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joelsgoldrush · 6 months ago

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“lovers once a year” | 9.4k

dbf!joel miller x f!reader

SUMMARY: One always craves what is out of reach. Like the forbidden fruit that lingers just beyond grasp, tempting with its sweetness. Joel became the town’s greatest sinner, and you, his best friend’s daughter, are the tantalizing temptation he knows he should never indulge in. Your very existence marks the path to his ruin. He can't help but follow it. WARNINGS/TAGS: mdni smut 18+ cursing. drinking. dirty talk. joel’s POV. a lot of introspection. mentions of alcohol. miscommunication. no outbreak. dbf!joel. age gap (25 and 56). petnames. religious imagery. car sex. oral sex (f!receiving). fingering. unprotected p in v. riding. missionary. doggy style. orgasm denial. crying. hair pulling. thumb/finger sucking. cum shot. creampie. reader sits on joel’s lap and has hair. moodboard for aesthetic purposes only. A/N: the fact this idea has been sitting on my drafts for over a year is just crazy. i finally found the time to put into words, and i know i’m a little late to the whole dbf!joel trope, but i’m a real sucker for it... hope you like this one! <3

No one could’ve ever said Joel was a great best friend.

For one, he was terrible at remembering important dates. His mind just didn’t catch hold of details like that—never had, really. He wasn’t the sentimental type, either. At best, he’d manage a pat on the back or a firm handshake, maybe even a call on Christmas if he remembered. Emotional displays weren’t in his nature, far too used to keeping things at arm’s length.

Luckily for him, Stephen never seemed to care much about these things. They’d been friends for over forty years—which is, well, a hell of a long time, especially considering each had gone off to carve out his own life. They’d trudged through both primary and secondary school side by side, and Joel felt Stephen’s absence like a hollow ache the day his friend left for university in another state.

Technology eventually offered them more ways to connect, but it didn’t make keeping up any simpler. The years had tested them, and somehow, they’d held on to the quiet strength of their friendship—a bond they’d forged across decades and distance, held steady like the roots of an old tree.

Stephen was the laid-back type, always down for anything as long as a cold beer was part of the deal. It was rare for him to lose his temper, having a way of letting nuisances slide. Joel could bend every rule, yet Stephen’s patience never wavered. He was unflappable, hardly bothered by Joel’s mood swings, which was what made them a match made in heaven. Nothing could throw him off.

Though Joel doubts Stephen would stay so calm if he knew what he’d done to his daughter. As mentioned, Joel’s not exactly what you’d call a good friend—particularly considering he’s slept with his best friend’s daughter. Just once, to be fair. One ephemeral, impulsive encounter. Right here, in this very house, exactly three hundred and sixty-five days ago.

His gaze drifts across the room, settling on you at a smaller table a few meters away, surrounded by your younger cousins, ages five to fifteen. He watches as you scroll absent-mindedly on your phone, your brow furrowed in concentration, only tearing your eyes away from the screen when one of the kids hurls a handful of salty peanuts at you.

You press your palms flat against the tablecloth, eyes narrowing as you scowl playfully at the child, a mischievous glint in your expression. “You’ve got ten seconds to run,” you utter in a tone meant to sound ominous, tickling his sides until he erupts in laughter, his giggles filling the dining room with raw joy.

Joel’s been here for over two hours, but he can’t recall a single detail about the night’s events. All he knows is you—he’s studied your every movement, following the shape of your silhouette through the crowd. He’s accepted a few drinks, engaged in shallow conversation with your relatives, trying his best to play the part of a man with nothing to hide. But despite his efforts, despite every attempt to appear unaffected, he feels a slow burn kindling in the pit of his stomach, an ache that curls through him in a deliciously destructive way.

It’s when you look up, locking eyes with him, that he nearly mutilates the chicken breast on his plate, the knife skittering over porcelain with a screech. He quickly mutters an apology, excusing his clumsiness and blaming it on one too many drinks. Meanwhile, you don’t quit glaring at him, a hint of a challenge dancing in your stare.

This shouldn’t feel the way it does, this hazardous, risky game you’re playing. At one time, he might’ve thought this was something only seen in movies, something imagined and unreal. But here you are, and here he is, and the indisputable hunger in your eyes is as real as anything he’s ever known.

Suddenly, his memories drift back to a year ago, to your grandmother’s 84th birthday—the night it all began.

Stephen had left Austin when he was eighteen to pursue a college degree. That’s how he’d ended up in New York, and from that point on, he never came back. It’d been amazing to see him as an equal when they were teenagers, but as they grew older, the only things they shared were the white hairs scattered all over their beards and the memories of much better days.

Whenever they got in touch—which didn’t happen often—your dad would talk about you. You were just a name without a face, an empty canvas. Close to graduating, with only a few subjects and finals left. Psychology was your major—weren’t you smart? Joel remembers typing back with a string of exclamation marks to show his contentment. His best friend’s daughter was a success; how could he not be happy?

One random day, Joel’s phone buzzed late in the afternoon, flashing with Stephen’s name. It was rare for them to talk outside the usual birthdays and holidays, so seeing his name on the screen sent a small jolt through him. A dozen scenarios raced through his mind as he picked up, each one edging between concern and curiosity.

Just like that, Stephen dropped the news without any preamble. “I’m moving back to Austin,” His voice came in clear, and there was something unusual about it, brisk but almost nostalgic. Joel gripped the phone a little tighter, processing the words. “In fact, I’m filling up the gas tank as we speak. There’s someone at home who wants to see you.”

That someone had been your grandmother. With a twinkle in her eye, she’d insisted on inviting Joel to her 84th birthday. “It’s the perfect chance for you two to reconnect,” she’d declared, her tone laced with warmth and hope. She adored Joel, practically worshipping the ground he walked on, often reminiscing about the vibrant young man he had once been.

Who could deny anything to an elderly person, especially one as cherished as her? He was strong, physically imposing, but not strong enough to resist her wishes.

The reunion was going as well as it could, given the circumstances. After all, it was a strange kind of delight, seeing his best friend for the first time in decades. Joel thought they’d do what friends do—sit back, drink, smoke, and trade stories about the good old days.

Then you walked into the room, absolutely gorgeous and with a smile that was all teeth, and you reached out to shake Joel’s hand as you introduced yourself. The contrast hit him instantly—your skin was satin-like against his, smooth where his was rough and calloused from years of handling concrete and steel. A subtle heat bloomed where your fingers touched, the chill of the rings on your hand sending a shiver through him, as if his senses had sharpened in that brief instant.

You pulled away, taking a step back, your eyes flicking between him and your dad. Joel’s arm fell back to his side, his hand forming a tight fist, the bite of his nails embedded into his palm to keep him grounded. But he couldn’t stop himself from scrutinizing you—every detail of your face, the curve of your smile, the effortless way you carried yourself. Your beauty was at fault, not him. You were completely out of reach, yet close enough to marvel at. He was no more than a man, bound to notice the charm of a pretty girl like you.

That you happened to be the daughter of his best friend—that was just a cruel stroke of fate.

“Oh, sweetie. I’m glad you got to meet Joel at last!” Stephen’s voice cut through his thoughts, an arm draping across Joel’s shoulders, pulling him into an affectionate embrace. “He’s that friend from school I’ve been telling you about.”

Stephen looked so at ease, so utterly pleased, that Joel could only swallow back the lump in his throat. What kind of sick joke was this? What could he have possibly done to deserve this twist of the knife?

With a soft laugh, you folded your hands behind your back, tilting your head to the right. “My father wouldn’t shut up about you,” you said, light and melodic, drawing him in like a lure. Joel found himself adrift in the sweet cadence of your voice, entranced by the delicate chain glinting at your throat, resting just above the neckline of your shirt, the v-cut hinting at a world of temptation.

He blinked owlishly, fighting the images clawing behind his eyelids. “Well, he’s a good man, your father,” Joel managed, his smile strained. Not because it wasn’t true, but because there was a blaring alarm in his head, warning him to get a fucking grip. He knew himself well enough to read the signs, the underlying meaning beneath these nerves, the quickened pulse, the quiet, undeniable urge to reach out and feel you.

He was gone already. He fancied you, and his mind raced with thoughts he knew he had no right to entertain. He imagined what you’d taste like, the way you might sound if he were between your legs, encouraging you to gasp his name. Yet, he was aware that these fantasies were as treacherous as they were forbidden, even more with you standing right in front of him. And your father, just inches away.

From the kitchen, someone called out to Stephen, and with a weary sigh, he unhooked himself from Joel’s shoulder. “Coming!” he shouted back, already angling himself toward the door. He glanced back at the two of you, half-smiling while rubbing his temples. “I forgot how exhausting it is to host a family birthday party. I’ll be right back. You two go ahead and chat without me.”

Fuck, no, Joel thought to himself. Don’t leave me here. Where the hell are you going?

Joel resorted to remaining silent, choosing instead to take a long sip of his beer to avoid the occasion of sin. He refused to look in your direction, fixing his gaze on anything that didn’t involve your bare legs—the same legs he’d just been eyeing in those damn denim shorts, which exquisitely hugged your thighs. But, then again, he shouldn’t even be noticing that.

As he peered down at the carpet, he couldn’t ignore the movement of your shoes as you stepped closer. He observed your fingers playing idly with the frayed edges of your shorts, your body inching nearer, and he braced himself in anticipation of whatever you might say next. When his eyes landed on yours, he was met with an aura of expectancy, a cocky smirk pulling at your lips.

“It’s a pleasure to finally meet you in the flesh, Mr. Miller,” you murmured, watching his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed with effort. Letting your hand linger beside your face, you tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear, glancing at him through your lashes. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

Joel felt the flush rise to his cheeks, and there was no mistaking it—you were doing this on purpose. Were you trying to push him off balance, to see how far he’d bend before snapping? Was this just a game for you, a bit of mischief to spice up a family gathering? The idea irritated him, but he couldn’t entirely ignore the thrill woven into the discomfort. A quarter of his mind itched to play along, but the rest of him screamed to find the nearest exit.

“Y’can just call me Joel. No needa be so formal,” he mumbled, lifting the beer bottle to his lips once again, the bitterness spreading across his tongue.

“But I like Mr. Miller better.”

His mind conjured all those images of fire and damnation, of being dragged to some dark, smoldering pit. Rotting in hell, he could already see himself within the flames. Tugging at the collar of his flannel, now too tight and hot, he gave a rough, clearing cough. “M’gonna—go find your dad.”

He was glad you didn’t try to approach him in public again. For a few hours, he felt something close to tranquillity—not fully, though, as he could still hear echoes of your voice in the silences. Every so often, out of the corner of his eye, he’d catch you orbiting near him, lurking in his peripheral vision, even though you sat at a different table.

Later in the night, he wandered upstairs in search of the bathroom, instead stumbling upon your father’s childhood bedroom. The door was slightly ajar, and he took the liberty to enter it, a familiar scent filling the room. He ran his fingers over the walls, still papered with posters he recognized well. It was as if time had paused there—everything remained as it had the last time he’d been in this very room. The framed portraits, the worn bedspread, and Stephen’s desk, scattered with foreign bills under a layer of glass, each one a memento from the different countries he had visited.

It was only a matter of time before you found him, a light knock on the open door drawing his attention. Joel turned on his heels, catching sight of you, acknowledging your presence with a slight bow of his head. You ambled toward him, curiosity alight in your steps, twisting the chain of your necklace, a restless gesture that betrayed the energy simmering beneath your calm exterior.

He scratched the back of his head, offering a half-hearted smile. “This isn’t the bathroom, right?” he joked, attempting a casual tone. The joke was a weak one, admittedly, but you laughed anyway, a nonchalant sound that showed the gleam of your teeth.

“No, I don’t think it is,” you replied, sliding onto the edge of the desk with an effortless ease. “What brought you here?”

“Birthday parties can be a bit overwhelmin', dontcha think?”

“Totally.”

And then you went back to watching him, your eyes tracing his features with an almost stubborn intensity.

“You gonna stop doin' that?” he asked, the words coming out sharper than he meant, though they didn't make you flinch.

“Doing what, exactly?”

“Lookin' at me all doe-eyed.” His voice didn’t waver, but he advanced in your direction. His knees nearly brushed against yours, the weathered denim grazing your bare skin, and only then did a flicker of uncertainty soften your confident stance. “Whatever it is you’re after, it’s not gonna happen. So quit tryin’.”

