#hmm. that tag feels wrong.

[penultimate-step]

I have a mild interest in video game history stuff, so I was reading through the "50 Years of Text Games" page recently. I got to the article on The Hobbit (1982), which I had only heard about in passing before this, but this seems to have been an oversight given its apparent importance. Looking through this and some other articles, the game was well known for having npc behavior years ahead of its time, and was inspirational to early games programmers; this page even going so far as to say it "is often credited for helping to jump-start the British home computing market." But beyond the game's technical achievements, one paragraph at the article's end about the game's creator, Veronika Megler, stuck with me:

Megler for years was little aware of the game’s success. After graduating, Melbourne House offered her a full-time position, but she was sick of assembler debugging and turned it down: “I have a very low tolerance for doing the same thing over and over again.” She accepted an entry-level job at IBM, who “made it very clear that having written a game was not regarded as any kind of relevant work experience,” and would go on to a long and successful career as a computer professional—but never again worked in games. It wasn’t until the 2000s that she learned the extent of The Hobbit’s popularity, and its impact on a generation of players around the world: players who had first learned English to solve it, or had their imaginations fired for their own computer careers by the magic inherent in the game’s simulated possibilities.

(50 Years of Text Games)

And that got me thinking about legacy and how we perceive ourselves for a bit. Because to Megler none of this stuff is that important, apparently. For her this was just a college programming job, what others saw as groundbreaking NPC design she saw as ordinary, a stepping stone in her career; not part of her real life, which involved IT work. And today she is a leading data scientist at Amazon. But if you look her up online, check her wikipedia page, all of that stuff is a footnote. The last 40 years of her life, the stuff she valued, it's all placed under several paragraphs talking about her involvement in games, stuff she did for less than a year. 100 years from now, assuming people are still playing video games, people will probably be talking about The Hobbit, long after all the other stuff fades into history.

Really makes you realize that we have very little control over how we will be remembered, what about our lives others consider important and worth remembering.

[pinazee]

Quick thought on the lords in black, are they a commentary on the internet, beings created in a space of black (the screens of our phone) and white (the light that reflects back)? They represent the worst thats come from it- how quickly we are enflamed to rage (wiggly), consuming the fake pageantry (nibbly), watching us destroy ourselves and each other (blinky), keeping record of all the mistakes we’ve made in the past with no redemption (tinky), and getting locked into a singular opinion, or voice (pokey).

Then with Webby, she is the best to come of the internet, which is that it connects us all. She can’t save the citizens of hatchetfield because ultimately the existence of the lords and how they interact in hatchetfield is up to the them. The lords exist because they summon them and until they can find a way to take away their power, they’re doomed to keep repeating their mistakes.

Sidenote: i kind of hope the hatchetfield saga ends in an Into the Woods style musical, where they’ve pulled characters from all these different timelines. So we get the original Paul (who was pulled after pokeys reign and has his mind mostly back except he sings all the time now), stoner emma (or linda for that matter), pete spankovski (eventually freeing ted from his box), lex (and grace chasity as a villain), becky or ms. Holloway, green peace girl (and melissa for a joke), and general mcnamara (who’s the only one who knows whats going on). Et al really

[misty-moth]

I’m having an “is this how you get an OC?” issue lately.

‘Cause this lady just showed up out of nowhere in my subconscious and won’t leave.

Me: Tf are you supposed to be?

Her: I think I’m an OC.

Me: I don’t have an OC.

Her: Well I’m not in canon, yet you know my name, appearance, setting/game, personality, likes, dislikes, history, and future goals… you know, like an OC.

Me: 🤨

Her: 🤨

Me: …but I don’t have an OC.

~So anyway~ I’ve been writing about this random lady that showed up unintentionally, so that should be fun. Definitely not an OC because I don’t have an OC.

[aurenflare]

hi bennn :D

HI INDI !!! what’s UP how’s it GOING how is ur LIFE !!!

[mulders-too-large-shirt]

s2 episode 11 thoughts DISCLAIMER + SURVEY

hello loyal mulders-too-large-shirt fans. i did not watch an episode yesterday because it was so hot and i was very sleepy! but i watched s2 episode 11 today and hmm. let's talk on the subject.

okay, to put it lightly: not a great episode. and i'm not talking here like the earlier vampire sex thing, where it was just bad writing and uncomfortable viewing; this one was different. it took a bold swing at social commentary and i feel it was an equally bold miss. it ventures into triggering topics that i do not feel were handled with adequate grace, and me reliving them in play-by-play detail is giving me pause.

so, while i took my notes like always, i'm leaning towards not sharing them, and like i did for s1 ep14, instead just sharing the parts i liked and tossing the rest in the bin. i feel that you could really study this episode and talk about how the writers went wrong and what they could have done to handle the difficult topics in a more sensitive manner. but i'm not sure i'm the person that WANTS to do that, as i post on this little blog for funsies rather than as a sort of academic exercise. academia is already so thoroughly part of my life. this should be a safe zone.

so, i present to you some options: i can do as i lined out/what i did before when i disliked an episode, and just post the parts i liked.

OR i could do a full and extended cut of everything like a typical post. a play-by-play breakdown of the shenanigans. i would, however, feel the need to make endless disclaimers, and it just doesn't sound like fun.

so, please let me know what you think!

feel free to share thoughts and feelings on the episode, or your reasoning behind the vote. i shall be Contemplating

[ratcandy]

hello abled person writing a character with a disability. i see you are considering "curing" their disability in your story. before you make that choice, consider: why do you want to do that. what compels you to make that story choice. why would it be necessary. what is the narrative significance of doing that. what message do you believe you may be sending by doing that.

answer correctly or i'm opening the trap door beneath your feet and you're going into the spike pit

[theclearblue]

Wow...One Piece Film Z is like a MCU movie!! Haha!! Cool...can I go home now...

