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kesujo · 25 days ago

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The Convenience Store Princess

SORRY I DIDN'T EDIT THIS AT ALL THE REASON WHY, YEP YOU GUESSED IT, IT'S LATE AS I'M POSTING THIS. Sorry for any mistakes :D

Word count: 2k

All you needed was to go to the bathroom.

“Yes! More!”

Instead, you’re pounding this breathtakingly gorgeous woman against the counter of the deserted gas station convenience store.

“Yeah? You like that?”

The sound of your damp groin slamming against her juicy romp joins the thrum of the AC fighting the blazing summer heat.

“Yes! Fuck me harder!”

“What’s a beauty like you doin’ in such a place?” The woman’s face is pointed directly at a fan, her moans being distorted by it. Every thrust pushes her face closer to the fan, but with her eyes gently fluttered closed, she doesn’t notice. In the corner of your eyes, you can see how tightly she’s gripping the edge of the counter, her knuckles even more white than her already pale skin, her entire body rocking, responding to the ferocity of your thrusts.

“If I weren’t here, you wouldn’t be enjoying my pussy, would you?”

While that was certainly true, her respond didn’t give you any answers. Not that you particularly care anyway; she’s probably an employee at this location, but there’s probably no one here because it’s so far out of the way, and that is probably the very reason why she’s not wearing a work outfit. These are all things you’ve figured out in the first minute of stepping into the store, and the only thing that stopped you from quickly exiting after refreshing yourself in the bathroom is a warm smile and a friendly, “How do you do?”

So, being the polite guy you are, respond in kind. “Swimmingly.”

“Staying cool out there? Why not grab a drink?”

Her beaming smile crawled your pace to a standstill. You were in a rush, sort of … but that can wait a little, can’t it? “Wouldn’t want to fill up my bladder right after emptying it just now.”

“Is that so?” You nod, and before you can start to respond, she continues, “In a hurry, are you?”

“Goin’ home after visitin’ the parents over the long weekend.”

“Wife in the car?”

You shake your head. “No such woman to speak of.”

“I see.” There’s something magnetic about her. You can’t escape her pull, even with the remaining few hours still left in your drive home looming in the back of your mind. But this is refreshing—the hours spent by yourself, listening to the podcast you had downloaded for this specific drive was mind-numbing, so breaking it up with a pleasant conversation with an even more pleasant woman did well to break up that monotony. “Well, now that you’ve emptied your bladder in my restroom, why don’t you take the chance to empty your balls inside me?”

It takes you by surprise, so much so that you’re forced to do a double take, but the woman remains unflinching, maintaining that beaming smile at you. “Excuse me?”

“A nice, young, strong man like you, with no woman to take care of your needs, having held back from relieveing yourself for three long days due to the presense of your parents, I’m sure you’re backed up.” It’s true, but you’re frankly shocked to hear the words coming out of the otherwise pristine, proper, pure looking princess of the convenience store. “Do you want help with that?”

You let out a laugh. “Ma’am, are you asking me if I want to fuck you, right here and right now, against that—” you nod at the counter that she’s standing behind, “—counter?”

“Yes, I am.”

Bold of her to say, but you’re not one to say ‘no’ to such a delectable offering. “Well, if you’re offering, then…”

Which leads you to the current moment, with the woman’s shirt still on but her jeans and panties pooled at her feet, the chopped up sounds of her voice being filtered by the fan blowing into her face doing nothing to lessen the arousal seeping from her voice.

“You’re not supposed to be working?”

“I’m seeing to my customer’s needs, aren’t I?”

You laugh at that. “You certainly are.”

You can tell with your own eyes that the woman has a thin frame, but feeling just how small her waist is in your hands is another story. You feel like, if you really tried, you might be able to just barely encircle her entire waist with your two hands. It’s this quality of her waist that makes her ass, which normally might look small on any other woman, appear so good. It also has a springy quality to it that’s satisfying to smack against; in fact, her entire body is surprisingly sturdy for how skinny she is.

“And the cameras?”

“They don’t work. No one comes here, anyway.” She may not have much in the chest department, but she more than makes up for it in the tightness her pussy provides. You know you aren’t the biggest, but she certainly makes you feel massive; every moan she lets out deepens your arousal, and every expletive she lets out balloons your ego. “Fuck, you feel so big inside me…”

“Such a nice little pussy, shame to have it wasting away here in the middle of nowhere.”

“Why do you think they put me here?”

You don’t want to think too deeply about the revelation, so you say, “So you can whore yourself out to the first man that walks through those doors?”

“You have no idea how badly I’ve been needing this…”

The more you slam into her, the further in you are drawn into her. Her magnetic personality, how easy it is to talk to her, and now, her pussy that’s trying to keep your cock inside her as you’re pulling out and pulling you in as you shove your length back inside. And then, after a while, you realize how amazing the velvety-soft texture of her ass feels against your groin, and when you pause to grind against her, the woman lets out an even louder moan.

“Fuck, yes, just like that!”

“Have a name for me, babe?”

“Just call me IU.”

It’s a strange name, but you don’t question it. “You like it when I do that, IU?”

She nods frantically. “Yes, oh god, that feels so good!”

She’s arching her back into you, doing everything she can to grant you maximal access to her pussy, and you decide to take full advantage of that. Your hands lift her ass a little bit, leaving the only part of her feet touching the ground being the balls of her feet, and drill deeper inside her. IU lets out an even louder, higher-pitched moans, one that may very well put Ariana Grande to shame.

“Yes! Right there! Oh fuck! Yes! Please, more!”

You’re doing everything you can to obey her, but you’re feeling yourself reaching your limits.

“You love feeling my cock messing your insides up, don’t you?”

“Fuck yes, I love it so much!”

“You love it when I do this?” You thrust again, aiming for that sweet spot you just found, and the volume of her ecstatic scream tells you that you are right on the mark.

“Please! Oh god, I’m so close, I’m so close!”

You want to give IU her release, but you also feel your own coming up. In a convenience store, you’re sure you can probably find some condoms, but you weren’t so forward thinking when you were tearing your pants off to get into IU’s.

So, you instead elect to cheat.

“Fuck!” If you weren’t so incredibly close to the peak of your arousal, you might’ve found it funny, hearing such a high-pitched squeal filtered through the fan’s distortion. “I’m cumming, I’m cumming!”

True to her word, almost as soon as she finished her warning, she came. Pretty violently, too: the first stream hit you right on the stomach, and as you continued to pump into her, the more her juices splash onto you, and the harder you have to fight your own orgasm. IU is certainly making it difficult, though; with how tightly her orgasming pussy is gripping your cock, with her head now tiled backwards and her voice no longer being filtered through the fan on the counter singing her ecstasy in all its natural, beautifully musical glory, with how hard she’s matching your every thrust by backing up into your crotch at the exact right moments, focusing solely on not exploding inside her is all you can do to stop yourself from doing exactly that.

When her climax finally subsides, you, with gritted teeth, pull out.

“Turn around.”

IU, hair dissheveled, half-basking in her post-orgasm glow, obeys, and when she sees you gripping your shimmering cock, bulging and red with anger, as if by instinct, she immediately drops to her knees.

“On my face or in my mouth?”

“You told me you’d let me empty my balls inside you.”

She grins, says, “good choice,” and then opens wide.

You don’t hesitate to stick your cock inside her waiting mouth, and it barely takes a few back-and-forth bobs of her head and swirls of her tongue before you erupt inside of her hot mouth, stream after stream of your hot semen hitting the back of her throat, filling her mouth to the brim and causing her slim face to bulge with your seed. When your orgasm subsides, you pull out and watch her swallow your load in one gulp.

“Hmmm…”

You had already began to reach for your pants, but hearing the hesitation in her voice and looking up to see how she’s eyeing your softening erection, you pause. “Hm? What’s wrong?”

“I was a bit disappointed when you pulled out, but partially relieved when you chose my mouth.”

“Is that so?”

“I did say I wanted you to empty your balls inside me, didn’t I?”

“I figured you didn’t want me to be cumin’ inside, is all.”

“Well, now you know.” It’s not a question what IU is trying to imply, especially with how her fingers are reaching for the hem of her shirt. You watch in awe as she brazenly throws her top off, and without a bra anywhere to be seen, IU is left in all her naked glory. “This time, you’ll cum inside?”

It takes some time to fully recover from your refractory period, but with much help from IU’s hands, and then her beautiful lips sealed tightly around your girth and her hot, tight mouth that attempts to harden your cock by pulling it straight out via suction, IU is on the counter, her legs wrapped around your waist while your cock is back inside her, buried to the hilt.

“Hmm, fuck…”

Her hands are resting behind her and her head is thrown back. You can see that she’s enjoying this as much as you are, but it doesn’t stop you from wanting more. Seeing those taut nipples sitting atop her modest bosom, you can’t help but bring your hands to them, first teasing the areola as you’re grinding against her, and then pulling and pinching at her nipples as your fatigue has been completely replaced with the full vigor of your renewed lust.

“God, oh my god, it’s been so long since a man has done this to me…”

Now that you have a better view of it, you can confirm what you’ve been picturing inside your head the first round: even IU’s sex face is exquisite in its beauty. Even with her toussled hair, with her gently closed eyes, with her parted lips, it all makes for a visual that would awaken desires inside the purest of men.

“In that case, I oughtta come by more often and give you the proper fuckin’ you deserve, huh?”

“I’d love that.”

You don’t think about the logistics of the proposal, how many hours it’d take just for a booty call, how you’re just fucking in public and just hoping that no one comes by to ruin the fun. All you can think about is IU’s pussy and her petit tits, in your hands and now between your lips, biting and pinching and pulling at the almond pleasure buttons on her chest.

“God, oh my god, that feels so fucking good.”

You can’t help but stare at her. You thought you preferred curvier women, but maybe you actually don’t. Maybe what you actually are more than willing to compromise that for someone so insanely beautiful that, even as she’s unabashedly drowning in pleasure, having released any inhibitions, if there even were any to begin with, and letting herself feel the ecstasy coursing through her body, she stays just as stunningly beautiful. And, the more you play with her tits, the more you realize how little of a tradeoff it even is: although they can’t fill your hands, they are still as pleasing to play with as boobs of larger sizes. What’s more, seeing IU’s reactions to your hands and your lips playing with her tits adds another layer of pleasure to it. Feeling her body rocking against yours, feeling her legs gradually tightening around your waist, feel her entire body tense as her climax approaches, you can feel your own body responding in kind.

“Yes! Fuck! More! I’m so close!”

This time, your climax hits first, but just barely. The feeling of your second, albeit thinner, load spilling inside her breaks her, and IU is sent tumbling into the chasm of her own orgasm.

“You wanted it, didn’t you?”

“Yes! Fuck, let it all out! Fill me with your hot, sticky semen!”

It takes a little bit longer for IU’s orgasm to subside, and when it finally does, the loosened grip of her legs around your waist allows you to pull out of her. You can see your freshly made creampie leaking out of her red, hot, bruised and battered hole.

“See? So much better, right?”

“Well, guess I gotta go visit my parents more often.”

IU smiles, resting peacefully atop the counter she’s supposed to be standing behind, completely unbothered by her nude state and by the cum trickling out of her pussy. “We’d all benefit from that.”

#kpop smut #smut #iu #iu smut

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urdreamgirlangel · 29 days ago

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a soft exit from doom scroll culture 𐙚🧸ྀི

Life wasn’t created to be lived through a screen, it was created to be lived through experiences ₊˚⊹ ᰔ michi

I constantly feel like I’m missing out on life. I’m never physically doing anything but I am always.. always scrolling. And for what? To be entertained. For those weak ass dopamine hits. To distract myself from my thoughts and my mental state. To have an excuse as to why I’m not doing something.

Neglecting yourself? Doomscrolling? Having trouble sleeping? Eyes always tired? Unhappy? Always feeling drained and tired?

Don’t you guys ever feel like you’re missing out? I mean you must since you’re here.

So I decided to try a digital detox.

Not in some extreme, delete-everything-and-vanish kind of way (I actually tried that many times and failed each one). I just wanted to see what would happen if I gave my brain a break. If I stopped reaching for my phone the second I felt bored, uncomfortable, or lonely. If I actually let myself sit with things instead of escaping into a timeline that never ends.

It was weird at first.

My brain kept telling me to “check something,” whether it's Instagram, TikTok, even Pinterest like ?? girl for what?? I realized I’d trained myself to need noise. Constant noise. And without it? I felt unsettled. Quiet. But underneath all that static, there was something else too. A kind of peace I didn’t know I missed. My mind actually started to feel like mine again.

