~" the word barely a whisper, "M'need you, Kento. Need my husband to make a mess of me hah~"

Your words dissolve as he removes your lace thing- his mouth finding you bare and fucking soaked, "God," he groans against you, tongue swiping at your slick folds.

He devours you like communion wine, like salvation itself, tongue fucking into your entrance, a thumb circling the small bud above.

"Nghhh fuck~" Your eyes squeeze shut, the pressure building, hips rolling to meet his tongue, your juices covering his chin.

"So sweet," he groans, the words muffled against your pussy, the vibration making you buck against him, "I could savor you all night."

With that he rises up, mouth leaving you empty and aching, his hands pinning your hips to the bed, "But I think i'll save the rest of my appetizer for later." He smirks down at you, wiping the remnants of your slick off his chin with the back of his hand.

Slowly, he reaches down to unbuckle his belt, pulling it free in a single motion, "Put your arms above your head, love," he orders softly, watching as you obey without question, a soft gasp escaping when he catches both your wrists, securing them with his belt. "This is my wedding night as well, after all…" securing the leather strap around the frame of the headboard, "And I intend to take my time with you."

Your fingers curl around the smooth leather, testing the bindings as his cock springs free, precum already pearling at the tip. The head is flushed, straining, and aching to be buried in your heat.

"Fuck-," he groans, hand gripping the base, thumb sweeping his weeping slit, "you have no idea what you do to me."

He positions himself between your thighs, the thick head of his cock teasing your entrance, sliding along your wet folds, the tip catching your clit, and then he's sinking into you, a strangled groan torn from his throat as you wrap around him like a vice.

Each thrust has the bedframe creaking as he fills you completely, perfectly, his cock stretching you just right. His forehead rests against yours, breath mingling as you move together, the only sounds in the room are the obscene sounds of your joined bodies, your broken cries, his grunts of pleasure.

"Ah! Mnnnh Kento~" You writhe beneath him, tugging at the restraints, body arching and straining for release, but the position keeps you helpless, a moaning wreck, pinned and bound by his cock, his weight, his strength.

"Harder~" The word slips out before you can stop it, and you feel him still above you.

"Are you certain?" His voice carries an edge now, something darker lurking beneath the tenderness.

"Please, Kento. I need… I need you to fuck me. M’need my husband to make me scream~."

The change is immediate. Your sweet gentle Nanami, replaced by his more desperate… pent up, and demanding side- god you loved it when he got like this~. His thrusts become punishing, deep enough to make you see stars- head so dizzy it causes you to babble incoherently. And his words… oh, his words turn absolutely filthy.

"This what my precious wife needs?" he rasps, breath hot against your throat as his cock drives deep, "Her loving husband splitting this perfect pussy open, making her beg for more like a whore."

The headboard rocks against the wall as he thrusts into you, one hand fisted in your hair, the other gripping your hip hard enough to leave marks. "Look how you're taking it," he pants, voice breaking, "Greedy little thing swallowing my cock. You're dripping all over the sheets, darling."

When he pulls out he’s quickly undoing his belt from your wrists- flipping you onto your stomach hastily as you whimper at the sudden emptiness. But then he's slamming back into you from behind, the new angle making you scream into the pillows.

"That's it," he groans, watching as that pretty pussy of yours grips him each time he withdraws, "let the whole hotel hear how good your husband fucks you. Let them know how desperate- how hungry you are for my cock."

His hand comes down on your ass with a brutal crack, making you clench and gush around him. "You like that, don't you? My beautiful wife likes being spanked while she gets her pussy destroyed from behind."

"Y-yesss! Oh god, yesss!" you babble, drool pooling at the corner of your lips as you're fucked senseless- eyes rolling back, "I love it when you ahhhh! when you use me like this!" Your voice breaks into needy whimpers, pussy clenching desperately around his length as he pounds into you, "Yesyesyes! Fuck me harder!"

He sets a brutal pace, each thrust hitting that spot deep inside that makes your vision white out, your body trembling as you lose yourself completely to the sensation. "Please," you moan, saliva dripping from your parted lips, "don't stop... m’need it so bad... need your cock so f’hah- fucking deep..."

"Going to stuff you so full," he growls against your ear, teeth sinking into your shoulder, "give you everything until you’re overflowing with it… until your belly swells with it..."

His movements stutter for just a heartbeat- eyes widening in shock at what he'd just said… Until your belly swells... Did he really just confess he wants to make a child with you tonight? The admission sends a shock through his system even as his cock throbs harder at the thought.

"I- …," he breathes shakily, almost stunned by his own desperate need. But there's no taking it back now… the raw truth is out.

"D-do it~" you coo breathlessly, the words sending a shiver of pure want down his spine. Your fingers push back his hair, holding him close, and the way you look at him... The sheer amount of adoration and love in your eyes, it nearly steals his breath away. You are the light of his life...

His thrusts become erratic, sloppy, each one driven by that new need to create something precious- a son, a daughter… either or it didn’t matter.

"Look at me," he gasps, his voice breaking. "I want to see your face when I- ngh-"

Your eyes lock as his control finally snaps. With a broken moan of your name, Nanami buries himself to the hilt and releases. Hot sticky ropes of cum flood your womb, painting your inner walls white as he empties himself completely. Your own orgasm washing over you from the fullness of him, your pussy clenching and milking every last drop from his throbbing cock.

Afterward, you lie tangled together, skin slick with sweat and cum. He holds you close, pressing soft kisses to your neck as you both slowly return to earth, his cum slowly leaking out of your thoroughly used pussy.

Later, much later, dawn creeps through silk curtains to find Nanami already awake, memorizing the sight of you sleeping peacefully beside him. His thumb traces over your wedding ring, this symbol of a future he never dared imagine…

"Wife," he whispers to himself, the word starting to sound less foreign.

Husband…

Thats what he is now.

And someday, perhaps sooner than later… A father.

He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, marveling at you- this woman who chose him, who said yes to forever with a man who once thought love was a luxury- the only luxury he thought he couldn’t afford in his dangerous line of work. Now he knew this, it was the only wealth that mattered… and he was the richest man alive.

˚₊‧꒰ა. 𝑀𝒶𝓈𝓉𝑒𝓇𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

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luxurychristmaspudding · 8 months ago

Text

summary: after a night out dancing and a lift home turns into something more, you learn something about your dad's buddy. joel miller fucks.

pairing: young!joel miller x f!reader

ratings/warnings: 18+, MDNI. it's smut, y'all. everything you've come to expect. respectable age gap (10 years ish), tiny bit of spanking, one (1) gentle pussy slap, lil bit of daddy kink, joel miller eats it from the back (oral (f&m)), edging, unprotected piv (do better), creampie, feelings, joel miller's whore mouth.

reader has hair and wears dresses, no other descriptions or name.

wc: 7.2k

an: for @schnarfer. my favourite hot priest, i worship in your church <3

Joel went out looking for trouble that night.

Hair curling at the nape of his neck, a beer sweltering in his hand as beads of sweat carved their way down the strong line of his back. T-shirt sticking to his skin, tension wound tight in his shoulders, thick in every muscle, every strand of sinew after work.

Revelling in the feeling of how the weight of the day lifted the more he drank, the more he relaxed, feeling his smile get wider the more he loosened up in the crowded bar. Freshly thirty five, another year in hand. Tommy buying the shots, introducing him to every new face that walked into the steaming, heavy swell of wood and linoleum, every stranger who leant against the tacky bar, every pretty girl who flicked their hair and batted their eyelashes.

He’s laughing - held flung back, chest heaving - harder than he has in a long time. Dancing in a way so unlike how he dances with Sarah in the kitchen, welcoming the heavy, slow grind of hips against his own, breathless against a sweet smelling neck. It’s hot and it’s loud on this Friday night in Austin, and he loves it.

Not quite basking in the attention of being the birthday boy, but shouldering the stream of conversation that Tommy directs his way nonetheless. Cheeks flushed pink as he’s hauled up on to the bar top, clumsy, unsure where to look as the bartender encourages him to stand in full view of the crowd. The whole bar, oscillating with colour and light and sound, roaring into a raucous chorus of happy birthday, beckoned by the chime of the bell by the till.

The spectacle of it all makes him look to the ceiling before dropping his chin to his chest, makes him laugh again, watching these people, many strangers, cheer and sing for him.

He holds his beer to his chest through the first part of the song, cheeks tight with a smile. His eyes swivel to the corner of the dancefloor on the downturn of Joel… catching the flicker and flare of a pair he recognises, scanning your face on the refrain - happy birthday - heart dropping confusingly low in his chest, the world taking a sticky beat as his blood halts and begins to rush again - to you.

He’s not seen you here before. Much more used to seeing you coming and going from your father’s house - bright smile, wicked eyes. Moved back home after spending some time out west when you’d finished your Masters program, always happy to chat for a little longer if you were where he was. Interesting and interested - he’s been regaled by tales of you from your father - the man who’s been overseeing safety on Joel’s latest job site - and listened to more directly from you, lip caught between his teeth as he bit back amusement at the things you didn’t want your dad to know.

Your father is a good man. Kind, supportive. So proud of you in the way he talks that Joel’s taking blueprints for raising Sarah. And you - you. Joel tries to think of you in ways he thinks of other colleagues or acquaintances. Smart, creative, perceptive. Patient, generous with your time and energy when entertaining neighbours at cookouts. Any other thoughts creep in in the dead of night, and he’s quick to try and forget them by morning.

But this - you here, now - is entirely different. It could be the buzz of the tequila in his system, could be the hot blood in his veins, could be the giddy little flash of that smile you shoot him as you clap and whoop with the rest of the crowd, but his feet are itching to find you once he half hops, half clambers down off the bar, accepting claps on the back and other sentiments as he searches for you again.

But you’re gone.

Disappeared, into thin air. Like he imagined you in the first place.

He cranes his neck a little, twisting his head from side to side as if trying to loosen another tight muscle, trying to tamp down the damp disappointment he feels.

Trying to remember how he tries to forget.

‘Happy birthday, cowboy,’ the words are breathless, squeezed through a smile.

The grin that creeps across his face is slow and wide, crinkling the corners of his eyes as he turns to face you.

‘Evenin’, darlin’,’ is his reply. Deep, coy, any idea of hiding his thoughts gone, buried. It’s his birthday, and you’re here. You and your sparkling eyes.

‘You gonna let me buy you a drink, or have you got a queue of ladies lining up to do that already?’

He laughs, and you feel the sound glimmer down your body, lighting every synapse, every receptor. You track his gaze as it drifts down your body and back up, spine straightening at his appraisal.

Delicious thighs beneath the hem of your skirt, soft swell of your breasts above your neckline.

‘Your daddy know you’re here?’ He asks, delighting in the way you scoff.

‘My daddy knows I’m out tonight,’ you say, licking your teeth, eyes dropping to his mouth, ‘And he don’t care much about it. I’m a big girl, Joel. I can handle myself.’

They’re big words for someone around ten years his junior, but he doesn’t doubt it. He’s heard your bartending stories, about your debates with fratboys. Something about your confidence, your self-assuredness licks a tongue of flame up his back. He bites his cheek.

‘Best buy me that drink, then.’

He went looking for trouble that night.

And Jesus, he found it.

Found it on the dancefloor, your soft body grinding against his. The heat and the sweat, how you moved your hips with his, how you’d giggled when he’d turned you around, pulling you flush against him. Your hands grasping for him, clutching at his thigh as you pressed firmly against the bulge growing at your backside, head tipped back, bliss etched across your face as you felt each other.

Found it in his truck when he dragged you outside under the pretence of giving you a lift home, found it when he rucked your skirt up on the backseat, when he pulled the top of your dress down. Inches of skin he had banished fantasies about to the back of his mind, revealed to him in the dim light of the parking lot. The sweat gleaming on your sternum, shining on your clavicles, your neck. He wishes, now, that he had taken more time to tell you how beautiful you looked, how smart you are, how funny, that first time, but the two of you had been too caught up in seeing, feeling, as much as possible.

His knees had protested as he crammed himself onto the floor, wanting to be between those thighs, wanting to taste you. Pressing, gliding his fingers against your pussy over your underwear, watching you keen and beg, hands twisting tight in the material of your dress, then his shirt collar, then his hair.

And that first swipe of his tongue when he’d pulled your underwear to the side, that first, most base knowledge of you. The sweet and sour, your smell, the way you became pliant, willing to have your thighs pushed up towards your chest. Quickly obsessed with the way you looked down at him, jaw slack, pupils blown, eyebrows slightly furrowed. Quickly obsessed with the way your pussy looked, puffy, needy, the way it leaked and clenched before him as he leant back to spit on it, how your head hit the headrest with a soft thump.

Too obsessed, everything about that night feeling too good as he lowered you down onto him, as he sunk his teeth into your shoulder to stop himself from coming too early, watching you bounce on his cock, listening to the way you moaned and panted and whimpered his name. The wet sounds of you fucking, the way he held you still, big hands on your waist as he bucked up into you. The way your noises, your breathing stuttered as he thrusted harder, as he dropped you lower. The fogged windows, low bass from the bar, how you clenched and fluttered around him as he wrung two orgasms from your pretty body before spilling himself inside you.

He’s been finding trouble ever since.

Finding reasons to help you grab drinks, bring out nibbles at your dad’s Halloween party. Finding excuses to have you backed up against the tool bench in the garage instead, his hips between yours, soft lips against chapped or your hand tight against your mouth to make sure nobody would find you. Heading back out into the garden with his cock still swollen, tucked into his black slacks, feeling your slick around its base still, your fake blood smeared on his dog collar, watching as you pressed your thighs together in your seat, knowing you could still feel him trickling out of you. He could hear your teasing through the glint in your eye - some priest you are, father.

Driving you home from the bar after a night of dancing around each other, after glances were snuck whenever they could be - over his brother’s shoulder, between your friends’ laughter. The crackle of electricity in the truck cab as the warm air threaded itself between you, your sparkling eyes, devious little laugh.

Walking you to your door, keeping you safe, don't wanna disappoint your old man.

Jamming his foot between the wood and the frame to come in when you told him he wasn’t home.

The mornings when Sarah’s waking up, still sugar-high after a sleepover, in a house the other side of town. The mornings he’s awake first, drinking coffee at his kitchen table when you hop down the stairs in his t-shirt from the night before, sleep-stained and perfect. The mornings that start with you in his lap, with kisses pressed to temples, lips, necks, his wide palms snaking under the material, fiending warm skin, finding it, cradling it. The firm weight of your breasts in his palms, the pebbling of your nipples beneath his thumbs. The soft rock of your hips against his hardening length, his fingers reaching to pull your panties to the side, finding you soaked like that first night. How you whine and huff against his shoulder as he sinks one, two, three digits into you, as he twists them, pumps them, as he uses his thumb to toy with your clit. The wet patch you leave, darkening the grey tenting below you, the outline of him something you want to press your face against, nuzzle, mouth at until he’s begging this time.

Mornings when he takes you apart deftly, until you hover above him, pulling his hard, leaking cock over the top of his sweatpants, savouring that delicious stretch around him, the way he thickens out at the base, the way the wiry hair there catches on your clit. When you can enjoy the way he holds you there afterwards, talking about your days ahead, nibbling at your ear as his cum slips from you along with his softening cock.

All these moments, and they’re never enough.

Because despite how often they happen, how often he might be able to hold you, kiss you - you make Joel Miller feel like a fucking teenager.