[milfbrainrot]

on a practical level the g@il simone situation is just such a bad look professionally because do you really want the people who employ you to see you talking shit about decisions they've approved

[redhotarsenic]

I genuinely wonder where J’ihwu falls on the furry scale

[d1zzybees]

GUYS i am OUT of the HELL DIMENSION... it's finally happened i'm freeeeeee i'm officially out of high school........ fuck this is actually a bit scary BUT MOSTLY A RELEIFFFF!!!!! My brain is fried my computer is full my bones are tired i slept under 4 hours last night and my mom n stepdad aren't home so i'm doing the most awesome grown up thing ever I AM FUCKING WATCHING MY LITTLE PONY TONIGHT

[00venator]

Empathy is just an emotion I struggle to feel.

[humanjarvis]

good heart

synopsis: zayne wonders if he’s mean. you reassure him otherwise.

tags: fluff. comfort. zayne is self-conscious and cute  pairing: zayne x reader word count: 641

a/n: surprise (not rly) first zayne fic :] it’ll be interesting seeing how i want to write him since i’m probably the most similar to him irl #neurodivergence. also posting the most depraved and fluffiest things i’ve ever written in the same week who said versatility

“Darling, have I ever been…mean to you?” Zayne asks hesitantly.

You’re cuddled on his sofa with your knees resting against him, halfheartedly watching a nature documentary. Brilliant rays of afternoon sunlight pour in through the floor-length windows, drawing most of your attention away from the grasslands and toward the trio of squirrels leaping over leaves in Zayne’s backyard. At his question, you raise your head from its place on his shoulder, squinting at him playfully. 

“Hmm,” you draw out, as if actually taking the time to consider his question. He blinks at you. “Nope! A little impassive, sometimes, sure,” you grin, poking his adorably neutral face. “But never mean.”

He forces out a weak smile at your teasing, gently lowering his gaze to your intertwined hands. 

When you don’t receive the usual politely packaged retort, you furrow your brows in worry. “Why do you ask? What’s wrong?” 

Still fixated on your interlaced fingers, Zayne clears his throat. “At the hospital today,” he starts, “one of the younger patients said I was…mean.” He bites the word out as if it tastes bad, the mere association of it with his character destabilizing his being. 

Perplexed, you unclasp your hand from his to lift his chin. “What happened?” 

“All I did was tell her that if she wants to feel better, she’ll need to take her medicine daily.” Now it’s your turn to blink at him. “Perhaps it was the tone I used, I’m not sure. I haven’t encountered this before.” 

Deep in thought, he moves to bow his head again, unconsciously avoiding your gaze out of unwarranted guilt. With a frown, you grab his face between your hands before that can happen, climbing over his lap to straddle him. 

“The Zayne I know is worried that doing his job makes him mean?” you ask, peering into his startled hazel eyes. “C’mon, Zaynie, she was probably just being stubborn. You of all people should know what it’s like to avoid taking medicine.” Lifting his top lip as if to inspect his teeth, you drive your point home when he flinches away. As his face flushes pink, you feel his cheeks warm under your hands.

“I’m aware that children…and adults…are hesitant to follow doctor’s orders at times,” he says, clearing his throat. “But I also know I'm not the most…expressive of people. I’ve gotten so used to behaving freely when I’m with you that I wasn’t monitoring my mannerisms in the pediatric ward today. I must have appeared quite intimidating to a vulnerable child. The thought made me uncomfortable. It made me wonder if…I’d ever made you feel that way as well,” he grimaces.

With a fond sigh, you tilt his face up to yours to kiss his nose. This time, his blink is slow and confused. 

“The only one you're being mean to is yourself,” you start, pinching his cheeks lightly. “No matter what’s on your face or in your voice, I know what’s in here,” you say, placing a firm palm over his chest. “You wouldn’t be Dr. Zayne without your directness. You wouldn’t be my Zaynie, either. And I happen to like both versions of him very much.” 

As you press another kiss to his nose, the corners of his full lips quirk up. “I suppose I should be nicer to him, then.”

“You’d better. Or else he’ll have to write ‘I am nice. I am kind. I have a good heart’ over and over again until he understands. Surgeons don’t have time for that.” 

“I'm sure I possess the cardiovascular fitness to work it into my schedule,” he quips. “I have a good heart, after all.”

As the joke lands, you give him an exaggerated wince, removing a hand from his smiling face to fake a retch. “Okay, maybe I was wrong. Subjecting me to that? That was a little mean.”

[sukunasteeth]

Sukuna has never said no to you.

It didn’t matter what the request was, simple or complicated, easy to fix or a days-long job, Sukuna was always at your side, completing the task as fast as he needed to to keep you satisfied. He would love to deny it, you’re sure, but evidence proves time and time again that he puts your needs and wants at the top of his priority list. 

And you were curious how far you could go with it.

The two of you are sitting in your underwear at the breakfast nook, warming yourselves in the bay window while the morning sun starts on the leftover night time chill. It wasn't quite time for breakfast, still too early for the both of you. In the meantime, you sip on your morning brews, preserving the comfortable silence. Sukuna is flipping through the day's newspaper, his eyes are groggy with sleep and he hasn't said more than a handful of words to you yet. He wasn't a morning person.

You were starting to change that.

"Kuna," You call to him, nudging him with your foot from your corner of the window bench.

"Hmm?" He doesn't look up from the paper, but his hand reaches down and grabs your foot, pulling it into his lap. His thumbs start to subconsciously knead at your muscles.

"I want these." You hold up your phone, which you had previously been scrolling through in an attempt to find something ridiculous for this exact moment. You were sure you had found it, something even Sukuna would find unnecessary. 

And yet, he merely glances at your screen, takes in the sight for all of two seconds, and then returns his attention to whatever news article he was in the middle of.

"My wallet's on the counter." He clears the sleep from his throat not sparing a second look. 

You blink at him in surprise.

"D-Did you even see what it is?" You flip your phone around to make sure you were displaying the correct thing. 

Sukuna is frowning before he looks up again, curious at your persistence. He gently cups your hand, bringing it only a minuscule amount closer to examine your screen a second time. 