Because the truth is, I don’t want to live a life I’m watching from the sidelines. I don’t want to be so overstimulated I can’t even hear myself think. I want to choose what I consume. What I feel. What I do with my time.

I want to remember that I don’t have to perform every moment. I don’t have to be productive to be worthy. I don’t have to post everything to prove I exist.

Sprinkles ˖ ᡣ𐭩 ⊹ ࣪

I thought to myself I should have rules. I should try setting rules and boundaries because, as I said, social media isn't the problem, but rather how we use and interact with it is.

When you do scroll, do it purposefully (because you’re looking for something specific rather than because you’re just bored and you’re trying to entertain yourself quickly)

Delete and uninstall any apps you no longer use & make note of the ones you use too much - a lot of similar posts I’ve read on this topic always talk about keeping tumblr because it’s not that bad blah blah.. But can you really say you don’t scroll mindlessly on here? People use tumblr as an escape from all those other apps, but at the end of the day, it’s still social media.

Set time limits for screen use

Reduce use bit by bit

be careful with what you consume

Don’t be afraid to be bored. You are going to be bored and lonely.

Silence your notifications

Realize it’s okay to have social media but it shouldn’t be abused

Be in the moment. You don’t need to have a hot girl walk with a podcast playing in your ear. Bitch, be the podcast. Yap to yourself and look fucking crazy because I do. And it’s fun.

Find something to do with your free time, in my post Pretty Girl Content, you will find some hobby suggestions, or even in my Enhance Your Whimsy posts.

Tech-free zones - keeping your phone out of the bathroom, kitchen, bed, dining area

Check-in windows: only check social media during scheduled times

A ‘why I opened this’ list - every time you open an app, ask yourself why and write it down. Write it down. After a few days, review it to see your patterns and learn from them. nd if you wanna share thats ok too!

Dopamine Menu - a list of things that gives you pleasure or satisfaction a healthy way. instead of reaching for your phone when you feel lonely, bored or restless, pick something off the list and then do it.. They start easy with the first course, then require more effort and engagement as the course goes up.

Angel’s Dopamine Menu ꒰ঌ ໒꒱

🧁 Sweet Treats (Low-Effort)

Light a candle and practice breath work

Make a cute warm drink

Do mobility routine

take a shower

say affirmations

style dream closet mentally

cuddle blanket and/or pet

stand in sun for 3-5 mins

change into favourite cozy outfit

🍱 Comfort Courses (Medium Effort)

journal with dreamy prompts or about something i’m curious about

write a letter to my future self

Walk around the block

Bake something cute and simple

read a book

Reorganize space a bit (clear bed, fluff pillows, wipe mirror)

Watch a comfort show, no snacks, no other screens

have a tea party with plushies

🥘 Soul meals (High Effort)

solo adventure

Deep clean space

write letters to past you, present you and future you

go to a concert

choose a topic that fascinates me and go full research mode

start a new cute slice of life anime/kdrama

work on a hobby (start a scrapbook, upcycling an outfit, etc.)

write or continue writing a post

learn a new skill (writing, language etc)

host a themed night for yourself (cottage core evening, 2000s movie night)

Plan my dream life

But now that we’ve got that out of the way, I have a question for you

What do you want from these apps? ೀ

𖹭.ᐟ Is it validation?

𖹭.ᐟ To feel seen without having to do much?

𖹭.ᐟ A distraction?

𖹭.ᐟ Community and connection?

𖹭.ᐟ Inspiration?

𖹭.ᐟ Entertainment?

𖹭.ᐟ Self-expression?

𖹭.ᐟ FOMO?

Are you actually getting it? Or are you just stuck in the loop, hoping the next scroll will finally give you what the last hundred didn’t?

People say cons of not having social media is not knowing what’s going on “in the outside world” but.. to me that’s a pro because I get to focus on myself and my mind and loa. So nothing else really matters to me since I’m focused on building the life for me starting with myself. Which I really need right now given my mental state. When i deleted tiktok, I feel good about not downloading it. Whenever I need it, I redownload it. Hair content. That’s about it. Then I delete. I dread even redownloading it because I’m kind of impatient. But I also do the same for tumblr. If I need a little pick me up, a sweet post and I know I have no one around give it to me and I really need to hear it from someone else, I redownload. I use it on my pc mainly now and I don’t find scrolling on my pc interesting enough to do it all the time.

So let’s get to the more philosophical, harsher side.

₊˚ 🦢・₊✧ Modern life encourages consumption, rather than understanding and contemplation - challenge yourself, learn about something that honestly doesn’t seem that big of a deal, like learning random facts about random things. Remember libraries and book shops exist.

₊˚ 🦢・₊✧ One thing about social media it will give you unsolicited advice and opinions, it will try to make you feel like you have to listen and believe what is being shown to you. It could cause you to stray from your own beliefs if you aren’t strong in them. People’s opinions being thrown at you left and right when you aren’t even comfortable and strong in yourself is… jarring. “You shouldn’t do this bc..” but what if I want to? And why are people mad that I want to? Or don’t want to? Realizing I don’t wanna hear anyone’s opinions before I was grounded in mine was a big reason for my detox and regulation.

₊˚ 🦢・₊✧ You pick up a lot of stuff you consume online unconsciously. For instance, I watched a lot of American and Canadian tv growing up.. now I react to certain situations in certain ways (just like a lot of the characters I saw on TV) and I literally didn't notice until like a few days ago. That's the result of repeatedly consuming the same kind of content. So guess what- the thing people call ‘brain rot’… is actually rotting your brain. Surprise, surprise.

₊˚ 🦢・₊✧ Social media constantly exposes you to other people’s timelines, and it quietly convinces you that you’re behind in life. But most people are only sharing fragments- the polished, curated parts. And when we forget that, it’s easy to start holding ourselves to unrealistic standards or feeling like we’re not doing enough. You are not late. You are not less. You are unfolding, slowly and softly, in your own time. And there’s something quietly magical about that.

₊˚ 🦢・₊✧ And on that note… influencers really do be scamming sometimes. Like, a lot of it is just the same old stuff, just prettier now. They take outdated ideas and wrap them in pink ribbons and call it healing or empowerment. Suddenly, being “feminine” means looking a certain way, acting soft and quiet, never taking up too much space, and spending money just to seem effortlessly perfect. But don't get me wrong, there’s nothing wrong with liking pink, or soft things, or wanting to feel pretty. But when femininity becomes a performance—when it’s reduced to a list of aesthetics you have to buy into to be “the ideal woman,” that’s not empowerment. That’s marketing. They just dressed it up and made you feel like you chose it. But it’s still about control. About shrinking yourself into something small, sweet, and palatable. It’s not just influencers because some of them genuinely believe in this and don’t realize what they’re doing. In the end it just leads back to men trying to be in control... Ew. You might not even realize how much of what you like or think you like is just what society has convinced you need to like to be worthy of love or attention. This is not to say you can’t enjoy this stuff because I most definitely still do. But do so mindfully. This is also not to say that life can’t be aesthetic and pretty because it can and anybody that says not is just.. boring I guess. Just be mindful.

So I’m detoxing. To control the identity I’m building for myself and making sure it’s something I like, something I’m doing for me rather than for the algorithm. This is not to say that social media- or rather, how we use it- is to blame for everything. Because it’s not. People around you can genuinely suck. You have to pull away from that. The point is, if it’s not benefiting you, it’s depriving you.

Log out. Go outside. Touch the real world. You deserve to feel real again. -`♡´-🧁

follow @urdreamgirlangel 444 more

inspired by:

⋆｡𖦹°⭒˚｡⋆ michi goodbye TikTok, hello living

⋆｡𖦹°⭒˚｡⋆ xiao's you don't have to be that girl

⋆｡𖦹°⭒˚｡⋆ denee you'd be hotter if you logged out

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solbaby7 · 5 months ago

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High For This

pairing: eris x reader

warnings: jealous!eris, swearing, another overindulgent ball hosted simply for conspiratorial purposes, sexual themes, wrote this with the implication of Beron being dead, abrupt ending bc if i didn’t stop there i prolly wouldn’t stop at all, not edited

summary: Eris is a jealous man and you’re determined to see exactly how hot his fire burns for you.

—

“Excuse me?”

Your eyes roll on their own accord, hands fluffing through fresh curls as dark mascara dries on thick lashes. A tinted gloss stains full lips and Eris hates the way his lungs greedily gulp in the sensual oud permeating the air.

Everything in here smells like you and he doesn’t resist the indulgence of looking around to take in the fluffy duvet sheets neatly strewn over the mattress and the cream throw pillows tucked near your headboard. The canopy drapes are tucked to each post, the middle dripping dreamily like clouds hovering in the sky.

You’re meticulous, he notes; every item you own continent in their convenient little homes. “I said,” The tone you hold makes his jaw clench, his body visibly perturbed by your nonchalance while he felt himself slipping deeper into your pull. You barely spare him a proper glance—too occupied in looking over yourself in the floor length mirror. “I have a date so you don’t have to wait for me. We’ll meet you there.”

“A date?” Eris repeats sharply, staring at you through the mirror.

“Is there a problem with that?” You know the answer before the question is even fully spoken, a smug little smirk ghosting in the corner of your lips as you sift through your jewelry box. Rings are slid onto your fingers, gold bands and pretty emerald cut jewels glittering in the faelight. “I specifically remember you saying that you didn’t need a plus one.”

“Because,” Each syllable is drawn out, his restraint slipping as you pushed his buttons with such expertise. “—I already had one.” You read between the lines, a brow raising as you settle in the knowledge that the High Lord had expected you to hang off his arm.

“I don’t recall you asking.”

“It was implied.”

Dark kohl lines your eyes and accentuates full lashes, a pretty blush placed on the high points of your cheeks and such beauty seems lethal when you stare through the mirror. “You’ve never had an issue articulating your wants before—if you desired it bad enough, of course.”

You leave room for a response, trying desperately to mask the flicker of hope beginning to drudge to life within the embers. Centuries of waiting for Beron to no longer be an issue, no longer looming over both of your shoulders and destroying every meaningful moment.

Things were supposed to be different when he was finally dead.

Easier.

Only, Eris had grown more guarded. Terrified that showing a hint of affection would backfire as it had so many times before. He takes his time, smoothening out his tone and compulsively straightening out the neatly folded handkerchief sticking elegantly from the breast pocket of his perfectly tailored suit. “This is not up for debate, bunny. Turn your little friend away and let’s go before we’re late.”

“No.” You shove past him, clutch tucked under your arm and high heels clicking furiously against the hardwood.

It stuns him for a beat of time but he recovers far quicker and Eris all but barks out your name as he exits your door, following a few paces behind with a snarl working its way up his throat. “Get back here!”

“I am not some object that you can just command when you please.” Elegant curls bounce angrily with your every step, jewelry chiming with each little bounce down the stairs. One hand grips at the banister for balance, the tight fit of your dress forcing you to move slower than you’d like. “You do not own me.”

"You're right, bunny. I don't own you but I am your High Lord and you will stop walking this instant."

The immediate fae-like stillness of your form has Eris’ heart thumping with excitement against his ribcage. A perfect mask is painted across your features when you slowly turn on the balls of your feet to face him but nothing could ever quench the fire that burns behind your retinas. “My Lord?”

A noise is hummed low in his throat—pleased or patronizing?—you weren’t sure but judging by that leisurely stride and the special time he takes in looking you over, it has to be a mix of both. “I like that tone much better.” Eris’ hands are warm when he brushes a lock of hair away from your face, fingertips grazing against your neck with such care that you have to suppress the shiver threatening to rake up your spine.

You refused to allow him the satisfaction of knowing how his touch affected you.

Not when he was acting like such an entitled toddler.

“Wonderful,” Venom burns under every word, even if it is wrapped in a sickeningly sweet tone. “I aim to please.”

A smile bleeds its way onto his face, the faelight casting shadows over the handsome contours of his features and frustration forces your fingers to fidget when the intoxicating oud of his cologne engulfs your senses. “I’m thrilled to hear that, bunny.” Eyes narrow up at Eris as you clock that tone of voice—that devilish look burning behind amber irises. “Let’s hope all that enthusiasm helps you survive the night.”

“Funny you should say that,” The way your hand elegantly rests in the crease of his extended arm feels utterly natural, no matter how much contempt is quivering behind the movement. “It’s not me who needs to worry about surviving the night.”

—

Playing the part of the demure, doting date is a million times more difficult than you make it look. Sweet smiles and the inviting shape of your figure brings in more attention than normal—or maybe it was because of who’d been permanently fused to your side since the second you’d arrived.