It’s been years since he’s woken up to the cooling evidence of a wet dream in his boxers. He’s having them nightly now in his thirties; sick and tired of waking up wet and aching and sticky, sick and tired of wishing it was you, not his hand, helping to solve the problem.

He wants you here so much more often than he does. The tip of his tongue on the evenings you call, sunlight fading through the window, orange on his sheets. He wonders, as you talk, what it would look like painted onto your skin.

He wants Sarah to actually know how he feels about the woman who babysits her every so often, wants Tommy to understand the reason why he turns up smiling to the site every day. And he wants your father to know his daughter has found someone who’ll treat her right, who’ll hold her hand through the bad days and give her all he can to make her smile.

The more he thinks about it, the more he wonders whether you have, too.

Whether you’d confess to your father the crush you have on the contractor, ask if he could put in a good word for you. There isn’t much between you - it would only take some careful wording, an evening where he can present the flowers he’s been dying to give you at your door.

He’s sure your father wouldn’t mind.

But this secret, the sneaking around - he can’t deny the thrill of it. Stolen touches, kisses, whispers in the moonlight. Quiet jokes between the two of you, the looks exchanged around others, the show of you putting your hand on his shoulder - can I get you anything else, Mr Miller?

You’ve only come close to being found out once. Just the once. By Tommy - who else could it have been?

Tommy, who couldn't hide his delight when he found the underwear you’d left behind in Joel's truck one morning, wheezing with laughter as Joel stuffed your soft, cotton panties into his back pocket. His cheeks aflame, he swore under his breath that he’d kill his little brother if he ever flicked a woman’s underwear at him like that again instead of doing the right thing - kicking them under the seat and pretending he hadn’t seen anything.

Between gasping breaths, Tommy had managed to make a good point. At least it wasn't Sarah who’d found them.

You gonna tell me who the lucky lady is, big brother?

He didn’t. Not yet.

It’s been so unbearably hot all day.

Too hot to work in the open air, and though Joel’s not grateful for the heat, he is grateful for the chance to stay at home. A chance to catch up on chores while Sarah basks in the AC at school, a chance to work his way through bills and invoices, fighting to keep his head clear of any thought of you and what you might be up to in weather like this.

He keeps his eyes carefully trained on numbers, figures, dates, unaware of the clock, unaware of the calls he’s missing. Only catches himself daydreaming when the lines start to blur.

He makes it to just past lunchtime when he hears a car pull up in the driveway. He knows the rattle of that engine, the heave of noise it makes as it turns off.

He stands from the table, blood racing in his chest.

‘God- motherfuckin’ shit,'

Joel lets the front door hang open behind him, folding his arms across his heart as you try and jam your wing mirror back in place.

‘You kiss your grandma with that mouth?’

You grin, flipping him off as you slam the door closed. The mirror sticks.

‘Yeah. Suck your dick with it, too,’

His lips quirk, watching as you stand with your hip against the front of your car, a box in one hand, the other shielding your eyes from the sun. Staring at each other, a little game you play. You watch his smirk grow, feeling the trickle of sweat down your spine.

‘There a reason why you’re here?’

You roll your eyes, like it should be obvious. And it is obvious, but -

‘Freezer’s fucked,’ you huff, and Joel raises an eyebrow. ‘Can I put them in yours?’

You hold the box up to him.

‘Popsicles?’ Joel frowns. You roll your eyes at him.

‘Please, Joel. They’re literally the only thing keeping me sane,’

He scratches at his jaw, pretending to contemplate.

‘I dunno, darlin’,’ he says, ‘The only thing? Surely that AC of yours is doin’ a fine job,'

You scoff at him, folding your own arms.

‘That old piece a’ shit ain’t doin’ nothin’ and you know it,’

He chuckles, letting his arms drift to his sides.

‘Guess I can take care of ‘em for ya. Anythin’ else?’

You bite your lip, eyes glinting in the sun.

‘Can I come in?’ you ask. A slow, smug smile grows across Joel’s lips.

‘'N do what, exactly?’

You pout at him, fluttering your eyelashes. His cock twitches.

‘Just wanna swim in the pool. Promise I won’t do nothin’ else, Mr Miller,’

‘Nothin’ else, baby?’ He says, lowly.

You shake your head, eyes wide. Picture of false innocence.

‘Nothin’ else,'

If there are two things Joel has come to know about you in the last year, it’s that you’re a great fuck, and a bad liar.

He steps back into the open door behind him, grinning as you skip past him into the hallway. He watches, snicking the catch and lock as you make your way into the kitchen, swinging open the refrigerator door, finding a spot for your iced treats. He follows, leaning against the doorframe, watching as you stand in the cold air flowing from the appliance for a moment, your eyes closed.

He’s looking at your legs when you turn to speak to him, snapping to meet your gaze as though he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t. That ship sailed long ago. You grin at him.

‘Whatcha been doin’?’

He exhales, stepping closer.

‘Workin’,’

You hum, meeting him beside the kitchen table, surveying the stacks of paper.

‘Not too hard?’

‘Hard to, when I'm thinkin’ ‘bout you,’

You grin, twisting to look at him.

‘You sweet on me, Miller?’

He shrugs.

‘Bout time you noticed,’

His hands find your waist as yours make their way up his chest, his shoulders, winding around his neck.

‘I had my suspicions,’ you whisper, before pressing your lips to his. He smiles into it, parting his lips to invite you in, rocking you back and forth in his arms.

‘Missed you,’ you breathe, and he hums in response.

‘Missed you too, baby,’

You’re salty sweet; warm scent of your skin, your sun lotion, your perfume, your sweat. When he’s satisfied, done licking lazily into your mouth, exploring the taste of your lips, he moves to your neck. Laving kisses there, biting, sucking, nibbling as you sigh against him. He bites harder, earning a particularly needy whimper, hands moving to knead the flesh of your ass through your dress.

‘Joel,’ you murmur, ‘You’ll leave a mark,’

He hums, trailing kisses up your neck to the space behind your ear, along your jaw, before finally meeting your lips again.

‘Don’t care.’

He’s grasping your hips to turn you so you’re pressed against the table, your back to his firm chest. You can’t help the gasp, the giggle that floats from you as he tugs you closer, as you feel the heft of him pressed into the small of your back. You shift your hips, brushing against him, slow and purposeful.

Joel groans - a long, drawn out, hungry sound. He pulls your hips tighter to him, moving against you just the same before his hands slide up to your breasts, holding the weight of each in his palms, squeezing and rolling a nipple between his thumb and finger. You tip your head back against his shoulder, and he hums approvingly as you begin to grind against him in earnest. He pauses only for a moment to pull your straps from your shoulders and work your dress down to expose your tits, and then he’s on you again. Teasing and stroking and pinching, your hand gripping his forearms as you huff and whimper, caged between him and the table. You moan his name, bleeding every once of want you feel into it, hoping he can hear just by the sound of your voice how wet you are for him.

‘Dreamt about ya last night,’ he rasps in your ear, and you flash him a dazzling, breathless smile.

‘Oh yeah? ‘N what’d ya dream about, cowboy?’

You whine as he crowds you, leaning down to suck another bruise into the junction between your neck and shoulders, whiskers bristling against your skin, hands hot and heavy everywhere they can find purchase.

‘Much rather show you,’ he rumbles.

You nip your bottom lip between your teeth, shooting him a wicked look over your shoulder. His eyes crinkle, and as he spins you to face him again, he moves to pinch your jaw, just rough enough to curb your inevitable wise ass response. He watches as your eyes glaze a little, soft slump of your shoulders as he gives your head a little shake. His cock is achingly hard.

‘Upstairs. Now,’

As soon as he backs away from you, you’re sprinting towards the stairs with a shriek. Joel is close behind, and you can feel the heat of him, enough to set your heart galloping in your chest. Something primal urging space between you, something base wishing there was none.

You clatter through his bedroom door, whirling to face him - bare chest heaving, lips curled. He pauses in the doorway - so tall and broad, so imposing - shoulders straining against his t-shirt, curls frayed from your hands. He steps in, swings the door shut behind him, and then he’s closing the space easily - one, two, three - gathering you in his arms until you’re on tiptoes, pawing at the flesh of your ass through your sundress. Obsessed with it. You on him, him on you.

He needs this like air.

His breath is hot against your lips, mouth needy and wet as you open yourself to him. He licks into your mouth, kissing you like it’s something you need to take from him, like there’s something you need to understand through the action alone. He fiddles with the flimsy material of your half-removed sundress, pulling at it a little.

‘Take this off,’ he growls, nipping at your lips.

You step back from him as you push it past your hips, the fabric pooling to the floor in seconds, leaving you in your panties. He bites his lip, murmuring a fuck before stripping himself of his t-shirt. Glorious tan chest, slightly lighter than his strong arms, shoulders seeming even broader, smattering of hair that leads down past his navel, his smooth belly, the constellations of freckles that join beneath your fingertips.

You busy your fingers with his belt as he cups your face once more, pressing kisses to your hairline, your forehead, your cheekbones. You’re giggling, trying to see what you’re doing through the blur of his face and hands, but then his palms are moving lower, groping at your breasts again, swiping his thumbs against your taught nipples, groaning against your mouth as you dip your hand past his unfastened belt and fly, into his boxers to cup his silken skin.

‘How’d that dream go again?��

Joel smiles against your mouth, giving a harsh twist to each peaked bud before beginning to push his jeans further down.

‘Kneel,’ he commands.

You drop to your knees in one swift motion, biting your lip at him as he whips his belt from its loops and throws it to the corner of the room. Your eager fingers curl under the waistband of his jeans, inching them and his underwear down.

‘Don’t know how you’re wearing jeans in this weather -’

‘Cos I knew you’d be here some point to take ‘em off me,’

You smirk, blinking up at him through your eyelashes.

‘Who, me? I don’t know what kind of girl you take me for, daddy, but…’ You’re chewing your cheek to try and temper your look of amusement, but Joel gives in immediately. Goofy smile, all teeth, eyes crinkling at the edges. He cups your jaw as you wrap your hand around his base, pulling him out of his underwear, soft black material barely holding him in.

His body moves with the first pump of your tight fist, the swirl of your thumb when you reach the head, spreading the pearl of precum beading there as he hisses. Thick and pulsing in your hand, velvety smooth, you trace its lines, veins with a delicate finger, press a kiss to his tip. Joel’s nostrils flare.

‘So pretty,’ you murmur, and that smirk tugs at his lips again.

‘I say you could touch it?’

You roll your eyes, quirking your head at him.

‘Didn’t think you had to,’ you shrug, ‘Kinda comes with the territory of tellin’ me to get on my knees -’

He scoffs.

‘Alright, smart ass,’ tangling his fingers in your hair, ‘Make me proud.’

You smile broadly, before inching closer, moving your mouth with your hand to chase down his length. You always know how to shut him up, and right now, the sight, the sound, the feel of you taking him all on the first try makes him fucking dizzy.

Hot and wet, the ridges of the roof of your mouth like satin around his cock, jumping as it hits the back of your throat and further, twitching again as you hum around him, opening your eyes - doe-like, watering already, the pinch in your brows telling him what you need to hear.

‘Good girl,’ he groans, ‘Good fucking girl,’

It’s the encouragement you need, moaning again as you pull back to the tip, taking him back in again as you bring one hand up to scratch at his thigh, the other moving from his length to his balls, cupping them softly, squeezing, rolling, and he’s on fucking fire. If there was ever a chance he was going to hell before, he’s sure the way you make him feel will send him there regardless.

You’re taking it slow, steady, making him feel every inch of your mouth as you moan and breathe, so intense that he can feel his tip heating - a kind of overstimulation - as he lets little moans slip more freely from his lips. Sighs and mutterings, breathless praise, wrecked groans as you start to move faster, jaw falling open. A steady stream of salt on your tongue, the taste making you keen for him, press your nose to the skin above his cock, making you forget anything outside the taste of him in your mouth. The hand on his thigh moving to work his length as you pay special attention to his head, your hips bucking unconsciously. His stomach jumps, lungs heaving as he massages your crown, as you kitten lick and swirl your tongue down the vein on the underside, rewarded with a sharp, wanton gasp as you pull back to slap him against your tongue.

You watch as his pink tip flushes a darker shade, as it dribbles even more, feeling him jerk in your hand. Spellbound, slack-jawed at the way you take him, at the way you want him, like the taste and the pressure is never enough. How you always need more, more, more, and he’s getting closer, closer, closer -

He pulls you off with a deep, guttural groan - missing your mouth the minute it’s gone, resisting the temptation to shove himself back past your lips and come down your throat.

You gaze up at him, pouting, straining against the hand in your hair.

‘What? Didn’t I make you proud, cowboy?’

He tightens his grip, tips your head further to meet his gaze.

‘Bed,’ he commands, relinquishing his hold, ridding himself of his remaining clothes as you do yours, clambering up onto his bed, settling yourself on your knees again, wiggling side to side, your wide eyes rapt, wired. Chin wet, chest heaving, fingers twitching in your lap, he makes his decision almost instantly. Steps forwards, fingers brushing against the inside of your knee. Your legs part automatically, and he follows the contour of soft skin in the inside of your thighs right to the very top, no grace in the way he swipes his fingers through your folds, collecting the wetness there. And there’s so much of it, so much you feel proud of the way his eyes darken when he feels it.

‘What’s this, baby?’ He coos, repeating the motion as you whimper, as your shoulders hunch and your chin tips down. He lifts it with a finger and thumb, before cupping your face. You nuzzle into the touch, eyes hungry. ‘Oh, pretty girl,’ he murmurs, smiling again, ‘This happen while you were down on your knees sucking daddy’s cock?’

You snort softly, forehead knocking against his as he crowds closer.

‘Fucker-’ you start, but it’s cut off by your gasp as he easily slips in two thick fingers. He tuts.

‘Try again,’

‘Yes,’ you whisper, ‘Fuck yes, it did,’

He kisses your nose, pumping the digits slowly.

‘Gonna have to do something about that then, aren’t we?’

‘Please,’ you breathe, and he removes his fingers, slipping them into his mouth with another groan, tasting you - fuck.

‘Hands and knees, baby,’ he says roughly, and you obey.

He pushes you forward so your chest is pressed into the sheets, nipples catching on the fabric, sweat soaking, cooling against the bed. Your breath catches in your throat - good girl, like this - and he’s pulling your hips up towards him, gripping the flesh at the backs of your thighs to spread you. Your knees slide, pliant with the need that scorches through you, and you press your cheek into the duvet, trying to angle your head so you can watch him watching you.

And fuck, is he watching you. Eyes blown, lips bitten, a depraved intensity settling in the way his jaw flexes. You bunch your hands into fists on the cotton, shuddering as his palms run over your curves - hips, waist, hips, ass, thighs - before they stop, parting you for him again. You can’t help the way you present yourself to him, the way your hips tilt when air meets your bare cunt.

‘Atta girl,’ he mumbles, ‘Look at all that. You makin’ a mess f’me, baby? This pretty little pussy achin’ for what I wanna give her?’

You muffle your response, so fucking desperate, against his sheets, clutching the material tighter. He swipes both his thumbs through your folds, tracing the seam of your cunt, spreading the slick there to shine against your skin, teasing one digit at the entrance of your hole, the other inching its way - agonisingly - towards your clit. You throb, and he watches a bead of slick dribble down your folds, grinding himself against the bed as his cock jumps.

‘Is she, baby?’

You gasp, turning your head to him again. His eyes meet yours, dark, burning.

‘Yes,’ you half-moan, half-sob.