You were on one of the most luxurious brand’s websites, showing him an incredibly regular pair of panties, no straps, no details, all black- with one of the most outrageous price tags you had ever seen for something so ordinary. 

Sukuna cocks a brow at you over your phone, "Can't imagine you need more panties when you're constantly stealing my boxers. But whatever, hand it over. I know my card number-"

"Kuna," You interrupt him with a surprised laugh, holding fast to your phone when he tries to pluck it out of your hands, "they're a thousand dollars."

He glances back, his eyes focusing lower on the screen where you know the price tag to be. The newspaper in his hands drops down, momentarily forgotten by what he sees. For a moment, you think you've found his limit.

"Wait, are those red one's assless?" He points just below the price, where the recommended products are depicted. "Get those too."

You drop the phone down so that he meets your eyes, which are wide with shock.

Sukuna always took care of you. Always insisted on being the provider of any single thing that you may need; a warm meal, a soft bed, anything your eyes twinkled at that was available for purchase- even if you would never think of buying or owning it. Granted, you never wanted much in terms of material possessions, so you didn't realize the true extent of Sukuna's leniency until now.

It was slightly intimidating, and part of it felt wrong. Sukuna had money, plenty of it, but that didn’t mean he should feel the need to spend copious amounts of it on you just because you could ask him to. He was giving you too much power, it felt like.

You huff through your nose, frowning at him, which only has him tilting his head further to the side in question.

You ignore it, setting your phone onto the window seat and crawling your way closer to him, until you can gather up his face in your hands and lock his gaze into yours.

He glares at you past smushed cheeks, but doesn't make a move to break free of your hold, humoring you. "The hell are you doing-"

"You know you don't always have to say yes to me?"

Now that has him taken aback. His mouth automatically opens for a witty response, but your question seems to have effectively taken the words from his mouth. You can see the cogs in his head turning, and what you wouldn't give to peer inside his mind and hear his thoughts.

It takes him a moment, but eventually that familiar confident smile stretches across his sleepy face. His hands seem to instinctively slide their way up your bare legs until his fingers grip your hip bones, pressing into you. 

He hums, "When have you ever said no to me?"

You scoff, ready to give him a prime example, but end up coming up short. The two of you loved to tease each other with disobedience, but in the end you were eager to give Sukuna anything his heart desired. You loved to please him, it was one of your favorite things to do, in fact.

"You never ask anything ridiculous of me." You remind him, smiling as one of his warm hands slides back down your waist and dips into the pair of his boxers you were sporting that day. 

"You know what's ridiculous?” His voice wraps around your throat, and suddenly has you swallowing past the delicious grip. You're folding into him before you even realize it, at the mercy of his calloused hands. "The implication that I wouldn't do just about anything for you."

You can't help but sigh hopelessly, although it comes out as a desperate noise that pleads him for more. You really were all his, just like he loved to tell you.

"Now hand me your phone." It's a whisper, coaxing you. "I wanna see you in red."

You can’t say no. 

At least it was mutual.

[whoevenisjavier]

EROTICA

part 1 | part 2

pairing: no outbreak!joel x reader

summary: Your thesis said, “analyze male behavior.” Joel said, “come sit on it.”

a/n: this is the 2nd part, which can't be read alone. i mean, you can read it without going through the first part (read it here), but you won't understand shit

additional tags/warnings: 18+, mdni. reader is 26, joel is 50ish. no outbreak. joel is a dad. conversations about porn. porn actor joel miller/javier peña. dirty talk. car sex. fingering. oral sex f! receiving.

wc: 6.5k

Out of shame, you avoid Joel the following week.

You dodge aisles when you see him at the supermarket, time your exits minute by minute to avoid running into him, and lock yourself in your bedroom like an emo teenager when your parents invite him over for dinner.

Because now, whenever you see him, all you can remember is his voice saying obscenities, his hands on women’s skin — and some men’s too. You remember yourself, in the privacy of your room, doing what you swore you would never do.

You even look up if there’s such a thing as a permanent fertile period, because none of this feels normal.

And of course, Joel confronts you about it.

On your father’s birthday night, he invites a few close friends over for a small cocktail party, followed by dinner. When you walk down the stairs, Joel is there, sitting in the living room armchair with a glass of whiskey in his right hand.

He’s listening to something your father is saying but glances at you. You immediately turn your back and head into the kitchen to see if your mother needs help.

Yesterday, you found a movie where Joel played a DEA agent rescuing a drug lord’s wife. He said so many filthy things to her while fucking her inside a police car that the words stuck in your head like Play-Doh in hair.

And maybe the area between your legs feels a little more sensitive too, which only makes you feel worse.

After the cocktail and dinner, spent tensely avoiding Joel’s gaze, you slip out into the backyard with a glass of wine in one hand and your Kindle in the other.

Inside, the party goes on, your father having opened another bottle of whiskey, and you can hear them from here. You need to stay out of your bedroom to keep yourself from typing "Javier Peña" into that damn search bar again, so for the next few minutes, you sip your wine and read.

“Finally, a place where you can’t hide behind the toilet paper aisle.”

Joel sits down on the chair next to you, holding his own whiskey glass. You lose your words because, yes, you actually did hide in the personal hygiene aisle yesterday when you saw him.

You play dumb.

“What are you talking about?”

“You know. You went all puritanical after you found out what you found out.”

“I told you it’s weird.”

“Sweetheart, I don’t want to be rude, but I don’t need your approval. My life and career are my own. I said I would help you with your thesis, and I will, but if you keep running from me, someone’s going to think there’s something wrong between us.”

You take another sip of wine in silence, staring at the lawn like it’s salvation. Joel’s gaze burns into the side of your face before he asks:

“Have you watched any more?”

“For the thesis.” A lie.

“May I ask which one?”

“The DEA one.”

“Hmm.”

He finds your eyes as he sips his whiskey. He’s sitting with his legs spread, making his jeans stretch tight over his groin and thick thighs. And you know exactly what’s under those jeans.

You can’t resist your curiosity:

“Do you miss acting?”