Eris had never been so on guard, amber irises raking over anyone who came within a five foot radius and most of your time is spent wading the rigid line of his shoulders. “Quit it,” You snap through your teeth, concealing the bite if your words with a bright grin. “You forced me to be here with you and now you’re scaring everyone off.”

“Forced you?” He doesn’t even sound offended—just smug as he motions to your hand curled comfortably around his bicep. “Is that the narrative you’re running with tonight, bunny? How unoriginal.” The body language portrays anything but ‘forced’ and once he’s pointed it out, you’re quick to pull away, snatching your hand back and grumbling profanities under your breath.

“What else would you call it?”

Eris feigns aloofness when responding, refusing to grant you the decency of his gaze and your spine goes ramrod straight when his words sink in. “I’d say it’s no different than when any of the other High Lords attend with their plus ones—though it seems theirs are more well behaved.”

“I’m not some hound who submits to your every command, Eris Vanserra.” Hurt lingers in the words you spit out just loud enough for him to hear. “What the other High Lords have are wives, partners—mates. They’re not cowards; wanting someone and stringing them along.” Tears well in your waterline, grip shaky around the flute of champagne until you abandon it altogether. “You’re wasting my time and I have little patience left to offer.”

You’re forced to walk away before the dam breaks, refusing to wear your heart on your sleeve for it never worked well before. Makes you too vulnerable; too tethered to a male too afraid to return the sentiment.

Balcony doors creak under your touch, opening just enough for you to slip through and close it behind you. For once, you’re grateful for the solitude. Basking in the cool breeze and the comforting smell of fresh flora, you let your eyes slip closed, a single tear falling free and your back bows as you sag against iron railings.

Just a single moment of weakness.

And it’s completely shattered by another presence.

“Want me to kill ‘em?”

You snap up like a spring, neck nearly snapping with the force it takes to turn so quickly. Palms wipe at your cheeks, straightening out the fabrics of your dress. “Sorry,” You quickly flush the moment realization sinks in, eyes taking in the towering Illyrian standing just a few feet away. His hair held in a neat bun at the nape of his neck, burly form slouched in a lounge chair, wings stretched high behind him. “I thought I was alone out here.”

“Looking how you do, I doubt you’re ever really alone.”

You scoff, this hateful, bark of a noise that refuses to be tampered down or subdued. “Not everyone shares your sentiment.”

“Date ditch you?”

“A girl could only dream. No, my ‘date’ is spending his time being a grade A douchebag—needed fresh air before I did something stupid.”

He hums in acknowledgment, a chilled glass of amber liquor dripping condensation down the thick stretch of his forearm. His head cocks to the side when he looks you up and down, making note of that forlorn expression casting shadows across pretty features. “Want to make him jealous?”

You should be ashamed for how abruptly the notion piques your interest. For how quickly satisfaction settles within your bloodstream at the thought of Eris watching you waltz around with this brick wall of a male and his effortless presence. “What’s in it for you?”

“Pretty thing on my arm is prize enough, even if it is just for show.”

There’s a pause where the Illyrian can literally see the gears turning in your head. Outweighing the risks. Mulling over potential consequences.

He can tangibly grasp the exact moment you shove all that aside—too scorned to give a shit about retribution. Too much time had gone into getting ready to waste it all on a male too prideful to cherish the gift wrapped before him. You head nods with finality, one hand outstretched before him. “It’s a deal.”

His hand is warm against your own, significantly larger and riddled with callouses. Tattoos the shade of obsidian is etched into tawny skin, arms rippling with muscles that bulge against the tight fit of formal leather attire. “I’m Cassian.”

“I know who you are.” Hesitation lingers in the set of your shoulders, spine not fully lax though Cassian doubts that’s fully possible with the skyscraper for heels adorning your feet. “Do you know who I am?”

His grin only grows when he stands at full attention, so tall your neck cranes just to meet his eye. “I’ve got a pretty good idea.” Ice clinks against his glass as he offers it to you, lifting the rim to your lips and muttering a soft praise when you drink obediently. “There’s a girl. Drink up, you’ll need the liquid courage.”

Liquid courage. Makes sense when it burns on the way down, easing frazzled nerves and a short temper until your arm slips in the crease of Cass’ elbow like it was a regular occurrence.

He’s confident. Borderline cocky with the way he urges you closer, hips bumping into one another with each step. The closeness does the trick though, a smoldering set of sandy eyes fall on you the moment you’re thrusted back into the fray. “Chin up,” Cassian murmurs softly, lips barely even moving over the words.

You’re led to the dance floor, situated smack dab in the middle. It’s a spectacle but something tells you that’s the whole point when Cassian circles a hand around your waist. The other reaches for your free hand, easing your fingers against his own until you’re palm to palm. “Do you even know how to dance? I don’t recall that being apart of Illyrian curriculum.”

It’s a harmless tease—the jab earning you a laugh so organic that it shows both rows of shiny teeth and a pantydropping set of dimples in his cheeks. “Pretty and funny. You really should consider not being so charming, I have an awful habit of hoarding treasures like you.”

Your head dips, a blush growing along the apples of your cheeks that only grows when Cassian is emboldened, ushering you in closer until you run the risk of stepping all over his toes. If he cares, you can’t tell, too washed up in the feeling of being shown off—proudly at that. “I appreciate you doing this for me. Even if it doesn’t work.”

“Trust me,” Cassian drawls, his gaze far off as he focuses on something behind you. “It’s working.”

He doesn’t elaborate, though he doesn’t really have to when you pick up on a familiar step pattern. Nose catching the earthy scent of spicy cinnamon and nutmeg. Of pine trees and bonfire smoke. “Bunny,” Eris fixates on the Illyrian’s hold on you, the corded muscle in his jaw jumping with the effort it takes to restrain himself from burning Cassian’s hands to a crisp. “Mind if I cut in?”

“This dance is nearly done.”

“And you’ll be finishing it with me.” It’s sick how desire pools in your belly at the possessive tone. How pleased you feel with yourself when Eris all but pries you away from Cass and into his own arms. You barely have enough time to say thank you to the Night Courts General before the eldest Vanserra has whisked you far, far away from those giant wings and the enigmatic wearer of them. “Where’d you run off too? I was worried.”

“Worried about what? That someone else was cherishing what you neglect?” You hum to yourself at the raw guilt that screws up the handsome pout of his mouth. “What’s that saying? One males trash…”

“You aren’t trash. You know I don’t think of you as trash.”

“No, you just treat me like it.” The chattering of guests drowns out your words from prying ears. “Hiding me at the bottom of the bin like you’re ashamed of me or something.”

You’re working yourself up again. Overthinking. Self-depreciating. Resenting. Digging a hole with no means of pulling yourself out but Eris halts that train of thinking with a hand to your jaw. The grip is gentle but firm, guiding you to look him in the eye; insisting you see the seriousness that swirls in the copper tones of his iris. “You are everything to me,” His confession stops you in your tracks. Steals your breath away at you hang onto every constant and vowel like a lifeline. “I wake up everyday just so I can see your face and I lay my head down every night praying that it’s filled with dreams of you—of us. Everything I do, anything I’ve ever done is to ensure your happiness. Your safety.”

“Eris..”

“No, listen to me.” Both hands cup your cheeks, all space eaten up until each breath he exhales in the air you inhale. Two halves of a whole slowly sliding into place. The final pieces of a puzzle connecting as one to fulfill the bigger picture. “You are mine.” Thumbs brush over the curve of your cheekbones, tracing at the slope of your nose and memorizing the shine of your lips. “My woman,” Tenderness leaks from every syllable, sincerity bleeding from every pore until you’re unable to fight back the rushing currents of your tears. “My love, my mate and while I can never promise to be a perfect male, I can vow that I am thoroughly vested in all things categorized as your best interest.”

“If I’d have known dancing with another male was all it took for such a confession, I’d have done so long ago.”A breathless laugh emits, one that softens the stern line of his brow and eases the fear his father engraved in his soul.

Noses brush, lashes kissing until your lips meet his own and all of your doubt is washed away. “I love you.”

“All I’ll ever love is you.”

#acotar x reader #acotar #acotar x you #a court of thorns and roses #eris vanserra #eris acotar #eris x reader #eris vandaddy #eris fic #eris vanserra x reader #eris vanserra x you #acotar fics #cassian acotar #love a jealous man #first eris fic #autumn court #eris angst

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cuntyji · 5 months ago

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ib by toji's version of this post by @reignpage, no reader gender specified - can be read as male/female/gn whatever!!!! toji & reader are in an established relationship [of your choice - dating/marrried].

“fucccckkk, yeah—right there. harder. deeper, c’mon baby, don’t be shy. put y'er whole weight into it.”

“jesus fucking christ, could you two keep it down?” gojo groaned, dramatically pressing a pillow over his face as yet another loud, guttural moan echoed through the walls. megumi, sitting cross-legged on the couch, shot him a disgusted glance. “can you not involve jesus in this?”

"yeah, it’s already bad enough we can hear it, don’t make it worse with religious guilt," nobara added, stuffing popcorn into her mouth. yuuji, however, looked oddly concerned. “but… doesn’t he sound like he’s in pain?”

a particularly loud moan rattled the walls.

megumi pinched the bridge of his nose. “i hate that you’re making me say this, but maybe that’s how he likes it.”

gojo shot up from his seat. “that’s it! i’m putting an end to this.”

“sensei, for the love of god, don’t—”

but gojo was already marching toward the room, righteous fury in his steps. he didn’t just suffer through one interrupted scene of legally blonde—oh no, this had been going on for the entire movie, and he was at his limit.

with zero hesitation, he slammed open the door.

“okay, first of all—what the actual fu—”

his words died in his throat. because instead of whatever soul-scarring image he had prepared himself for, he found you walking on toji’s back.

literally.

you had one foot pressing into his shoulder blade, the other digging into his lower spine, your arms outstretched for balance.

toji, lying face down on the futon, groaned as you applied more pressure. “ah—fuck, yeaahhhh, right there.”

gojo blinked once.

twice.

thrice.

“...what the hell am i looking at.”

you turned your head lazily. “a deep tissue massage?”

toji, still lying flat on his stomach, grunts. “the fuck d'ya want?”

gojo raises a shaky hand. “i—i don’t know what’s worse. the fact that i thought you were getting absolutely railed into next week, or the fact that i thought you were the one getting railed into next week.”

your eye twitches. “i’m giving him a massage.”

“is that what you kids are calling it nowadays?”

“oh my god—”

“so you admit this is weird,” gojo snaps, pointing aggressively. “like, i came here to tell you to shut the fuck up, ‘cause i can’t hear reese witherspoon’s iconic ‘what, like it’s hard?’ line over your sex noises—”

“not sex noises,” you interrupt.

“—and what do i find? you stepping all over toji like a goddamn cockroach. i don’t know if i should be relieved or more disturbed.”

“ever had a slipped disc before, six eyes? feels like god’s punishing you for every bad thing you’ve ever done,” toji grumbled, his voice muffled against the futon. “this is the closest i’ve gotten to enlightenment.”

you pressed your heel into a particularly stiff knot. toji let out an obscene moan.

gojo recoiled like he’d been physically struck.

“nope. nope.” he turned on his heel, immediately exiting the room. “i don’t know if this is better or worse than what i thought i’d see, but i’m not sticking around to find out. i think i’d rather have walked in on you two fucking.”

yuuji, megumi, and nobara watched as he returned to the couch, sat down in complete silence, and resumed watching legally blonde.

“…so?” nobara asked, nudging him.

gojo simply popped a piece of popcorn into his mouth and said, deadpan, “megumi was right. he likes it rough.”

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utilitycaster · 21 days ago

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We've seen three death moves overall for CR Daggerheart (in addition to this episode, Kexon, Travis's Menagerie character, did one as well) and every single time they've chosen Risk It All and so far they've all made it so I am EXCITED to see more. I do want to talk about multiple issues that can come up with D&D death/resurrection rules and which have, indeed, come up in Critical Role campaigns, which death moves address. I've mentioned a lot of these in scattered posts and comments, but here are the ones I have in mind all in one place.

Not ready to say goodbye to the character. It gives a graceful and easy option for people who don't want to let a beloved PC die - just go unconscious. The scar mechanic in Daggerheart is also great because it becomes more likely with higher levels (scars are if you roll equal to or under your character's level, ie, had Sam or Ashley picked that option, they only had a 1/12 chance to take a scar since they're level 1), so it allows you to ease in or hang on to a low level character for a while.