You drew in a slow breath, pushing yourself to your feet. “You sure about that?” Before he had the time to react, you were standing inches from him, your chest pressing against his, just close enough for him to feel the soft weight of your breasts. “Should I pretend, then, that I haven’t noticed you’ve been half-hard all night?”

Joel's jaw tightened, his teeth gritting almost painfully. His fists flexed by his sides, his entire body feeling heavier, muscles pulled taut by some invisible thread. "Watch your mouth.”

“Or what?” You hooked a finger inside his belt loop, tugging him that much closer. Your breath, fresh and minty, mingled with the faint scent of your perfume, and he inhaled both, heady on the mix. “You’re gonna teach me a lesson?”

There was only so much patience a man like him could summon, and you were a thorn in his flesh, determined and unyielding. He leaned in, voice gruff as he uttered three words that made your brows knit together. “Close the door.” You stayed frozen, lips parting in surprise. “Did y’hear me? M’not into exhibitionism. Close. The. Door.”

You did as he asked, obliging, stepping back to close the door before returning to your place. Without warning, he turned you around, pressing your palms flat against the cool glass of the desk, a sharp chill that made you yelp. His hand settled firmly on your back, guiding you down until your chest was flush against the surface as well. In one swift motion, your shorts were gone, followed by your soaked panties, a damp spot where your arousal had begun to seep through.

He slipped his fingers inside you first, his hand covering your mouth to stifle the needy whimpers escaping your lips. The roughness of his beard grazed your cheek as he hovered over you, his breath hot in your ear as he spoke. “Bein’ too fuckin’ loud, doll.” Matching the rhythm of the slow drag of his fingers, his hips pressed forward, grinding against the curve of your ass, each movement making his mouth go dry. “Y’want this cock that bad?” He nipped at your throat, and you, against his sweaty palm, mumbled what could have only been a muffled Yes. “Then I need y’to keep real quiet for me, alright?”

His jeans and boxers hung around his knees, his cock leaking and throbbing at the tip. Joel realized what true desperation felt like, dangerously close to busting his load at any given moment before even getting the chance to be fully inside you. On top of the desk, your body trembled, and you reached back, pulling your top higher up to bare more of yourself to him. He unclasped your bra with one hand, while his other guided him to your entrance, his lips pressing reverently against your spine as he pushed inside, savoring the heat of your walls wrapping around him for the first time. It certainly didn’t feel like anything he’d ever experienced in his fifty-six years of life.

It had been short, and harsh, and fast. Borderline animalistic, what experts would label as a quick fuck. The moment he breached your entrance, you begged for more, fucking yourself back onto him until his thighs met your skin. You acted as if possessed by a greater entity, diabolic, though Joel didn’t mind it. He relished it, welcomed it. But he couldn’t let you take the reins. He asserted his dominance, snapping his hips forward with a force that drew moans from the depths of your lungs. He was the one in control, driving himself deeper and deeper within you. Suffice it to say you seemed to love it, if the sounds he elicited from you were anything to go by.

It was what you wanted, what you needed. One way or another, he’d caught onto what those lingering glances throughout the party had signified. Every glance you’d thrown his way had been leading to this—a silent promise that whatever was happening had been destined to be the night’s climax.

You bit down on his palm as you reached your peak, tightening around him, and perhaps it was the thrill of it all, the knowledge that he’d need far more time to become well acquainted with your body, that had him chasing after you. Holding back until you came had been a feat, pulling out seconds prior to his release, stroking his length once before painting your skin with his seed. A low, primal groan escaped him as he slid his length between your cheeks, prolonging his high, each heated pulse marking you in a way that felt undeniably his.

As he regained his composure, he watched you swirl your thumb along your lower back, collecting a trace of his release, and bringing it to your lips to have a taste of him. You softly laughed when he cursed under his breath, turning your face lazily to the side. “Damn minx y’are,” he rasped, closing the gap between your mouths, his claiming yours in an urgent kiss. Your mewls faded beneath the insistent press of his mouth as he sought to suppress the strange pull in his guts, reluctant to confront the unfamiliar sensations churning within him.

Things wrapped up quickly after that. You both returned to your places, resuming the roles you’d stepped out of briefly: Joel had been in the bathroom; you had been on the phone with a friend. When he reappeared downstairs minutes after you, no one thought twice about his slightly damp hair.

For the remainder of the party, the two of you exchanged no further words. The time for him to leave came, and he offered only a nod of his head across the packed living room. It was a farewell only Joel would give, a subtle acknowledgment that left you wondering about its meaning. There were no explanations, no parting words.

The next time he saw your father, the mere thought of seeing you again terrified him. If it’d happened once, then the temptation would still remain undiminished, strong enough to awaken the lust and the longing veiled in silence. But you weren’t there anymore—back in New York, focused on finishing your semester at college. The surprise must have been evident on Joel’s face, a bewilderment that prompted Stephen to place a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “Remember I told you she hasn’t graduated yet?”

“Yeah, yeah. I remember now,” he said, wishing to convince both your father and himself.

You were out of the picture, no longer around. Yet, the two of you now shared a secret. You still do, to this day. He’s no stranger to the notion that some things never seem to change. After all, he’s a creature of habit—same breakfast every morning, same brand of bread he’s been buying for years. Like all his other preferences, he’s come to realize he likes his women a certain way. And though he hates to admit it, you fit the bill perfectly.

Betty, Stephen’s mother, was turning eighty-five tonight. A seat with Joel’s name was saved at the big table; they wanted him there, his best friend and his best friend’s mother. How nice it was to actually feel wanted. He liked that feeling. Still, he’d had to bite his tongue when your father mentioned you’d be there, too. You had graduated at long last, with your birthday having been just a couple of weeks ago.

“Can’t believe she’s twenty-five already,” Stephen muttered with a chuckle, taking a long drag from his cigarette.

Sitting beside him, Joel gripped the arm of his chair, sinking his nails into it. “Me neither, man.”

His choices had led him to this moment. The clinking of glasses rings in his ears, blending with laughter and the rich aroma of food that fills the air. None of it manages to distract him. He can't help but track you down, eyes scanning the room, relentless in their pursuit of yours. The need to see you goes beyond any shred of restraint he might have faked to have. Joel can’t muster the decorum to feign indifference—God, not when you’re near, when the pull toward you feels like gravity itself. He’s keenly, almost painfully aware, that he’s not even pretending to be indifferent, his interest etched plainly in the way his gaze persists, refusing to pull away.

It’s his first time seeing you in a year. A lot can change in that span of time. He can’t help but be amazed, because you look just the same as you did back then. Only your hair’s a touch shorter. He wonders if it’s even noticeable, or if he’s just spent so long memorizing your features that he’s losing his sanity. He bets it’s the latter.

A light pressure on his shoulder makes Joel jump, breaking down his reverie. He turns quickly, eyes widening. "Betty," he exhales, patting his chest with a smile, eyebrows lifted. "Jeez. Y’scared me."

“Y’alright, Joely? Y’look a bit pale.” The older woman reaches up, pressing the back of her hand to his forehead with a gentle familiarity. Through her lens, he’s still young. “Doesn’t seem like you’ve got a fever, though.”

"That’s ‘cause I’m not sick." Joel takes her hand in his, giving it a reassuring squeeze. "How’s everythin’ goin’ so far? Got all these people together just t’celebrate ya’."

"It’s a wonderful night, sweetheart. So happy y’found the time t’be here," she replies, pinching his cheek in that affectionate way that earns her a quiet laugh from him. Her eyes then catch sight of a familiar figure. "Oh, look who's here. If it isn’t my beautiful granddaughter."

He stops smiling. In fact, he thinks he even stops breathing for a second as you intrude yourself into the scene, settling yourself beside your grandmother, flashing him a knowing grin. “I was getting kind of bored with the little ones.”

“Y’know Joel, right, dear?”

“Yes.” A pause, a beat you draw out between breaths. “Yes, I do.”

Betty leans his way, her warm hand still on him. “Have y’heard the latest news? This young lady just graduated.”

“Stephen told me,” he answers, looking up at you with a reserved nod. “Congrats, kid.”

“Thank you, Mr. Miller.”

There’s that damn name again. Were he alone with you, he’d laugh in your face, but he can’t. Under the scrutiny of family and friends, he knows he’s cornered. Joel’s starting to believe you think you’re untouchable, that there are no consequences to your actions. You might look the same, maybe a little older, but that teasing, provocative spark in your eye hasn’t changed a bit.

“Always so polite, my child,” Betty says, cupping your cheek with a light pinch, a grandmotherly gesture perfected over the years which she seems to repeat often. “Any boyfriends back in New York?”

This would, without a doubt, be the perfect moment for him to excuse himself and stand up—a conversation he’d rather not be privy to. But with you positioned right in front of him, escape isn’t an option. “Still single, grandma,” you respond unfazed, as if you know exactly what you’re doing. “No one to worry about. Better like this, anyway.”

“But what’s the problem? There aren’t any boys y’like?”

He doesn’t even know what makes him say it—some impulse, some hidden tension surfacing—but he jumps in, his voice carrying a slight, sardonic edge. “Boys are more foolish than ever these days, Betty. Surely y’wouldn’t want her to settle for the first idiot who crosses her path.”

Betty clutches his arm, shaking her head in feigned shock. “Oh, not at all! It’s all about waitin’ for the right person. There’s no rush, for either of you. You’re still on your own, Joely?”

Time to drink again. He drains the last drops of alcohol remaining in his glass, feeling your eyes on him, intense and searing, and then he clears his throat, swallowing down the words he’d rather say. “Affirmative.”

“Well,” she sighs contentedly, patting each of your hands as though binding you both with some invisible thread. “Just means y’two have to wait a bit longer, right? Time has its way.” She chuckles, eyes soft with memory, turning to you. “Darlin’, this man here was quite the heartbreaker in his day. He and your dad would find all kinds of trouble with the ladies!”

“How so?” You cross your arms, playfully tilting your chin up. “Joel Miller, the charmer of the town?”

“Guess I’ve been known t’make a fool of myself,” he shoots back, silently cursing the moment he missed his chance to slip away. “Stephen got more fans than I did, though.”

“I did what?” Joel feels an elbow nudging his back, and there’s his friend, grinning in his usual easy way.

Joel's luck in life had been more bruised than blessed, a string of hardships that seemed amplified compared to what most people experienced. Being drawn in by you—in which category did that fall? Good luck or bad? He couldn't decide. Every glance and delicate smile you aimed his way stirred something reckless within him. Was it pure thrill, or a warning?

He laughs every time Stephen cracks a joke, but he’s barely listening, his mind half-tethered to the present. It’s like he’s watching himself from afar, observing his reactions as if he were an outsider. He isn’t stoned or drunk, just acutely mindful of your presence. He catches himself peeking up at you from where he sits, jaw tight, his brow creased. You meet his gaze with a slight squint, a polite look that hides something far more dangerous.

Boys are more foolish than ever these days. He’s sure of that much. They’re young, untested. But what about him? He’s no model of virtue, either. He’s made his share of mistakes, left good women behind—women who were willing to love him in spite of his flaws. They’d seen through the layers he wore like armor, and yet, in the end, he couldn’t hold on to any of them. He carried the ghosts of every past life, fragments of who he’d been and what he’d left behind, and he knew those shadows weren’t for everyone.

A thought pierces through him, sharp and sobering: what would Sarah think? His lovely daughter, grown and settled into her own life, would likely be mortified to know her father’s infatuation with a twenty-something. The weight of that realization sinks into his chest, and that seems to be his last straw.

He can’t possibly take it anymore. Rising from his chair, he mutters something to Stephen about needing fresh air and makes his way to the backyard door, exhaling deeply and gripping his car keys. The cool night air hits him, stepping outside, a temporary relief as he heads toward his truck.

Just as he’s about to open the door, he hears your voice. You call his name, your tone soft but distinct. He doesn’t turn, only lets out a long, weary sigh. “What?”

“Where are you going?” You stop a few steps behind him, watching the way his shoulders visibly tense. “Are you mad at me?”

“What?” He faces you, almost snapping his neck in his rush to look at you. “Why would I be—I’m not mad at ya’.”

“Then what’s wrong? Why are you leaving so early?”