“My ego does,” he says, like he’s thought about it a thousand times. “Not gonna lie, there’s a certain masculine pride in being a porn actor. It’s easier for men. But personally? No. Especially because of Sarah.”

“She knows?”

He shakes his head.

“She does. I told her when she turned fifteen because I’d rather she hear it from me than stumble across it online.”

“How did she react?”

“Well, I guess.”

You shake your head and cover your face with your free hand, groaning a little.

“I can’t stop wondering if my mom knows about you.”

“I hate to break it to you—”

You cut him off. “Shhh.”

His laugh is low but genuine. Your eyes meet again, and this time, you could swear his gaze dips a little lower, to the neckline of your dress, where a bit of flushed skin is showing thanks to the wine.

But he disguises it and gestures toward your Kindle:

“What are you reading?”

“Some articles to help with my research.”

“Have my films led you to any conclusions?”

“Um, definitely,” you say, staring at the lawn. “You cussed a lot. And you seem very interested in my opinion of your movies.”

“I'm curious.”

You internally roll your eyes. Men.

“You want a performance review? Aren’t the comments on XVideos enough?”

“I want yours.”

You ignore him, because your evaluation of his performance was made perfectly clear when you got yourself off twice in a row thinking about his voice.

Instead, you ask:

“Did the DEA girl really come? Because it looked real.”

Joel stays quiet for a while. When you glance at him, you notice a small smirk playing on his lips as he taps his fingers against his glass. His whiskey’s almost gone.

“Do you really want to get into that?”

“Why not?”

A few more seconds of silence. Then he seems to say "fuck it" internally and answers:

“I liked making the other actresses come. Some directors didn’t like it because it took longer, and ‘who cares if they actually orgasm if they can fake it,’” he says, making air quotes. “But I liked it. Not all of them, of course, and sometimes they’d tell me they were fine without it, but it was a preference of mine.”

“And the DEA girl?” you press.

“Was that your favorite?”

You shake your head.

“Which one was?”

You shake your head again, indicating you won’t tell him.

“The DEA girl was my ex-girlfriend,” he says.

“So it was real.”

Joel shrugs, and that's all the answer you need. The porch light behind you highlights his graying beard and the glint of whiskey on his lips. Your throat goes dry.

“How did you get into the industry?”

Joel clicks his tongue.

“Very personal question.”

“Okay, what made you leave?”

He glances at your wine glass and ignores the question, asking another instead:

“What wine is that?”

You consider not answering out of petty revenge, but your parents raised you better.

“Barefoot. I know it’s cheap, but I like it,” you swirl the red wine in your glass. “Even though I know I’ll wake up with a headache tomorrow.”

Joel rolls his eyes and stands, leaving his whiskey glass behind.

“Come on, bring your glass. I’ll give you some real wine.”

He starts walking toward the gate between your houses, and you have no choice but to follow, leaving your Kindle and the party behind. Joel’s broad shoulders guide you around the side of his house and into the kitchen.

It’s silent and dark, except for a single hallway light. Quietly, because Sarah is probably asleep, you pass through the kitchen and head to a door leading to the garage, where the lighting is dim at best. His truck takes up almost all the space.

Unsure of what to do, you hover at the door, watching as he enters a small room off the garage. It’s a little wine cellar, concrete walls lined with slanted mahogany shelves.

Joel comes back out with a bottle in hand. You recognize the label and freeze.

“You’re not about to open a Rockford Flaxman.”

“I am,” he says, brushing past you just enough to close the door behind you, locking the two of you in the garage. His scent hits you, and you fight the urge to bury your face in the crook of his neck. “Just closing the door so Sarah doesn’t wake up. Hand me your glass.”

“Joel, that bottle’s expensive.”

“Hand me your glass,” he repeats.

You give it to him. Joel pulls a corkscrew from a drawer you hadn’t noticed and pops the bottle open effortlessly. He fills your glass halfway and, as he hands it back to you, asks:

“Mind if we share the glass?”

You shake your head.

From another drawer, he grabs his truck keys, disables the alarm, and turns on a tiny, terrible-quality radio. Duran Duran starts playing.

Joel gestures toward the truck:

“Come on. We can sit inside.”

Heart pounding a little faster, palms sweating, you climb into the passenger side. You settle into the leather seat and finally take a sip of the good wine.

It tastes fruity and oaky, almost sweet on your tongue. You let out a long, contented hum.

“Really good,” you say after swallowing. “Best way to end the night.”

His fingers brush yours as he takes the glass. You watch him savor a sip before handing it back.

He speaks as he does:

“I left the industry because the doubts about real consent started eating at me,” he says, answering the question you asked earlier. Joel leans back in the seat, legs spread, head resting against the headrest, eyes closed. “And I’m not just talking about explicit consent. I mean about the people who were there because they had no other choice.”

“I can’t imagine anyone doing porn unless they had to,” you murmur.

“I get it, but some people genuinely like it,” he meets your gaze as you sip more wine. “Don’t look at me like that. I’m serious.”

“Maybe for men...”

“It’s more common among men, true.”

You offer him the glass. He drinks and gives it back.

“The agency that managed my films didn’t like it when I started giving interviews about that stuff. They gave me fewer scenes or scripts I’d never agree to do, and I had to start turning them down. When they began sabotaging me, I left.”

“Scripts you wouldn’t accept?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay,” you accept the short answer. “No other agency made you an offer?”

“They did, but when I left, I didn’t want to go back.”

“And yet, you defend the industry.”

“I don’t defend the industry—I defend the work I did, because I know how it was done. I don’t like when you generalize.”

“You know that sounds like ‘not all men,’ right? Of course not everyone was bad, but the industry itself is terrible. So when I criticize it, it’s the majority I’m talking about. And you were exploited too.”

He exhales deeply. There’s more you want to say, but you sense it’s a sensitive topic, so you change the subject:

“Can I ask what you do now?”

“I invest,” he says simply. “I made a lot of money back then and wasn’t stupid enough to blow it on parties and drugs. I invested in public and private construction companies, and now they pay me back.”