He hums in response, before turning back to your spread cunt. The thumb making its way towards your clit disappears, and you scrunch your brows together in disapproval, mouth working around a strangled please- before the sensation is replaced by his warm breath, then his firm tongue as he licks you from your clit to your hole.

The cry that forces its way past your lips is strangled, choked, stuck in your throat as you clench around nothing at the contact.

‘Oh, fuck -’

And he chuckles against you, at the way your legs almost give out, wrapping his strong arms around your thighs in an effort to hold you upright. You squeeze your eyes closed as he licks further - Joel, fuck - seeking your clit again, pulling it between his lips, dragging his face against you, like he needs it, like he can’t be apart from you.

He sucks a little harsher, and at the very same time, you feel the tip of his nose edge against your cunt. You moan, a fractured sound, and he pulls you towards him again, pressing the curve of it further inside, moving his tongue in circles. You’re seeing fucking stars.

Breath shuddering out of you in high pitched gasps, toes curling against the pressure that builds so quickly already in your gut, unable to move, to find any relief as he mouths at you - ravenous, cramming his face, his fucking nose, as far into you as he can, slurping and sucking, letting his teeth graze you gently when you try to protest - too much, close Joel, ‘m close, fuck -

He pulls back just as suddenly as he came near, swatting your ass quickly, once, twice, before leaning back in. You barely have time to register the sting, how it flares goosebumps up your back, what it means, drunk on the feel of his mouth on you. He begins the same onslaught, sucking, licking, groaning at your taste before the knot tightens again.

‘Yes, please, Joel, please -’

But he’s gone again, that same firm hand landing on your backside as he pushes himself up, loosening his arms from their vice grip on your thighs.

‘Not yet,’ he rasps, ‘Not yet, gonna come on my cock, yeah? Get it nice and wet, show me how much you like it?’

You rock your forehead against his mattress, waves of pleasure rolling through you, cunt fluttering, still so exposed to him. You take too long to answer, moaning loudly as he taps his palm against your soaked folds. You jolt, hips moving instinctively, finding nothing. You shudder a breath.

‘Yes, wanna come on your cock, I need it daddy. Need you inside me, need you to fuck me, need to come, Joel, please -’

He pulls you by the hips to the edge of the bed again, one palm kneading the flesh there, the other sliding three fingers through your arousal, bringing the wetness to his cock, slicking himself up. You raise yourself up on your elbows, looking back at him, and Joel's heart almost gives out. That perfect little pout, the sweat dripping down your forehead, the bead of it that travels down the valley of your spine, shining against your skin. Every inch of you so perfect, glossy in the heat, his. The patch he loves so much at the bottom of your back, just before the swell of your ass, even better, impossibly, from this angle.

He holds you still with the grip on your hip as he nudges the tip of his cock against your entrance, and your breath stills in your lungs. That first press, the pressure, the beginning of the stretch, the way you contract around the promise of it, waiting, waiting -

Waiting.

Joel smiles, though you can’t see it. His body pulled taught, barely resisting the urge to push himself further into you.

‘Go on, pretty girl,’ he says, ‘Wanna see you fuck yourself on it. Show me how bad you need it,’

You hear his breath catch the moment you begin to slide down, and then the room is silent, save for the buzzing of his fans and the sticky sound of you pulling him inside. When you reach his base, nestling against the hair there, you both let out an honest, drawn out groan of relief. You’re so full of him, the stretch welcome, pressing against a sweet spot deep inside you, just enough to leave you breathless. You can feel him pulse in time with your heartbeat, feel yourself grow wetter, begin to drip down your thighs as you breathe heavily, as his grip grows firmer, as his fingers slide to the crease between your thighs and your stomach.

‘Move, baby,’ he pleads, sounding just as wrecked as you feel.

So you do. Slow, methodical, so you can feel all of him. Every inch, every vein that makes you clench around him, that makes him groan low in his throat. You know he wants it faster, that this time he wants more, but you’re too busy indulging yourself, focused on the drag of him against your walls, showing him how he takes care of you, making sure he watches how he fills you, how well you take him.

When the pressure begins to grow, when he coos at you a little more, you move with more force, fucking yourself back, your noises coming louder, higher pitched, while his grow lower, as he babbles to you more and more.

‘Fuck, look at you, baby. Look at you. Take me so good, take me so deep. Perfect pussy, made f’me, ain’t she? So pretty baby, so pretty the way you stretch, feel so good, so good, darlin’, fuck -’

He’s almost too caught up in the way your ass recoils against his thighs, the way your pussy moulds itself to him, that he misses the tell tale signs of you about to come. The way you gasp, the way you tighten and throb, the way you fist the sheets around you, the way your body begins to lock up -

‘No. Not yet,’ he grits out, pulling his hips back, pulse pounding in his ears as he watches your body try to chase his before he grips you again, turning you onto your back.

You’re sobbing around your plea - please Joel, been so good, just wanna come around you, please baby - but he’s steadfast.

He wants to see your face when you let go. Wants to watch your eyes roll, wants to watch you arch, wants to see the way your stomach lurches -

You scrabble for him, slurring your words, so fucked out - please Joel please, please baby, god, I just need - as he arranges your legs so your knees are bent, so your pretty little pussy is exposed completely to him - need you, please fuck me - before he swipes his thumb against your clit again, just to hear your broken whine, the hiccuped sigh, the way your body twitches, so close.

He pauses, holds your thighs wide open before him, towering above you. You reach to skate a hand up his tan belly, fingers scraping through the hair there, the muscled lines leading down to his cock, enjoying the thrum of his heart beating through his skin before he knocks it aside, pursing his lips and spitting straight onto where you are connected.

It turns you half-feral, rearing up towards him as he speaks.

‘There we go, baby. This what we need,’

The first thrust in takes your breath away.

And he doesn’t give you any chance to get it back.

He sets a punishing pace, feeding you his cock with dogged precision, consumed by how you look spread beneath him, with how puffy and slick and shiny your pussy is, how it splits around him.

Thick heft of him sawing in and out, the way you clutch at him, sucking him back in, tighter and tighter each time, like your body is already missing him. So wet slick is smeared around your thighs, soaking Joel’s lap, leaking down into the cleft of your ass. He kisses you, slow and deep, gasping and panting against your lips. Guttural moans from him, needy little whimpers from you, the sloppy sound of pleasure.

He breaks away from you when the kisses are splintered by gasps of air, fixing his mouth to your neck, inhaling deeply there, pressing his lips to your shoulder, lower, the top of your breast, your sternum, before closing them around your nipple. You keen as he scrapes his teeth over the sensitive bud, hands flying from his flexing forearms to his hair, scratching his scalp, moaning his name, chanting it - Joel, Joel, Joel, Joel.

He sucks harder, tongue working around the flesh before he does the same to your other breast, fingers slipping down over the damp skin of your belly towards your sex, seeking that last nudge you need to send you flying over the edge.

Tighter, wetter, arching to meet his mouth as you gasp and plead - gonna come Joel, gonna come, please can I come, please, please -

You barely register his nod against your chest, barely hear him gasp ‘Give it to me baby, good girl, that’s it,’ before the flood overwhelms you, clawing through your body, ripping through you like flame. Your body tenses, jerks, hips stuttering against him, pussy throbbing as you cry out, pleasure flushing through you all the way to the top of your head. Aftershocks flare like fireworks behind your eyelids, hips moving frantically with his to chase the very end of your orgasm.

Joel watches, chest hot, stomach tightening with that tell tale taughtness - oh, shit baby, yeah, s'that good? - before his own eyes squeeze shut, his body faltering, pushing all the way up against your cervix as he pulses inside you, filling you with warmth, spilling himself until it begins to leak between your thighs.

He gives a couple of softer thrusts before he groans again, hearing you whimper, ears ringing, pulling out just to watch himself drip out of you. The sight makes him greedy, makes him press it back into you even as you hiss in protest, too sensitive. He looks up just as you crack an eye open, an arm swinging across your forehead.

‘Jesus fucking Christ,’ you mumble, a smile growing before he breathes a shy laugh at the ceiling. He loves the sound of your giggle as you watch him.

He crawls back up your body, ignoring how the heat begins to creep back in, become formidable again. He presses kisses to your collarbones, your neck, your cheeks, and you thread your spare hand back through his hair, enjoying the way it looks, mussed by you.

His sweaty forehead presses against your sternum, laving affectionate, wet kisses there as you come down from your highs, panting in the warm air of the room.

You continue to card your fingers through his damp curls, staring up at the ceiling fan as it whirs and spins above you. Your eyes flutter closed, content.

‘You’ll have to get Sarah from school soon,’

He grunts in acknowledgement, nuzzling into your ribcage, licking at the salty skin before nipping it between his teeth. You giggle, body lurching away slightly before it’s fixed in place by his wide palms at your hips. ‘And I have to be home before four,’

He groans, pressing a kiss to the underside of your breast.

‘Come over for dinner,’ he murmurs, ‘Tell your dad we're hangin’ out, gettin’ to know each other. I’ll grill some stuff. You bring some more of those popsicles,’

You snort at him, huffing something about how nothing will get grilled if you’re watchin’ me suck on a popsicle, even as your chest and cheeks heat, before he slumps on top of you, plush lips crushing against yours in a searing kiss, tongue licking into your mouth, setting you ablaze again beneath him. You moan as he moves to your neck, sucking and biting and bruising.

‘Come,’ he groans into your skin, ‘Promise you’ll come. I'll make it worth your while,’

You offer him a breathy laugh, a sure at the double entendre with sparkling eyes. Your back arches, hands gripping his biceps as he languidly moves lower, taking your nipple in his mouth. He swirls his tongue around the raw bud, grazing it with his teeth before sucking gently.

‘Joel -’ you gasp, clenching your thighs together as you wriggle beneath him, meeting his warm brown eyes as he looks up at you through his eyelashes. ‘We need to -’

He cuts you off with a sharp nip at the puckered flesh. He turns his head to the side, checks the watch he’s still wearing, and fixes you with a dark, hungry look.

‘Reckon there’s time to go again.’

#joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller smut #joel tlou #joel miller fanfiction #tlou fanfiction

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starktonyx · 29 days ago

Text

Come right on me … I mean camaraderie - John Walker x reader

━━━━━━━━━━━ ⋆⋅ ♡ ⋅⋆ ━━━━━━━━━━━

Word count: 3.5k

Description: You can't help the inappropriate thoughts that come out of your mouth during a mission, and John has to teach you a lesson, or multiple, about it.

“Holy shit, come right on me” You mumbled under your breath. His head snapped at you. No. There’s no way his hearing caught that.

Tags/warnings: smut, fem!reader is a horny menace, dominant John, long buildup, sex, overstimulation.

Note: This has Sabrina Carpenter levels of bluntness about being horny that's how I feel about this man. Kicked my feet while writing this. Enjoy 🫶🏼

Masterlist

It wasn’t your fault, really.

It wasn’t your fault that John Walker was a goddamn idiot. Or that he was also so painfully hot you’d been waking up to drenched panties after dreams where he made you his in the most filthy ways you could imagine.

It wasn’t your fault your brain crafted entire scenarios while you slept, where he was all over you, handsy, desperate, soaked in sweat.

And it really wasn’t your fault that Bucky kept pairing you up with him for missions. You were sure Yelena had something to do with that targeted sabotage.

You were down so bad for him, all the man had to do was exist. The way he led in front of you, the way he threw around orders under pressure, the particular way he had to shove targets against walls … your mind didn’t even try to behave anymore.

This morning, you’d woken up panting, sheets damp in a sweaty mess, mind adjusting to the fact that his head was between your legs only in your dream and not in reality.

How sad.

And now here you were, paired with him again in some random warehouse lab, Yelena and Bucky waiting back on the jet while you did your part of the mission.

“Did you get it?” His voice came in a growl through your comm, you could hear his grunts as he cleared your extraction route, and holy shit, why did that do things to you?

It. Wasn’t. Your. Fault.

You tucked the vial into your pocket, trying to focus. You cleared your throat before speaking.

“Package secured. I’m on my way to you.”

But before you could turn, a yelp went through the comm when a rough hand grabbed your shoulder and slammed you to the floor. You barely had time to gasp before a body pinned you down, heavy and aggressive, and a cold blade pressed against your throat.

You barely caught the attacker’s fist mid air, fighting the strength he was pushing down with, when a gloved hand stopped him. The man cried in pain when John twisted his arm away from your face. The next thing you knew, he went flying across room.

John had yanked him off you, throwing him away with a snarl that made your blood burn. He let his shield fall to the ground, before he stomped towards the guy, grabbed him by the collar, and smashed his fist into his face.

“So you like hitting pretty girls, huh?” He barked, punching again.

You watched from your spot on the floor, thoughts derailing from the moment he spoke. You bit your lip as he lifted the man to shove him into the wall. Those arms, those grunts … god.

Why on earth was that so hot?

"Holy shit, come right on me." You mumbled under your breath, weren’t even thinking as the words came out of your mouth.

His head snapped at you, instantly dropping the body of the man.

Your eyes went wide. No. There's no fucking way his hearing caught that.

He stared at you with furrowed brows and a hint of disbelief. Sweat clung to his hairline, making disheveled strands stick to his forehead, chest rising and falling under the weight of adrenaline.

That image wasn't helping at all.

"What?” He asked, voice coming out rougher than he intended.

Shit. Say … anything.

“I mean ... camaraderie! Y-yeah. Thanks for that." You blurted, pointing awkwardly at the half conscious guy on the floor like that explained anything.

He nodded hesitantly, squinting at you like he was trying to decide whether you were insane or he was.

In three long strides he walked over, standing over you offering his gloved hand. You took it, and in one swift motion he pulled you up, straight into him. His other hand landed firmly on the curve of your back, pressing you tightly against him.

Your uneven breathing hit his neck, barely reaching his jawline.

"That can be arranged." He mumbled, eyes dropping, just for a second, to your lips.

You were sure your brain just short circuited. Of course he heard your horny ass.

"John–"

Before you could say anything to defend whatever was left of your dignity, voices echoed from the hallway, and in a second, he spun you both behind a column, pressing you harshly against the wall. His palm instinctively covered your mouth, eyes locked on the entrance.

“Shh,” he whispered, breath warm against your forehead. “Be quiet.”

The agents continued their way down the hall without noticing you were in the room, and John's posture relaxed slightly.

Yours didn't.

Being pinned against a wall, trapped by his larger frame of broad shoulders, feeling every ridge of his suit on your chest and something very solid pressing against your belt.

This. This is what dreams are made of.

You instinctively raised your knee, just enough to rub softly against the bulge in his suit. He sucked in a sharp breath, head jerking in your direction, hand still covering your mouth.

You noticed the way his entire body tensed up again.

You brought your knee back down, slowly, and he looked like it physically pained him not to grab it back and rub against him one more time. His hand dropped from your mouth, and the smirk on your lips said everything.

You rose up on your toes, drawing your lips close to his ear.

"I bet it's even better than in my head." You teased, barely nibbling the edge of his ear.

You gasped when he pushed you tighter into the wall, jaw clenching with his fingers digging deeper onto your waist.

He was so so done for.

"Walker? Walker, come in." The comms static pierced through the tension, Yelena's voice breaking the silence. "Did you get it? We need to go. Now."

He hesitated for a second, hands twitching like he wasn’t ready to let your body go yet.

He wasn’t sure if he could trust his voice, and to be honest neither did you. He took a shaky breath, cleared his throat, and backed up a step.

"Y-yeah," he said, turning from you. His voice cracked slightly, so he cleared his throat again, and you bit your lip to keep from laughing."We got it. We’re heading to the jet now."