Less immediate burden on healers (or people with potions). I happen to enjoy the challenge of playing a D&D healer, but it does mean that if you're the cleric and you are perfectly positioned for a devastating Inflict Wounds and someone goes down and rolls a nat 1 death save, suddenly your turn becomes "heal or at least stabilize now or else you're kind of an asshole." The collaborative, turn-based but not specifically ordered battle rules of Daggerheart do a lot to (pun not intended) combat this, but the fact that someone can simply go unconscious and sit out the rest of the fight means it doesn't shift what everyone else does.

No anticlimactic deaths. This is, off topic, a big refutation in my opinion to the "made for actual play" argument (which is itself not a valid argument anyway) but: there is no going out quietly on a third failed death save. Either you stay alive, you canonically go out in a blaze of glory, or there is a literal above table gamble for your life with the odds only slightly in your favor. No slow bleeding out that the DM has to narrate to seem more cool than it is; no five rounds of dread; even if you risk it all and fail, it's one and done.

Less fear of bold moves. Consider: you do have slightly in-your-favor odds to risk it all; and if you win, you may very well end up in better shape than you were before! You probably will, actually, given that you have no hit points left. Because there's an out provided if you really can't say goodbye there's really no reason not to risk it on the battlefield, and also if you're staring down a TPK, one of you risking it all could genuinely turn the tide in your favor. It might be better to go down and hope you get back up than to play it too safe in a battle of attrition.

No critting and immediately falling unconscious again. A crit on a death save is in fact really fucking good in D&D too, but you do have one hit point, so you get your turn, and then you might just go straight back down. A crit in Daggerheart? You're fully back on your feet and better than ever.

You can choose to let a death stand with minimal OOC discussion. On the other hand, if you feel this is a narratively meaningful place to let the character die? You ensure a dramatic and satisfying finale, and you make your definitive exit, without needing to pause an emotional combat scene to provide the other players with, effectively, your character's DNR. The death move you chose (and the fact that it's very hard to resurrect in Daggerheart) does the work for you.

Resurrection never feels cheap. Obviously there's the fact that resurrection is literally extremely difficult to do in Daggerheart, far more so than D&D; but also, if you die via running out of hope slots from multiple times choosing to avoid death, that is something you'd be aware was coming up - rather like how a character with multiple scars in Candela Obscura knows they'll need to retire. You can't stave off death forever, but you'll know when you're running low on hope slots and be able to make peace with it - or decide to meet it head on.

#daggerheart #critical role #cr spoilers #age of umbra

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nebulablakemurphy · 3 months ago

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Hi, Haymitch

Summary: the family is all together and ready to teach Haymitch a new game. Short, fluffy and spoiler free, set post epilogue, Moves & Countermoves universe.

“We should play another game.”

“No more board games.”

“I know a game,” Everest says. “Everybody up, off the couch.”

There is a collective groan as the adults rise to their feet. The children are much more lively, humming with excitement.

“We used to play with our teachers at university, it’ll be fun.” Everest insists.

“Ok.”

“So, Dad, all you do is sit in the chair, but you can’t look at us.”

“Why am I getting put on the spot?” Haymitch plops down in the dining chair, facing away from his family.

“Because you’re the most fun.” Everest pats his shoulder. “Now close your eyes and one by one we’re going to say ‘hi, Haymitch,’ and you have to guess who it is.”

“Why are you calling me Haymitch?” What happened to dad? Grandpa? Uncle Haymitch?

“So we don’t give away who it is,” Arista explains.

“That’s Arista.” Haymitch says.

“We didn’t start yet!”

Pollux excuses himself, back to the sofa.

“That’s Madge.” He announces, anyway.

“Alright, get in line. We’re starting.”

“Katniss.”

“Doesn’t count, Haymitch!”

Haymitch chuckles, “who’s first?”

There is a moment of hushed whispers as they assemble. A pair of little feet shuffle up behind him.

“Hi, Haymitch.”

One of Madge’s twins…

“This is cheating,” Haymitch laughs.

“It’s not cheating, Uncle Haymitch. This is how you play the game.” The same voice tells him.

“Pippa.” He knows for certain.

“You gave it away!” A second voice groans.

And that’s, “Polly.”

The girl, with Madge’s pout and Pollux’s strawberry tinted locks, throws herself onto the couch beside her father. Signing her distaste to him.

“I know what you’re saying!” Pippa swats at her.

‘It’s just a game.’ Pollux reminds them. A daughter on either side. He looks to Madge.

She keeps the line moving, “hi, Haymitch.”

“Madge?” Haymitch ticks a finger against his lips. “Maybe not, sounded a little too happy to see me. One more time?”

“Hi, Haymitch.” She’s not as enthusiastic the second time.

“It was Madge.”

They don’t tell him whether he’s right or wrong.

“Hi, Haymitch.”

Baby girl. “Arista.”

“Hi, Gr-Haymitch!” The child corrects themself.

“Rye.” Haymitch grins. Katniss and Peeta’s son.

Still, no one tells him if he’s correct.

“Hi, Haymitch.” A giggle follows.

That’s my, “Daisy May.”

She skips off happily.

“Hi, Haymitch.”

Little sweetheart. “Willow.”

“Hi, Haymitch.”

This is getting harder. “Uh…Everest or Peeta?”

A round of laughter.

“Try again,” Y/N insists.

Any hope he has of decoding who she’s speaking to by the tone of her own voice is squashed. Could go either way.

“Hi, Haymitch.”

Haymitch lifts a shoulder, “probably, Peeta. If that is you, Everest, I love you, son. Forgive me.”

Everest smiles as he exits the line, proud that he’s finally been able to stump him.

“Hi, Haymitch.” A new voice drawls.

“Katniss.” Sweetheart.

“Hi, Haymitch.”

“Peeta again, or Everest the first time.”

“No switching answers.” Polly scolds.

Haymitch laughs, shaking his head. “Peeta.”

“Hi, Haymitch.”

That voice, her voice. He would know it anywhere. “Y/N.”

“Hi, Haymitch.”

There is only one person it could be. “Hi, August.”

“I almost called you dad,” the little boy whispers.

“Good.” I love being your dad.

“Ok, now Grandma sit in the chair.” Rye says, staring up at Y/N like she placed every star in the sky by hand.

“No, she’ll be too good.” Willow argues, “we need Pollux to do it.”

‘I know who’s who.’ Pollux assures her.

“Prove it.”

#haymitch abernathy fanfic #haymitch abernathy x reader #haymitch abernathy #haymitch x reader #haymitch abernathy x y/n #haymitch abernathy x you #haymitch fanfic #haymitch x y/n #thg haymitch

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gotta-winwin · 16 days ago

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typo and error | SHOWBIZ COLLAB

⭐ starring: joshua hong 💌 genre: fluff, angst | wc: 3.7k

💬 preview: Joshua loves his job as social media manager for The Carat Company, except for one thing: the actress he’s in charge of. you hate his guts, and Joshua swears he returns those feelings with vigor, and yet…forced to work in close proximity, Joshua’s forced to reckon with the idea that just maybe, despite all the animosity, he’s still madly in love with you.

cw/tw: social media manager!joshua x actress!reader, mutual pining, oblivious idiots in love, enemies to lovers(?), light swearing, bit of crack, miscommunication trope, only one bed, brainrot hoshi, menace jeonghan

🪽fic rating: pg ☁️ masterlist & a/n: this is in direct correlation with @straylightdream's fic for the same collab! i feel so honoured to be apart of this wonderful community and i cannot believe it is finally time to share with you all this piece of work-- this collab was the beginning of it all for me: a thousand laughs and inside jokes, found family and forever friends. i am beyond grateful to be standing next to these wonderful writers and people. forever grateful to @studioeisa and @diamonddaze01 for being the tumblr parents i never knew i needed <3

now playing: tonight (i wish i was your boy) by the 1975

new actress y/n violet l/n looks absolutely grotesque in new photos from set.

Joshua swears on his life and all things good that he meant to type gorgeous.

He had half the mind to call Apple Services himself and complain about the terrible timing autocorrect had, as he sat in Wonwoo’s office, their company’s stern CEO staring at him from across his meticulously organized desk.

“You’re telling me you managed to sour our new talent’s name in less than an hour of working her socials.”

Joshua lowered his gaze. “Yes.”

Wonwoo pinched the bridge of his nose in a twinge of despair with annoyance swimming on his face. “Joshua, I cannot emphasize this enough. Our partnership with Ms. Y/N Violet needs to work. It has to.”

“And it will.” Joshua nodded vehemently, trying to emphasize his false confidence in the matter. “I’ve got it, boss. Trust me.” Or don’t. Joshua didn’t really know what he was doing.

Wonwoo sends him out with a few words that borderline as a threat. Words that sounded like don’t fuck this up, please and your job is on the line.

Joshua swipes into Twitter and sees the amount of people who had screenshotted his mistake and posted it online.

Poor social media guy, someone wrote. Don’t hate him for his fat thumbs! At least we got a good laugh.

“Fuck me.” Joshua dials Jihoon’s number and prays the man picks up. “Hey, Hoon. I need a favour.”

The actress I work for is going to hate me.

“Hey.”

It’s awkward when Joshua walks into your trailer on set. You’re poised on the makeup chair, your eyes closed as your makeup artist dusted pale pink shadow over your eyelids. You recognize his voice, and your eyebrows pinch.

“Mr. Hong. You’re late.” You supposed it was unprofessional of you to still hold a grudge for Joshua’s social media mistake, but you couldn’t help it.

“There was a hold up at the company.” Joshua tries his best to remain civil. There was just something about your face that infuriated him. It was too…perfect. Too pretty.

He raises his camera and waits for you to pose in the perfected candid pose every actor and actress was taught. To look just the right amount of ‘caught off guard.’ Joshua snaps a few photos before throwing you a thumbs up.

You motion for him to leave. “I need to rehearse my lines. In peace.” You add the last part pointedly, glancing at him through the mirror.

He sits on the couch of your trailer, glasses perched on his nose that he looks at you with. He gives you a curt nod and exits.

Ever the gentleman.

But you knew that it was all a scheme.

y/n violet l/n stuns in new photos captured on set.

Joshua makes sure to double check, triple check, the caption before sending it out this time.

He’s tried so hard to be nothing but perfect in the few months he had been working for you, as if each action could make up for the disaster of an entrance he had given you on their company’s social media page.

Joshua made sure your favourite drinks and snacks were in your trailer before your arrival. He painstakingly edited every minute flaw from your photos. He kept eyeliner, lipgloss and a spare hair tie in his bag. He never complained when you asked him to reshoot a billion more photos.

Yet for some reason, you were unwilling to forget the incident. It was clear to Joshua that you hated him.

“Thanks.” You mutter as he hands you your morning cup of iced tea, stabbing the straw into the cup for you, mixing the ice just right. You pretend not to notice how Joshua has somehow learnt all your habits and preferences to a T within just a few months.

He wordlessly hands you a napkin before you even ask.

“Hey, Vi. You’re on set in 5.” The 1st AD pokes her head in to call you.

“Okay, thanks.”

Joshua takes your cup and napkin flawlessly and helps you down the steps.

You hate how perfect he is.

He hates how he can feel himself caring about this job more than he should.

fans rave over y/n violet’s assistant: internet calls him her prince-in-waiting.

“I feel like you’re being underpaid.” Wonwoo says the next time Joshua finds himself in his office. “I hear from the rest of the staff that you’ve been doing other jobs.”

Joshua doesn’t know what his boss is saying, and it’s evident on his face.

“You’re not just Ms. L/N’s social media manager, you’re also her assistant and bodyguard.” Wonwoo explains, and Joshua realizes he’s got a point.

“Oh.”

“I’m surprised you haven’t come to me for a raise, Josh.” Wonwoo states quite frankly. “You’ve always been very good at advocating for yourself.”

He shrugs. “It doesn’t really feel like a job.”

And the look on Wonwoo’s face tells him he’s said too much.

“Really.” There’s an unmistakable smirk on Wonwoo’s face, the 5 - 9 Wonwoo peeking through the 9 - 5 Wonwoo for just a second. “Taking such good care of her doesn’t feel like a job.”

Joshua’s quick to backtrack. “No, I mean– I like my job.”

“Sure.” It’s obvious he doesn’t believe him.

Fuck me, Joshua thinks silently.

Joshua can feel himself burning holes into the back of Jeonghan’s head as the man resurfaces from kissing you.

“Cut!” He can hear the director yelling for the scene to end in the distance, yet all his senses are trained on you.