“Didn’t expect that.”

Joel gives you a look.

“Male privilege. I got into a lot of good deals just because I was Javier Peña.”

“That wouldn’t happen to an actress,” you guess, and he nods. “So now you just live off your investments.”

“Pretty much.”

The wine in your glass runs out. Joel notices, grabs the bottle, and this time drinks straight from it. You mimic him, putting the glass in the back seat.

“How was it, being an actor?”

“Fun. Lots of parties, admiration, glamor, L.A., and sex all the time,” he says. “The downside was the strict diet, weekly waxing, and almost daily health tests. I probably have a permanent hole in my vein.”

“Did you only date people in the industry?”

“Not a rule, but it was easier, so mostly.”

“Sarah’s mom—”

“No, she wasn’t in it. She was a friend.”

You figure she’s not around anymore, considering you’ve never heard Sarah mention her.

“If someone offered you two million dollars today,” you start, trying to lighten the mood, and his face softens, “for a solo film. Just you, just masturbation. Would you do it?”

“No, because of Sarah. Okay, my old films are still out there, but they existed before she was born. It’s different.” Another sip of wine. Joel continues: “I don’t think I’d even know how to behave in front of a camera anymore.”

“That’s not the spirit of the Longest Cumshot Award winner.”

Joel’s eyes widen in shock, and you burst out laughing at yourself, raising both of your hands.

“I didn’t look it up, I swear. It’s just one of the first pictures that comes up when you search your name.”

“Tell me your favorite film,” he insists.

You think about refusing again, but the wine is warming your face and your throat, and the atmosphere is too cozy.

“The title is ridiculous,” you start, and he grunts for you to hurry up. “Something like ‘Lust Lives Next Door.’”

He raises an eyebrow.

“Where he’s the neighbor?”

Keeping a neutral expression, you sip more wine, feeling his gaze fixed on you.

“Why?” Joel asks.

“It felt so real. You looked so...”

You lose the words. He prompts you:

“So...?”

“I don’t know. You looked like you really wanted her. Sure, you always looked like that—you were an actor—but with her, it was different. At least to me.”

Joel studies you a moment longer. Then asks, seriously:

“Did you touch yourself watching it?”

Your cheeks burn.

“It’s normal,” you defend. “Inevitable.”

“Only with that one?”

“Joel.”

He exhales long and slow.

“If you’re uncomfortable, we’ll stop. I’ll walk you home.”

You open your mouth to joke about how ridiculous it is for him to walk you home when you’re literally neighbors, but the seriousness of his question leaves you speechless.

“I’m not a porn actress. I’m not used to this,” you murmur.

“Then just nod,” he suggests seriously. Your silence is taken as agreement.

He asks:

“Did you touch yourself to any other of my films?”

A pause, then...

You nod.

He breathes deeply.

“Did you watch my films only because of the thesis?”

You shake your head no.

“Do you imagine me doing those things to you?”

You feel like you’re standing on the edge of a cliff. One step back, and you’ll be safe, intact but with a pounding heart. One step forward, and you’ll fall, jump, dive into whatever awaits below.

The blood in your ears almost drowns out the start of “Glory Box” by Portishead playing from that shitty little radio.

You take a step forward.

You nod.

Before he can ask anything else, you’re the one who speaks:

“Do you want to see?” you ask, fueled by all the liquid courage from the wine. You clarify, “How I touched myself.”

The answer comes immediately:

“Of course I do.”

You glance at the garage door, then at him, hardly believing you’re about to do this. Before shyness can take over, you close the passenger door, slip off your sandals, and adjust yourself on the seat so your back rests against the door and your legs stretch across the console. You place your feet in Joel’s lap, and you can’t help but notice the hard bulge pressing against his jeans—you have to fight the urge to abandon everything and just beg him to take you to his room and do whatever he wants with you.

Okay. You take a slow, steadying breath to calm your racing heart. Joel’s hand settles around your ankle, his thumb brushing the bone there, and that small point of contact anchors you.

The dress you’re wearing is short, so it only takes a small tug for the fabric to bunch around your waist. With bare legs, goosebumped skin, and heavy breaths, you hand him the wine bottle.

Joel accepts it without taking his eyes off you.

“I’m not as confident as your porn actresses,” you say, but to your own ears your voice sounds pathetically breathless.

His touch trails up to your shin and back down, his hand wrapping around your left foot. He says:

“If you knew how many times I imagined myself between your legs, you wouldn’t feel insecure right now.”

Your breasts ache against the thin fabric of your dress as you spread your legs. You slide your hand into your panties, and Joel doesn’t look directly at it—he watches your face instead. He studies your reaction when your lips part at the feeling of your fingers touching the sensitive, wet spot between your thighs.

The knowledge that he’s wanted this just as badly as you makes you bolder.

You tilt your head back, resting it against the car window, and look at the ceiling while you speed up your fingers. Everything feels so sensitive that you have to bite your lower lip to keep any sound from escaping.

“Fuck...” Joel murmurs, his touch sliding up your thigh. “I can hear how wet you are.”

“Give me your hand.”

Joel takes one last sip of wine and sets the bottle on the ground outside the truck before offering his hand to you. You barely manage to meet his eyes as you pull your panties aside and guide his rough fingers between your legs.

His fingers glide easily over your clit, so wet that it’s almost slippery, and the feeling is so good—his fingers are larger, different textured than your own—and he lets you use them like a toy.

Joel’s gaze finally drops to where your bodies meet. With his free hand, he palms himself through his jeans, starting to rub.

It’s too much for your mind to process.

You squeeze your eyes shut again, using both your hands to guide his and spreading your legs wider. You have to breathe through parted lips to stop yourself from moaning as he rubs that almost painfully sensitive spot over and over.

“Does it feel good using my fingers like that?” he asks, voice hoarse. You nod. “Then let me fuck you with them.”

You whisper your agreement, guiding his fingers lower after making sure they’re slick enough. You press down gently, and his middle finger sinks inside you with a wet sound.