He scrubs a hand over his nape, fingers pressing into the tension gathered there. “Would y’like me t’break it down for ya’, how messed up this is?” His gaze drops to the ground, unable to meet yours. “I’m riskin’ the only real friendship I’ve had here for… for somethin’ that I can’t even wrap my head ‘round. This isn’t okay, no matter which way I look at it.”

In that moment, it’s as if reality pulls you under. The mask of subtle, practiced arrogance falls apart, scattering in fragments around you. He watches, waiting for you to gather them up, to hide behind that composed veneer again. But you don’t move. You leave the pieces where they lie. Instead, you confront his gaze, unguarded, and ask, “Do you regret what happened between us?”

Another question. You seem to be full of them. They just keep coming, one after the other, as if you already had them prepared. I don’t, he thinks to himself, but would it do you any good if you knew it? “Don’ start with those mental games.”

“Then come back inside.”

“I know myself well enough to know what’s gonna happen if I do that, darlin’.”

Neither of you breaks the silence that’s settled between you, thick as the night air. You slip your hands into the pockets of your jacket, shoulders slightly hunched, head hanging. Once again, like all those times before, he’s struck by how young you are compared to him. The difference stretches between you like a chasm, bridged only by these stolen moments. The weight of his years presses down on him, the choices he’s made—the mistakes and the half-hearted attempts to mend them. He’s got decades on you, three of them to be precise.

Joel never thought of himself as an ever-lasting free spirit, the kind of man who clings to youth or pretends to be something he’s not. Right now, with you here, he feels reckless, like a boy again. Stupid, impulsive, like the foolish young men he used to shake his head at—the very ones he’d warned your grandmother about.

“You left without even saying goodbye last time,” you mumble, low but clear, as you scuff the toe of your shoe against the grass. “And now you’re doing it again.”

He inhales sharply, clenching his keys, feeling the edges of the brass biting into his palm. For a moment, he thinks the sharpness will give him something to hold onto, but he knows the sting is nothing more than a weak anchor. “You’re a smart girl. Don’ need me to spell this out.”

“I know exactly what you mean, trust me. I get it.”

“Then why do you keep pushing?” His pent-up exasperation slips through despite himself, and he can see the hurt flicker across your face, the way your forehead barely puckers as his words hit harder than intended.

Even as you look away, a trace of that hurt fading, you stand firm. You shake your head after a beat, seemingly trying to brush off your doubts and confusion. Joel can’t decipher if you’re feigning innocence—if you are, he thinks, you could be one hell of an actress. “I don’t know. I guess I want to see how far this can go.”

You take a small step forward, testing the waters. Your feet move cautiously, not aiming to scare him off. Each step draws you nearer until there’s only a whisper of space between you, close enough for him to catch your scent, and he has to force himself to peer down to meet your eyes. They hold a quiet intensity: pleading, wide and earnest, already trained on him. Gleaming like two lone stars cutting through a moonless, empty sky.

It baffles him, the question forming unbidden in his mind. He goes even further, can’t help but wonder: why him? What is it that you see in him? What makes you keep coming back for more? You’ve already had a taste, a story you could tuck away, a secret to be shared with your friends someday around a campfire. So why, he would like to know, are you still here, seeking something from a man like him?

“I like you,” you blurt out, fingers drifting to skim over the worn fabric of his flannel, almost hesitantly. That tentative gesture sparks something raw in him, a low rumble of desire that feels like it’s been lying dormant for too long. Heat pulses through him, hot blood racing through his veins, awakening every nerve, each beat of his heart more insistent than the last one. “I think you like me, too.”

“You’re insufferable,” he bites out through gritted teeth, his jaw clenching so hard it nearly hurts. He closes his eyes, half hoping you’ll disappear, that he’ll find some reason, any reason, to call this off. Though when he opens them, you’re still there, waiting, unshaken. “I wish I knew how to stop this. How to walk away.”

“That’s not what you want.”

“We don’ always get what we want, kid. You’ll figure that out soon enough.” He means it as a warning, but even he hears the way his voice falters, his defenses crumbling in the face of your unflinching state.

You let out a slow sigh, your arms falling to your sides, eyes roaming over his features as if you’re memorizing every line. Your focus dips to his mouth. “Maybe,” you murmur, and he feels the warmth of your breath against his skin. “But some things are worth fighting for. And sometimes, those who don’t give up… get the best in the end.”

With a gentleness that stuns him, you lean in, bringing your lips to his in a featherlight kiss. You pull away, and he helplessly notices the way your lips part, how your breath hitches, and for a split second, the guilt becomes palpable, the significance of wanting a woman he knows he shouldn’t. You stand there, chest rising and falling, skin tingling, a faint trail of goosebumps visible where your neckline meets your chest.

Apart from the glint in your eyes, he catches the persistent, quiet ache of want. He isn’t sure if it’s just physical attraction, if it runs deeper, or if that’s all it is for him, either. He doesn’t need to know. The simplicity of it all is a short-lived relief. It’s an easy escape, though, this bare minimum of understanding—you want him, he wants you. Let it be enough for one more moment, for tonight, just another memory he’ll have to lock away. Yet he’s aware, deep down, of his own pattern: promises broken just as easily as they’re made. He’s only fooling himself. The part of him that knows this isn’t something he’ll let go of so easily sits there, silently taunting him, daring him to make another compromise he won’t keep.

From where you remain frozen, he’s certain you can practically see the gears turning in his head as he weighs every possible outcome. “It’s gonna happen, isn’t it?” Your voice is barely above a whisper, and before you can react, his arm slides around your waist, pulling you flush against him, and turning you toward the car door. The cool metal pressing against your back startles a gasp out of you, but the suddenness only heightens everything—the heat of his body, the toughness of his hold.

He doesn’t waste time with words, having always been a man of action. His hand cradles your face, inspecting your features to later crush his mouth against yours. Your tongue finds his without hesitation, seeking him out, hungry and unrestrained. He savors your eagerness, the way your hands roam over him, clutching at his shirt, tugging him closer by the belt until your lower halves are pressed tightly. The taste of beer and mint clings to your lips, and a husky groan rumbles from him as your fingers find their place in the longer strands at the nape of his neck, twisting and pulling him impossibly closer.

He could lose himself in this, the simple, electric thrill of kissing you, how you fit so perfectly against him. Hours could slip by, and he wouldn’t mind, but then reality pulls him back; it’s too exposed here, right outside his truck where anyone could stumble upon you. “Get in the car,” he rasps, pulling back just enough to catch his breath, fumbling to unlock the door. It takes him three tries, and he chuckles, feeling the warmth of your laughter beside him as you tease him.

Once inside, his mouth finds yours again, this time more urgently, his hand pressing against your back, tracing the line of your spine through the clothes. “Tell me y’want this,” he breathes, his kisses trailing down your throat, latching onto the tender skin there. “C’mon, baby. Tell me y’want it. Tell me y’want me.”

A soft, breathy sound escapes you as his mouth fixates on that sensitive spot just below your ear. You tilt your hips instinctively, craving contact in search of relief, and he shifts you onto his lap, guiding your thighs to settle over his. Desperately working to undo the buttons of his shirt, yearning to uncover him, you pant against his cheek. “J-Jesus Christ, I need you. Please, touch me. Anything will do. Just—”

He’s silently grateful for your choice of a dress tonight. It makes things easier for him, and he gets right to it, bunching the fabric around your waist, hands roaming over the soft skin of your hips before moving his fingers lower, tracing teasing lines over your clothed center. He can’t fully make out the murmured words you breathe into his ear, but your voice drives him like a lighthouse guides a sinking ship, and he adjusts his movements, pressing with more intention. The only sounds filling the car are his ragged breaths and your gasping moans, and he holds you close to his chest, cooing softly as you start to rock into his hand, asking for more.

His fingers find their rhythm, circling your clit in deliberate flicks. Joel watches as you unravel, trembling in his arms, a hint of drool spreading over his shoulder from your parted lips on his skin. His grip tightens as he tugs your underwear down your legs, grinning when you kick them impatiently to the floor of the car. Now, as he strokes his digits up and down your folds, you turn to putty on his lap. In another world, he’d have you laid out in his bed, enjoying each inch of your body. But here, in the cramped, dim backseat, he keeps the lights off. He knows it’s reckless, yet that barely slows him down. His cock throbs at the very risk of getting caught, at the edge he’s walking just to have you like this.

“Goddamn, you’re soaked, aren’t ya’?” He doesn’t expect you to answer, at least not in any coherent way. He sinks his middle finger into your bare heat, searching your face in the dark, contemplating the fluttering of your lashes. His hand weaves into your hair, a firm tug guiding your gaze to his. Your head tips back, a moan spilling from your lips at the new sensation, rolling your hips into his palm with earnestness. “It’s gonna be a tight fit, huh? If this is how you’re grippin’ my fingers, I can’t imagine what that cunt’s gonna feel like wrapped ‘round me.”

Studies suggest that in those final, fleeting moments of life, memories flood the human mind—a last journey through a person’s years before crossing over. If he were to die after tonight, he knows your face would be there, etched into his last breath. He can almost picture it: struggling for air, teetering on the edge, with that reddish, towering figure of mortality looming over him. But even then, he’d find solace in the thought of you, thrown into oblivion. You’d grant him a last-minute reprieve, easing the ache. You’d be the one who’d hold back the shadows. This constitutes the apex of his life, and he knows he should be worried, yet intellectual dominance doesn’t stand much of a chance when confronting the heart of a man. Not when that heart, so long starved of its pulse, has finally found someone worth remembering.

He makes space for himself, thrusting his long fingers into you until he’s got your slick coating his palm. One hand settles firmly at the small of your back, guiding your movements, while he feels his collected composure faltering. You mouth at the rough stubble along his jawline when you start to get close, breathless whimpers clouding his thoughts. “Joel,” you call out to him, as if that alone would make wonders. “Oh, fuck. Please, I waited a whole year. I need to come.”

A whole year. You were his once a year, and he was yours, a bittersweet ritual bound by time. He never would’ve thought this party could bring him such pleasure, though he can’t pretend he’s against it. Last time, he hadn’t taken the chance to pull you under and make you fall apart as many times as he’d wanted. He’s intent on making up for that missed opportunity, determined to make you enjoy every moment.

He withdraws his fingers abruptly, and a sharp laugh nearly escapes him at your reaction. You reach instinctively, grabbing for his hand, trying to guide him back to where he belongs between your legs. But he’s already moving, maneuvering you down until you’re lying on your back, fully under his command. He lowers himself, replacing his fingers with the warm insistence of his mouth. The sound that escapes your lips as his mouth presses against your center is nothing short of a scream—a wild cry that fills the space around you. He’s grateful he parked far from the other guests, because that sound would turn more than a few heads.

Joel laps at your arousal as if it's the fountain of youth, the very essence of everything pure and precious in the world. He presses down on your thighs until they rest on either side of him, unclamping your legs from around his head. The suppleness of your skin feels divine under his fingertips, and he brushes his thumbs over your trembling form, coaxing you into calmness, to let him have his way with you at his own pace. It's an absurd paradox—aiming to soothe you while his mouth continues its fervent worship, tracing intricate patterns against your most sensitive flesh. His beard, streaked with gray and freshly trimmed, glistens with your slick, and Joel smolders with all-consuming passion.

When his friends had told him to go out more, maybe find someone to date, he's certain they didn't mean this. The smart choice (scratch that: the correct one) would have been to pursue a woman his own age. But fuck it—he's spent a lifetime doing what's right. Every road he might've taken would've led him here, to this moment, with you. Part of him believes he must still have something left, some spark of appeal. To have a pretty little thing like you, so eager, so willing, offering yourself to him? He has to have something. His knees ache from where he kneels on the unforgiving surface, but the burn is inconsequential, and he’ll endure anything to be what you need.

Joel trails his hand up your body, over the curve of your breast, before gently groping it, his palm covering yours in a shared grip. He runs the tip of his tongue along your folds, his saliva mingling with your wetness, aquiline nose grazing your sensitive bud. “You’re tellin’ me you’re this tight ‘cause you’ve been savin’ yourself for me? You do know what t’say t’make a man happy.” He spreads you open slowly, his gaze lingering on the way your cunt glistens, a sense of satisfaction rippling through him. You remain silent, your breath shallow. “Still with me, sugar?”

“It’s just that—I’m so close.” You bite back a moan, nails digging into the soft leather of the seat. Joel hums in response, his lips closing around your clit. Agitation flickers across your face as you try to grind your hips against his mouth. “Fuck, fuck, fuck—”

The pressure is gone as he notices your thighs quivering again, his movements halting immediately.