By the time he turned back around, you were already walking out, casually ahead of him like you hadn’t just driven him to the edge of self control.

The ride back to the watchtower was tense. You took the seat farthest from John, clearly not because you wanted to. No, you wanted to crawl into his lap and beg him to continue what you’d started, but self preservation said maybe don’t ride him in front of coworkers.

Considering Yelena and Bucky had been throwing knowing glances at you the whole time.

This was your fault after all.

Not being able to control your dirty thoughts, showing up all flustered and justifying it on almost getting sliced, pretending you could fool two polygraph detectors.

Whatever.

All you needed was a warm shower and to give yourself a little love to drown those inappropriate thoughts of yours about John.

Respectfully, of course.

You made your way across the hallway towards your room, thinking about getting that shower head as soon as you could between your thighs, when a door openned and a hand grabbed you, shoving you inside that room.

The door to John's room slammed shut behind you with a solid thud. Before you could even turn around, he had you pressed up against it, hands holding his weight on the door, each placed next to your head.

"You don't get to do that shit, sweetheart" He groaned, standing close to your face. "You don't say those things to me in the middle of a mission and pretend I’ll just forget about it."

You breathe loudly, chest rising up and down, trying to wrap your head aground the fact that he had you caged in his room. You tilt your head to the side, might as well enjoy it.

"God forbid I have fantasies." You tease, without missing a bit.

Your knee went up to do the same thing you did earlier, but he took one hand off the door to stop it before it could reach his crotch, and let out a bitter laugh.

"You think you’re the only one who fantasizes? You think I don’t dream with that dirty pretty mouth of yours?"

Your breath hitched. His hands traveled to your waist, rough and possessive, thumbs digging into your hips like he was grounding himself, like the last part of him was barely holding back.

His lips brushed your neck, not kissing, just hovering. Teasing . He pulled back, just enough to make you chase the contact, and that smug little smirk flickered on his lips.

He began guiding you away from the door, never splitting your bodies apart.

"You've been distracting me since day one" he muttered, backing you up until your legs hit the bed. "Wearing that tight suit and those damn lips. Always mouthing shit off, making me want to shut you up."

You whimpered, eyes dropping to the floor.

He tilted your chin up, forcing you to look at him.

"Oh, so now you're shy?" He teased, making a tsk tsk sound. "I want you to look at me now, when you talk like that."

His hands found the zipper of your suit, with a darkened look he stares at you for a moment, waiting for approval.

And fuck your heart was pounding. You needed someone to pinch you to make sure this wasn't a dream.

You nodded immediately, maybe a little too eager.

He chuckled at your desperation, taking his sweet time to take your one piece suit off, making sure he enjoyed every time your breath hitched when he grazed your skin. He dragged the fabric down, leaving you only in underwear.

As soon as the suit hit the floor, he pressed you down onto the mattress with one hand on your chest.

"You wanna tease me? Say filthy shit in the middle of a fight? Rub your knee against me like that?" His hand slid up your thigh, slowly claiming what’s always been his in your wildest dreams. "You don't get to walk away to find relief on your own."

Your breath stuttered, your hands instinctively went to the zipper of his suit, but he caught your wrists.

"John, come on–"

"No, you have to be patient like I’ve been" he said, dipping his head down to brush his lips across your collarbone. "I tried to be good. Tried to respect the mission."

He lifted his head, eyes locked on yours. "But you decided to be a brat and got me all worked up. Now I get to take my time with you."

He pulled himself back from your body, finally reaching for the top of his suit, messily dismantling it away to throw it off the bed.

You barely had time to breathe before he was on you again, kissing you hard, devouring you. His hands held your jaw, fingers rough and urgent, like he needed to keep you under him forever.

You gasped against his mouth, and that's when it slipped out.

"Been so wet all day since I woke up–“

He froze, immediately pulling back, eyes narrowed at you. "What was that?"

"N-nothing." You stuttered, too quick to be believable. He chuckled.

"No, go ahead sweetheart" he said, thumb dragging across your bottom lip. "Keep talking. You got so much to say, right?"

You opened your mouth but nothing more than a gasp came out when he pushed his hand between your thighs, grinding up against the wet spot on your panties.

"God dammit" he muttered, his fingers painfully grazing the fabric, barely touching it. "This all for me?"

You moaned, nodding. "Been saving it since the morning."

His cock twitched inside his pants at your confession. He softly slapped over your wet panties, making you jolt. "Always have something to say, don't you?" He slapped again when you nodded, harder this time, his fingers getting wet through the fabric.

He brought his fingers to his lips, and without hesitation, teased. "Tastes better than in my head."

"Fuck" you whined, head dropping to the bed. "This is so much worse now."

You were doomed. You were never coming back from this, from his touch.

From all of him.

He bitterly laughed. "You think this is hard for you?"

His hands found your hips, gripping tight. He rolled them up against his own, letting you feel how hard he was.

"I've had to walk around with this for weeks because of you. Every time you stretch, every time you bend over, every time you moan in your room–"

Your head snapped up to look at him, and his smirk deepened.

"Yeah, my room is next to yours. You think I don't hear you? Late at night, thinking you're being quiet?" He was so arrogantly casual about it, like it was something he'd wanted to confess for a long time.

That he heard you every time. A nasty little secret of yours he's kept locked for too long.

"You touch yourself thinking about me, sweetheart?" he asked, voice full of cockiness. "Bet you taste your own fingers after you're done, pretending it's me."

You wanted to yell at him and tell him he was so full of himself. But damn, he was right, all you wanted was to be full of him too.

Your hips jerked against him, your patience was running short. He hissed at your move, like the contact short circuited something in his brain.

"No shame either, didn't even try to deny it." He continued.

"That’s nothing" You shake your head teasingly. "You should hear the things that go through my head. You'd never look at me the same again."

He shook his head amused.

"Poor thing, can't even shut up about how bad she wants it."

You whined, the pool between your thighs starting to ache by the lack of his touch.

You tugged at his tactical pants. "Take them off, right now."

"Impatient" he scolded.

"I've been patient for months" you snapped, squirming under him. "You just never listened."

"Oh, I’m listening now" he growled. "I just have to be sure you can take it."

You reached up to run your hands across his chest, fingers tracing down his abdomen.

“I'll take it" you blurted, fingers dipping low enough to make him groan. "All of it."

He grinned, before fumbling with his pants, cursing when they got slightly stuck, ripping them down fast enough to make you laugh, until your eyes landed on him. On him.

"Oh my god." you breathed.

Shit. It was better than in your head.

Thick, swollen. Absolutely perfect.

He grinned. This is a sight he had only seen in dreams before. You laying on his bed, mouth parted open at the sight of his cock, ready to let him ruin you.

His mouth was on yours again, rough and needy this time, hands everywhere, yanking off the last pieces of fabric from your body like he'd earned it.

And boy, he had.

He lined himself up, dragging the hard tip through your slick entrance, teasing. But you saw it in his face, the way his jaw was clenched, like he was barely holding on.

"You sure, baby?" he asked. "I need you to say it."

You prompted yourself up by your shoulders, grabbing his face, beard tickling your fingers. "Make my fantasies come true, John."

That was all it took for him to push himself in, teasingly slow, beautifully thick, stretching you in the most delicious, overwhelming way. You moaned his name, head falling back on the mattress.

"Shit, so tight" he groaned, barely moving as your walls got used to him. "You're perfect. Fuck, you're perfect"

He couldn’t wait any longer. With no warning he was pounding into you like he meant it. Like a man who’d been dreaming about it for too long and finally got permission to ruin you.

He caged you against his body, his large hands gripped your hips so tight you'd definitely have marks.

You couldn't stop moaning, couldn't even form words. You were just a string of gasps, whimpers, and his name over and over like it was the only thing left in your brain.

"Fucking hell," he groaned, watching your face contort with every thrust. "Such a pretty little mess aren’t you?."

Your nails dragged down his back, trying to keep yourself grounded. But he was hitting that sweet spot with every thrust.

"Harder" you begged in the haze. "Please –fuck, please don't stop."

He growled. Like full on growled. He increased his speed, abusing of his enhanced strength. Your mouth dropped open in a cry, so perfectly wrecked he couldn't help the grin on his face.

"You gonna come for me, baby?" He grunted, feeling that familiar clench around his cock.

You just nodded, biting your lip. But he wasn't having that, he wanted to hear you. He leaned down, teeth grazing your ear.

"Then say it. Say what you say when you think I'm not listening"

Your brain scrambled. "W-what?"

"You know what, say it" he demanded. "Come right on me, wasn't it?"

You gasped, eyes wide as he continued to rearrange your entire system.

"Say it, sweetheart. Or I stop." He threatened, but you shook your head immediately.

You whined, thighs shaking around his waist. "Come ...fuck ... come right on you–"

You got the words mixed up, your brain completely fogged by the pleasure.

"There she is" he groaned, dragging your hips up for a better angle. "There's my filthy girl."

His praise sent your body over the edge, coming so hard it punched the air out of your lungs. And hell, he felt it. Every spasm. Every clench. He swore loud and shoved in deeper, chasing his own high.

"Where did you say you want it, baby? Say it one more time for me.” He panted, losing his rhythm, hips jerking erratically.

"Cum right on m-me" you blurted the right words this time, even while still trembling under him.

He slammed into you once, twice, before pulling out to spill all over your stomach you with a ragged growl, his forehead dropping to your shoulder, hips twitching as he emptied himself on your skin.

For a moment there was just your ragged breathing, and that slick, milky warmth dripping down your abdomen. Half his body weight rested on you, as he breathed on your neck.

"Holy shit" You mumbled, gasping, when he placed a kiss on your shoulder.

Only a few seconds passed.

You barely had time to catch your breath before he was moving up again, feeling his hard dick against your stomach like he didn't just fill you up.

Your eyes fluttered open, confusion clouding your post orgasm haze.

"Wait, John" you panted, "you're still...?"

"Oh, baby" he chucked, flipping you over to press your chest to the mattress. He dragged your ass back to him, slow and possessive. "We're not done yet."

You gasped as he slid back in with one deep thrust, your body was too sensitive, walls fluttering around him as he groaned, gripping your hips tight to steady himself.

"You don't get to talk like that" he said, something darker in his voice now. "Say that filthy shit. Look at me the way you do, like you're ready to drop to your knees in the middle of a mission–"

"J-John" you whimpered, he felt even bigger than before.

"–and expect me to stop after one round?"

He started to move. Long, slow strokes that made your toes curl. Your face pressed to the sheets, moaning like you didn't care if your teammates heard.

"John … it's too good, too much..."

By this point you weren’t thinking clearly anymore, words coming out slurred.

"You can take it" He pushed himself harder. "You told me you could, sweetheart."

You whimpered into the pillow, your body trembling. Every thrust hit deeper, harder, somehow better than before. Pleasure curling up your spine, threatening to drag you over the edge again.

“You have no idea what you’ve been doing to me” he muttered, leaning in closer, his voice brushing the back of your neck. “Or maybe you do. Maybe that’s the whole fucking point.”

You were so close. The overstimulation was making you see stars, enough to make you cry out his name again and again.

"So good for me. Could stay inside you all night." He praised, grunting, his hands roaming your back.

Your body crashed out again, louder this time, absolutely zero control over it, your orgasm ripping through you so hard your vision went white.

He lost it.

You cried out his name one last time as you felt him come again, body twitching while this time he filled you up, muttering curses into your back like he was trying to bury them in your skin.

He stayed like that for a moment, buried deep with uneven breathing, chest on your back. You don’t know how long passed, until he pulled out slowly, a hiss catching in his throat as you whimpered softly under him.

"Sorry, sweetheart" he mumbled, his hand softly rubbing your back, "You okay?"

You nodded, completely blissed out. Couldn’t trust yourself to speak properly at this point.

He kissed the back of your neck, so soft, completely opposite to the way he just wrecked you. You couldn't hold your body up any longer, so he helped you flip around to rest your back on the mattress.

"Still breathing, baby?" he whispered, brushing your hair from your damp face.

You let out faint laugh, your vision finally coming back to normal. "Barely."

"Good, we were just getting started."

━━━━━━━━━━━ ⋆⋅ ♡ ⋅⋆ ━━━━━━━━━━━

Part 2 Have you ever tried this one? 🖤

comments and reblogs save author’s lives, thank you so much for reading <3

#john walker #john f walker #john walker x reader #john walker smut #john walker x y/n #john walker imagine #john walker x you #marvel x reader #marvel imagine #thunderbolts #thunderbolts*#mcu #marvel #marvel smut #john walker defense squad #john walker headcannon #wyatt russell

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hoondrop · 23 days ago

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Gym Boyfriend! Sunghoon Headcanons

1. Post-Workout Tease

He knows the way his tank top clings to his body drives you wild. After a workout, he’s dripping with sweat, veins prominent, shirt practically transparent. He’ll stretch in front of you deliberately and slowly pulling the hem up, abs on full display.

You hate the little smirk he has on his lips as he stands in front of the mirror, knowing full well it makes you absolutely insane.

“Why are you looking at me like that, babe? You wanna cool me down… or work me up?”

2. Locker Room Sexcapades

Sometimes he pulls you into the empty locker room under the guise of 'helping him with cool down stretches.' But the second the door closes, it’s not his hamstrings he’s thinking about.

His warm body often pressing you up against the cool walls of the locker room, his hand slipping up your shirt to toy and circle your nipples.

“You’ve been staring since leg day started. What’s on your mind, baby? My form? Or the way I’ll ruin yours later?”

3. Workout or Foreplay?

He loves when you join him at the gym. Watching you squat or lift something heavy while panting? It flips a switch in him. The second you're back home (or even in the car), he’s all over you.

“That cute little gasp you make when the weights get heavy?" His voice hoarse, hand on your thigh, squeezing the flesh to ground himself.

"I want to hear that sound again. But under me.”

4. Hands-on Training

He'll correct your form from behind, his strong hands on your hips, pressing in a little too close. You can feel his breath on your neck. You already know he’s not really thinking about your posture anymore with how his bulge is grinding against your ass.

Sunghoon leans down, voice soft but firm.

“Back straight. Legs apart. Good girl.. just like I taught you."

5. Goes Full Sunghoon when Alone

He lives for post-workout skin-on-skin contact. Slick, flushed, breathless? Yeah, he has you in his lap while he’s still in his compression shirt, both of you sweaty and desperate? He may be a clean freak but nothing turns him on faster.

Sunghoon's breathy groan echoes around the empty gym, his hands gripping your waist as you bounce on his length, hands on his shoulder to anchor you as you savour the full warm feeling of his cock filling you up so good.

“You smell like me. You feel like mine. Ride me just like that, baby… make the whole gym know who you belong to.”

6. Possessive Gym Rat

You mention another guy helped you adjust your weights, and suddenly Sunghoon’s hovering by your station for the rest of the session. Every time he grips your waist to 'correct' your form, it’s way too tight, and his voice drops an octave.

His eyes are throwing daggers at the man who, minutes ago, was just striking up a friendly conversation; maybe he smiled a bit more than he was supposed to.. his eyes on him, but his voice whispering in your ear.

“If anyone touches you again, I’ll bench press them into the floor. You're mine. Don’t make me remind you in front of everyone.”

7. The Biggest Advocate for Conserving Water

You thought you’d shower separately? Not a chance. He follows you in, corners you under the stream, presses you against the cold tile and makes you breathless while whispering dirty filth into your neck, teeth nipping at the skin as his fingers busy themselves in making you squirt all over.