How you pressed yourself into Jeonghan’s hold, melted into the kiss, let out the sweetest gasp into his lips. Joshua hated all of it. He hated how it made him feel.

He watches Jeonghan whisper something into your ear, a hand brushing against your hair.

Joshua glanced down only to realize he had been squeezing the paper cup filled with coffee in his hands, the contents slowly overflowing and dripping onto the floor.

He looks back up and catches you looking at him.

“Fuck me.”

You break away from Jeonghan as soon as you hear the cue from the director.

“You alright?” Jeonghan’s quick to check in.

You nod. “You?”

It’s an unspoken thing between the two of you, checking in with your onscreen counterpart in between work days and takes. “I’m good.” Jeonghan glances behind you and bites back a smile. “I’d say your social media guy isn’t though.”

“Mr. Hong?” You flit your eyes over to the man in question. He’s standing near the side, your afternoon coffee in his hands and a scowl on his face. “Yeah, I don’t know what’s wrong with him.”

“He’s in love with you.” Jeonghan says it as plainly as if he had just stated tomorrow’s weather.

You choke on air. “What?”

Jeonghan nears, his breath tickling your ear as he fixes your hair gently. “Look at how he tenses when I near you. How his eyebrows furrow. How he looks like he wants to murder me from across the room.”

You look, and for a second, you see it too.

And then you blink, and it’s gone. “You’re imagining things, Hannie.”

Your social media guy does not love you.

It’s the dead of night when Joshua lugs your suitcase into your hotel room. He sets it down and pats it awkwardly, scanning the room for any visible threats. He’s grown accustomed to his role in your life. He still hates how it makes him feel towards you– the feelings of love that he continues to push down until they disappear– but he’s content with his job. Wonwoo did end up giving him a raise for it.

He was now your social media manager/personal assistant/bodyguard. The paycheck was exponentially high.

“Of course, you forget to book yourself a room.” There’s a light tease in your tone as you stare at the one bed in the giant penthouse suite.

“Sorry.” Is all he has to offer in response. He had forgotten, in the midst of all the press releases he had to manage with the movie trailer coming out, he had only thought of booking you a room and not him. “I’ll sleep on the floor.”

You give him a look he can’t decipher. “No.”

Joshua blinks. “Huh?”

“I’m not making you sleep on the floor, Hong. We can both sleep on the bed. Just stick to your side.”

He nods, ignoring the feeling that the two of you had just crossed into some unspeakable, unknown territory.

He doesn’t know it, but you feel it too.

It’s strange to see him out of his usual business attire.

You’re trying not to stare at him from above your computer screen, but you fail, eyeing the casual wear your work counterpart has on. Joshua is concentrating on something on his phone, his lips twitching as his eyes move briskly over its contents.

“Stop staring.”

You flinch when you’re caught. “I wasn’t.”

He laughs, and the sound startles you. “I can feel your beady little eyes on me, missy.” He teases, smiling at your insulted expression.

“Do not insult me like that, Mr. Hong– you work for me, remember?”

“Oh, do I now?”

There’s a moment of silence as the two of you look at one another, sharing a secret smile before both quickly turning away.

He swears at that moment he’s in love with you, and he hates that it’s true.

You swear you hate him under your breath. You hate how you know it’s a lie.

The sun begins to set as Joshua hands you your nightly cup of tea. Made just the way you like it, a dash of sugar and a spoonful of honey.

He sits beside you and turns to look at you with determination on his face. “Can I ask you a question?”

You frown. “Sure?”

The question that comes out of his mouth is unexpected and a nice surprise. “Have you always wanted to be an actress?”

“Yes.” You answer immediately. “Have you always wanted to be a…” You blank at his job title. A personal assistant? A bodyguard? Basically a boyfriend? Instead, you settle with the safest option. “...a social media manager?”

Joshua thinks a beat too long before answering. “I guess.”

“That doesn’t sound all too convincing.”

“I mean– I don’t think anyone grows up wanting to be a social media manager.”

He has a point. “What did you want to be then?”

Joshua thinks for a bit, as if the memory was already long gone and too distant to recover. “Astronaut, or something silly like that.”

“I don’t think that’s silly. I mean–” You backtrack. “Everyone told me being an actress was a silly dream, but I’m here now.”

There’s a sour look on his face. “And I’m your social media manager.”

“Yeah, a fucking good one.”

He visibly brightens. “Really?”

“I mean, you did mess up big time on that one post, but–”

“I am sorry about that.” He grimaces, and you know he really does feel bad.

“You called me grotesque.”

“I typed it wrong and stupid autocorrect–”

You laugh at his indignant expression. “I’m joking, Joshua.”

He joins in, and neither one of you notices how you had just called him by his first name.

You look radiant in the mornings. Joshua swears on all things good and true that you cannot be real, and that you’re most certainly nothing short of an angel.

“Good morning.” His morning voice catches you off guard.

You turn around in bed to face him, momentarily stunned by the limited amount of space between the two of you. His hair is pushed in all directions, his eyes lazy and filled with sleep, yet–

“Fuck me,” you think to yourself. Your social media guy was hot. But that had to just be the morning delirium talking.

“You’re staring again.” He comments, his lips quivering into a tiny smile. “You’ve been doing that a lot.”

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

“No.” You deny it once more. “I am not staring.”

“Sure. Sure.” He reaches a hand over and moves a piece of hair away from your face.

You blink as he moves away. “Shut up.”

The banter comes as easy as hating him once did. And as the two of you watch the sun begin to rise again, you start thinking that maybe loving him can be just as easy too.

y/n violet l/n eats up the red carpet with new look.

You’re dazzling on the red carpet, and Joshua spends most of his time trying to stop his mouth from hanging open.

He raises the camera and waits for you to fix your dress.

“Is this okay?” You look at him, fingers toying with the hem of your skirt, the bodice of your dress cinching your waist uncomfortably. Your movement is limited as you attempt to adjust the fabric of your dress down to cover more of your legs.

Joshua wordlessly steps in to help. He moves the fabric with practiced precision, his fingers brushing against your upper thigh as he steps away again.

“It’s perfect.” He reassures you, raising his camera once more. “C’mon, work the camera, pretty.”

Smiling for pictures comes easy when it’s Joshua behind the camera.

He hums contently as he studies the photos. “Perfect.” Offering you his arm, Joshua escorts you into the venue.

Neither one of you comments on the multiple compliments the two of you received throughout the event. How every single person that walked up to you mentioned how perfect he looked by your side.

The sky is dark and crying by the time you’re ready to leave.

Joshua holds his coat over your head, careful not to disturb the delicate headpiece sitting in your hair. You watch him study the pouring rain, as if calculating the best way to deliver you to the car.

“I’m going to have to carry you.” He ultimately decides.

You gape at the suggestion. “What?”

He shrugs, pointing down at your feet and the diamond encrusted heels adorning them. “Neither one of us can afford your shoes getting soaked in the rain— what are those? A billion dollars as footwear?”

He swings you into his arms effortlessly and begins the trek.

Rain hits his back as he carries you to the car, his hair sticking to his forehead as he blinks rainwater out from his eyes. You can’t help but stare and appreciate the moment for what it is.

“Thank you, Joshua.” You whisper, as he gently sets you into the passenger seat of your van.

He shoots you a bright smile. “Anytime. Fasten your seatbelt, princess.” He slides into the driver’s seat, reaching over to fix the tiara sitting in your hair.

Your stomach flips. Fuckkk.

y/n violet l/n and her prince-in-waiting spotted in a fairytale moment after gala.

The headlines are everywhere in the morning.

“People think we’re together, they’re calling it some fairytale romance come to life.” Your eyes read the comments left by fans faster than your brain can comprehend them. “Are you seeing this?”

You look up to see Joshua staring blankly at his phone.

“Joshua!” You nudge him from his stupor. “The masses think we’re in love. Do something about it!”

He blinks. “Like what?”

“I don’t know? You’re the social media guy, don’t you guys have some kind of handbook for situations like this? Release a statement or something–” You point an accusatory finger his way. “I told you carrying me like that last night was a bad idea.”

There’s a shit eating expression on his face that you urge to smack away. “And what if we don’t?” He tests the waters. Hook, line–

“What?”

“What if we don’t release a statement?”

“People think we’re in love.”

“So? Maybe they're right.”

And…sinker. His heart threatens to jump out of his ass.

No one had more effectively rendered you silent than Joshua had right now. “I- what?”

Joshua stares at you for a count of three. The bravery that had overtaken him a few seconds ago was gone now, and he was trying to muster up the courage to say something– anything.

The first two notes of Bruno Mars’s Just The Way You Are starts playing and Joshua flushes, grabbing his phone to answer the call. “Hello?”

Jihoon’s voice crackles to life. “You know you need to report this type of shit to me, right? Your HR department? Now– I would recommend you to not date the actress you’re working for, but since that’s already been done–”

Joshua cuts him off. “What– no, we’re not dating.” He darts his eyes to look over at you. You’re pointedly avoiding eye contact. “It’s just internet gossip.”

“Right.”

Joshua wonders what kind of things Wonwoo was telling the rest of the department heads if Jihoon also sounded like he didn’t believe him.

“Well, as long as you’re not dating.” Jihoon concludes the call. “Bye.”

Joshua lowers the phone to look at you.

The moment’s over. You both can feel it.

y/n violet, looking ravishing on set, answers questions at Buzzfeed.

You don’t see Joshua for the next two weeks.

He’s still posting snippets from the press tour you and Jeonghan are currently on, busy promoting your new movie, but the man himself has gone radio silent.

You imagine he’s regretting the last night the two of you had spent together.

“So? Maybe they're right.”

You find yourself spinning the conversation over and over in the back of your head, as you rehearse your answers for the next interview. You overanalyze it, again and again, until you can’t tell the difference between what actually happened and what you’ve created in your head.

It’s the way he had so quickly shut down the idea of dating you to Jihoon that stuck with you the most. The tone. The swiftness of his words. The lack of hesitation.

Your temporary assistant hands you your morning coffee, and you take a sip. It’s too strong, too murky, not nearly enough ice.

You find yourself missing Joshua. You recount every little snide comment you had ever made at him and feel that wave of regret, over and over.

But buried deep within that regret is embarrassment, and it reigns far superior. The little voice inside your head whispers seeds into your mind. He probably hates you now. You’ve been nothing but rude, and awful, and dismissive.

Your phone buzzes to life, and you see his name on the caller ID.

You feel like throwing up as you let it ring.

Joshua stares at the video of your latest interview and lets out a heavy sigh.

You’ve been dodging his calls. Joshua hates to say it, but he understands. A big time actress, being caught on social media and accused of dating her glorified butler.

He doesn’t know what possessed him to keep calling you, but he does. Once before clocking in to work. Once clocking out. Once before bed.

Soonyoung tells him it’s pathetic. It probably is.

“You need to let her go, man.” Soonyoung tells him as they leave the office building. “Is she really worth all this groveling?”

“She’s worth everything.” Joshua finds himself admitting.

“Shit, bro.” Their marketing manager fixes him with sympathetic eyes. “You’re so cooked.”

Joshua frowns. “What does that even mean?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know. Wonwoo made the whole marketing team take this seminar on the new internet codes.” Soonyoung slaps him on the back. “If she’s worth that much to you, then show her.”

“How? She won’t even pick up my calls. And our schedules barely line up anymore.”

Soonyoung dangles his phone between his fingertips. “You’re the social media guy, right?”

There’s a wicked spark behind those eyes. Fuck.

y/n violet’s prince-in-waiting steps into the spotlight: is this love or just workplace loyalty?

You’re somewhere in Singapore getting ready for another interview when Jeonghan breaks into your trailer with a manic smile on his face. “Look at this article that just came out.” He thrusts his phone into your face.

You blink at the headline. “What–”

“Your prince-in-waiting just blew up the whole internet.”

You blitz through the article in record speed, catching snippets and quotes from Joshua.

Working for her was a nightmare. Violet’s spoiled, high-maintenance, an all around princess.

You push his phone away. “I don’t want to read all that.”

Jeonghan groans. “Don’t just glance at it, read it. Like actually.”

Working for her was a nightmare– I was forced to confront the reality that I wasn’t just doing all of it for the paycheck, I was doing it for her.

Violet’s spoiled, high-maintenance, an all around princess– but that was okay. I didn’t mind it. I liked maintaining her.

And finally, the last quote in the article.

“I suppose when you spend that much time staring at one person’s photos… falling a bit in love with them is inevitable.”

You blink. “Ava?”

Your temporary assistant raises her head. “Yes?”

“I need you to get Mr. Hong on the next flight over here.”

y/n violet takes movie premiere by storm– bringing her prince-in-waiting as her plus one.