“No, Joel. Please—”

“You’ll come when I tell ya’.”

He’s having the time of his life. Damn right he is.

He suddenly realizes he's still dressed from head to toes, the heat building in his body becoming too much to ignore. With a frustrated grunt, he undoes his belt, yanking the metal zipper down, longing to rid himself of the constricting denim. A strangled noise escapes him as you suck on his neck, fisting his base, giving him a few purposeful tugs.

“Now, you’re gonna ride me,” he murmurs, making a pause to shrug his shirt off, letting it fall to the floor of the car, “and you’re gonna like it. Don’ want you t’hold back this time, understood?”

His back ends up against one of the fogged-up windows. The air is thick with the apparent scent of sex—a phrase he’d only ever heard in movies, but now, it’s undeniably real. Joel holds his cock, aligning the tip with your entrance as his lips crash against yours in a hungry kiss. A deep groan escapes him, vibrating over your mouth, nipping at your lower lip. The sensation intensifies when your wet interior welcomes him, velvet walls molding to his size. Your brows scrunch together at the stretch, a choked whimper catching in your throat. As your hips sink fully, your ass flush against his thighs, your body clenches around him, that abrupt tightness drawing a stuttering gasp from him.

“For God’s sake,” he exhales, the words rough as his forehead bumps into yours. His hand splays over your ribcage, fingers curling slightly. “Sweetheart, you’re—killin’ me here.”

“I can feel you everywhere,” you huff, your arms looping around his neck to pull him closer, holding your breath. He takes the moment to capture your nipple between his swollen lips, leaving a shiny trail of spit in his wake. You lift yourself, the motion teasing, before sinking back down onto his lap, taking him in fully. “Can feel you in my stomach.”

When you begin to move, Joel loses track of everything else. Time seems to stretch, bending and reshaping itself each time his tip finds some hidden place inside you. He’s fifty-six years old, yet in this moment, his soul feels infinite. Invincible. He brings his hand to your lips, thumb grazing over them before slipping inside. Your warm tongue envelopes it, and when you start to suck dutifully, muffling your moans, his body jerks in response. His eyes drift to your glistening chest, where a sheen of sweat makes your skin glow in the dim light. You’re the most captivating woman he’s ever seen, and he knows he’ll never look at anyone the same again. He can’t tear his gaze away, mesmerized by the way your body merges with his, the way you undulate your hips on top of him.

You move back and forth, and he drives into you, filling you to the brim with every calculated thrust. He thrusts upward, stealing the air from your lungs, the sharp motion making you sputter as your body struggles to keep up with his.

“That’s it.” His voice is a husky growl as he wraps his arms tightly around your back, your chests sticking together with sweat. His pace quickens, the rhythm becoming more insistent. “Takin’ it like a good girl. You feel exquisite, baby. Makin’ me lose my fuckin’ mind.”

“So big inside me,” you pant, your own pace faltering as you surrender to Joel’s unforgiving tempo. His hooded eyes flicker to yours, catching the way your pupils have swallowed up your irises, dark and blown wide with desire. A shiver runs through him as your fingers dig into his shoulders, your grip leaving faint crescents in his skin. “Missed your cock so much, Mr. Miller.”

Fuck, not that shit. If it’s possible, he grows impossibly harder. He pounds into you with renewed intensity this time, his singular goal to leave you speechless, boneless, completely undone. He wants you limp and shuddering, with nothing left to give. “Enough of that.” His hands find their place on the soft globes of your ass, molding and squeezing until the pressure has you mewling, the sweet sound shooting straight through him. His lips ghost over the shell of your ear. “Responsive everywhere, honey. Have any idea how much fun I’m gonna have with ya’?”

Who would’ve believed him back then? It proves this isn’t some once-in-a-lifetime fluke. It happened before, and now it’s happening again. He might as well surrender to it—accept his fate and move through the motions like a man resigned to what’s already written.

There’s a moment when your moans sharpen, turning high-pitched and dazed, and the way you constrict him sends his eyes rolling to the back of his skull, a guttural noise tearing from his chest. His movements still, clutching your waist to pin you in place, denying you the chance to move, to bounce on him.

Then you break. A sob wracks your body, tears spilling over and tracing hot paths down your cheeks. They gather, fusing together as they slide along your throat and pool in the hollow of your jaw before disappearing lower. “Asshole,” you hiss, the word fragile as you push your face into the curve of his neck, seeking refuge in his embrace.

“Sorry? Couldn’t catch that.” He makes sure to keep you securely tucked under his chin, tilting his lower half upward. “If you want me t’stop, just say the world and I will.”

He’s messing with you, plain and simple. He doesn’t actually expect you to take his words at face value. But you do, grinding down harder, impaling yourself further on the length of his cock, and your arousal trickles down, slicking the coarse hair of his thighs. “Please.”

“Please what?”

“Please fuck me.” Slotting your mouth over his, you attempt to move, chasing any sort of friction against your clit. Sadly, pleasure doesn’t come on its own—it’s Joel who can make you feel good, and he’s not obliging. His hand seizes your hair in a rough grasp, tugging sharply. Eyes fluttering shut, you hunch forward, submitting to the sharp edge of his control.

“What an impatient little thing y’are.” Joel grabs your thighs and turns you over, your back pressed against the leather seat. The brusque shift pulls him out of you, the cool air a cruel tease before he taps his head against your swollen folds, then fills you again in one powerful thrust, kissing your cervix in the process. A deep moan rips from your lungs, deep and guttural, as your legs tremble uncontrollably on either side of him. Your ankles dig into his back, fervent to keep him close. His balls rest heavy against your skin, full and aching for release. “Gonna give ya’ what y’want, okay? You’ve been on your best behavior,” he mumbles with his lips stuck to your forehead. “That’s a good girl. Think she deserves to come after all.”

Only then does he find his rhythm again, ramming into your drooling hole. For the third time tonight, he’s captivated by how you teeter on the edge of overwhelming pleasure. He has you eating out of his hand, taking all that he offers, and you do so willingly. He knows he could ask you for anything, and in exchange for an orgasm coaxed by him, you'd comply without thinking twice. In many ways, he’s not so different. He gathers some of your saliva, using it to moisten his fingers before slipping them between your bodies, rubbing your clit as he continues to hit your bundle of nerves. Where his stamina comes from, he has no clue, though he’s determined to keep pushing.

Your face becomes a living poem, each cry of yours adding to its verse. Your head nearly reaches the door, but he cradles it with his arm, ensuring you don’t hurt yourself. “Close,” you whine, struggling to keep your eyes from falling shut. “Joel, please. Let me—”

“Give it to me, darlin’.” Another thrust, another moan. “Drench me, c’mon. That’s what y’want, isn’t it? To come all over this cock?”

The way he’s worked you up has its rewards, leading to a release that feels like an eruption. You bite down on his shoulder, your cries growing louder, chanting his name without pause. It loses all meaning after being chanted so many times, but the way you say it still has an undeniable weight. He doesn’t mind it one bit, not when he’s finishing right after you plead him to fill you. His jaw hangs open as ropes of his seed spill inside you, and he sags against your frame, giving short thrusts to push his cum deeper into your warmth, your pussy milking him dry.

“Oh, God…” he groans, fumbling with one of your breasts, holding onto something for dear life. “Jesus Christ.”

“Don’t pull out yet,” you say, grinning when you feel him twitch. “Stay a little longer.”

Too personal. Too intimate—dangerous in his books. Normally, he'd tuck himself back into his briefs, drive the woman he’s slept with home, and that would be the end of it. No happy endings in his story. So he’s surprised when he supports his weight on his forearms, claiming your lips in a voracious encounter of tongues and teeth. He caresses your cheek, tilting your face to deepen the kiss, and you sigh contentedly.

The two of you lapse into a heavy silence after that. He clears his throat, and says: “I should’ve asked you for your number that one time.” In the heat of the act, he’s being too honest. Regret will come knocking on his door once his excitement fades. His eyes bore into yours, dubious. “M’sorry for that.”

“Well, you could ask me for it now,” you admit from beneath him, and Joel pulls away for a moment, trying to gauge if you’re serious. He doesn’t think you’re joking. “To make up for lost time.”

This must be the onset of something else. He can't quite put it into words, but he feels it in his chest, in every place where your skin merges with his. He's no fortune teller, and there's no way for him to know where this path will take him, whether it leads to ruin or salvation. Though in this moment, he doesn't care—not now, at least.

At last, Joel blindly reaches for the pocket of his jeans with one arm. “How long are you stayin’ in Austin?”

dividers by: @cafekitsune thank you!!! <3

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tree-of-blue-squirrel · 1 year ago

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this is actual thing with any kind of technology called the "Hype Cycle". Gartner company pushes these graphs for all kinds of new technology. As of August 2023, according to them generative AI had been on the cusp of reaching "Through of Disillusionment".

It is is basically what previous commenter outlined earlier. Investors started pulling out because the overblown expectations promised profit, but now came the realization that those expectations were grossly unrealistic. Which does happen with pretty much all technologic advances, AI is just one of them.

No matter how you look at things, it was to be expected. The investors didn´t get scammed, they are just mad that their profits aren´t returning as fast as they thought they would.

Anyway, if Gartner predictions hold up, "Plateau of productivity", stage where it is widely known what are the technological limits and profitable uses for concrete technology, will be reached within early 30´s of this century, regarding generative AI.

But, those are just predictions. Since the expectations were SO overblown with AI, it´s also likely that the whole thing won´t be profitable for quite a few more years as more is known about AI capabilities.

The AI tech bubble finally bursting is going to be both catastrophic and very funny.

#AI technology #I studied this in uni last year so I have a pretty good grasp on this topic #hype cycle

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tizeline · 5 months ago

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TSAU!Donnie's Ninpō Explained!

The first ability Donnie unlocks is the ability to see mystic energy! Objects or people with with mystic energy has this colourful glowing aura you could call it, the more mystic energy the more brightly is glows. For example - Mikey already has a very bright aura naturally, which becomes even brighter when he is actively using magic! ..... All of this is to say, Donnie found that out the hard way when he used his mystic sight on Mikey when he was using magic and Donnie as a result got a little bit fucking blinded!

All yōkai and mutants are naturally mystic in nature, they always have a visable aura because of that. Humans are not mystic, so they don't have that aura. HOWEVER! Humans can learn how to use magic through certain means like, y'know, Ninpō for example! When a human uses magic, they do have mystic aura, but only while actively using mystic powers.

(Also Donnie totally accidentally discovered that the "teapot" had bad vibes because his mystic sight lol)

After a while Donnie is able to start making constructs out of his Ninpō. Initially however, he can't really form complex designs, it's mostly just blocks and walls, very simplistic shapes. But it turns out he can use these simpler constructs as effective shields! Which is good considering his soft shell as well as the fact that his battle shell in the AU wasn't built to be used as armour. Both he and April gets a lot of use out of the extra defense.

With quite a bit of practice Donnie is able to actually generate specific and more complex designs! Which means that yes, to the horror of friend and foe alike, Donnie can and will summon an entire arsenal of firepower, yikes. He's not limited to firearms though, he's able to generate all kinds of technology and machinery (drill!!!!)

To create these mystic contructs, it does require Donnie to have a good understanding of what it looks like, how it functions, etc. His imagination and his knowledge of technology are what sets a lot of the limits on what he is able to create, if he can build it in his lab then he can build it with his Ninpō. This particular ability requires a lot complex thought, if Donnie wasn't so smart he wouldn't be able to pull it off as well as he does.

Another limitation is that maintaining the contsructs is very energy-consuming, he'll quickly exhaust himself if he keeps them around. He'll usually only summon constructs very briefly for an attack and then immedietly dismiss them.

The way that Donnnie's Ninpō manifests itself is already very technology-oriented, because of that he can interact with ordinary technology through his Ninpō. Personally I haven't figured out the details of what exactly that can look like, but there's definitely a lot of possibilities to explore here.

One thing though, as Donnie's Ninpō grows more and more powerful overtime, a side-effect of that is that if he gets really pissed off or otherwise very emotional, he'll accidentally make the technology in his near viscinity go haywire lmao. (This has the risk of making him even more angry, which just worsens the problem, and so on haha)

I really like the idea of Donnie being the second most powerful mystic user out of his brothers, after Mikey of course. And because he's mostly self-trained, he doesn't have the best understanding of how to properly control his powers, which evidently can become a bit of a problem. Donnie eventually agrees to let Draxum help him get a better grasp on his mystic abilities after the Hamatos and the Draxums become more friendly with each other.