8. Gym Brat Tamer

You whine that he’s making you do one more rep, and he just leans in with a warning look and a very husky promise.

“You’re whining over five more squats now? but last night you were all for riding my dick for five more rounds, baby.."

#enhypen smut #enhypen #enhypen x reader #sunghoon #park sunghoon #sunghoon smut #sunghoon x reader #park sunghoon smut #jake x reader #heeseung smut #jake smut #heeseung x reader #jungwon smut #jungwon x reader #sunoo smut #sunoo x reader #jay smut #jay x reader

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oreo-creampies · 2 months ago

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𝐡𝐞’𝐬 𝐝𝐲𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐨𝐟 𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: pure intense fluff, kissing, cuddling, squeezing, handsy pouty bastard, insisting you’ve been neglecting him, his is dying and it’s all your fault, how dare you do this to him, he will hold you accountable for your heinous crimes by cuddling you, toji is going soft for you, established relationship

Standing in front of your vanity, slipping your earrings off, sticking them with the rest. Glancing into your vanity mirror when Toji emerges from the bathroom.

Arms crossed over his bare pecs sticking his bottom lip out in his adorable pout. It’s one of your favorite Toji expressions. He huffs, “Finally someone figures where they live.”

He unzips the back of your dress. “You weren’t here!” kissing your shoulder. Slipping it down your body, trailing gentle sloppy kisses down your back. “The house was so empty and cold, I was dying of loneliness little mama.”

Stepping out of your dress, he tossing it into the hamper beside the bedroom door. “Is it even a home without you there?” His warm fingers brushing against your back unclasping your bra, gliding the straps off your shoulders. His touch comforting.

You insist, “Without you this place is just some walls.” Grabbing his hands, kissing his warm palms. Glancing into the mirror, Toji “It’s also not my fault you showed up two days early. Couldn't rush a planned girl’s night for your needy ass.” Turning around sliding your hand over his thick pecs, broad shoulder and into his soft dark hair.

“Im only needy when it comes to you mama. You’re so cruel neglecting me.” Grabbing your ass, lifting you up. Wrapping your legs around his slim waist.

Insisting, “We aren't leaving for the weekend. Tired of seeing everyone’s ugly ass faces and hearing their annoying ass voices.” He kisses the top of your head. “Just need to spend some time with you mama.” Wrapping his arms around your waist, squeezing your tightly.

Wheezing, “I'm all your’s Teddy Bear!” Your back pops several times. Gasping for sweet air when he loosens his gasp.

“Damn right you are.” Kissing along Toji’s jawline, softly biting his pouty bottom lip, melting into his gentle kiss.“It’s not fair mama I can't squeeze you like I want to.” Carrying you through the hallway, towards the living room. “Get good mama, lemme squeeze you tighter.”

“Nah Teddy Bear that’s a you problem.” Squeezing Toji’s slim waist with your legs, tightening your grasp around Toji’s neck. “I can hug you as tight as I want. Ha-ha-haha!” Ripping you off him and throwing you onto the sofa.

“Imma make it your problem little mama.” Carefully falling on top of you, pinning your body with his weight. Resting his head on your chest. “Hahah! Looks whose trapped now! I’m not letting you go anywhere beautiful.”

Pushing himself up, and leaning in for a kiss. “All mine.” Parting your lips, the gentle hunger of his passionate kiss replacing your need for air. Slipping your fingers through his soft dark hair.

When he pulls away, covering your face with kisses. You grin widely, “I missed ya so much teddy bear, I’m all your’s for the rest of the week. I’ll make sure you get sick of me.” Giving your forehead another gentle kiss, squeezing your hips.

It’s comforting having his heavy weight pressing you into the bed. His large strong hands on your body making you feel so safe and protected. His gentle kisses and words ensuring you know how cherished you are.

His cheeks turn pink, spreading across the bridge of his nose, coloring the tips of his ears. “I can never get enough of you.” His eyes widen. “Listen to me, ya made me all mushy, gonna have to hold you responsible. Hmm how should I do that.”

Oreo’s m.list

#jjk #jjk x reader #jjk x you #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen x you #jujutsu kaisen #jjk fluff #jujutsu kaisen fluff #toji fluff #toji x reader #toji fushiguro #fushiguro toji #toji fushiguro x reader #fushiguro toji x reader #toji x y/n #jujutsu kaisen toji #jujutsu toji #toji x you

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abbotjack · 2 months ago

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Put Him on Speaker

summary : Jack gets home from a long night shift, exhausted and unreadable as always. When Robby calls for a quick update, you decide to test his patience—climbing into his lap and pushing until he breaks.

word count : 1,518

a/n : this is for the one anon in my inbox! a bit shorter than usual, expect something with more substance once finals are over next friday unless I procrastinate studying, then you'll get something sooner

content/warning: explicit sexual content, reader giving oral while jack is on the phone with robby, bratty teasing, silent/dom jack, power dynamics, spit/slick/throatplay mentions, phone call tension, implied punishment sex, language, 18+ only MDNI

It’s a few minutes past 7:00 a.m. when Jack finally walks through the door.

You don’t need to check the time—you know it by the rhythm. The precise click of the deadbolt, the hollow knock of his boot hitting hardwood, then the softer drag of the other. Not a limp. Not pain. Just the quiet, practiced gait of a man who’s used to carrying more than he should. He moves slower after shifts like this—like the night didn’t end, just rearranged itself and followed him home in silence.

You listen from the couch as the weight of him settles into the apartment. Keys hit the counter with a dull clatter. His backpack lands against the back of the kitchen chair, the sound muted but final. Then the crack and hiss of a beer bottle opening, followed by a long, scraped-out breath like it’s been sitting in his lungs since midnight.

You don’t get up.

You’re curled sideways in the corner of the couch, legs bare, the hem of one of his old Penguins shirts skimming the tops of your thighs. The blanket’s twisted somewhere near your feet. You’re scrolling absently through your phone, pretending not to track every move he makes with your breath.

You don’t look at him. “Rough night?”

Jack grunts. The kind that says everything and nothing. “Watched a kid try to clamp off an artery with a fucking Kelly.”

You wince, lips twitching. “Oof.”

“I earned this beer.”

You glance over your shoulder, eyes catching on the strain in his jaw. “It’s not even light out. You starting early with the day-drinking and trauma-dumping?”

He snorts, dragging the bottle to his mouth. “Only if you beg me for it.”

You tilt your head, faux-sweet. “Why are you grumpy? I waited up.”

That gets a flicker of softness in his eyes. “You always do.”

You stretch, slow and easy, your shirt riding up your thighs like it has a mind of its own. “I didn’t say I waited nicely.”

His gaze drops. Tracks the length of your legs like a man committing the lines to memory. “Should’ve known.”

You shift, tuck your legs beneath you, chin tipped with interest. “Was it the post-op guy from yesterday?”

Jack rolls his shoulder, still rubbing at the back of his neck like the shift’s clinging to him. “Yeah. McKay was ready to page IR, but Dana stopped her. Mohan flagged the labs hours ago—picked it up before it spiraled. Saved the guy a ton of unnecessary bullshit.”

You smile—just enough to be smug. “So you’re saying Dr. Mohan was right.”

He exhales hard through his nose. “I’m saying she wasn’t wrong.”

Jack crosses the room and drops onto the couch with the kind of full-bodied heaviness that only happens after an overnight in hell. His scrubs are creased, collar damp from scrubbing out, and he smells like antiseptic, cold metal, and the hollow sterility of trauma bay walls. There’s a settled tension in his body, like exhaustion and adrenaline are still playing tug-of-war under his skin.

He leans his head back. Closes his eyes.

The quiet stretches long enough to start sinking in—until his phone buzzes against the armrest.

Jack groans, already bracing. “If that’s Gloria, I swear to Christ—”

He glances at the screen. Jaw flexes. “Robby.”

You raise a brow. “Your work husband calling for pillow talk?”

“He’s covering days,” Jack mutters, already lifting the phone. “Wants to know if the patient made it through the night.”

“You’re off the clock,” you say, sliding easily into his lap. “Can’t it wait?”

He flicks a tired look at you. “Five minutes.”

“You said five minutes last time.”

“This time I mean it.”

You narrow your eyes. “You’re gonna regret that.”

He smirks, but it’s faint. Tired. “You always say that.”

Then he answers, voice shifting in an instant—cool, even, professional. Doctor mode.

“Yeah,” he says. His grip finds your hip as you settle in. “Vitals held. He coded once overnight, but charge caught it early.”

You roll your hips. Just enough to make sure he feels it.

His fingers tighten.

“I left instructions. Hourly monitoring,” he says, like nothing’s happening. Like you’re not already winding him up.

You press your lips to the side of his neck. “You’re really gonna do this whole call while pretending you’re not already hard for me?”

He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t need to. His grip answers for him.

“She’s covering now,” Jack adds, voice sharp, eyes fixed straight ahead.

You slide off his lap, slow and sweet, and kneel between his legs.

Jack’s eyes drop to you. His pupils darken.

He mouths: Don’t.

You mouth: You shouldn’t have answered.

You palm him through his scrubs—feel him twitch, thick and eager under your touch. When you tug the waistband down, he falls heavy into your hand, hot and hard and already leaking against your skin.

“No, I’m listening,” Jack says, but his voice hitches, subtle.

You stroke him once—just a tease. Then lean in and lick a slow line along the underside.

“BP held. No fever. No new complaints,” he grits, every word controlled. Distant. Like you’re not kneeling between his knees with spit on your chin and a grin in your eyes.

You hum around him as you take him into your mouth.

Jack’s voice stumbles. “Still stable. Same overnight.”

You suck slow, deep, obscene. Your hand works what your mouth can’t reach. You pop off with a wet sound and a smirk. “Put him on speaker.”

“No.”

“What, scared he’ll hear how good I make you feel?”

Jack doesn’t look at you. Doesn’t answer. Just grips the phone like it’s the only tether he’s got.

You take him deeper—messier, filthier. Your spit coats everything, dripping from your lips, your chin, your fingers curled tight around the base. He twitches on your tongue, every breath he takes more ragged than the last.

“No,” he says into the phone, voice thinning at the edges. “I’m fine. Just—tired.”

You gag around him on purpose, let it echo wet and obscene. Then pull back slowly, deliberately, looking up through your lashes, mouth shiny and wicked.

“Gonna come with him still listening?”

Jack's hand lifts, covering the phone’s speaker. “Shut the fuck up,” he whispers, barely audible, like it’s carved straight from the edge of control. “Keep going and I swear to God—”

But he never finishes the threat—because you don’t stop. You go harder, meaner, your mouth a mess, your hand slick and ruthless at the base. His cock twitches against your tongue, spit coating everything—your lips, your chin, your fingers. Your throat tightens around him, your jaw aching, but you don’t let up.

Jack’s other hand fists the cushion, knuckles bone-white. His chest is rising fast now, breath sharp and uneven, like he’s losing the fight he won’t admit he’s in. Like you're dragging him under, and he’s letting you.

“Yeah,” he bites out. “Just send the labs—I’ll deal with it later.”

He looks down at you, jaw tight, breath shallow, eyes dark with a fury that barely masks how hard he is for you.

“Robby—I’ve gotta call you back.”

“Everything alright?” Robby asks.

Jack’s voice drops an octave. “It will be.”

He hangs up.

Then he looks down at you.

And everything in his face is wrecked.

"You’re in so much fucking trouble.”

You moan around him, smug.

He thrusts once—deep, sudden, overwhelming. You choke, recover, and go harder.

You’re a mess—slurping, gagging, swallowing around him like it’s the only thing you’ve ever been good at. He’s pulsing now, hips twitching, mouth slack.

“Shit—baby—fuck—I’m gonna—”

You suck him deeper. Tighter. He breaks.

His whole body jerks forward. He comes down your throat with a raw, guttural groan. You swallow every last drop.

He breathes like he’s just come up for air, chest rising in sharp, broken pulls. You don’t stop—not until his thigh jerks beneath you and his hand clamps around your wrist, firm and final, forcing you to still.

You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand. Catch your breath.

Then you crawl back into his lap, smug as hell, lips swollen and slick, like you didn’t just make a mess of him on purpose.

Jack doesn’t speak. Just grabs your chin in one firm hand and drags you into a kiss—slow, punishing, laced with quiet vengeance.

Then, low in your ear, deadly calm: “If he calls back,” he growls, “I’m putting you on speaker. Let him hear how desperate you sound when you’re acting like a fucking brat.”

He shifts beneath you, hand sliding down to grip your waist tight, grounding himself.

“You think you’ve won,” he murmurs, voice dark and steady. “But you’re not even close to finished.”

He leans in, breath searing the shell of your ear. “Get up. Strip. Face down on the couch.”

Your breath stalls. Heart pounds. He hasn’t raised his voice once. Doesn’t need to.

“I let you have your little game,” he murmurs, all quiet. “Now it’s my turn.”

#the pitt #jack abbot x reader #dr abbot #shawn hatosy #the pitt fanfiction #the pitt x reader #jack abbot #jack abbot fanfiction #dr abbot x you #dr abbot x reader #the pitt hbo

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thebestandworstdayofjune · 1 month ago

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you can hear it in the silence

summary: you have had an insane crush on Clark since he moved to metropolis, but thank god he has no idea about the way he makes your heart skip a bear every time he smiles (honey, you've got a big storm comin') wc: 1k+ a/n: Please feel free to send any requests my way! warnings: general fluff, reader owns a bookstore, reader has no idea about clark's powers, as always the title is from a Taylor Swift song- sue me

“It’s not a big deal, Clark.” you insist, phone squished between your ear and your shoulder.

“It’s a big deal to me.” he insists, an unusual heaviness to his voice.

“It will take a while, but I'll manage, I mostly just called to complain.” You surveyed the boxes stacked up in front of the storefront, hands on your hips and a frown playing at the corner of your lips. When your grandmother had left you her quaint bookstore in downtown Metropolis, you had half a mind to sell it off to the first interested buyer. You’d gone as far as contacting a realtor, but cancelled the first showing at the last minute.

Too much of your childhood was nestled in between the children’s books and the non fiction shelves, too many memories of your grandmother hosting story time and holding copies of the new releases you’ve been dying for to be able to part with it.

You’d given everyone the day off, a few employees were headed to a festival in the park, someone was on a family vacation and overall, it was meant to be a slow day at the shop. And it was, until the delivery man left you with 30 hulking boxes of new release hard covers. Worse yet, it looked like it was going to rain.

“I’m on my break, I’ll head over.”

It was pointless, to argue, once Clark had an idea in his head, he was stubborn. But you were a bit of a slow learner. “By the time you get here your break is going to be awful. I’m sure that traffic is terrible because of the festival.”

“You have such little faith in me!” you turned to find Clark a ways down the block, arms stretched out, his suit just a big too big on his frame. His hair was windswept, glasses slightly crooked perched on his nose. He jogged towards you, a goofy smile on his face.

“How do you keep doing this?” If you didn’t know better, you would swear that Clark was psychic. He was somehow always exactly where you needed him to be.

Clark slung an arm around your shoulders, pulling you tight against his side for a moment. “Just gifted I guess.” He gave you another squeeze before releasing you and stepping back to assess the situation. “You sure you ordered enough?”

You playfully shoved him, but he didn’t even wobble. Clark had been your rock ever since he moved into the city. You’d been close falling off a ladder, stretching to dust the top of a shelf when the ladder had begun to tilt. He’d tripped over a stack of books on the way, but he managed to prop the ladder back upright, you along with it. “We have that signing in a couple weeks, didn’t want to run out.”