“Joel…”

“Hearing you moan like that and it’s not even my cock yet,” he mutters, fucking you slowly with his middle finger. “Let me add another one.”

You nod. He adds another finger, and you barely manage to hold in the moan, especially when he starts moving them in a slow, delicious rhythm, dragging the strokes out rather than speeding up.

It all happens so fast. One second Joel is pulling you lower, sliding your ass almost onto the console, and the next, he’s bending down and putting his mouth on you—his tongue tracing a quick, hot path from your entrance to your clit.

You clap a hand over your mouth and grab his hair with the other, the graying strands slipping through your fingers. The position can’t be comfortable for him, half off the driver’s seat and bent over you, but he doesn’t seem to care. His lips close over your clit, sucking and licking, while his fingers keep fucking you. His beard scrapes the sensitive skin of your thighs and the slick heat between your legs—and somehow, that only makes you hotter.

You tug his hair harder, pulling him closer into you, and you swear he’s smiling against you, his mouth opening over your clit.

The third finger teases your entrance, and just that promise is enough—you come with a muffled gasp, both hands buried in Joel’s hair as you ride his face. His beard will definitely leave marks on your skin.

Joel waits patiently until your body stops pulsing around his fingers, even though his occasional licks don’t exactly help. Then he pulls his mouth away and sits back in the driver’s seat, wiping his beard with his hand to clear the mess you left behind.

You barely have time to catch your breath before he grabs you with one hand and, steadying your hips with both, pulls you straight onto his lap.

“Hi,” you whisper, still breathless.

“Hi,” he says back.

“You kiss?”

“What?” He smiles, brushing a lock of hair off your forehead. “You asking if I know how to kiss?”

“I’m asking if you have any rules against it, because I really, really want to kiss you.”

“You do?” His thumb brushes over your lower lip, the crease between his brows soft and nearly invisible. “I’m all yours.”

With that permission, you wrap your arms around his neck and move closer, trying to control your ragged breathing. You keep your eyes locked on his as you kiss his bottom lip, then his top, tracing them with the tip of your tongue, pressing your thumbs under his jaw to coax his mouth open.

You run your tongue across the opening, and Joel fists your hair at the nape of your neck, finally taking the lead and kissing you back.

You’re consumed by the taste of expensive wine, a kiss you’d only ever imagined through a computer screen—and you realize the actresses hadn’t been faking their moans, because when Joel sucks your tongue into his mouth for the first time, the sensation ripples right through the core of you, and you whimper softly into his mouth.

“Take off your panties,” he murmurs against your lips as he trails kisses along your chin, your jaw, and down your neck. You move with him, adapting to the pace and hunger of his kisses.

As he reaches your collarbones, Joel tugs the thin straps of your dress down and pushes the fabric until it bunches at your waist. Your breasts are exposed to the cool garage air—and to his hungry mouth.

“Joel…”

His tongue laps at your nipple, and he grows impatient. He slides a hand between your thighs and yanks your panties down with little care. You hear the lace tear but you can’t bring yourself to care, not when seconds later Joel is maneuvering you onto your knees so he can pull the ruined panties off completely.

Then he balls the fabric in his left hand and brings it to his nose.

It should feel ridiculous—like some cheap porno move—but it doesn’t.

He isn’t doing it for show.

He’s doing it because—

Joel grabs your hair again, keeping you firmly in place, and lifts the panties to your own nose. His mouth hovers at your ear as he says:

“See?” Joel’s lips skim down your neck. You catch the unmistakable scent of your own arousal, and your cheeks burn. “You’ve been dripping wet since the moment you walked into this garage.”

“You’re wrong,” you say, pressing his arm to press the panties harder against your nose. You inhale loud enough for him to hear and murmur, “I’ve been wet since the moment you sat next to me in the backyard.”

Joel looks at you, a small smile tugging at his lips.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He stuffs the panties into the front pocket of his worn jeans before unbuttoning and pushing them down along with his boxers.

You probably stare at his cock like an idiot, because seeing it on a screen was one thing, but seeing it now—right in front of you, the subtle changes from age only making it better—hits you hard.

“You’re smiling. What, is my dick funny?” Joel asks.

You shake your head.

“Your dick is practically a shrine to me.”

Joel rolls his eyes, wiping the corner of your mouth with his thumb.

“I’m real fucking close to come just looking at you,” he mutters, and you feel a flicker of disappointment, but it seems to be true, especially given how hard he is.

Joel shifts you into place on his lap, adjusting you like he knows exactly what he’s doing.

He leans back against the seat, partially reclining, and grips his cock with one hand.

“Come here,” he says lowly, pulling you by your thighs. When his thick cock nestles between your legs, you realize what he wants.

You brace yourself on his shoulders, biting your lip to keep any sounds from escaping as you lift onto your knees just enough to start sliding yourself against him.

The slickness between your legs makes it easy—wet and slippery—and Joel groans, tipping his head back against the seat.

God.

He looks huge beneath you, between your thighs, in the way his hands grip your hips and travel along your waist and back up. The rigid heat of him rubs directly over your clit with every glide, and you wrap your hand around the base of his cock to press him even harder against you as you move.

Joel’s hands grip your hips so hard you wonder if you’ll have bruises tomorrow. He glances down between you, where your wetness has coated him, and mutters a filthy curse between his clenched teeth.

“These tits…” he growls, lowering his mouth back to your breasts, drawing you even closer. “Can you come like this?”

You nod, tugging his curls at the nape of his neck, moving faster when he sucks a nipple into his mouth, leaving a trail of wet heat on your skin.

“Turn around,” Joel orders, licking the corner of your mouth. “I want to come on your ass.”

You obey instantly.

He helps you twist around so your knees stay on the seat but your back is pressed against his chest.

Joel runs his cock through your soaked folds, nudging your clit with the head.

He gathers your hair in one hand, pulling it aside so he can kiss the sensitive skin at the base of your neck.