So uh. About how Donnie kinda accidentally infused Shelldon with mystic energy while creating him which caused the robot to develop a kind of soul? Yeah so because of that Shelldon's mystic energy if linked to Donnie's, which means that Shelldon more or less gains access to the same abilities as Donnie does! He's not quite as powerful as Donnie, and he still needs to practice to fully get a grasp on these powers as well. But point is, that's how Shelldon gains acess to Ninpō in the AU! (He also notices their fucked up "teapot")

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Anyway that basically summarizes it! A lot of these ideas are headcanons I have for canon!Donnie as well honestly, the AU is just an excuse to explore these concepts. Donnie's ability to summon fucking firearms and military equipment is also something I've thought about, I wanted to try to think how it would work for him while also putting some limitations on it. ANOTHER THING I like the idea of Donnie's tech constructs basically being the same ability as when Raph creates constructs of himself. The difference lies with that Donnie is a massive nerd so his first instinct is to recreate his own tech with the Ninpō. While Raph being someone who is already so physically strong would naturally use his Ninpō to recreate his own greatest weapon, which is himself. (Donnie uses his brain, Raph uses his brawn, who would've guessed)

#i love figuring out magic systems even though im not that good at it #at least not from scratch #its a lot easier to have something to go off of which i have here #tiz sep au #tizel art #my art #digital art #teenage mutant ninja turtles #rise of the teenage mutant ninja turtles #tmnt #rottmnt #rottmnt au #rottmnt donnie #rise donnie #rottmnt shelldon #rise shelldon

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swordgrace · 16 days ago

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❝ 𝐨𝐧𝐥𝐲 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐝 𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐥 𝐢𝐭’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭. ❞

┊ 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: you and john go undercover to infiltrate an arms dealing ring in paris. you take your roles a little too seriously.

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: john walker x fem!reader.

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 6.3K.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: smut (mdni), semi-established relationship (no label yet), fake marriage trope, espionage stuff, mild plot, mild mentions of insecurities, thigh riding/thigh grinding, dry humping, dirty talk, biting/marking, john is needy, making out, hair pulling, john walker’s praise kink, unprotected p in v sex, cowgirl/riding position.

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: this was so fun to write & can be read in the same ‘universe’ as “bite the hand that needs you” !! lowkey I’m becoming john walker trash ,,, expect more fics of him because he’s delicious. I loved this sm & I hope you all enjoy! 🫶

Covert operations were never considered your expertise — in fact, they were completely foreign to you, so outlandish that you wanted to crawl out of your own flesh. Discomfort comes with new territory, with putting on some new facade for the sake of a mission.

The ripstop mesh of your suit is gone, exchanged for a gaudy dress that seems torn from the cover of some business magazine, fabric the color of bruised plums. It’s awkward, constricting; you’re squirming in your seat.

Valentina had sent you all trailing after an illegal weapons manufacturer in the heart of Paris, superpowered machinery being bartered off to the highest bidder.

There were too many hands involved, too many bad people getting their hands on equipment that could level buildings if used improperly. It seemed like a threat that might’ve required Bob’s help, but he was still out-of-commission.

Admittedly, you weren’t sure why Bucky had put you and John up to the task as bait; it set your nerves ablaze, trying to step into a role that was the antithesis of your personality.

While you and John were out masquerading as a husband-and-wife duo who owned a technology company, the rest of the team were infiltrating an underground warehouse.

Given the newfound nature of your relationship with John, it made the predicament all the more humorous. No one knew, but the irony of being paired together for something of this nature had made you laugh, initially.

If you’d known about the blisters gnawing at the flesh of your heels, you might not have been so enthusiastic to volunteer yourself for this.

A tangle of nerves sat heavy within your stomach, a tight knot that continued to bounce around your belly, prompting you to bounce your knee. The stiletto pumps you wore blistered and chafed at your heels, the sensation grating.

Grenadine syrup oozes onto your tongue at the first sip of an iced Shirley Temple, perched at the countertop of a bar that seems excessively lavish. Everything is pretty — the scenery, the city, the hotel’s interior.

The atmosphere is light, casual; though, you’re actively avoiding looking over your shoulder. Tension curls within your muscles, your posture abnormally rigid; any attempt to relax is met with resistance.

John is talking with the target — pressed, tailored suit clinging to his musculature, blonde tresses less disheveled, smile easy; too trusting, too naive. You remind yourself that this is all an act, that you’re both Avengers playing pretend.

It’s difficult to discern if he’s enjoying himself or not — he’d rather be fighting, you think, expelling all of his frustrations into a few henchmen.

Nevertheless, you’re making a valiant effort to enjoy yourself; this was a free hotel stay, after all. Beyond the thin, sparkling window panes of the Hotel George V, you catch a glimpse of Paris’s glittering cityscape.

There’s a peculiar solace you find in the teeming nightlife, and much of the hotel’s clientele screams wealth and lavishness. It’s a life that you never had, growing up — now, being an Avenger, it was all within your grasp.

Even when you served with S.H.I.E.L.D, your assignments never took you to France. Despite the intensity of the mission at-hand, you were thrilled to be somewhere new.

As the liquid evaporates from your glass, you’re left with a twinge of disappointment, sucking what remnants you can from the bottom, ice half-melted. Sliding the empty vessel aside, you peer over your shoulder, noticing John’s gaze directed toward you, waving you over.

Act the part; the reminder repeats over and over again, a mantra screaming from the forefront of your mind. Gliding from the stool, you straighten out your dress, knees wobbling as you steady yourself on your stilettos.

With a tremulous exhale, your gait is somewhat poised, unpracticed; anyone observant enough could tell that you were one step away from fumbling over.

Pointed heels click against marble tile as you join them at the table, beaming and bristling with a fake excitement.

John notices the tremor in each step, unbalanced, and he finds it cute, in the way one finds a newborn foal to be cute.

He can taste the discomfort that rolls from you in anxious waves, and so he attempts to soothe you in the only way he knows how.

“Mr. Bertesy, this is my wife,” He introduces you without missing a beat, the words smooth, lacking an ounce of hesitation. John is better at this than you thought, smiling as if he’s won the lottery. “She’s also helming the company.”

Andras Bertesy — the name held some familiarity, a Hungarian arms dealer, prominent in much of central and eastern Europe. His features are gaunt, narrow; he reminds you of a spider, his physicality noticeably spindly.

Andras regards you with a thinly-veiled perplexity, as if he’s attempting to pierce through whatever barrier you’ve concocted. He remains seated, reaching for your hand with suave cordiality.

“Charmed, madam.” He carries a heavy accent, sitting heavy within his voice as you meet him halfway for a handshake. Instead, it’s taken a step further when he presses his lips to your knuckles.

Unphased, you offer him a pleasant smile; John’s jaw tenses, though it’s a subtle gesture. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Bertesy. I hope my husband’s been good to you.” Teasingly, you let your hand perch atop John’s shoulder.

With a listless chuckle, Andras nods, hand withdrawn to the table. “Your husband tells me of your interest in my work.” He muses, purely absorbed with striking a business deal.

Pulling up a cushioned chair to the table, it’s wedged beside John’s, space nonexistent as you sit down, folding one leg over the other. It relinquishes the sting in your feet, and you vow to never wear stilettos again.

“Yes,” As if to play up the facade, you reach for John’s hand, posture posh and prim. “We’ve been searching for something revolutionary, to take our company in a new direction. We think your work might be the key to that.”

Admittedly, John is mildly impressed with you — you’re swift to turn on the bubbly charm, the same charm he’d fallen for, and cater to the man’s inflated ego. You’re quick-witted, though he feels the anxiousness through your grasp alone.

As if to placate your nerves, John absentmindedly trails his thumb over your knuckles, pretending to be engrossed by the conversation at-hand.

This wasn’t part of his skillset, disguises and the covert, but being with you made it tolerable. “My wife and I would be interested in striking up a business deal.” John interjects, flashing a false smile.

My wife; for someone merely adopting a role, he doesn’t seem like he’s acting when he says it. A beat passes, cerulean hues shifting to gaze at you lovingly, your heart lurching within your chest.

Heat curls over the back of your neck, a brief hitch settling within your throat before you swallow it down. Digits tense, woven together, prompting you to shift within your chair, facing your target.

“I am certain that we could come to some arrangement,” Andras hums, his hawkish glower still picking you apart, a knife attempting to pierce through your defenses. “Assuming you’ve enough money.” He laughs.

John chuckles too, a noise that sounds so characteristically sardonic. “Name your price.” Part of you is amused by how serious he’s taking this, as if he’s going for an acting award.

Andras quirks an eyebrow, hands pressed together as he appraises the both of you. “I must reconvene with my associates,” More shady dealers? There’s a veiled perplexity written on John’s face. “Aren’t you curious to know what you’re purchasing?”

The warehouse — an anxious coil forms within your belly, teeth catching against the inside of your cheek. This is all supposed to be some distraction while they’re running infiltration, which prompts you to clear your throat.

“We’re very curious,” You concur, trying to navigate through the sudden uneasiness you feel. Bertesy doesn’t seem naive, but you’re also a poor liar. “Though, we’re pressed for time, and —”

“Of course. You must be very busy people,” Andras murmurs, tapping his fingers together. “Perhaps, a private viewing? Transportation would be provided, and we can cement our transaction.”

John’s mind is turning, turning again, attempting to think of something quick. His communicator is sitting in the waistband of his belt, growing heavier as minutes tick by.

The idea of playing into Bertesy’s proposition seems dangerous, unpredictable. Neither of you have your suits in-reach, no defense, and even with John’s super-soldier stamina, the odds are looking rather grim.

As if on-queue, a humming noise pierces the tenuous silence, awkward and grating, causing your heartbeat to climb dramatically. John clears his throat, flashing a brief smile before he moves out of his seat.

“Got a call I need to take, excuse me,” John shoots you a sideways glance, the ghost of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I’ll be back, honey.” He says it as if it’s dripping with sweetness, and you have to stifle a laugh.

Before departing, he squeezes your hand, and that isn’t acting; it’s sincere.

Gooseflesh crawls along your spine, stomach a tempest of nerves as you face Andras, forcing a cordial smile. John walks away, slipping into a marblesque corridor, his voice beginning to taper off into a dismal hum.

Left alone with a dangerous arms dealer, you didn’t say much, unsure of how to progress the conversation. Though, you were intrigued by him — no one simply took to this line of work without being catapulted in that direction.

“How long have you been married to Mr. Wayne?” Andras questioned, and you very nearly laughed at the surname of John’s persona.

John Wayne — he loved Westerns; you bit your tongue to keep from snickering.

“Three years.” It sounded natural, and you tried to ease up, force yourself to relax. Your hands folded atop your lap, digits picking at the stitching of your dress in an attempt to relieve yourself of nervous tension.

“Americans, hm?” It was difficult to discern if he was interrogating you or simply facilitating conversation to fill the silence. Either way, you decided to answer truthfully to keep the peace.

“Both of us, yes,” A cough stirs within your throat as you proceed to make up a half-truth of how you met. “We met at a previous job, and it seemed to grow from there.” It was like a lament of your life beneath the shoddy disguise.

“How sweet.” The sudden sharpness of Andras’s voice makes you shift uncomfortably within your seat, heart threatening to rip from your chest. His gaze is poignant, discomforting; you want to look over your shoulder for John.

Silence crackles between, a terse hush that could be cut with a knife. Beneath the table, your fingers curl into your dress, fraying the stitching as you wrack your brain for something intelligent to say. Coming up short, your only hope is to wait for your partner to come back.

Andras cants his head to one side, wisps of brown hair moving with it, brows pinching together. “You seem familiar,” Shit — please don’t recognize you. “Are you certain that I haven’t seen you anywhere before?” He questions, and the anxiety builds against you.

With the formation of the New Avengers, your face plastered worldwide, someone was bound to know you if they scrutinized hard enough. An awkward laugh spills from your mouth. “That’s flattering, Mr. Bertesy. I must have a common face.”

Before the conversation could shift into a more accusative direction, John returns, much to your relief. He gives you a brief glance, putting on another mirthless, fake smile.