All he did was nod, shrugging off his suit jacket that somehow was just a bit too big for his frame and rolled up the sleeves of his white button down. “We’ll take care of it,” he said, voice sure. And with the way he managed to lift three of the boxes as if they were full of pillows, you were inclined to believe him.

It had taken the two of you all of five minutes to get everything inside, not that Clark had allowed you to move more than the first box. “You make a way better doorman anyways.” He joked without malice. You were leaning up against the counter, your shoulder bumping into his arm.

“Don’t say I never do anything for you, Clark.”

“I never would.” Your gaze was fixed firmly on the floor, but you could feel the intensity in his gaze burning into the side of your head, regardless. You settle for leaning a bit of your weight against him, taking comfort in his arm wrapping around your shoulders, pulling you close.

“Wait,” you turned, nearly crawling across the counter to wake up the computer sitting on the other side of the counter. “You’re going to be late!”

“When have I ever been late?” you could hear the laughter in his voice, but you ignored it in favor of grabbing his bag and slinging it over his shoulder. You grabbed his shoulders, and mercifully he let you guide him to the door. You knew from past experience if he didn’t want to go, there was no way to move him.

“Last week, I was stranded at the Thai place down the street!”

He stopped dead in his tracks, leaning against the doorway and pushing the curls resting on his forehead away with the back of his hand. He grinned, his eyes crinkling at the sides. “For how long?”

“That’s not the point, you presented the information as an objective truth!” you resisted the urge to stomp your foot, he was already looking pointedly at your crossed arms and making the face he does when he’s trying not to laugh in your face.

“I asked a question, I think the trouble lies in your interpretation.” He was leaning down to meet your eyes, and you were thankful there was no way he could hear the way your heart was pounding. "And it was only five minutes."

You shoved him gently, ignoring the fact that he didn’t so much as wobble. “You’re going to be late, go!” You both paused, the moment heavy between you. All you could focus on was the rise and fall of his chest under your hands for a few moments. One of his hands rested over both of yours, squeezing briefly before stepping back and letting your hands drop.

“Be careful on the ladder this time.”

“Go!”

He lingered for a few moments longer, giving you a final once over before nodding to himself and spinning on his heel. After a few steps, he turned around to face you, his head sticking up above the crowd of people on the sidewalk. “We still on for dinner?”

“Late!” you laughed, waving him off. He raised his eyebrows, unphased by the people forced to part around him. “Yes! Now go!”

You stood in the doorway, watching him duck and dodge the other pedestrians for longer than you would admit, thankful that he hadn’t turned and caught you.

Unfortunately for you, even in a crowd of people with his back turned, he couldn’t help but be aware of you. You just didn’t know it yet.

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connorsui · 3 months ago

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The scent of you lingers—soft, sweet, utterly misplaced amidst the steel and stone that make up his world. Jasmine and rosewater, clinging to the heavy hush of the corridor, weaving itself into the fabric of his being, staining him with something he will never wash away.

He should not breathe it in, should not let it settle in his lungs like something vital, like something he could not live without. And yet, here he stands, motionless, a knight undone by the mere presence of his queen.

You are close. Too ... close.

The space between you is a fragile thing, thin as the lace that drapes over your arms, as delicate as the breath that catches in your throat when his gloved hand twitches at his side, as if longing—aching—to reach for you. The flickering torchlight casts golden embers against your skin, makes a halo of your hair, tricks his mind into thinking you are something divine, something holy. And perhaps you are.

Lace whispers against cold metal as you lift a hand, fingers tracing the ridges of his armor with a familiarity that should not exist. A tenderness that should not be his to claim.

"You stand before me, silent as ever," you murmur, tilting your head, your gaze searching his with something unspoken. "Tell me, my love, has your tongue forsaken you?"

A slow exhale. You are toying with him, as you always do—sharp and knowing, your power lying not in the crown you bear but in the way you speak his name as though it is something sacred. He should not indulge this, should not stand here beneath your touch, should not let his resolve fracture like glass beneath your fingertips. And yet, he does.

"You tempt fate," he says finally, voice low, reverent.

A confession. A warning.

"And yet, it is all I have left."

His breath catches. The weight of your words settles heavy in the space between you, a truth neither of you wish to name. The world will take everything from you—has already begun to. The court has spoken. The match has been made. Soon, you will belong to another, to some noble born into a name that carries weight, to a man who will sit beside you on the throne that he himself has bled for.

Yet you reach for him.

Your fingers brush the worn leather at his shoulder, linger where armor meets flesh, as if you could undo him with a touch alone. And God help him, you can.

"Tell me you do not love me," you whisper, voice steady but for the way your fingers tremble against him. "Tell me your heart belongs only to your duty, and I will go. I will leave you to your honor, to your kingdom, to whatever lies ahead without me."

His jaw tightens. He sways, barely perceptible, as if your words have struck him like a blade to the chest. It would be the right thing to do, would it not?

To let you go? To be the man honor demands he be?

But honor has never known the way your voice softens when you say his name. Honor has never felt the warmth of your hand in his, delicate and desperate and pleading. Honor has never stood in the shadows, torn between love and duty, between a kingdom and the only thing that has ever truly belonged to him.

"No," he breathes, bowing his head, his voice raw with everything he has refused to say. "No, my beloved. My heart is yours, now and always."

A queen must wed. A knight must serve.

And yet, in this stolen moment, he falls to his knees before you—not as a knight, not as a man sworn to duty—but as the only fool who has ever loved you as you deserve.

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comatosebunny09 · 4 months ago

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drowning | sylus

— summary: sometimes, you don’t realize you’re drowning until it’s too late. he’s always there to throw you a life preserver when you need it. — cw: depression, anxiety, self-deprecating thoughts, mild angst, comfort, mild language, sylus is a big ol’ softie — notes: i felt heavy today. i needed to escape to my delusions to get through it. thanks for reading. — now playing: chaconne - enhypen

You, but refusing to get out of bed because the world’s too heavy a burden to bear right now.

You try to encourage yourself to at least shower—you smell like depression and yesterday’s outside clothes. Sometimes, that’s enough to lift your spirits. The motivation of a warm spray unfurling the knots in your shoulders.

You try to force yourself to get up and eat—you like to eat. Your stomach’s screaming at you. You haven’t had shit since lunch yesterday, and it feels like something’s sinking its claws into your stomach and pulling down.

But that’s not enough to get you out of bed. It’s the safest place for you right now. It doesn’t ask questions, doesn’t doubt you, doesn’t admonish you for the one wrong thing you do against twenty other rights. And you’re bundled up like a little sulking burrito in your comforter, refusing to do more than turn over and pray for sleep to tug you under.

However, sleep’s lulling embrace never comes,

Your thoughts are too much to deal with. Everything is too much. Caving in. You know it’s best for you to be around people. To reach out, but you’ll feel even shittier for dumping your problems on your friends, no matter how much they tell you they’re more than happy to listen. No matter how much you try to solve everyone else’s problems for them.

Besides, you don’t want to look weak. You hate it when people worry about you. You’re a pillar of strength for most everyone in your life. How are you going to take care of everyone else when you can’t even get yourself together?

Your phone buzzes by your pillow for the umpteenth time. You squint against its brightness, the jarring blue light the only source of color in your dark room. You have no sense of time. Don’t have to look at your screen to know he’s calling you again.

You’ve been avoiding him like a sickness since you got off work yesterday—another person you don’t want to drag into your caldron of misery.

You shove your phone under your pillow after silencing it, cocooning yourself deeper into your blanket and the turmoil of your mind. You’ll be better tomorrow, you promise. You always snap back after a day or two. Then you’re back to being the bright and obnoxious source of optimism everyone knows and loves.

You’ll talk to him later. When you’re better and not a husk of yourself, and your stomach isn’t empty while your brain is too full.

Too bad he has no intention of waiting for you to get your shit together.

Your bedroom door creaks open.

You turn away from it, curling up into a little hissing ball as the artificial light of your hallway spills in. Your thick, shag rug swallows the sounds of weighted footsteps. They near the edge of your bed, and you shut your eyes tight, receding further into your comforter.

A tongue clicks in disdain, a heavy presence looming over you. Your stomach lurches when the familiar drag of his voice permeates through the comforter.

“So this is where you’ve been hiding.” There’s a note of humor buried deep beneath the chiding, the concern.

You stiffen in response. He takes your silence as his cue to carry on with making you feel even shittier.

“Is there a reason you’ve been more difficult to get a hold of than the President?”

You flinch as if physically struck. You hate when he talks to you like that. Like there’s a lecture churning in the clouds, rolling over the horizon.

You swallow, realizing how fucking dry your throat is. Your lips quiver, struggling to form around words, also cracked and crusted with small flecks of blood. When’s the last time you had water?

“Go away,” you meekly manage.

The room’s other occupant huffs something offended. “I came all this way to check on you, and this is how you repay me? Your ability to discard me when you no longer find me useful is…assuring.”

You release a weighted sigh. Shaky. You don’t intend to be mean. You just…don’t want him to see you like this. Especially not him.

You spend some time in thick silence, listening to your heart thrum. And it is then you realize it’s raining outside. He came all this way in the rain? Well, fuck.

Your mattress dips under his weight. A gentle hand falls onto your ankle, thumb smoothing over the jut of bone there through layers of goose feather. You hear him swallow. Picture him, a hulking mass of silver and intimidation, trying to approach you without exacerbating things.

“Sweetie, what’s wrong?” he asks, cautious like you’re a cornered animal he’s afraid to scare off.

Your stomach pulls. Again, you despise sympathy. Making people fret over you, especially when it’s him. You’ve spent most of your life fending for yourself. Putting on this fake mask of optimism. He’s got his own things to worry about without you adding one more hardship to his life.

You remain silent, and he presses. Spindly fingers crawl beneath the comforter, seeking out the smooth glide of your skin. Your calf. He rubs soothingly. Your instincts tell you to pull away, but the warmth of his palm is grounding—an anchor in the face of a tidal wave threatening to wash you away.

“Talk to me. Please. I haven’t heard from you all night. Not a word today. I tried to give you space. But I was worried.”

And there it is. The nail driven into the coffin.

It’s not intentional, but you sink deeper regardless, that gnarling feeling twisting up your gut. A warm film of tears washes over your eyes. You tamp it down, shove away the frustration. Your voice strains.

“I’m alright, Sy. Just tired.”

You feel him turn on the bed, his knee nudging your back. His hand slides to your hip where he kneads it between careful fingers.

“I don’t believe that.”

You scoff, the sound of it sticky. Of course, he doesn’t. You can’t fool him. He’s too smart for his own good. Sometimes knows you better than you know yourself.

Before you can think, he’s curling around you. Notches his pelvis up against your bottom, tangling your legs together, dragging you closer against the hard press of his body, into the circle of his arms. You owlishly blink as he slots his chin in the junction of your shoulder. Want to laugh because you’re a complicated mess of limbs and bedsheets.

You smell him even through the thick layers of your comforter. He smells like petrichor, spring, and stale cologne. The warmth he exudes is dizzying. Comforting, causing your lids to grow heavy.

He breathes deep behind you. Hums low in his throat, voice vibrating your back and playing up your spine like a xylophone. You contemplate wriggling out of his embrace. You don’t deserve his sympathy—his pity. But his embrace around your middle is possessive as if to convey, I’m right here and I’m not going anywhere.

“You don’t have to tell me what’s on your mind,” he says, voice steeping low, gritty like sand caught between your toes after a day on the beach. He presses full lips against the slope of your jaw.

“But know that whatever storm you’re weathering, you don’t have to endure it alone.”

That’s the dam-breaker.

Tears spring to your eyes faster than you can think. A bitter sob forces its way past your lips. Why does he have to be so fucking sweet?

He holds you tighter as your body shakes. As you let go of everything you’ve been holding in for the past few months. Strokes reassurance into your stomach with his thumbs, nuzzling further into the hollow of your shoulder. Whispers words of encouragement and it’s alright’s in between your hiccups and apologies.

He doesn’t let go even long after your tears have dried up, and the rain’s let up outside. You feel sleep nipping at your psyche, at the edges of your vision. Maybe you just needed a good cry to tire you out. Open up those floodgates of contaminated water you’ve been fighting to contain.

But before you sink under, your boyfriend softly murmurs in your ear, “Ah ah ah. I bet you haven’t showered all day. I can smell it.”

You reach back to pinch his hip, a scowl screwing up your face as his chest shakes with affectionate laughter. You roll your eyes and wrench yourself free of his embrace. Snatch the blanket off your head—it was getting hot under there, anyway.

Sylus moves to the edge to draw you between his legs, a disarming smile cresting over his lips as he holds you at the waist. “There’s my girl,” he croons, pressing your foreheads together. Kisses you quick, but it's enough to leave you breathless.

You let him lead you to your bathroom to wash up. He leaves you to your own devices as the shower’s comforting spray washes over your skin. You lather up with your favorite body wash, the scent working as a soothing balm over your nerves.

He has your favorite robe and slippers waiting for you when you get out. Sits you on top of the toilet to dry your hair off. Maybe he uses a little too much leave-in conditioner, but he’s smiling all fond as he detangles your hair the way you taught him before taking his time blowdrying your hair.

He drags you into your kitchen for your favorite takeout. Entertains you with stories about the twins running him ragged. When you’re full and laughing and your cheeks ache from smiling so much, he holds you in your bed until your eyes grow heavy again. Hums something lucid, raspy.

“Sy,” you say with your back to him, voice weighed with sleep.

“Hmm? Yes, sweetheart?” he replies, lazily pulling at some strands of your hair. It feels good, pushing you further under.

“Thank you.”

You hear the smile in his voice. “Of course, sweetheart. Anything for you.”

#sylus x reader #sylus x you #love and deepspace sylus #lnds sylus #lads sylus #sylus #l&ds sylus #sylus qin #sylus angst #sylus fluff #love and deepspace fic #tw: depression #tw: anxiety

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littlelovelunette · 3 months ago

Text

Lifting

Sevika x Pregnant!Reader

You had been quite moody during your pregnancy. The world seemed so unfair to you and no one seemed to understand the problems you were facing whether it was getting up or sitting down. Helping you out was only met with a snappy retort of “Are you underestimating me!?”

This morning was no different. You stirred the spoon in your teacup idly, your front facing the kitchen counter. You had back pain but didn't dare complain. Sevika would put you to utter bedrest, possibly.

“Good morning, baby.” Sevika grumbled, voice still groggy from sleep as she walked into the kitchen. “Already got your morning tea?” She asked as she moved around to make herself some coffee.

“Mhm.” You hummed in response.

Sevika took note how you didn't greet her good morning or even turned to face her. You seemed far into thought as you mindlessly stirred the spoon. “You okay?” Sevika asked, setting the coffee mug down.

You didn't answer immediately, taking a slow sip of your tea instead.

“If the baby looks completely like you, you're doing all diaper duty.” you suddenly said, causing a slight grimace on Sevika's face.

“Diapers? What's that?” She feigned cluelessness as she shook her head with a chuckle.

“I'm serious.” You said, taking a slow sip of your tea before sighing and putting the mug down. “Why do kids have to grow so much in the belly?” you complained and placed the now empty mug in the sink.

“I can only imagine, she must be heavy.” Sevika walked up behind you, placing her big hands over your baby bump, smoothing out the fabric of your nightgown.

You nodded, leaning your head back against her shoulder. Then you felt the most heavenly thing ever. Sevika lifted your baby bump, cradling your stomach in her big hands with ease.