Despite all that has changed in your relationship with Joshua, these events still remain the same.

He still gets on his knees to take the perfect pictures of you in your dress. He still brings you drinks whenever he notices you’re parched. Still carries your heels for you when your feet start aching on the way home.

Yet some things have changed: like the fact that his hand is now placed possessively on your waist as he navigates the crowd with you next to him.

“I still don’t like that guy.” He mutters into your ear as you both say goodbye to Jeonghan and his date.

You laugh. “He’s just Jeonghan.”

“He’s kissed you.” He hisses, fixing your necklace so it sits perfectly on your collarbone. “And we both know he was cuddling up to you on set just to piss me off.”

“Maybe.” You admit. “But that’s just Jeonghan.”

“Whatever.” Joshua throws one last dirty look at the actor before fixing you with loving eyes. “You’re mine now, anyways. Right?”

You scrunch your nose. “Wouldn’t you like to know, social media boy?”

He pinches your hip in retaliation.

The banter still comes easy. And you’re pleased to find out that loving him comes just as easy too.

#svtshowbiz #seventeen imagines #svt #svt imagines #seventeen #seventeen x reader #svt x reader #svt fluff #seventeen fic #svt fic #joshua x you #svt joshua #joshua x reader #joshua #seventeen scenarios #seventeen x y/n #svt scenarios #seventeen fluff

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pearlessance · 11 months ago

Text

Moral Modification

Summary: When you decide to pierce your nipples, Joel Miller breaks his moral code to lend a helping hand.

Pairing: JacksonEra!Joel Miller/reader

Warnings: Explicit sexual content MDNI, seduction, age gap(undefined), piercings and needles, nipple play, moral ambiguity, oral sex, unprotected sex, praise kink, size difference

NOTE: this one shot was written for my bff joelmillersgirlfriend and all of the bolded words are titles of her fics over on AO3!! if you haven't read any of her work i def recommend going over there to check it out she's incredible. we also have a 3-part co-write we did on AO3 called False Pretenses! thank you to everyone for reading, love u all <3

[cross posted on AO3]

[masterlist]

You find it on a scouting mission.

Maria had sent you and Joel out in search of books to fill the shelves of Jackson’s overused library. It was a leisurely mission, moving slowly from house to house, searching through broken shelves and dressers and nightstands.

The blistering summer heat has you feeling exhausted by midday, and so the sun hasn’t even set when you pick a still-standing apartment complex and settle in for the night.

You drop your pack and flop onto the moth-eaten couch while Joel triple-checks every exit and every entrance in the tiny apartment he’d picked on the very top floor. He’s going at it again, glancing out of the wide windows with his rifle in hand, when you say, “If there was a way in or out, I think you would’ve found it the third time.”

He doesn’t say anything. Not a man of many words, Joel Miller. But he was certainly fun to torture with lewd suggestions.

“It’s real hot today,” you say. And it’s the goddamn truth—your skin is warm and your shirt sticks to the small of your back, and even though you’re wearing jean shorts the fabric chafes at your thighs.

He does nothing but grunt in agreement as a reply. Few words.

Though you try, you can’t help the grin that spreads across your face as you tell him, “We’d be a lot cooler if we took off some of these clothes, you know.”

Joel Miller is a good man. A really good man. This is why he pretends you don’t get to him, why he pretends to shrug you off as just a naive little girl whenever you brazenly flirt with him.

But you see it.

The way his calloused hands tighten around his rifle, the flush that creeps up his neck, the way he turns his head just enough to keep that smirk from out of view. “You’re ridiculous,” he says. But he leaves his spot at the window and joins you on the couch instead.

You set your legs in his lap and when he rests his hand on your calf you half expect him to push you away. But he doesn’t—his fingers linger, pressing into the tender muscle. “How am I ridiculous? It’s only common sense, Mr. Miller.”

His eyes catch yours at the name. He’s never directly said it, but you have a hunch that it does something to him, speaking to him as an authority. A part of you wonders if he ever thinks of you in the way you think of him, wonders if his mind is often filled with sinful, raw images. “You know why.”

“No, I don’t.” You do. Of course, you do. But you’re out here all alone and he’s sitting beside you and you can feel the heat of his skin against yours and he’s so big and warm and masculine. You want him, need him in a way you’ll never even try to understand. “Explain it to me,” you urge.

Joel leans his rifle against the arm of the couch and reaches up to rub the tension from his jaw. He smiles, one of those all-knowing smiles that makes your heart flutter. It’s a secret sort of smile, meant for just you and him. “You got any idea how old I am, girl?”

You shrug and say, “It doesn’t matter.” Because it doesn’t. “I like that you’re older. Besides, I’m not talking about that.” You are. “I’m talking about the weather. The heat. I’m going to take my shorts off.”

Slowly, carefully, you trail your fingertips over the curve of your chest, down the center of your abdomen. His eyes follow your every movement, pupils blown wide and jaw set firmly. His hand flexes around your calf, squeezing softly.

When you slip the edge of your pinky beneath the denim waistband his lips part. You trace the seam, from one hip to the other and back again, real slow. Joel watches you and you watch him, transfixed, thighs pressed together to abate the ache that forms between them.

For a moment, a single moment, you think you have him. You can see the temptation on his face, clear as day. You think you’ve finally cracked the eternal goodness and strength of one Joel Miller…but his hand covers yours the moment you reach for the silver button.

Embarrassment flushes your cheeks and you feel a little like you’ve been caught red handed.

His fingers squeeze yours, but his touch is so sudden and electrifying that the faintest whimper erupts from your chest. You want him to touch you with those hands, to touch you everywhere. You want him to take all that you offer and more.

But he’s just so good. “Stop,” he says, breathless.

The hesitance is palpable. The strain in his voice. You know he wants you, can see the growing erection pushing at the metallic zipper of his jeans from the other end of the couch. You know it’ll only take a little more convincing, a little more of the delicious chase…but you want the final decision to be his. You want him to need it, too.

So you relent.

You stand to your feet and move towards the staircase in the abandoned apartment. But when you step between his thighs, you linger. “Did you check for any books upstairs?”

He shakes his head. “No. Don’t think whoever lived here before were much the readin’ type.”

“Yeah, well…didn’t think you were much the reading type, either. But here you are.”

Joel shrugs. “Not much to do at the end of the world. Helps pass the time.”

You knock your knee against his playfully. “You even know how to read, old man?” He chuckles softly and it feels like a victory. “Never seen you in the library.”

He spreads his legs further to give you more room, settling into the couch with his head tilted back. You know he doesn’t mean to look that fucking good doing it, but he does. Taking up all that space, commanding without even trying. It makes your mouth water, makes your skin prickle in every spot he allows himself to look. And then he says lowly, “I’ve seen you.”

It gives you pause. Because if he’s seen you in the library back in Jackson but you haven’t seen him, it means he notices you. Even when you’re not out here alone, even when you’re not urging him to touch you, even when you’re not trying. A seductive smirk finds your lips. “You gotta crush on me or something, Mr. Miller?”

Joel scoffs and shakes his head, turning away from you to hide the redness on his face that has nothing to do with the heat.

You giggle softly and decide to grant him a little reprieve. “I’ll be back,” you say, escaping the growing tension and focusing instead on the task at hand. “If they don’t have books, maybe they have something else that could be useful. Clothes or shoes or batteries or something.”

It only takes a few minutes before you realize what he meant when he said the past inhabitants of the apartment don’t seem much like the reading type. There’s not a single bookshelf to be found. Nothing on the walls, nothing standing in the spare room. There are three computers, though. Not that they’re worth anything now.

Still, you try your damndest to find something. Anything. You rifle through drawers and find nothing but a cracked and weathered bible, of which you have a thousand and one copies in Jackson.

The closest thing you find to a real book is a stack of magazines in the cluttered bathroom. All are covered in a thick layer of dust and most have images of sports cars on the front, but they’re worth grabbing, anyway. You’re sure Tommy or Greg or someone wouldn’t mind skimming through them, so you grab the whole stack and return downstairs to Joel.

You’re halfway down the stairs when the magazine on the bottom of the stack tumbles from your hands. And it’s not a sports car on the front page.

Instead, it’s a woman all dressed up in leather. She wears platform boots that reach her knees, adorned with heavy silver buckles down the front. Even though you were born not long after the outbreak, you’re not oblivious. You know what pornography is, but you’ve never seen anything quite like this.

You pick it up and put it on the top of the pile.

When Joel sees the small stack in your hand he asks, “Anything good?”

“Mm. Not sure yet.” You set the pile onto the floor beside your pack, nestle back into your spot in the opposite corner of the couch, and flip open the magazine with the leather-clad woman on the front, reading the title aloud. “Have you ever heard of a porno mag named Dreadnought?”

“What are you—is that—?”

“I’m just curious, Mr. Miller. Relax.” You lift your feet and put them back in his lap and discover he is anything but relaxed. You can feel the stiffness in his thighs even through the thick soles of your high-top sneakers.

“No, what? No, you shouldn’t—you should…”

You ignore his stuttering, flipping quickly through the pages. Most of them are filled with erotic images of women dressed similarly to the one on the front page. They each have a man in a curious, submissive position. But none of this interests you, none of it even surprises you, in truth.

Near the end of the magazine is where you find exactly what you’re looking for. The woman on the front page is in different outfits, one in leather, another in red lace. But it’s the third page of her feature where she’s completely naked. Her breasts are full and sit too high on her chest to be real, but they’re beautiful. Not for any reason other than those pretty silver barbells that are pierced through her nipples.

You lean up, tucking your legs beneath yourself, and show Joel the image. “Was this common? You know, like…before?”

His face is red and you think maybe he’s forgotten how to speak. Because no words come out, he just sputters. “Is…what…which part—are you…I don’t—”

“I’ve never seen anyone with pierced nipples,” you interrupt. “That’s what I’m talking about. Was it common?”

He seems to find himself. “Uhm…no. Not really, I guess. Why do you ask?”

You shrug and find yourself leaning into his side, flipping to the next page. There’s another image of the woman, and though she’s back in that red lace again, you can see the piercings pushing against the thin fabric. “It’s pretty,” you say. “I like it. Do you think you could do something like that still?”

“Well, back then they had people who’d do that sorta thing professionally,” he says. “But as long as you’re careful, I don’t see why you wouldn’t be able to.”

You let it go, and the two of you ration what food you have left, deciding to head back to the commune within the next day or two. You fall asleep leaning up against him, head resting on his shoulder. And you know Joel doesn’t rest much outside of Jackson’s walls, always too worried about being found or threatened in some way. But halfway through the night, you wake covered in a thin layer of sweat, scorched by the warmth of his head against your belly.

At some point in your sleep, you’d shifted, laying on the couch on your back, and Joel must have followed you. His arms are wrapped around your waist and his torso covers your legs, body heat warming you to uncomfortable temperatures.

But you don't dare move. Instead, you slide your fingers through the soft tendrils of his hair and scratch softly at his scalp, smiling in the dark as he moans in his sleep.

Your luck the following day is much better. You stumble upon an old strip mall, and inside there’s a small, indie bookstore. Joel picks through the science fiction section, stuffing his pack with everything he thinks might be interesting. He finds a few children’s books and pockets those, too, while you browse the romance section.

Half the books are crumbling dust in your hands and the others have so much water damage they’re hardly legible, but you pick up what you can. While you’re rifling through the horror books, stashing anything written by Stephen King or H.P. Lovecraft, Joel comes up behind you and says, “You really read that kinda thing?”

“What, scary stuff?”

He nods, takes the copy of Carrie from your hands, and flips it over. “Yeah. Ain’t we got enough horror out there already?”

You roll your eyes dramatically. “It’s not the same,” you explain. You flick the corner of the book in his hands and go back to browsing the shelves. “ This you can turn off,” you try to explain. “If you get too scared you can just close the book. Have you ever read anything scary before?”

Joel shakes his head. “Not really.”

“Try it one day,” you say. “The best time is in October, though. Under the sheets with a flashlight, scared out of your mind. It’s so good, Mr. Miller.”

His jaw feathers as if there’s something he wants to say. But the words never pass his lips. He simply slips the book into your pack and remains silent as he watches you.

It takes a while, but eventually, you’re satisfied with your haul. The day is still early, and so you say, “If we head back now we could save some time. Get home before dark tomorrow.”

To your surprise, he agrees with you. The extra weight of the books has you feeling sluggish an hour into your journey back home, but you persist. And even though it’s significantly less hot today than yesterday, at least once an hour Joel’s passing you his plastic bottle and urging you to drink water.