“Sorry about that — business calls,” He stands beside you, stance involuntarily protective, as if he’s a barrier between you and Bertesy. “Would you be willing to meet us in an hour, Mr. Bertesy? Name the place to meet.”

Andras regards you with something indiscernible, making your blood run cold as you avert his gaze, leg bouncing violently beneath the table. You’re wanting this to be finished, and it seems to be heading that way.

Wordlessly, the Hungarian removes a nondescript business card from the pocket of his blazer, offering it to John without missing a beat. “One hour. Look for a black horse.” He replies, abruptly standing up from his seat. “I look forward to your patronage.”

Scrambling from your seat, your feet ache again with the pressure of your stance, backs of your stilettos digging into your heels. Andras ends the interaction there, departing from the hotel’s lobby, a spot of black against the ivory.

Once he’s gone, you feel as if you can breathe again, tension unfurling from your shoulders in one fell swoop. Smoothing your hands over your dress, you’re eager to return to your room.

John is pensive, twirling over the business card between his fingers. ‘DARKFORCE SYNDICATE’ is all it says, stamped with the head of a black horse.

“Seems a little obvious,” He scoffs, sneering at the shady name; a seedy name for a less-than-moral organization. Tucking it into the pocket of his suit-jacket, he glances at you. “You alright?”

“Yeah,” With a tremulous exhale, you attempt to expel your nervous energy, feeling lighter now that he’s gone. No longer playing the part, you clear your throat. “I think he was getting suspicious. He said he thought he recognized me.”

Smug, John’s mouth twitches with the ghost of a smirk, hand skimming over the small of your back. “Think he needed to keep his eyes off of my wife.” He teases, though it stirs some flickering fire within you, a familiar heat crawling along the back of your neck.

“Your wife wants to go upstairs and get out of these godawful heels.” Your remark is lighthearted, keeping the mood playful in the wake of the growing intensity. Even then, you weren’t out of the clear just yet, but it gave you room to breathe.

John’s smirk grows, cocksure as ever, a flicker of amusement passing over his features. “Thought you’d collapse if you took another step.” His statement earns him a look of veiled frustration from you, but he isn’t entirely incorrect.

His attitude has changed; it’s tolerable, but he still has a habit of callousness and being unnecessarily harsh at-times. Less with you, more with the others. John’s gotten soft for you, more vulnerable — he’s still getting used to the feeling.

Admittedly, he’s terrified of losing you now, like he lost Lemar, lost Olivia. Beneath the flawed exterior, there’s a man left, attempting to reclaim his roots, try and better himself despite the world looking down on him.

Offering you his arm, you’re quick to accept, taking measured steps to ensure that you make it to the elevator, unscathed. His bicep is thick and taut beneath your palm, warm even through his expensive blazer.

Inside of the elevator, you decide to pry about his supposed ‘phone call’. “Where is the team at with the warehouse situation?” You asked, leaning against the metal railing behind you.

“Bucky said they’re cleaning up, but he wants us to catch Bertesy,” John murmurs, fishing out the communication device from his waistband. There’s a GPS watch too, keeping tabs on the others. “We’ve got an hour to kill.”

A soft ‘ding’ reverberates throughout the corridor, eerily hushed for this time of night. The hallways are glistening, pristine — you’ve never seen anything like it. Dimly-lit braziers mark your path as you return to your temporary lodging.

As soon as you cross the threshold into your room, you kick your heels off, black stilettos soaring toward the chaise lounge in the center. The room came equipped with an open fireplace, extravagant bed, and the bathroom — a luxury shower.

“Do you think Valentina could incorporate some of this into the Watchtower?” You muse, nose wrinkling as you settle down onto the ivory cushion, sprawling back with a soft exhale.

“She’s cheap.” John utters, tone flat as he grabs a duffel bag from beneath the bed, containing his suit and his still-bent shield. It’s become something of a staple, mildly sentimental, and he can’t bring himself to get rid of it.

The playful banter you shared before begins to wane; he becomes focused before a mission, before a fight. A sliver of you wonders if it’s because of what happened in Latvia, and the thought makes you grimace.

Tossing his suit-jacket aside, he’s already itching to be back in his kevlar and tactical gear, loosening the tie as if it’s choking him. He’s quiet, and it prompts you to stand, bare feet crossing cold stone as you inch closer.

“We’ve got an hour to spare, John,” The softness of your cadence is unmistakable, giving him pause as he stops in the middle of undressing. “We’ll handle this — just relax.” You soothe, noticing the tension simmering within his posture.

He’s coiled, ready to go; it’s an amalgamation of military training and past trauma, constantly on-edge, expectant for the unpredictable. John tries to loosen up, sitting on the edge of the bed with a begrudging huff.

“I want to get the job done.” He’s eager, hungry to complete a mission, like a trained attack dog. Even still, John is attempting to unravel some of the rigidity enforced upon him, but it’s a process.

“I know. We’ll get it done,” Sitting next to him, your toes barely brush over the cold marble, hands loose within your lap, nail picking at the stitching of your dress. “Bertesy said an hour, and we have fifty-two minutes left.”

There’s an impatience present, and he doesn’t enjoy waiting around; the deep breath before the plunge. If it weren’t for you sitting beside him, he would’ve been pacing.

Hesitation has never been his strongest suit, driven by impulsivity that only seemed to crush him after Lemar passed. Though, he’s tried to get better, reminding himself of his training, where he’s come from.

He just wants to make sure you’re safe.

Blonde lashes flutter in rapid succession, cerulean hues shifting from curtain-shrouded windows to you, gaze becoming a touch shadowed. You look gorgeous in that dress — he wanted to tell you before, so he settles on telling you now.

“You look beautiful,” John murmurs, low and husky, as if his sudden shift in cadence is a deliberate choice. A fleeting smile crosses his features, faint as he appraises you. “Should’ve told you before.”

He knows what he wants to do with those fifty-two minutes.

Flustered, you can’t help but smile, preening beneath his kinder compliment, giving a lackadaisical shrug of your shoulders. “Thanks,” You hum, but you don’t feel pretty; you feel like an imposter. “I don’t feel beautiful.”

Perplexed, John decides to push the matter, head cocking to one side. “Why not?” He struggles with his own insecurities, but nothing regarding physicality. Even then, he thinks you’re breathtaking, violet silk molded to your curves.

“I don’t know,” You confess, huffing a nervous laugh before you stare absentmindedly into your lap. “I feel stupid in this dress, worse in heels. It’s like I’m an imposter in my own skin or something.”

John understands the sentiment more than you fully realize. He doesn’t always understand himself, or his rage — it’s a labyrinth he’s still navigating, and like you, he’s still healing. He nods, shoulder brushing against yours.

Quiet, you steal a glance at him, heart beginning to thrum with an erratic beat. His beard is scruffy, a shadow of a darker blonde, tresses somewhat disheveled after removing his tie.

After you slept together two weeks ago, things have felt different; the tension is prevalent, unspoken feelings crackling between, and he gets increasingly protective of you. You don’t mind it, but the team notices the sudden shift in his demeanor.

He’s staring at you, gaze lingering on your mouth, over the delicate slope of your jaw, over your throat, which bobs when you swallow. John’s countenance softens, a rarity reserved only for you in private moments like these.

“Think you’re perfect.” He murmurs, brows creasing together as if he’s concentrating on something. A subtle hitch bubbles within your throat, breath catching on the exhilarating feeling of his words, hands stilling.

Unable to keep from smiling, a familiar tendril of heat coils within your belly, causing you to shift against the mattress. “John …” Before you can try and fully express your feelings, you feel his hand press against your thigh.

Though, you’re quick to indulge him and yourself, tilting in until your mouth clamors for his. Lips meld together, passion oozing through like thick honey, saccharine, eliciting a yearning that he tried to bury before the mission.

His beard scratches against your mouth, a pleasant prickling that reminds you he’s real, flesh and blood, a beating heart. John exhales; a steady, exaggerated sound, attempting to cling to the fine line of restraint.

The communicator is eerily quiet; he’s expecting Bucky to ping him, but he’s eager to take advantage of what time you have together.

Much of the past two weeks were agonizing; stolen glances in the training room, fleeting smiles shared over breakfast with the team, kissing in the corridors where the cameras can’t reach. He wanted you, you wanted him.

A delighted shiver grips your spine when his calloused digits tease the hem of your dress, threatening to push beneath. Hands find the muscled expanse of his chest, firm underneath your palms, warm to the touch.

Lips collided in a heated exchange of fiery affection, your stomach flooding with molten heat. John kisses you as if he’s burning alive, nearly flush against you, other hand cupping your jaw.

“John, I … Is this a good idea?” It is a wonderful idea, but you’re uncertain if squeezing this in beforehand would make things worse; for both of you. You’re still in the thick of a mission — things could change instantaneously.

Foreheads brush together, noses ghosting over another as he huffs a placating chuckle. “We’re married, remember?” His signature smirk pulls at his mouth again. “There’s a lot we can accomplish in forty-six minutes.” He murmurs.

His cheeky remark makes your insides turn with an excitable heat, and you want him terribly. “You’re a needy husband.” You tease, throwing caution to the wind, and his lips are back on yours with a thrilling haste.

John can’t help himself, a grunt splitting through his chest, raw and taut, each kiss leaving the both of you sputtering for any scrap of air. Your fingers are fumbling with the buttons of his dress shirt, trembling with exhilaration.

Between deepened kisses, he coaxed you closer, strong hands drifting to the swell of your hips as he urged you into his lap. Skirts shuffled, fabric hastily adjusted as he slotted you atop one thigh, muscle firm and tense between your legs.

There was a sense of relief he felt, lost within the labyrinth of your lips, passion burning with a searing intensity. Whatever stress that he’d felt before began to unfurl from his shoulders, abandoned to the sanctity of your presence.

Crisp fabric untangles itself from his musculature, revealing his abdomen to you, which you caress with reverent touches. John feels you adjust against his thigh, catching the pleading whine that coagulates in your throat.

His scruffy countenance melds with yours, bleeding heat, kissing you with enough vigor that it prompts you to hold onto him. Your heart gallops, races — it’s quick and erratic, beating in your ears.

Lungs burned, wilted in the flame of his kiss, evoking a breathy moan that ripped through your diaphragm. Hips lurched forward, a sluggish roll as friction grew between his thigh and your clothed nethers, nearly making you writhe.

John catches you in the act, rucking your dress up around your hips, lips stilling against yours. “Need it that bad?” His voice is dangerously low, husked cadence curling around you, making you squirm.

Embarrassed, you nearly retreat from the intensity of his gaze, but he doesn’t let you, hands firm against the swell of your hips. He’s strong enough to move you without breaking a sweat, effortless, grinding you into the muscle of his thigh.

“John,” A warbled whimper splits your throat, the noise raw and needy. He’s getting off on watching you like this, cerulean hues burning with heat, an incendiary stare. “I—I …” Words turn to ash in your mouth.

In a clamor of bodies, your knee happened to brush over the growing tent in his trousers, eliciting a low groan from his lips. That seemed to momentarily silence his lascivious remarks, much to your satisfaction.

He gives you a pointed stare, knowing that you’re winding him up with the constant grinding and your damned knee, bouncing into his groin. “Stop it.” John hisses with no real malice behind it, only frustration.

The picture of faux innocence, you shrug, and he cages you against him, stifling another grunt mouth hot and fervent as he kisses you. You accidentally shift again, knee brushing over his erection.

Again, he drags you over his thigh, taut muscle thick through his dress slacks, watching your countenance blossom with bliss. There’s an excitement prevalent, something daring; you’re in the middle of a mission.

A sharp moan punctures your lungs when he jostles his thigh against your core, biting back a dirty smirk when your hands curl into his chest. “Yeah? You like that?” John murmurs, low timbre echoing beside your ear, causing you to shiver.

With an eager nod, you want more, hips urging into the friction of his thigh. The sensation sends shockwaves through your body, arousal coalescing between your legs.

Still, you rocked yourself atop his thigh, unable to smother a whimper as kisses began to cease, foreheads pressed flush together. John’s breathing is a touch labored, hot breath pluming over your features, bones aching with desire.

“I want you,” Your confession makes his brain short-circuit, trapped within a haze of desire. You’ve nearly forgotten about everything else, allowing it to simply diminish into the background. “John, please.” A low moan echoes from your mouth.