“Geez, she's actually heavy.” Sevika murmured, taking the full weight of your baby bump in her hands. “Oh, it feels good.” You said, finally cracking a genuine smile in the whole week.

Sevika chuckled at your reaction, adjusting her grip slightly to make sure she was supporting you properly. “Damn, you really needed that, huh?” she mused, pressing a kiss against your temple.

You sighed in contentment, closing your eyes for a moment. “Yeah… my back has been killing me. You might have to do this every day from now on.”

“Oh? So now I’m your personal belly support?” Sevika teased, but there was no bite to her words—just that familiar, amused lilt in her voice.

“Absolutely,” you shot back without hesitation, tilting your head up to meet her gaze.

She smirked, shifting her hands slightly so she could rub gentle circles over your stomach. “Fine, but if she comes out looking like me, diaper duty is off the table.”

You groaned dramatically. “That is not how it works—”

A sudden, strong kick against Sevika’s palm made you both freeze.

“Well, damn,” Sevika murmured, eyes wide as she glanced down. “She’s got a hell of a kick already.”

“She’s your kid, after all.” You smirked.

Sevika huffed, shaking her head. “Let’s just hope she doesn’t inherit my temper.”

You snorted. “Too late.”

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millermouth · 5 months ago

Note

Could you do bicep choking 🌚🙈

Daryl Dixon x Reader Grip

Summary: You let something slip—just a thought, just a passing comment—but Daryl hasn’t been able to shake it since. A week later, the tension between you reaches a breaking point. tags: smut MDNI 18+, awkward pining, pinv, breast play, praise kink. awkward daryl & fmc, bicep choking obvi a/n: hello my love! thank you so much for this request and for your patience. in a second ask, anon did specify that they meant Daryl bicep choking. fair warning, I did not reread this a ton / proofread much. please lmk of any mistakes/errors!

The sun hangs low over the trees, heat pressing in heavy as you weave through the abandoned gas station, boots crunching softly over broken glass. Daryl moves a few steps ahead, bow slung across his back, knife in hand, moving with that effortless quiet of his. Always aware. Always in control.

And his arms.

You tell yourself you’re just paying attention—watching his movements like he watches everything else around him, staying alert. But your gaze keeps catching on the shift of muscle beneath his skin, the way his forearms flex when he grips his knife, the lazy tension in his biceps every time he lifts his arm to wipe sweat off his brow.

You shouldn’t be looking.

But it’s hard not to.

Especially when he plants a boot on a fallen shelf, using his weight to pry open a rusted metal door. The strain makes his muscles coil tight, veins standing out just enough to make you swallow hard.

"Well?" His voice snaps you out of it.

You blink. "What?"

Daryl jerks his chin toward the darkened storage room behind the door. "You goin’ in first or what?"

Shit. You’ve been staring.

"Yeah. Right. On it."

You step past him, ears burning. The space inside smells like old rot and motor oil, a few overturned boxes scattered around. You crouch, rifling through some supplies, heart still kicking too fast. It’s stupid. You’ve been on runs with him before. But something about today—the heat, the silence between you, the way he’s been rolling his shoulders like his muscles are wound too tight—has you hyper-aware of every damn thing he does.

A tin of peaches clatters loose from a shelf, and you reach for it at the same time he does. Your fingers barely brush his, but the contact is enough to send a jolt up your arm, like static crackling under your skin. He pauses. Just for a second. And when he draws back, you swear you catch the flicker of his gaze sweeping over you before he looks away.

You can feel your pulse in your throat.

You should let it go. Should get back to work. But the words are out before you can stop them.

"You ever—" You hesitate, pulse hammering, but you push through. "You ever, I don’t know, choke somebody with your arms before?"

Daryl stops. Slowly, he turns his head toward you, eyes narrowing just slightly. His bicep shifts as he adjusts his grip on the tin in his hand. "The hell kinda question is that?"

Shiiiit. You fucked up.

But instead of retreating, you force yourself to keep looking at him, tilting your chin up just a little. "I just mean, you’re strong." A shrug, like it’s no big deal. "Bet you could hold somebody down real easy."

Silence.

Then, Daryl exhales through his nose, shaking his head. But there’s something in his expression—something flickering behind his eyes, sharp and considering.

He tosses the tin into your hands and mutters, "You’re weird." and walks away.

═════════════════════════

Back at the prison, dinner is quiet, the usual hum of conversation mixed with the occasional scrape of utensils against tin plates. Most people are too tired to talk much, a day of tending to the gardens, cleaning out cell blocks and keeping walkers at bay making everyone look forward to the slower evenings. The air in the hall feels thick with the kind of exhaustion that settles deep, making everything feel slow, heavy.

You should be eating, but your stomach isn’t interested.

Because Daryl’s staring at you.

You haven’t looked at him, not really since you got back, but you can feel it. That steady weight from across the room, the burning of your ears, it makes it almost impossible to keep your stomach from doing somersaults.

You should’ve kept your mouth shut on the run. Should’ve swallowed the words down, let them die in your throat. But no—you had to go and say it. Maybe it was your stupid hormones, the way he seemed to speak to some primal part of you that evolution put in your dna, maybe it was just some stupid impulse you couldn’t control. Either way, it’s too late now.

Not like it meant anything.

Except, if it didn’t, why was he still looking at you?

Your fingers tighten around your fork, but you don’t move to take another bite. Instead, you stare at the food on your plate, willing yourself to focus on anything other than the way your face feels too warm, the way your pulse is pressing a little harder than it should.

Maggie shifts in her seat, nudging Beth’s arm. “You good?”

You blink, glance up. Beth tilts her head, studying you, while Maggie smirks like she already knows something you don’t.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost today or somethin’,” Maggie says, “The run go that bad?”

“N-no,” you stammer, already feeling the heat rise to your cheeks, “It went fine. Got a lotta good stuff, actually.”

Maggie hums, unconvinced, and you watch as her eyes flicker behind you when she says, looking back at her plate, “Looks like someone’s got a little crush.”

The fork slips from your fingers, clattering against the plate, “I do not!”

But your reaction is what does it– it’s too sharp, too defensive. Beth startles a little, but Maggie just stares, slow realization spreading across her face as you lock eyes with her.

“I was only kiddin’." she says incredulously, "I meant the grouchy archer sittin' across the room, he keeps starin’ atcha.” she shakes her head, eyes lighting up. “But I see I’ve been mistaken.” She leans in. “You like Daryl?”

Your stomach drops.

Beth gasps, slapping Maggie’s arm. “Oh my god.”

Your face is on fire. “I don’t—”

Maggie grins. “Holy shit, you totally do.”

Beth’s trying to stifle a giggle. You shake your head fast, like that’ll help, like it’ll undo the last five seconds, but it only makes Maggie look even more certain. You can feel the walls closing in, feel their eyes on you, but worse—you can still feel his.

It’s too much. You push your plate away and mutter a quiet, “Not hungry anymore,” before standing and heading for the stairs, their laughter echoing behind you.

You don’t look back, because if you were to turn around and find those ocean blue eyes still on you, it would be your undoing.

═════════════════════════

The book in your hands is old, pages yellowed and brittle at the edges, the spine cracked so deep you have to be careful when you turn the pages. You’re not even sure what it’s about. Something about a man lost at sea. Maybe.

You’ve been staring at the same paragraph for the last ten minutes.

It’s not that it’s boring. It’s just that your mind refuses to focus.

You shift on your cot, tugging the blanket over your lap, trying again, but it’s useless. Your brain keeps circling back, over and over, to dinner. To Maggie’s knowing grin, Beth’s giggles, and—worst of all—Daryl.

You squeeze your eyes shut, exhaling sharply. You should’ve never said anything. Should’ve kept that stupid thought locked away where it belonged.

A quiet scuff of boots outside your cell makes your stomach jolt. There’s a pause, then a hesitant knock against the frame of your open door. Not loud or rushed, more like a question.

You look up.

Daryl stands in the doorway, hands shoved deep into his pockets, head slightly ducked. His shoulders are hunched, like he’s already thinking about leaving before he’s even fully stepped inside.

For a moment, neither of you say anything.

Then, he clears his throat. “Didn’t know ya read.”

You blink. It’s such a small thing to say, but something about the way he says it, like he’s searching for an easy way in, trying to settle into the conversation, makes your stomach tighten.

You glance at the book in your lap. “Yeah. Helps pass the time.”

Daryl nods, his eyes flicking around the small space of your cell, like he’s looking for something else to comment on, something to delay whatever it is he actually came here for. Between your haphazardly taped posters and handmade streamers, he doesn’t find anything, so instead, he shifts his weight from one foot to the other, exhales through his nose, then finally says:

“That thing you asked me.”

Your stomach drops. Of course. You should’ve known that was why he was here.

Your fingers tighten around the book, but you shake your head quickly. “Forget it. I shouldn’t have said anything. I’m sorry if I made you–”

“You think I can?” he asks, huffing.

You frown. “Think you can what?”

His jaw tenses, and when he speaks again, it’s lower. Almost cautious. “Forget it.”

Your breath catches slightly.

He shrugs, but it’s not casual. It’s forced. “Ain’t exactly somethin’ you just let go of.”

Your chest feels too tight all of a sudden. You can’t quite place the look on his face—something careful, something guarded, like he’s trying not to let on that it’s been sitting in the back of his head since you said it. What went through his mind when you asked him?

You shift on your cot, swallowing. “Daryl, I didn’t mean anything by it.”

His gaze flickers, just barely. “Yeah?”

You nod, but something in the way he’s looking at you makes your throat dry out. He still doesn’t seem convinced.

“You think that’s what I am?” His voice is quiet, but there’s an edge there, frustration starting to rise in his voice. “Some kinda animal? The kind of man who would kill someone with–” he shakes his head slightly, jaw clenching. “You think I’m like that?”

The realization hits you hard. Your stomach twists. “Daryl, no,” you say quickly, sitting up straighter. “That’s not—”

He shakes his head again, looking at the floor. “Wouldn’t blame ya.”

Your heart kicks against your ribs. “That’s not what I meant.”

Daryl exhales, folding his arms over his chest, still avoiding your eyes. “Then what did you mean?”

You hesitate. Because now he’s looking at you. Not guarded, not distant—just waiting.

Your fingers press into the book in your lap. This is your chance to brush it off. Laugh it away. But you can already feel the heat creeping up your face, and Daryl is still standing there, still waiting, and if you don’t say it now, he’s just going to keep thinking the worst.

You shift slightly. “I meant…” Your throat feels tight. “I meant in bed.”

Daryl blinks.

His whole body stiffens, like his brain short-circuited, like the words hit him sideways and he can’t quite recover. His face is already turning red, slow at first, then creeping all the way up to his ears.

Your own face burns, and you clear your throat, pushing through the embarrassment. “I meant—if you’d ever choked someone in bed. With your arms.”

A silence falls over the room. A long, unbearable silence.

Daryl shifts, dragging a hand over his mouth. He scratches the back of his head, looks anywhere but at you.

Finally, he exhales, mutters, “Jesus,” under his breath, then huffs out a quiet, almost nervous laugh.

Your stomach clenches. “I know. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

He shakes his head, rubbing a hand over his face. “That’s—uh. That’s what ya meant?”

You nod quickly, still burning. “Yeah.”

Daryl looks at you for a second. His fingers flex slightly at his sides, like he’s thinking too hard about where to put them.

Then, after a long pause—his voice comes out quieter.

“You’d want me to?”

Your stomach drops.

Your eyes snap to his. “What?”

Daryl shrugs, but it’s forced, like he’s trying to play off how red his face still is. “I dunno. Just—” His mouth twitches slightly, like he can’t believe he’s even saying this. “Sounded like somethin’ you were real curious about.”

Your breath catches.

He’s not teasing, not quite—but there’s something in the way he says it, something light, something almost amused. Like he’s surprised at himself, surprised at you, but now that he’s said it, he’s not taking it back.

Your mouth opens, then closes again. Your hands are way too warm.

“I wouldn’t—” you swallow. “I wouldn’t not want you to.”

Daryl huffs out another soft laugh, shaking his head, glancing toward the hall like he’s wondering how the hell this conversation ended up here.

Then he looks back at you, eyes a little sharper now, lips twitching.

The heat in your face flares as he just chuckles under his breath, rubbing at his jaw before he steps back toward the door.

“Get some sleep,” he says, still smirking.

He turns, but not before you catch it—just the slightest flicker of something in his expression.

Something knowing. Something interested.

And when he finally walks away, you can’t do anything except stare at the empty doorway and try to remember how to breathe.

═════════════════════════

The past week has been unbearable.

It’s not like anything has happened, not really. No one has said anything, no lines have been crossed, but the air between you and Daryl hasn’t been the same since that night in your cell.

It’s in the way his eyes catch on you more often now. The way he lingers a little too long before walking away. The way your skin prickles when he’s nearby, too aware of the space he takes up, too aware of how small you feel in comparison.

And now, you’re on another run together.

“Last one went well,” Rick had said, shoving packs toward both of you. “Might as well stick with what works.”

The drive into town is quiet. Neither of you talk much, just like last time, but it’s not the same. There’s a different kind of weight, and you’re grateful that the open road on the motorcycle leaves little conversation to be said over its echoing roar.

When you finally reach an old pharmacy on the outskirts, the sun is starting to climb higher in the sky, heat burning your neck and the pavement glimmering.

Inside, dust clings to everything, thick in the air. It smells stale, like old paper and time left to rot. Shelves are overturned, bottles and boxes scattered across the floor.

You do your job, scanning for anything useful, but your focus keeps slipping.

Because every time you glance up, Daryl is there.

He’s not doing anything different. Not saying anything. Just moving through the space like he always does—quiet, efficient. But somehow, it feels like every single movement is deliberate. Like every shift of muscle under his skin is something you shouldn’t be watching, but you are.

The dust-covered counter at the back of the building gives you something to focus on, something to do besides thinking about the weight of Daryl’s gaze. You hop over the counter and crouch down, scanning the lowest shelf, rifling through half-empty boxes of medication, checking for anything still worth taking back.

A prickle of awareness crawls up the back of your neck.

It’s not the usual kind of awareness you get on a run, not the instinct that tells you someone—or something— dangerous is lurking nearby. It’s different. Warmer. Closer.

When you stand, a bottle of pills in your hand, you nearly jump out of your skin.

Daryl is right there, barely a foot away, standing between you and the only way out.

Your breath stutters. He doesn’t usually get this close without reason.

He’s blocking the exit, but it doesn’t feel like he’s trapping you—it feels like he’s stopping himself from walking away. His weight shifts between his feet, his arms twitch like they want to cross, but he doesn’t move, just watches you with something unreadable in his eyes.

Your fingers tighten around the bottle in your hand. “Wha—what’s up?”

Daryl doesn’t answer at first. He just looks at you, quiet and considering, something simmering beneath the surface. His teeth catch against the corner of his lip for a second, his fingers flex at his sides, but it’s like he still hasn’t worked out how to say whatever it is that’s sitting heavy on his chest.

Then he exhales through his nose and mutters, “Can’t stop thinkin’.”

His voice is rough, like the words have been stuck in his throat all day.

Your pulse jumps. “Thinking... about what?”

He shifts again on uneven footing, glancing toward the counter before dragging his gaze back to you. The moment stretches, thick enough to smother, before he finally speaks again.

“Since last time,” he mutters, voice quieter now. Your stomach flips. He shakes his head, almost to himself. “You got me all fucked up, girl.”