“Rub yourself on it,” he says, voice rough. Your only support is the steering wheel in front of you, which you cling to as you rock your hips back and forth, grinding down along his shaft.

“You’re gonna fucking kill me doing exactly what I tell you,” he mutters against your ear.

“I like when you tell me what to do,” you whisper, barely able to form the words with the way that familiar tension is building fast in your stomach.

“Yeah, baby, I can tell by how soaked you are.”

You don’t answer, focusing only on your own pleasure now, shifting so the thick length of him is perfectly aligned against your clit.

Your leg trembles, your mind blanking with the focus on your orgasm, and you have to bite down on your sweaty arm to keep from crying out his name.

“Feels good?” you ask, panting.

“Jesus Christ, sweetheart,” Joel rasps, his hand tightening around your throat just enough to tilt your face toward his so he can kiss your jaw, your cheek. The slick sounds of your bodies are filthy, but it only pushes you closer. “Been holding back this whole time not to fucking come inside that sweet pussy.”

And that’s all it takes.

You come with a silent scream, clinging to the steering wheel, shuddering against him as your orgasm rips through you.

“Get up,” Joel says urgently, and, trembling, you lift yourself on wobbly knees.

He pushes your dress up your back, squeezes your ass—and you know exactly what he wants.

You brace yourself against the steering wheel, arching your back for him, and Joel lets out a rough, desperate sound.

Between heavy breaths, you hear the slick noises of him jerking himself off, and it only takes a few seconds before you feel it—hot spurts of cum hitting your ass, dripping down the backs of your thighs.

After what feels like forever, Joel slaps your ass gently and wraps his arms around you from behind, pulling you against his chest.

You let yourself collapse into him, feeling his heart pounding just as hard as yours.

You stay there for a moment, quiet, your lips dry when you finally whisper:

“Good wine.”

He laughs.

“Knew you’d like it.”

You close your eyes, tangling your fingers with his over your waist.

When you wake up the next morning, it’s to persistent knocking on the door.

Startled, heart racing, you open your eyes. At first, you don’t recognize the room you’re in, but then you feel Joel’s arm draped over your hips and everything from last night comes rushing back.

You two had cleaned up the garage as best you could, wiped down the seats of his truck, and then gone upstairs to his bedroom to shower together. You couldn’t bring yourself to leave, and he asked you to stay, so you texted your parents saying Joel needed you to sleep over (not a lie) because of Sarah, since he had to rush out for an emergency (a complete lie).

“Dad,” Sarah knocks again, and you have to replay last night’s events to make sure Joel actually locked the door before you both passed out. “Daaaad.”

He opens his eyes, still half-asleep, and pulls you closer against him. Sarah knocks again, and Joel grunts softly before calling out:

“Is the house on fire?”

She laughs.

“No, but you must be sick if you’re not up yet. Are you okay?”

“Yeah. Just got in late last night.”

Quietly, you trace your fingers over his beard. He meets your gaze and catches your hand, kissing your knuckles before hugging you closer, and you’re reminded that you’re both still naked under the covers—every inch of his warm body pressed against yours.

“Hangover?” Sarah asks.

“Sort of.”

“I left you breakfast. The school bus is about to get here.”

You watch his expression soften.

“Thanks, baby girl. Have a good day. I’ll see you later.”

“Bye, Dad.”

You hear her footsteps fading down the stairs, and you smile at Joel.

“That was so sweet,” you murmur sincerely. “You call her ‘baby girl’.”

“She used to hate it when she was younger, but she gave up fighting me on it,” he says, his voice raspy from sleep, making something in your stomach flip. “Good morning.”

“Good morning,” you whisper back.

Joel brushes his thumb over your cheek and temple, then asks:

“Do you regret it?” You frown, not understanding right away. He clarifies: “Last night.”

“Of course not. Are you crazy?”

“You fucked a porn actor,” he says conspiratorially.

“An ex–porn actor,” you correct. “And we haven’t even fucked yet. Why would I regret that?”

Joel shrugs.

“Aren’t you the one who hates them?”

“Joooel,” you groan, flopping onto your back. “We already talked about this. I hate the industry. I could never hate you.”

“If you say so.”

You turn your face toward him when you feel his hand sliding over your stomach, your hip, your breast…

“Well, now I have a very subjective perspective for my thesis,” you tease.

Joel smiles, raising an eyebrow.

“Imagine explaining that when someone asks how you gathered your results—you’ll have to say Javier Peña showed you personally.”

You barely manage to suppress the shiver that runs down your spine.

“Our little adventure would make a good movie,” you say, but instantly regret it, shaking your head. “Forget it. Just the thought of any image of me out there makes me sick.”

Joel stays silent, but there’s a stupid little smile on his lips as he props himself up on his elbow, lying sideways. His other hand, which was resting on your belly, slides lower. Past your hip, past your thigh, and back up again.

“What’s with that smirk?” you ask.

He licks his bottom lip.

“Remember when you asked me what my favorite kind of movie was?”

That’s the sentence that leads, twenty minutes later, to you lying on your side, your back pressed against Joel’s chest, the morning light streaming through the thick curtains.

He holds you firmly as you reach between your legs, guiding his cock inside you. You almost melt in his arms, feeling the thick veins pulse against your fingers.

“A little more,” Joel murmurs into your ear, sliding an arm under your thigh and adjusting your position to help you take him. You reach behind you, grabbing his hip. Inch by inch, he fills you.

You look down between your legs, watching the way you stretch around him, and it feels like the bed is dissolving under the weight of it.

“Joel.”

“I’m right here, baby,” he says. You see him licking three fingers before reaching down to your clit, just as he starts moving his hips.

The next few days in Lake Placid pass exactly like that.

Some nights, you sneak across your backyard to Joel’s house, and he usually meets you halfway, catching you on the stairs with a kiss before carrying you to bed.

Other times, he sneaks into your house and fucks you on your bedroom floor, because your bed makes too much noise.

You keep working on your thesis and stop watching Javier Peña’s old movies. You don’t need them anymore—not when Joel Miller is texting you saying he needs you in his bed.