John tries to curb the smugness, but it’s swiftly replaced by his hunger for praise, validation. His mouth climbs toward your throat, beard burning your flesh, but the sensation is borderline intoxicating.

He’s getting a little rough, but you don’t care, hips erratically urging themselves into his thigh, friction tingling against your cunt. “Mind if I leave marks?” John grunts, pearlescent teeth scraping over the column of your throat.

“Please, please.” Gasping, he’s quick to take your sensitive flesh between his lips, suckling a hickey into your neck without a second thought. A muted buzz surges through him, muscles coiled, cock throbbing incessantly.

The grizzled scratch of his beard prickled against your neck, goosebumps icing your spine, filling you with anticipation. He’s still rocking you into his leg, mouth a tempest as it storms over your throat, teeth nipping at your flesh.

Dizzying moans slip past your lips in noisy droves, feathering beside his ear, hands gripping your haunches like a vice. A hoarse ‘Jesus’ hisses beneath his breath, a subtle noise that you nearly miss.

An urgent ache throbs within his cock, which continues to strain with obvious need against his pants. Between the friction of clothed bodies and wandering hands, John is wanting to take it further.

A sharp gasp penetrates your lungs when his mouth roughly sucks another mark into your jugular, laced with exhilaration and an excitable zeal. His communicator buzzes in his pocket; he ignores it.

Your hands are crawling over his chest, one palm dropping to the rather obvious bulge. Insistent, your hips urged in a rhythmic dance, grinding yourself still against the taut muscle of his thigh.

Lips momentarily collide in a messy kiss of tongue and teeth, the both of you clawing for one another, succumbing to baser instincts. Throaty whines escape you, consumed by his kiss, one that ached with desperation.

He stops, only to press kisses over the freshly-formed hickeys, visage dropping to your throat, lavishing your skin in endless kisses. There was something raw about him, exuding strength, caging you in over his lap.

“Jesus.” John groans, low and heady into the hollow of your throat, feeling one of your hands fist at his blonde tresses. The other kneads against his cock, ripping another grunt from his chest.

A coil pulls taut within his abdomen, an intensity that he had become acquainted with, lips parting as he continues to let you ride his thigh. “Want you inside of me.” Through a strangled whine, your words make his jaw tick.

It’s as if you’ve reached into his being and turned on some primal switch, feeling his grasp grow tight against your thighs. Undeterred, your hand grinds over the swell once more, as if tempting him, goading him into taking you then and there.

A shadow passes over his stare, cerulean hues eclipsed by desire as he shifts his thigh, muscle making contact with your core. A hitch forms within your throat when his hands fist at your dress, hastily dragging it towards your hips.

Admittedly, you were just as pent-up as he was, desperate to feel him inside of you. Arousal began to coalesce between your thighs, an incessant ache that spread throughout your belly, a fire that demanded to be extinguished.

In a frenzied clash, your lips were on one another again, feeling his fingers hook into the waistband of your panties. Teeth knock together, moans swallowed through greedy kisses, fabric being manhandled past your thighs.

Hands fumble for his belt, and he’s grunting into your mouth like some feral animal, cock throbbing incessantly when you unzip the front of his pants. John doesn’t waste a second — neither of you have the time to spare.

Time has slipped your mind, but you estimate that it’s growing slim, hands steadying themselves against the nape of his neck. You hovered, soft palm guiding his length to your slick cunt. John inhaled — a sharp, poignant noise that signaled relief.

Intermingled sighs of passion float between faces, hot and wanton, your thighs twitching when you sink onto his cock. The sensation makes you dizzy, muscles shaking with the sting of exertion.

“John,” A gasp is pulled from your throat, raw and hoarse as he fills your cunt, hands tensing over the swell of your hips. “You feel so good.” You moan, unabashed, heat licking over your flesh as if you’re feverish.

The praise makes him keen, mouth pressing a kiss to your jaw, beard scratching ragged over your soft skin. He’s gripping you like a vice, strong enough to guide you effortlessly onto his cock, friction bristling when you roll your hips.

It was a sluggish start, agonizingly so, bodies finding moments to grow accustomed to one another, finding familiarity. You drew yourself up, his cock filling you in such a pleasant way, nothing discomforting about it.

John shuddered at the feeling of your cunt, tight and warm around him, clenching around his cock with each roll of your hips. You took him perfectly, as if you were made for him, molded together; the pace begins to increase.

Neither of you hear the communicator thrumming; though in John’s case, he doesn’t seem to care in the heat of the moment. Each urge of your hips is drawn-out, intended to savor. “That’s it,” He husks, caressing your hip. “That’s my girl.”

It’s innocuous, the nickname — simple, but it sets off a catalyst within you, a furnace of heat that blankets your bones in fire, wasting away to ash. You’re moaning beside his ear against, fingers fisting at his blonde tresses.

The way in which you milked him, moved agonizingly slow, allowing him to feel your cunt tighten around him — it was nearly overwhelming.

Calloused, careworn palms rubbed circles into your hips, wishing that he ripped your dress, instead. Regardless, John’s trapped in the same desirous haze that you are, chests brushing together, bodies leaving no scrap of distance.

Skylights pool in through darkened windowpanes, blanketing you in some euphoric glow. He thinks you’re beautiful, and some small part of him wonders why you’re indulging him like this, but John’s quick to push it aside.

His smug swagger and bravado seems to dissipate when he’s buried himself into your cunt, as if it’s nearly shut him up completely.

“So good at this.” You breathe, knowing how it sets him off. John kisses you, fleeting, hips jolting against yours as one hand leaves your hip, shifting to the coalescing warmth between your thighs.

If it weren’t for the mission, he would’ve fucked you right into the mattress, maybe break the headboard, but he’s restraining himself. Even then, you look so pretty in his lap, riding his cock as if you’re made for him.

A whimper of bliss bubbled from your lips as you became invigorated in your pace, rocking yourself up and down along his cock, aided by the sudden pressure of his thumb against your clit. It draws another moan from deep within your diaphragm.

Your pace was tantalizing, nothing too swift to let it feel sloppy and rushed, yet fervent enough to make his head swim with the haze of desire.

A familiar coil of heat began to unfurl within the pit of your stomach, just as it did his own. A sharp inhale inhabits your lungs, one of a dizzying surprise as he circles over your clit, sending tingles through your spine.

Thighs twitched, the action alone bringing you closer to the precipice of your release. His cock throbs inside of you, nearly kissing your cervix with each downward movement.

“Christ,” John huffed, countenance focused yet wrought with ecstasy, muscles in his stomach tightening up. “You close?” He grunts, voice low and gravelly, itching something lascivious within your brain as you clench around him.

With a disheveled nod, you don’t stop, maintaining the same pace, a steady rhythm that’s winding the both of you up. His groans make your stomach turn with exhilaration.

With a brief jolt of his hips, he bucked up into you, cock hitting new depths, toying with your pearl as you squirmed within his lap. Gooseflesh ices your spine, mind clouded with a salacious haze, bringing you closer to an ecstatic oblivion.

Even as he crescendoed into his own release, he continued to circle your clit, lips peppering themselves along your exposed collar. A string of murmured expletives escape him.

Nails dug into the nape of his neck, a choked sob wracking through you as you clung to every shred of friction. John huffs, letting your hips stutter into more of an erratic rhythm as you soar toward your orgasm.

Euphoria crashes into you, white-hot and blinding, the tension unfurling from you in one wave. The coil snaps, cunt clenching around his cock, evoking another low groan from his mouth.

Stars floated across your vision in the wake of your release, a moan of ecstasy rippling through your chest. John’s name spills from your tongue over and over again, as if it’s the only word you know.

The pressure between your thighs begins to wane as he holds steadfastly to your hips, chest heaving with labored breaths in the afterglow. It’s hushed, save for your ragged breathing as you come down from your peak.

Fingertips gently shift his blonde tresses back into place, sweeping over his hairline. John adjusts your position enough to pull out, heartbeat beginning to climb down from its exhilarated pace.

“You okay?” John asks, watching as your head bounces in a brief nod. A smile crosses his features, faint, as if it’s only reserved for you, lacking the usual sarcasm.

“We should clean up, before …” With a click of your tongue, you gesture to his GPS, sluggishly climbing from his lap with wobbling legs. The both of you need to be prepared, and that includes getting your suits on.

“Right.” A twinge of disappointment stirs within him, wishing that it would’ve lasted longer; or that you were both back at the Tower. The facade of your false marriage fades; you’re back to the mission.

Before you depart, you plant a chaste kiss against his lips, as if to remind him of your affections.

John watches as you grab your duffel bag, making for the bathroom with a bit of a spring in your step. He’s getting soft, wanting to pursue a relationship with you, but there’s fear prevalent, still.

He’s ditching the suit-jacket and slacks, exchanging the suave outfit for tactical pants; kevlar and body armor that feels more comfortable. John follows after you, nearly dressed, and you’re perched along the rim of the bathtub, wrestling with your boots.

“Need help?” He offers, and you’re moderately embarrassed, still fumbling with the knots in the laces that won’t come apart.

“Yeah,” Defeated, you’re losing the fight with your boots, ripstop fabric thick enough to stop knives, perhaps a bullet or two. “I didn’t expect to have trouble with the knots.”

The purple dress is pooled on the floor, forgotten, but the memory will be burned into your mind for weeks to come. John steps closer, crouching down between your legs, shoulders broad, marred by indents of your nails.

He’s quick at unraveling the knots and tangles in your boot-laces, glancing up at you from his kneeling position. “When this is all over, I’m taking you out.” John states, matter-of-factly, as if you’re both in agreement.

Bewildered, you fight to smother your smile, but it appears, still curling at the corner of your mouth. “It took you long enough to ask.” You hummed, fingertips reaching to caress over his bearded jaw.

With a sardonic huff, John’s mouth twitches into a smirk, cerulean hues glittering with a humorous gleam. He’s so handsome, smug; he’s grown on you to the point that he’s covering you like ivy.

“Wouldn’t be a good husband if I didn’t.”

#mcu #marvel #thunderbolts #thunderbolts*#the new avengers #john walker x reader #john walker x you #john walker x y/n #john walker #us agent #thunderbolts x reader #john walker fanfic #john walker smut #thunderbolts fanfiction #thunderbolts smut #marvel x reader #marvel smut #marvel fanfic

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earlgraytay · 8 months ago

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I really wish that people had a better grasp on what The Average Person's Life was like pre-industrialization. If you're living in the global North the odds are good that your life is, in fact, better than a medieval king- yes, even with the political stuff- and would make your ancestors cry wild tears of envy.

The things that suck about your life are things that suck about the baseline human condition (at least since the invention of agriculture, but that's 10,000 years of humanity). Yes, including all the political stuff.

The baseline human condition is "being terrified of losing the harvest and starving", compared to that, losing a job is no big deal. (It's bad, it can be life-upendingly bad, but it's still not "you are guaranteed to die if you screw this up" bad for most people.)

The baseline human condition is "getting kicked around by a tin pot dictator", whether that be a king, a baron, a warlord, or a chief; it's taken centuries of social technology to get the world to a point where that's Not Normal.

The baseline human condition is "losing multiple siblings and/or children at a young age to diseases that are entirely preventable". That's a shocking tragedy now. The baseline human condition is "being in the pathway of said tinpot dictator's wars of conquest" and having to deal with soldiers' pillage, looting, and worse (even if they're nominally on your side). That is, again, a shocking tragedy-- it still happens, and happens in way too much of the world, but no one is going to tell you that it's normal.

I'm not saying that we can sit back and rest on our laurels. We can't. I've been calling the pre-industrial world the "baseline human condition" for a reason- unless you're very, very careful, that's what your society eventually reverts to. It takes a lot of people working very hard to make sure you don't have to live at the baseline human condition, and if you start slacking on that, you start backsliding into it.

How we treat each other- and how we use the technology, material and social, that we've developed to make things easier- matters. We can make the world even better than it is now. We can also make it significantly worse. The choice is ours.

...But if you know that you can reliably have food regardless of the season, you don't live in fear of a random attack killing you tomorrow, and you can listen to music on command whenever you want? You do actually live a better life than a medieval king. Because even kings and emperors were much closer to the baseline human condition than a random farm worker in Bumfuck, Iowa is today.