It’s not frustration, not really—it’s more like exhaustion, like he’s tired of pretending that something between you hasn’t changed. And when he steps forward, closing the last bit of space between you, your body reacts before your brain catches up.

Your back hits the wall behind you.

The old metal shelving is cool against your skin, a sharp contrast to the heat rolling off him. He’s so close now, close enough that you catch the faint scent of pine and sweat clinging to him, close enough that every nerve in your body locks up, unsure whether to tense or melt.

His arms come up, hands bracing against the metal on either side of you, and suddenly you can’t look anywhere but at him.

Your breath feels too shallow.

Daryl dips his head slightly, breath warm against your cheek, and you hear the way he inhales, slow and deep, smelling the remnants of the apple shampoo you used days ago.

“S’not like I haven’t thought of ya before.”

A shiver runs down your spine, and your lips part, but you don’t know what to say. You can barely think straight with him this close, his voice this low. He smells of musk and leather and summer sunshine, something distinctly masculine and Daryl all at once. His words sink in, heavy and real, and before you can even process them, he huffs a quiet breath, shaking his head against the side of yours.

“Thought of ya a lot, actually.”

Your stomach twists, heat flaring under your skin.

Daryl pulls back just enough to look at you, and that’s when you see it—the way his pupils are blown, the way his breath comes slow and measured like he’s still holding something back. His jaw is tight, his fingers flex slightly against the metal, and you don’t know whether he’s waiting for permission or for you to push him away.

“Say somethin’,” he murmurs, voice rough like gravel in your ears. “Please.”

You reach up then, your hand trembling slightly as your fingers brush along his jaw, skimming over the uneven scruff growing in patches on his face. He exhales, eyes fluttering shut for a moment as you trace up along his cheekbone, down the side of his neck, feeling the tension there, the way his pulse beats strong beneath your fingertips.

“I think of you a lot too,” you finally manage to say, and it’s barely louder than a whisper.

His eyes open, still blown wide as they flicker between yours, then drop to your lips. His breath is slow, measured, like he’s forcing himself to hold back.

“Yeah?”

“Yes,” you breathe. It’s more than just a response—it’s permission, it’s consent, letting him know that whatever he’s thinking, whatever’s been running through his mind, you want it too.

And like you’ve just cut the cord that’s been wound too tight between you, he pushes forward, his lips crashing into yours with urgency.

You’re surprised just how soft his lips are, how gentle he tries to be, but the way he moves is anything but hesitant. There’s no testing, no waiting—he’s done holding back, done second-guessing. He kisses you like he’s been starving for it, like it’s something he’s wanted for too damn long, and you can’t help but act in equal fervor.

Your fingers tighten against his jaw, then slide up into his hair, gripping, pulling. He groans into your mouth, the sound low, wrecked, sending a sharp pulse of heat straight through you. His hands move without restraint now, gripping at your waist, fingers pressing into your hips, pulling you closer like the space between you is unbearable.

You barely register the sharp clatter of bottles knocked from the shelves as your back presses harder against the metal. Daryl doesn’t seem to care. If anything, the mess spurs him on, makes him more reckless, more desperate.

He kisses you deeper, tongue sliding against yours in a way that makes your legs weak, makes your stomach tighten. He’s breathing hard, fingers digging into your sides, body pressing fully into you now, until there’s nothing between you but heat and friction.

His lips drag from your mouth down to your jaw, then lower, his breath hot as he murmurs against your skin. “Been losin’ my mind over you all damn week.” His teeth catch on the pulse in your neck, not biting, just grazing, making you shudder. “Longer than that, if I’m bein’ honest.”

Your nails bite into his shoulders as he kisses lower, pressing into the spot just beneath your jaw, the one that makes your breath hitch. His hands are everywhere—roaming, gripping, sliding beneath the hem of your shirt. His fingertips brush against bare skin, warm and rough, and you arch into his touch without thinking.

“Daryl…”

He groans at the way you say his name, a quiet, broken sound that sends a deep shudder through his body. He presses his forehead against yours for a second, breath ragged, like he’s trying to steady himself but failing. Then his hands tighten on your waist, lifting you effortlessly onto the counter of the pharmacy.

You gasp softly, but he’s already between your legs, already pulling you flush against him, the heat between your bodies unbearable. His lips are on yours again, claiming, devouring, his hands moving up your thighs, squeezing, gripping like he can’t get enough.

Your fingers tangle in his hair as you kiss him harder, the urgency between you growing into something more frantic, more consuming. His hands slide beneath your shirt, pushing it up and over your head, and you shiver as his palms drag over your ribs, rough and warm.

His mouth leaves yours just long enough to mutter against your skin, voice thick with something wild, something unraveling. “You sure about this?”

Your only answer is to pull him back in, crashing your lips to his, fingers fisting in his shirt as you tug him closer, needing him, needing more.

That’s all he needs. His shirt is gone in the next instant with yours following suit, and the moment the fabric is over your head, his lips are on you again, everywhere. You arch into his touch, heat rolling through you as his mouth works down your neck, trailing over your collarbone, then lower. Each kiss leaves behind something electric, something you feel everywhere, and when he drags lower still, down onto your bare chest, his lips and teeth and tongue worship everywhere but where you want him most.

Your breath hitches, your hands restless, gripping at his arms, his shoulders, his hair—anywhere you can reach, anywhere you can pull him closer. He’s between your legs now, his body solid, burning against yours, his hands gripping your thighs, fingers flexing like he’s holding himself back.

You look down at him, ready to beg, but the sight of him wrecks you.

Daryl between your legs, his lips on your skin, mouth open, breath warm as he stares at you like he’s never seen anything like you before.

Any coherent thought vanishes the moment his lips close around your nipple.

A breathless moan leaves your lips as his tongue flicks over it, hot and slow, sending a deep ache curling low in your stomach. His rough fingers knead your other breast, rolling and pinching your sensitive skin in just the right way, his touch deliberate, like he’s learning you, like he’s memorizing every reaction.

You arch into him, pressing closer, needing more, but he keeps the pace slow, like he’s savoring every second, like he wants to soak in every feel of your body against his.

His tongue swirls over the sensitive bud, lips tugging gently before he soothes it with another slow flick, his breath hot and heavy against your skin. His other hand stays firm on your breast, rolling, kneading, fingers rough with callouses as he works you over with slow, steady intent. It’s almost too much, yet not enough, and you feel yourself tilting between the two sensations, every nerve in your body locked onto the way he’s touching you, kissing you, like he never wants to stop.

You’re barely aware of your own sounds, the quiet gasps, the soft moans, the way your hands dig into his shoulders, trying to pull him closer, needing him closer. His mouth moves lower, lips dragging down your stomach, his hands sliding along your sides, gripping your waist like he’s grounding himself.

Then, just when you think he’s going to keep going, he stops.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, chest rising and falling, lips slick and parted. His hands squeeze at your waist, thumbs brushing slow over your skin, and he swallows, throat bobbing as he exhales through his nose.

“Turn around,” he murmurs, voice wrecked, thick with something dark, something unfiltered.

Your breath catches.

You do as he says, shifting, dropping your feet to the floor and gripping the edge of the counter to steady yourself as you twist in his hold. The air feels even thicker now, hotter, your pulse hammering as his hands slide over your hips, guiding you exactly where he wants you.

His palms press firm against your lower back, tracing down to your waist before his fingers hook into the waistband of your pants. There’s no rush in the way he tugs them down, slow and deliberate, like he’s savoring every new inch of skin he reveals. The scrape of fabric against your thighs sends a shiver rolling through you, and when they finally pool at your ankles, his hands smooth back up, gripping, kneading, pulling you back into him.

A sharp inhale leaves your lips when you feel him press against you, his breath warm at the curve of your neck. His fingers flex at your hips, gripping tight, like he’s still trying to hold himself back, like he’s at war with the need running through him.

“Goddamn,” he mutters under his breath.

You don’t have time to respond before his lips are on your shoulder, teeth grazing your skin, hands gripping you tighter, pulling you flush against him. The heat of him seeps through you, burning into your skin, your body molding against his like you were always meant to fit there.

Then, slowly, his hand slides up.

You barely register the shift before the weight of his arm is curling around your neck, firm but careful, forearm bracing across your throat, holding you in place. The solid strength of his muscles—it’s everything you imagined, everything you tried so hard to ignore when the thought first crossed your mind.

A low, rough chuckle rumbles against your ear.

“This what you wanted, ain’t it?” His voice is gravel, wrecked, thick with something primal as his breath ghosts along your jaw. His hold tightens just slightly, just enough to make you shudder. “My arm around this pretty neck?”

His words send a shudder through you, pooling heat low in your stomach as your hands grip the counter harder. His arm is thick around your neck, a steady weight that makes you dizzy with want, and when he tightens it just slightly, enough to make you feel it, a whimper escapes your lips before you can stop it.

“Yes,” you breathe, voice barely there.

Daryl stills for half a second like he wasn’t expecting you to admit it so easily. Then he makes a noise low in his throat, something rough, something wrecked, and his grip on you tightens.

“Yeah?” he murmurs, his voice thick, warm, almost tender in contrast to how strong he feels behind you. His nose brushes against your jaw, his lips grazing over your pulse as his other hand trails lower, fingers pressing into the soft flesh of your hip. “What a sweet thing you are”

The praise sends a jolt through you, your breath catching, fingers twitching against the counter as he shifts behind you. Then you hear it, a belt coming loose and buckle clattering to the floor with the jeans he was wearing and suddenly you feel him– heavy and thick as he nudges against you, the heat of it pressing right against your slick entrance.

Your whole body tenses, then melts, nails digging into his arm where it rests against your throat.

Daryl lets out a slow, shuddering breath, nipping lightly at the edge of your ear before murmuring, “Christ, barely touched you and you’re all wet. This all for me?” His hips press forward again, slow, teasing, and you let out a quiet whimper, pushing back into him without thinking. His cock notches into you then, and you both let out a sudden gasp.

“That’s it,” he praises, lips pressing against the shell of your ear, his voice low and soothing and coaxing as his cock sinks deeper into you. “You’re so damn good. Feels good, don’t it?”

You don’t think you’ve ever heard him talk like this before, soft and filthy all at once, like he’s pouring everything he has into the way he touches you, the way he holds you. You nod, swallowing hard. “So good, Daryl.”

His breath turns heavier, warmer against your skin as he pulls you back onto him, slow and steady, letting you feel every inch as he buries himself inside you. His grip tightens at your hip, steadying you, holding you exactly where he wants you, but the real weight—the one that sends a full-body shudder through you—is his arm, still firm around your neck. You back arches against him, leaning into the muscles of his forearm as he holds you into the crook of his elbow.

“There you go,” he rasps, his voice strained, wrecked. His hips rock forward again, sinking deeper, stretching you, and a ragged moan slips from your lips. His grip flexes, and he presses a kiss to the side of your neck, lips warm, tongue flicking against your pulse before he nips at it, dragging his teeth over the sensitive skin. “Knew you’d take me so good.”

Your nails dig harder into his arm, fingers curling around his wrist where he holds you, your breath hitching as he starts to move. Slow at first, testing, drawing himself out before pushing back in, each roll of his hips deliberate, each thrust pressing deeper, setting a rhythm that already has you unraveling.

His arm around your neck tightens, just slightly, just enough to make your next breath stutter, to make the heat between your legs coil tighter. His breath is hot against your ear, rough and ragged, the tension in his body coiled so tight you can feel it thrumming through his chest, through the arm braced around your throat.

"Fuck, sweetheart," he groans, his voice raw, nearly pained as he rocks into you. "You don’t even know what you’re doin’ to me."

His hips move with slow precision at first, teasing, working you open, dragging out every sensation like he wants you to feel him, to know that he’s the one making you come apart like this. His fingers dig into your hip, pulling you back onto him, the blunt head of his cock pressing deep with every thrust.

"Been thinkin’ about this," he murmurs, his teeth grazing the shell of your ear. "Bout how tight you’d feel, how fuckin’ perfect you’d take me. You feel that, baby?" He drives into you harder then, pushing you flush against the counter, stealing your breath with the sheer force of it. "Feels better than I ever imagined."

Your nails claw at his arm, breath ragged as his grip tightens just slightly around your neck, just enough to hold you there, to keep you at his mercy. His hips snap into you then, harder and faster now that you’ve adjusted to the sheer stretch of his cock.

"Shit," he groans, pressing an open-mouthed kiss against your jaw, sucking at the delicate skin before biting down, his voice going strained. "You like this, don’t ya? Bein’ held like this? Wrapped up in me, nowhere to go."

You whimper, pushing back into him, chasing the heat, the pressure, the way he’s unraveling you piece by piece.

His free hand slides down, dipping between your legs, his fingers finding you slick and swollen, rubbing slow, purposeful circles that make your knees shake.

"Fuck, look at you," he mutters, pressing his forehead to the side of your head, his breath coming harder now. "Gettin’ all worked up, takin’ it so damn well." His fingers flick over your clit, pressing just right, and you let out a broken moan. "That’s it, baby. Let me hear you. Been dreamin’ ‘bout these sounds."

His thrusts grow rougher, deeper, and the tension in your belly coils tight, too tight, everything building.

Daryl feels it.

"Yeah," he breathes, his voice shaking now, wrecked with how good you feel around him. "I know, sweetheart. Feels like your body’s beggin’ for it, huh?" His lips drag over your jaw, his hips pounding into you now, chasing that high. "Wanna cum all over me, don’t ya?"

The coil snaps at his words, white-hot and blinding as his arm tightens, stealing the breath from you completely. Your entire body goes taut as pleasure crashes over you, so sharp and overwhelming as your lungs scream for air. Your walls flutter around him, squeezing tight, and Daryl groans deep in his chest, his rhythm going sloppy, erratic.

"Shit, you’re milkin’ me, baby," he groans, his fingers moving to grip your hips, "Goddamn, you feel like fuckin’ heaven."

He holds you, hips pinning you against the counter as he buries himself deep, shuddering against you as he spills inside you.

His hold around your neck finally eases, his hand smoothing over your collarbone, his lips pressing soft, lingering kisses against the side of your neck as both of you come down together.

"You alright?" His voice is quieter now, rough around the edges, but there’s something tender in it, something real.

You exhale shakily, your body still humming from the aftershocks, a slow, blissed-out smile creeping across your lips. "Yeah. That was… that was so hot."

Daryl huffs out a small, breathless laugh, pressing a lingering kiss against the side of your neck. His hands keep roaming, slow and absentminded, smoothing over your waist, tracing lazy circles along your hips, like he doesn’t want to let go just yet.

"Yeah?" He nuzzles into your shoulder, his lips grazing your damp skin. "Ain’t never tried it before." His voice is warm, a little smug, but softer than before, like he’s still coming down from it too.

You hum, stretching slightly against him, still pressed chest to back. "Me neither. Somethin’ about you, Dixon."

Daryl makes a sound deep in his throat, something pleased, something almost knowing. His fingers tighten just slightly at your hip, his lips brushing the curve of your jaw before he murmurs, "Ain’t gonna be the last time, neither."

“Promise?” you chuckle, turning in his arms to snake your hands around his neck.

Daryl smirks, slow and lazy, his breath warm against your skin as he tilts his head, letting your fingers slip into his hair. His hands slide lower, resting at the curve of your back, holding you against him like he has no intention of letting go.

"Yeah," he murmurs, voice rough but sure. "Promise."

His lips find yours again, softer this time, slower, like he’s savoring it, like he’s already thinking about the next time, about how he’ll take his time with you, about all the things he wants to do.

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