It’s a sweet gesture, in truth. Joel’s got this innate instinct to provide for others, you know. You’ve seen it a hundred times, the way he just silently takes care of the people he cares about. Ellie, Tommy, Maria, you. You’ve observed him for long enough to know that he’s a protector, a nurturer.

The only problem with Joel taking care of you is how much you like it. It makes you feel soft and gooey on the inside, producing sordid images in your brain of repaying the favor on your knees. You think about Joel’s big hands on you often—in your dreams, even.

But…today is different because you can feel the weight of the magazine at the bottom of your pack. You can’t shake the image of the woman on the cover and that metal through her breasts, can’t get over how elegant and edgy and bewitching she looked. You begin to wonder how it would feel to have Joel touch you if you had the same body modification—would his calloused hands feel more intense, sensations heightened with the sensitivity? Would he be gentle and slow-moving? How soft would his tongue feel against your skin over the adornment?

He seems to sense your distracted thoughts. “You okay? Seem quiet.”

“Fine,” you answer a little too quickly. “I’m just…just hot is all.”

Joel reaches behind him for his water bottle again but you shake your head.

“No, no. Not like…not like that.”

“Oh.” He clears his throat, and you can feel his eyes on the side of your face but you don’t have the energy to tease him about it. Not when you can’t stop thinking about his fucking hands. “Let's, uhm…let’s find someplace to rest for the night. Sun’s startin’ to set anyhow.”

“Yeah, that’ll be good.” As long as you stay six feet away from him. As long as you can keep your godforsaken hands to yourself. As long as he doesn’t look at you too long or ask too many questions or grunt an answer.

You find yourself praying, hoping to keep yourself from any further embarrassment, hoping to fight off that ache that seems to have made a home inside your belly. You cross your fingers at your sides and hope God’s got a private channel open for young girls with an insatiable desire for rugged, older men.

It feels like divine interference when you crest the hill of the street you're walking on to discover a run-down tattoo parlor. It still stands in perfect condition apart from the crumbling siding. Windows dirty but intact, door closed and stagnant.

A distraction will work.

And it looks sturdy enough to rest for the night. You know Joel will circle it a hundred times before he’s satisfied, but you think eventually he will be satisfied with it. “Didn’t people do piercings at tattoo shops, too?”

He nods slowly. “Yeah, they did. At most of them, anyway.”

The thought seems to cross Joel’s mind the second you look at him. “Do you think I could…?”

“Maybe. Let’s see.”

You follow behind him as he approaches the building. He uses his knife to wedge the door open, and the two of you wait and listen for any approaching sound.

There’s nothing, though. Nothing but stale, empty air, and a whole lot of dust. You stick by his side for the first two rounds of inspection, as is your routine. But when he goes back in for a third, you decide to take a look around yourself.

In the front of the parlor, there’s a big, circular desk that sits atop the black and white tiles on the floor. The walls are painted maroon, and there’s a neon yellow leather couch near the door. You can only assume it’s where people would sit to wait, but the leather is smooth beneath your fingers even after all this time sitting unoccupied.

There are six smaller rooms behind the desk, each set up similarly with a blackout curtain and a medical-looking chair in the very center. In one of the rooms, there’s a binder flipped open, and as you begin to turn the pages you realize it’s an art portfolio.

For a moment, you wonder about the person who’d drawn all of these designs. How old were they when they drew them? Did they have tattoos themselves? Are they still alive, out there somewhere still creating art?

People in Jackson still get tattoos, you know. But not as often as you think it might have been before the outbreak. You trail your fingers lightly over the next page. It’s an image of a glass half-filled with amber liquid, some sloshing out of the side. Below it, the words Tennessee Whiskey are written in cursive.

“Should be good.” His voice nearly makes you jump out of your skin. When you turn to face him, Joel’s got his rifle slung over one shoulder and he’s leaning against the doorframe, curtain pushed to the side. “Help me barricade the door?”

The two of you spend the next ten minutes moving furniture around the parlor, setting it all in front of the entrance. It’ll be harder to leave in the morning, you know. But you know, too, that a barricade like this means that Joel’s feeling too exhausted to spend another night pacing and you’re happy to give him the assurance of safety he needs.

When you’re done, he spreads out on the leather couch and you put your pack beside his. “Joel?”

He turns just his head to look at you.

You sift through the books in your pack and reach towards the bottom, pulling out the magazine that’s plagued your every waking thought. “I’m going to pierce my nipples, I think.”

For several seconds, he doesn’t say a word in response. He just swallows hard and when his eyes leave yours, trailing down your neck, he squeezes them closed before they reach your chest. But you know, you know, even without any words, that he’s thinking about it. That he’s thinking about you, forgetting his morals for a single second.

It isn’t until you stand to your feet and start towards the closed-off rooms, magazine in hand, that he finally speaks up.

“Be careful,” he says. “I don’t want you hurt.”

You smirk at him over your shoulder. “Is that the Mr. Miller version of saying, I care about your tits?”

He snorts incredulously, but a chuckle follows shortly after, erasing all of your earlier embarrassment.

It doesn’t take you long to find the materials you need. In one of the cases you pry open with your knife, you choose two matching silver barbells with dainty, white diamonds on each end. You use a cloth to clean off a tall mirror in one of the rooms, and there’s a bottle of isopropyl alcohol that you use to disinfect both a steel surgical tray and your hands.

You discard your shirt and bra, laying them in the chair in the middle of the room, and flip the magazine open to further observe the woman in the image. Thankfully, you find a drawer full of individually packaged needles and take out several just in case.

Sterilizing your hands with the alcohol again, you align the jewelry over your nipple, inspecting the placement and maneuvering it until you’re satisfied. You rip open one of the packaged needles with your teeth and sterilize it too for good measure.

Carefully, you orient the needle just right, inhale until your lungs ache, and when you exhale—

“God fucking dammit!”

You can hear his footsteps before the sound of his rifle, and then comes his voice. “You alright? What happened?”

Your exhale is somehow shakier than your hands. “I’m okay, Joel,” you say quickly. You knew it was going to hurt, you’re literally piercing a needle through your flesh. But you didn’t expect it to be so excruciating. It stings even now with the needle pushed through, completely still.

He stands in the doorway, rifle lowered and pointed at the ground. Through the reflection of the mirror, you can see him glance around the room, looking at everything but you. “Are you sure? Maybe you shouldn’t. This could be dangerous, you can wait until we’re back home and—”

“And have someone else pierce my nipples? Yeah, Joel, I’m good on all that.” You pick the jewelry up, sterilize it again, and breathe slowly as you push it through. This part, while uncomfortable, is a world easier than the piercing itself.

You twist on the tiny diamond ball at the end of the barbell and admire your work. It’s perfectly straight, much to your surprise. And though it’s just a small change, it makes you feel as entrancing as the woman in the magazine.

There’s no blood, which you take as a good sign. And as the seconds tick by the pain subsides and is replaced with a dull throbbing instead. It hurts, but it’s bearable. The only problem is that as you try to line up the second needle, your hands tremble too much to keep it straight.

Even though you try to take deep breaths, try to shake the tremors from your hand, nothing works. And you can’t just have one, can’t just leave this task unfinished, and so you gather your courage and turn fully towards him. “Joel? I need your help.”

You’ve never seen him quite like this, you think. There’s no flush to his face, no chagrin or hesitance or resistance. All of his morality seems to be replaced with a dark desire, a need unlike anything you’ve ever seen before.

Immediately you know this is the Joel Miller he’s tried so hard to hide from you. Only glimpses of this terrifying man have slipped through the facade, each one smothered quickly by restraint.

Yet here he stands, hungry eyes swallowing you up, tracing the outline of the jewelry without remorse.

“I can’t…my hands are shaky. I need you to do the other one.”

His hands twitch at his sides. And even though you now know he longs to touch you just as much as you want to touch him, his words tell an entirely different story. “I shouldn’t,” he says. “It’s not…it’s not right. Shouldn’t even be seein’ you like this. Too…too young. Too sweet.”

The southern accent in his voice is thicker now than you’ve ever heard it. Deep and husky, sending shivers down your spine. “Please, Mr. Miller.”

His eyes snap up to meet yours. He pins you with that intense stare of his and you suddenly can’t move, can’t breathe. Flickering flames gather low in your belly.

“I promise I won’t try anything. I’ll just stand here. I just need you to…to push the needle through. That’s all.”

It takes him a second, but he nods. “Alright…alright. I, uhm…okay. Yeah.” He nears you slowly and you feel crowded. You can smell the salt and sweat of his skin, can feel that warmth even though he doesn’t yet touch you.

You pour the alcohol over his hands and hand him another packaged needle. “Here,” you say. “Just do it as straight as you can, and once the needle’s in I can do the rest.”

Joel peels apart the packaging and takes the needle between his fingers. He discards the plastic and you can hear each of his ragged breaths echo in your ears. Slowly, experimentally, he reaches out and presses his fingertips just below your ribcage and it makes you moan.

He pulls away immediately as if he’d been burned by your skin. “You said you wouldn’t—”

“I know, I know, I’m sorry, I couldn’t help it. Hold on.” You try again to catch your breath to no avail. “Let me close my eyes. I’m sorry.”

Joel nods, jaw feathering as he clenches his teeth. But you do as you say, closing your eyes and trying to convince yourself it’s not Joel touching you. It’s someone else. The same person who drew everything in that portfolio.

But when he does touch you again, his hands are warm and calloused and big and familiar. You know it’s Joel. Your Joel. The brooding man of few words. The too-good man who cares about you, who lets you sleep even though he never does, who gives you his water to guarantee you stay hydrated.

His hand moves upwards, palm pressed flat against your ribcage. It stops just below your breast as if he’s feeling the weight of it in his hand and you wonder if he can feel the hammering of your heart behind your sternum, too.

You don’t have time to think about it for long, though. Because his thumb slides across your nipple, hardening it into a peak, and all you can think about is the fact that he’s touching you. He’s touching you and you want more, want to feel him on every inch of your skin.

This time you’re able to hold back your moan, but only barely. It’s more like a whimper that gets caught in your throat instead. But he doesn’t pull away, and soon his other hand joins in. “Should I…uhm,” he clears his throat. “Should I count, or…?”

You shake your head. “No, no. Just…just do it. Please.” The words are desperate for a whole new reason. Your hands tremble even more at your sides.

The biting cold of the steel reaches you before you feel the pain. You try to breathe through it but the second one is somehow even worse and obscenities fall from your lips at the agony. It hurts so badly that you don’t even register as Joel slides the jewelry through and screws the diamond onto the barbell.

Ultimately, it’s his voice that cuts through the fog.

“Hey, hey. Shh. Hey, c’mon. Finished. Look at me, pretty girl. Open your eyes.” You do because that thick, southern drawl is more enticing than anything you’ve ever heard. You’d follow it anywhere, you think. Do anything it asks. “There you go. Atta girl.”

His words make your mouth water. You want to taste them. Joel’s hands are still on you, holding your hips, pressing into the exposed flesh. It’s all you can think about until he turns you away from him, forcing you to look into the mirror on the wall. “Oh my God.”

It surprises you a little just how much you love them. It makes you look powerful, like you are the one who belongs in a magazine.

“They’re perfect, Joel.”

“Did it hurt too bad?”

The question is so insane that it makes you laugh. “Are you kidding? It was awful. I don’t even know what to compare it to to try and explain it.”

He laughs too, a deep, throaty chuckle that brings a smile to your face. “Well, you have my sincere apologies, little lady.”

When you turn back to face him, you ask, “What do you think? Do they look good?”

You know you said you wouldn’t torture him, but the look on his face is so sweet that you can’t resist. “They’re real pretty,” he says. “They, uh…they suit you.”

“Think so?” You look up at him through your lashes, trying your damndest to look as desperate for him as you are. “Hurts a little,” you tell him, pressing your thumb gently over the center of your nipple, the one you’d pierced on your own. “Right here.”

He sees right through your false pretenses. You watch him swallow, watch his eyes darken. “Careful, little girl,” he warns, voice low and gravelly.

The name makes you squirm beneath his catastrophic gaze, thighs pressing together. He catches the movement—and you realize you want to be anything but careful with this terrifying, powerful man. Of course, you don’t heed his warning. “Might help if you kiss it better, you know.”

“S’that right?” You nod and a sinful smirk pulls at the corners of his full lips. He leans down and you can feel the scruff of his beard brushing the side of your face. Against your ear, he whispers, “You don’t know what you’re askin’ for, sweetheart.”