#general malarkey #tumblr malarkey #leftist malarkey #can you tell there is a viral post that pissed me offf lmao #history #the past is another country #they do things differently there #Tragically #Most Of Those Things Are Bad #the earl speaks #the earl has an opinion #the long road to the stars

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hug-your-face · 5 months ago

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“I have a foreboding of an America in my children's or grandchildren's time -- when the United States is a service and information economy; when nearly all the manufacturing industries have slipped away to other countries; when awesome technological powers are in the hands of a very few, and no one representing the public interest can even grasp the issues; when the people have lost the ability to set their own agendas or knowledgeably question those in authority; when, clutching our crystals and nervously consulting our horoscopes, our critical faculties in decline, unable to distinguish between what feels good and what's true, we slide, almost without noticing, back into superstition and darkness...

"The dumbing down of America is most evident in the slow decay of substantive content in the enormously influential media, the 30 second sound bites, lowest common denominator programming, credulous presentations on pseudoscience and superstition, but especially a kind of celebration of ignorance...

"We've arranged a global civilization in which most crucial elements — transportation, communications, and all other industries; agriculture, medicine, education, entertainment, protecting the environment; and even the key democratic institution of voting — profoundly depend on science and technology. We have also arranged things so that almost no one understands science and technology. This is a prescription for disaster. We might get away with it for a while, but sooner or later this combustible mixture of ignorance and power is going to blow up in our faces."

Carl Sagan & Ann Druyan, The Demon-Haunted World: Science as a Candle in the Dark (1995)

#teach #learn #do both #good advice #quote #Carl Sagan #ann druyan

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justagirlswrld · 2 months ago

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Thousand year old, sexy, space princess seeks companionship! must be hot!

a/n: i told you i was a mark grayson groupie.

warnings: unprotected p in v. humanoid!reader. stuff that happens in sex happens in this. porn w plot.

part two

“….Mark, why is there a purple…guy outside your window?”, Mark doesn’t look up from the Seance dog comic at the sound of Will’s confused voice, choosing to roll his brown eyes instead.

“Yeah, funny.”, Mark replies in an airy tone.

“No, Mark i’m ser-”, Rick cuts his boyfriend off as he walks through the front door of the apartment, “Why is there a purple man outside of the living room window?”, This finally gets Mark’s attention, he looks over at the window in question and his eyes grow triple their size.

Mark is in his suit in less than a second, comic thrown onto the couch he was just relaxing on. He floats over to the window, taking in the short, stocky….lavender man that flies just outside the apartment on deep, amethyst wings.

Mark opens the window roughly and the man scampers back, he didn’t plan on hurting the creature but it seemed like someone always wanted to fight on his days off.

Mark flies out the large window, he dwarfs the…man easily. He has an uneasy smile on his face, Mark notices that his mouth is filled with long canines and he tries not to grimace. “I’m not helping any….fairies today. so, leave.” With that Mark turns his back on him, a strong hand grasps his shoulder. In an instant Mark is zooming into the afternoon sky, holding the lilac haired creature by the collar of his thin shirt.

His purple skin now has a slight gleam from his nervous sweat. “I’m not a fairy, I come from the planet-“, Mark cuts him off, “I don’t care. Now go.”, Mark releases the being and hovers in front of him but he doesn’t budge. Mark rubs a gloved hand down his face in frustration.

”Mark Gray-“, Mark cuts him off instantly, “My name is Invincible when i’m in this suit. What do you want?”

The alien nods, “Invincible, please. I haven’t come to harm you…my planet needs your help.” Mark groans inwardly, why was it always on his day off.

The mysterious man goes on to explain how another evil alien race has come to conquer his kingdom. He paints a picture of his beautiful world being annihilated and his people being slaughtered without Mark’s help. “I’ve left it in ruins, Invincible. I’m scared I may be the only Solorian left.”

Mark points to a near by patch of forest in exasperation, “Wait there.” He flies back inside without waiting to see if the creature followed his instructions.

With major convincing from Will and Rick, Mark ends up not ghosting the…Solorian waiting in the woods. When Mark floats down through the trees to the hard ground, he’s sitting on a log with a happy expression on his face.

“Where’s your planet?”, Mark’s tone is serious, he really wanted to be back in time to watch the newest episode of this show he’d been tuning into.

The thing stands, brushing the dirt from his odd pants. Mark notices that he’s dressed like a jester, save for the pointy hat.

“It’s many galaxies from Earth, it usually takes a year to get there,-“ Mark makes a sound as he begins to protest but the man continues talking as he pulls a small, metal disc from his pocket. “But with our technology it’ll only take a minute.”

He throws the disc on the ground with his knobby fingers and its turns into a circular pad. Mark and his traveling companion step on and become engulfed in a pale yellow light. Mark only has time to blink before he’s whisked away, landing on what he assumes to be cobblestone streets.

Mark surveys his surroundings as the man picks up his transporter. There’s winged humanoids dressed almost…medievally everywhere, no one lounges as the planet’s two suns beat down on their backs.

He watches as children with skin in arrays of colors play in the waterfall and clear, blue stream. He has to crane his neck to look at the behemoth of a castle in front of him.

“This doesn’t look like ruins.”, Mark’s eyes shift as he waits for assailants to pop out from behind the thatched roofed shacks that line the street.

“Because I lied to you invincible. Walk with me and i’ll explain.”

They glide towards the castle slowly, the man, Edolan, explains that their princess refuses to marry one of her arranged suitors after hearing of his exploits on earth. They go up winding stair cases before they stop in front of a room with large, oval doors. “She says she must….meet you, before she marries.”, Edolan explains with his hands held behind his back.

“You know you could’ve said that”, is all Mark can think to say in response. Edolan nods, “Yes, I apologize for deceiving you but I had to make it seem urgent in a way you’d understand.” Edolan waves a hand and the doors creek open, “The princess is waiting for you. When you’re finished she will give you passage home the same way you came.”

And he’s gone.

When Invincible glides into your expansive room you’re draped over your canopied bed, idly playing with some alien device.

Mark wasn’t sure what he’d be dealing with when he came through the doors but he damn sure wasn’t expecting you to be pretty…beautiful even. You’re as humanoid as the rest of your subjects save for the blush pink skin and hot pink hair.

You look up at the young man standing a few feet away from you. You lick your lips and Mark is happy to notice that your mouth isn’t filled with razor sharp teeth but human like ones instead.

“Mark Grayson of Earth!”, You greet him, cheeks stretched into a wide smile. Mark blushes as you rise from a lying position to a sitting one, noticing that your breasts are only covered in a thin, bralette of shiny jewels.

“Uh-Hi, you can just call me Mark.” You rise to stand on your bed now as you mimic someone fighting, “Or Invincible! Defender of Earth and slayer of beasts and villains.”

Mark wants to argue that he doesn’t slay villains but nods his head in agreement instead, trying to end this odd experience as soon as possible.

“Right….and you’re Y/N, Solorian princess who refuses to marry until you met me…,”Mark rips his mask off, exposing his handsome face to your eyes, “Will you marry the guy now?” Your eyebrows scrunch together and your lips form a pout. Mark thinks that it’s probably the sexiest expression he’s ever seen.

“That was not the agreement. I have yet to lay with you.”, You say from your place on the bed. If Mark had been drinking something he would’ve spit it out in astonishment.

“Lay with you?”, Mark asks in a shocked tone. You laugh at the expression on the boys face, if he pushes his eyebrows any higher they’ll be on the cathedral like ceilings of your room.

“Yes, Mark Grayson. The promise was that I would finally marry an arranged suitor, saving our planet from war, if you bedded me first.” You lay back down on your large mattress as you wait for the superhero to collect himself.

Mark swallows, he’s not sure if he’s turned on or scared. Probably both. “Um, don’t princesses have to be virgins when they get married?”, you cock your head to the side like a confused dog, “I’m not familiar with the word- virgins.” The word sounds jumbled when it passes your perfect lips.

“It means you never- laid with anyone. On Earth princesses usually save themselves for their husband or their virtue or something.”

You throw your head back and laugh loudly, it’s closer to a howl really. “What a sad life these Earth princesses live. As a Solorian we live for many, many years. I am 1,000 years old, just a baby I know-,“ Mark doesn’t reply as you continue, “And I would never be asked to be a…virkin. Solorian’s find virtue in other ways than saving yourself.” You almost look disgusted as you finish your rant.

Your mind goes back to the task at hand. You unclasp the jewels from your upper and bottom half, positioning yourself so Mark can see your naked body well. You watch as his strong throat bobs.

“Will you lay with me Mark Grayson?”

Mark feels like he might combust on the spot as he nods, more excited than he hoped. He walks to the edge of the bed and sits nervously, palming himself through his suit. “On Earth we usually go on a date first.” He laughs awkwardly, willing himself to get hard. He just couldn’t get out of his head to do so.

“We are not on Earth, Mark.” You slither up his back, breasts pressing against the hard muscles. Your hands rest on his broad shoulders as you press soft kisses to his neck. He groans but when he palms himself again there’s nothing. Mark is perplexed on why because you were super hot and he never had this problem before. It must be how weird the situation is.

You notice the mental battle and stop kissing his neck. “Are you well?”, he nods again and you notice him palming himself. You giggle, the sound so close to his ear that it has his heart speeding up again. “You can’t ‘get it up’? As they would say on Earth”, Mark’s torn between defending himself and asking where you learned that from but chooses silence instead when you slink between his legs.

You make yourself comfortable on your pink knees and look up at him through your lashes with big doe eyes. Mark has an instant semi.

He’s rock hard by the time you slip him out of his suit and into your warm mouth. You suck unabashedly on his thick, cock hollowing your cheeks and swirling your tongue around his angry tip.

“Shhhhiiiiiittt”, Mark moans with his hand tangled in your vibrant hair, hanging on for dear life as you bob up and down his member. “St-Stop i’m gonna-.” Mark trails off, his eyes almost roll back when you choke around his length, gobbling the throbbing cock down your throat.

He finally wrestles your mouth off his cock and he takes a moment to collect himself as he breathes heavily. Mark leans down and kisses you sloppily, he tweaks your nipples hoping that it’ll do something to stimulate you sexually. Luckily it works and you moan lowly in his mouth.

Mark picks you up by your arm pits and tosses you on the bed, you laugh, “Yes! Show me your strength, invincible.” His name is sultry as it falls out your lips, causing a shudder to creep down his spine.

He flips you over roughly by your ankle then pulls you to the edge of the large bed. Mark manhandles you until your face is pressed into your thick blankets with your round ass in the air. When Mark’s tongue pushes its way between your folds you’re a moaning mess.

Mark slowly licks from your wet cunt up to your puckered hole, repeating the motion over and over again. You close your eyes tightly as your moans fill the great space of your bedroom. He uses his skilled fingers to search for your clit, praying that Solorian’s have one. When he finally finds the nub he sucks on it harshly, causing you to cry out and fall on your stomach.

Mark lets out a huff behind you, voice raspy from his previous moaning, “If you want to lay with me princess, you have to keep your back arched.” You do as he says and he continues making a mess of you with his tongue, adding two, slender fingers into your pulsating heat.

When you feel Mark’s bulbous head rubbing against your tight entrance you release a sound akin to a purr. He pushes into you slowly, inch by veiny inch until his hips are flush against your backside.

You call out for him when he pulls out of you and he answers with a moan of his own when he pushes his length back into your tight walls. Mark starts at a slow rhythm that has you moaning with each pointed thrust, still you throw your ass back to meet each one.

Mark’s pace becomes brutal and you struggle to keep up with his pounding hips. One of his large hands slides up your back and wraps securely around your neck. His full lips leaving kisses in its wake. His other hand goes between your bodies to your engorged nub, rubbing slick circles as he continues to pound in and out of you.

Your toes curl so hard that you feel like they may break when Mark hits a deep, spongy spot in your cunt. You call out his name as you come, body going completely still then slumping to your stomach. Mark continues to fuck into your spent cunt, groans turning to moans. Mark pulls out and releases warm come on your lower back and ass cheek.

He lays on his back beside you, both of you two breathing too hard to say anything to one another.

When Mark walks through his apartment door Will is waiting for him, coffee cup in hand as the early morning light peaks through the bay window. Will’s eyes go wide when he takes in his best friend, “Mark! Where have you been? Do you realize you’ve been gone for three months?!”

Mark sits down at the granite island, smiling to himself as he begins to tell his best friend about the alien pussy he had to force himself to leave.

#invincible/reader #invincible x reader #invincible smut #smut #mark grayson smut #mark grayson x reader #mark grayson/reader

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