You know you shouldn’t. You know it, and yet you can’t fucking resist. You’ve never been able to resist him. “Then show me.”

And just like that, his resolve withers. The cord snaps and the good Joel you know vanishes into thin air, leaving nothing but this hungry, desperate man behind. He grabs your waist and hauls you up against him, legs wrapping around his hips on instinct.

Your chest presses against his but the pressure is bliss, fighting off both the ache in your breasts and the one between your legs. He swipes everything off the metal table in the corner. Alcohol and needles and portfolio all crashing to the floor.

Joel sets you atop it and his mouth hovers an inch above yours, breath fanning across your cheeks. “Last chance, little girl,” he says.

He’s giving you an out, you realize. One last opportunity to escape him. You lean up and press your lips tenderly to his instead.

It’s answer enough for him.

Joel’s mouth moves greedily against yours. One hand rests against the small of your back, pressing you against him, and the other holds the nape of your neck. His tongue slips into your mouth. He tastes like honey and whiskey and sunlight. You could drown in it, you think. But Joel doesn’t linger for long.

He trails open mouthed kisses down your neck, your chest—-and when he flicks his soft tongue across your nipple, your back arches and you forget how to breathe.

“Joel,” you say, voice needy and desperate. “Touch me. Please touch me.”

His hands flex against your skin, still holding himself back. You don't understand—can’t he feel how much you want it? Can’t he see it on your face, in your eyes? “I want to,” he admits.

You grind your hips against his and the sensation of the bulge in his jeans against your center has you shaking. “What’s stopping you?”

A self-deprecating laugh bubbles out of his throat. He presses his forehead against yours, kisses the tip of your nose gently. “You make me crazy, pretty girl.” His hand comes around your throat, cradling your face. With the rough pad of his thumb, he traces the outline of your lips and says, “You make me feel like I’m eighteen again.” His hand travels lower, down your neck, knuckles dragging between your breasts. “Like I’m some little boy who gets a hard-on over a bra strap.” Lower, down your belly, between your ribs. “Or these fuckin’ shorts, baby.”

Everything aches for him. Every cell in your body has been lit aflame beneath his touch, longing to feel his hands, his tongue, to feel all of him. “Joel,” you say. “Please.”

He kisses a trail that follows the path of his hand, but this time he stalls at your breasts. “Sound so fuckin’ pretty when you beg,” he mutters against your skin. And then he’s kissing and sucking and biting marks into the softness of your breast, leaving proof that he was here, evidence of his affection. “If I touch you, I don’t think I’ll be able to stop.”

“I want you to,” you say. “ I think about it all the time.” Your head falls back, hips rolling against his, seeking out any sort of friction you can find. “God—I dream about it. I want you inside me.”

His eyes darken as he looks up at you.

A man of few words. This time it’s him who reaches for the metallic button. He pops it open in one smooth movement, tongue lapping over the metal barbell through your nipple. You can feel each pass over the sensitive flesh down to your toes.

He wriggles his hand into your shorts, deft fingers finding your clit easily. You let out a lewd moan at the commanding way he just takes —as if he’s right where he’s always supposed to be. Right where you want him, right where you’ve needed him for all these years.

Joel kisses a path across your sternum, mouth giving the same tender care to the opposite breast. He slides his fingers through your wetness, gathering your slick and using it to circle your clit. “M’gonna take care of her, sweetheart,” he says. “Gonna make her feel real good, s’that alright with you?”

His words are filthy and obscene and you love it. You’re nodding quickly and saying, “Yes, Joel, yes.”

A cold shiver passes through you as he rises back to his full height, towering over you when he takes a step back. “Let’s get these off,” he says. Joel helps you shimmy both your shorts and your panties down your legs until you’re sitting there in front of him completely naked. He’s still completely dressed and it makes you feel small and minuscule beneath the weight of his predatory stare.

He places both hands on your thighs and pushes them apart, spreading you open. And then he drops to his knees and lazily strokes his fingers through your wet heat. You can feel the chill of his breath against your clit and your fingers find the outgrown tendrils of dark hair on instinct, trying to pull him closer, wiggling your hips to the very edge of the table.

“Needy girl, hm?” He laughs softly. It’s not malicious but rather adoring, and you wonder how it is that someone so strong and authoritative can make you feel powerful and cherished in the same breath. “S’okay. I’ve got ya.”

And then his tongue is on you and it feels like heaven. So much better than you’d ever imagined, ever dreamed. His scruff scratches at the inside of your thighs as he slides his tongue through your pussy. Joel groans against you like this is more for him, and the vibration of the sound pulls staccato moans from your mouth.

He slips two fingers into you easily, encountering no resistance. You’re too wet, too eager to have him inside you. You whimper his name as he sucks your clit into his mouth, hands pulling tight in his hair. It feels so good it’s almost too much—but he seems to know what you can take more than you do.

Joel looks up at you from between your thighs and you can see the palpable hunger on his face. You think maybe he’s wanted this for longer than you, maybe he’s somehow been even more starved for this than you once thought.

You can feel your orgasm creep down your spine, inferno building and building, settling low in your belly. You try to tell him, to warn him—but then he hooks his fingers inside of you, pressing against that sweet spot and—

“Oh, God—God, fuck—Joel, I—!”

“S’alright, baby, go’head. Cum for me, oh—yeah, that’s it. There you go, sweetheart.” His voice is so gentle, a stark contrast to the assertive way he moves his hands, pulling from you everything your body can give. The southern accent is thick as he talks you through it. “Feels so much better now, huh? Y’look so fuckin’ pretty like this, baby. So pretty when you’re all full’a me.”

Your thighs tremble even as you begin to come down, trying to catch your breath, holding onto his arms to ground yourself as he stands back to his feet, thick cords of muscle sturdy beneath your shaking hands. And he’s right—it does feel better now, but as he eases his fingers out of you and you watch him lick them clean, your pussy clenches at the sight. It’s better, it is… but when it comes to good and moral Joel Miller you are insatiable.

A deep, rumbling groan reverberates in his chest when you wrap your legs around his waist and pull him towards you. Your slick stains the bulge in his jeans, darkening the denim material. “Oh, sweetheart,” he says, big hands running slowly up and down your smooth thighs. “Shouldn’t be doin’ this…shouldn’t be takin’ advantage of you. Such a little thing, don’t know what you want.”

The answer comes quickly. “You, Joel. I want you.”

You reach for his belt and he watches your nimble fingers undo it, pulling the leather through the metal fastening. He hisses when you reach into his jeans and pull him out.

He’s bigger than you thought, and wrapping your hand around him completely is a troubling task. You’re not sure he’ll even fit but it makes your mouth water, makes your swollen clit pulse with need. “Please.”

“I can’t, baby. Believe me, I want it, too, but I…you’re too good for me. Too—” He stops when you slide the head of his cock through your pussy, coating him in your slick. You watch the movement together and this time it’s Joel’s hands that shake. He curses under his breath, admiring the way he fits so perfectly.

“Just a little?” Your own voice is hardly recognizable in your own ears, needy and deprived. You slide his cock back up towards your clit and it catches at your entrance. You both gasp in tandem. You love Joel and all his goodness but right now you want the worst of him. You want all of him.

He nods and presses a chaste kiss to your forehead. “Okay…okay,” he says to himself. “Just a little. You sure? You’re positive you want—?”

You line him up and shift your hips forward, words fading into nothingness. It’s just a little like you promised, but the stretch is so delicious you find yourself wanting more. More, always more—you think you could die without it.

Joel pushes in further, a little less than halfway, and then pulls out slowly. He groans and you feel like crying. His cock is covered in your wetness and when he pushes back in you think this just might be enough to make you cum a second time.

It’s filthy and obscene and you love it. You love him. He reaches down and circles your clit with his thumb, fucking you slowly, eyes locked on the place you’re joined. “You’re so big,” you whimper.

You can feel the tension in his shoulders and you do your damnedest to smooth it out with small, massaging motions. He touches you just right but you want it to feel good for him, too.

That heat of an orgasm begins to build again. A low, incessant thrum between your hips.

“I have to,” he mutters so softly you hardly hear him the first time. “I have to, baby. I’ve gotta feel you. I’ve gotta…” And then he eases his cock into you to the hilt without any warning, filling you so full it hurts. The invasion stings but your body adjusts quickly, making room for him in the same way your heart has. His head falls to the crook of your neck and you can feel him shudder as he breathes the word fuck into your skin.

“Oh my God—it’s too much, too much—!”

“You can take it, baby. C’mon, spread your legs wider. I know s’alot,” he praises, circling your clit a little faster now. Your slick drips down your thighs, into the dark hair between his hips. “You got it, sweetheart. See? There you go.”

He pulls out just to sink into you again. This time there’s less pain and more divinity and your nails dig into his shoulder through his flannel as you adjust to the size of him.

Joel uses his free hand to tilt your chin up, pressing his mouth to yours and kissing you deep. He sets an unrelenting pace, hips grinding against yours with each thrust. It’s so much and you’re so full of him in all the best ways. When you moan into his mouth you can feel his lips turn up at the corners, a predatory grin saved just for you.

The sounds are filthy and echo in the room, an obscene symphony of devotion. You’d let him do anything right now—anything.

He picks up the pace, hips snapping against yours. All you can think about is how right this feels, how you were made for him, how well he fits inside you.

A low grunt filters through his teeth and he says, “Fuck, baby. You look so pretty. How’s it feel? Tell me. Use your words.”

“S’good,” you whimper in response. Your brain is mush and your thighs become a vise around his waist, pulling him in impossibly deeper. “So good, Joel, don’t stop. Please don’t stop, I’m—I’m close.”

“Yeah? Gonna cum again already, hm?” He pushes his palm against your belly, thumb still gently stroking your clit. And the pressure of it feels so intense you let out a whine of bliss. “Yeah, you are,” he whispers. “Can feel her squeezin’ me. S’alright, baby. Wanna feel it.”

His words send you tumbling over the edge of bliss, and he fucks you through it. Stars blind your vision and your ears fill with static. But you can hear Joel though, can hear him and feel him deep inside you through it all.

“Ohh, that’s it. Good fuckin’ girl. Pretty little thing’s just fuckin’ dripping all over me, feels so good. You feel so good.”

Before you even realize what’s happening, his rhythm falters. You can feel his cock pulse inside of you as Joel falls off the precipice. His head rolls back and the muscles in his forearms flex around the prominent veins. Your mouth waters at the sight of him, and you know you’ll never see anything as beautiful as this big, powerful man weak for you.

He’s panting when he slowly pulls out of you with a hiss. Sweat dots his hairline and that flush on his neck certainly seems like it’s staying for a little while longer. He’s beautiful, you think. Crafted by the hands of God himself, made with imperfect grace.

When he looks up at you he smiles in the way he always does, like the two of you share a secret. And maybe now you do. A sinful, dirty secret that’s all yours. You laugh softly and he mirrors the sound, helping you back to your feet.

You hold his shoulders for balance as he helps you back into your shorts. And when he hands you your bra and t-shirt, you’re starkly reminded of the dull throb in your breasts and think better of it before putting them on. “I think they might be too tight. I’ll look around and see if I can…”

Before you finish the sentence, he’s unbuttoning his red flannel and tossing it to you. He wears a light brown tshirt underneath, the arms just a little too tight on his biceps. He looks so good that you want to take him between your legs again even with the sweet ache that lingers. “Here,” he says. “Take this.”

You do. He helps you with the buttons and it’s too big but gives your new body modifications room to breathe and heal. You ask him how it looks.

“Better on you,” is his short response.

When you begin to fall asleep on the yellow leather couch later that night, all wrapped up in his arms, Joel presses his lips to your forehead and says, “When we get home, I wanna read that book of yours. Carrie, was it?”

You shift at his side, turning your head up to look at him. “You’re not gonna wait till October, like I said?”

Joel shakes his head. “You got any idea how old I am, girl? I’ve got no time for waitin’ till October.” He’s quiet for several seconds. And then his voice is nothing but a whisper as he says, “No time waitin’ on this to be right in the eyes of others, either.”

And you can feel the heat behind his words, can almost hear the unspoken meaning. No time for waiting until you’re older, no time for waiting until the perfect moment. Your mouth pulls into a wide grin. “Are you asking to go steady with me, Mr. Miller?”

With a scoff, he runs his hand playfully down your face and shakes his head. “You’re ridiculous,” he says.

When he kisses you, you make a promise against his lips. “I’m yours, Joel.”

He doesn’t say much in the way of a reply, your big man of few words. But he pulls you closer, holds you tighter.

It’s more than enough.

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