On your last few days at home, your parents throw a barbecue. Among the guests are Joel and Sarah.

It’s Joel who finds you in the kitchen as you’re finishing seasoning the potato salad.

He leans against the counter across from you, holding a can of beer. You glance up from the potatoes to meet his gaze, and flashes of last night hit you—when you two had sex in a ridiculous roadside motel because Sarah was having a sleepover with her friends at home.

“And when you go back to New York?” he asks, and you immediately understand what he means.

You shrug.

“I’m not going to pressure you into a long-distance relationship. We don’t have a relationship anyway. And I don’t want a long-distance thing.”

“But I want you.”

You stab a piece of potato with your fork and bring it to his mouth. He accepts it, chewing slowly while waiting for your answer.

“I want you too,” you confess. “But I know you have other priorities.”

“So do you.”

You nod. “So do I.”

Somehow, it feels like a goodbye.

Two months later, back in New York, you type the final period on the last sentence of your thesis.

You stretch your arms over your head like you just won a marathon and then slowly slide to the floor, lying flat on your back like a starfish.

Your spine cracks, your wrists protest after three straight hours of typing, but you can’t wipe the huge, satisfied smile off your face—you’re free.

You grab your phone and text your friends:

“Thesis done. Beer to celebrate?”

You end up doing a full bar crawl, treating it like a birthday or something equally ridiculous.

All it takes is a low-cut top showing off your cleavage, a sweet voice, and the line “Do I get a prize for finishing my thesis?” to score free drinks all night.

You flirt with a few guys, but none of them make you want to drag them home. None of them have a Texas drawl, a graying beard, and the smirk of a retired porn star.

Actually…

You open your chat with Joel.

The last message from him, sent yesterday, is a photo of the same wine bottle you two opened that night in the garage. You had texted back “wish I was there,” and he’d replied with a kiss emoji.

He’d mentioned he was attending some adult film award ceremony as a presenter or something, but he didn’t say where.

He must have been busy all day.

Tonight, you type:

“went out drinking with some friends to celebrate finishing my thesis and can’t stop thinking about you. swear if you were here, i’d be blowing you under one of the bar tables.”

You put your phone away.

You down a tequila shot and laugh when your friend toasts to the end of grad school.

At three in the morning, you still haven’t gotten a reply from Joel.

You call an Uber after making sure your friends are safe, pulling your leather jacket tight around your body. The ride sobers you up just enough to make you crave a whole bottle of water.

That’s exactly what you do when you get home.

You peel off your pleated skirt and jacket, leaving yourself in just a wool turtleneck sweater, and you’re about to jump into the shower when your intercom buzzes.

You glance at the microwave clock: 3:54 AM.

You answer.

“Hello?”

“Delivery from Javier Peña.”

You gasp and immediately buzz him in.

Your heart is already racing as you open your apartment door, standing half-hidden behind it since you’re not wearing any pants.

You practically bounce with anticipation at the same time you convince yourself you’re not dreaming.

When Joel appears at the top of the stairs, it’s like all the blood in your body rushes to your head. He’s wearing glasses and has that stupid, cocky smile, dressed in a black T-shirt with two simple words printed across the front: adult content.

“I can’t believe you’re actually wearing that shirt.”

“The name of the studio that sponsored the awards ceremony,” he says, stopping in front of you.

He smells so good it makes you a little self-conscious about the sweat clinging to your neck from the night out.

“Heard someone finished their thesis,” he murmurs, stepping closer. “Figured I should congratulate you properly.”

[starstruckbich]

needy Vi ⋆｡°✩

summary: you and Vi are married, and lately she's been oddly whiny and all over you...

tags: 18+ mdni, men dni. nsfw! dom!reader, down bad sub!vi, scar mentions, hard fingering, eating pussy ˗★˗

wc: 3.8k

notes: hii first time writing so sorry if this is a little sloppy lmao, this is smut with no plot and english isn't my first language so i might get some terms wrong. anyways hope you guys enjoy!

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

You loved Vi with all your heart.

Ever since the war been between Zaun and Piltover came to an end, you two have been living peacefully. You both had scars on your body, reminders of what you both had been through.

Lately she's been a lot clingier. Asking you for a kiss before bed, hugging your waist from behind while you're cooking and staying glued to you for ungodly amounts of time, insisting on showering together with you, nuzzling her face agaisnt your thighs and kissing them while she looks at you with those needy puppy eyes. That's her favorite.

Eventually you figured out why. During the night, you were often woken up by whimpers and needy whines, looking over at your wife to see her mumbling in her sleep, sounding like she's getting fucked out of her mind, whining your name...

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

"vi, i'm trying to read." you say, tucking your hair behind your ear to look down at your wife, who's once again laying her head down on your lap and kissing your thighs.

"hmm..." she hums in a needy voice agaisnt them, wanting to bury her face between and never pull away.

"again?..." you can't help but raise an eyebrow, your wife letting out a whine, grabbing your legs tightly. of course, you love Vi and want to be close to her, but it's gotten to the point where she doesn't have her hands off of you for atleast five seconds.

For the next 30 minutes you continue trying to read, trying to change positions to lay comfortably in your king-sized bed. However, as needy as she is, Vi keeps clamming onto you, making you a sweaty mess.

Your final straw is when she huffs agaisnt your ear, trying to envelop all of your body in her arms blabbering about whatever, crushing your book's pages in the process, at the most interesting part of the plot.

"f-fuck baby, please! mh!" vi whines, head layed back on the pillows, gripping the sheets so hard they could rip.

you plunge your tongue deeper inside her, over and over again, holding her strong thighs far apart and kissing, sucking, doing whatever you can to torture that needy, wet, puffy pussy of hers.

her wetness drips down your chin slowly, making you hum in satisfaction. you decide to take some pity for her, giving some attention to her sensitive clit.

"a-ah! FUCK!" she yells, bucking her hips to feel your tongue sucking on her pussy again.

"hold still." you mumble agaisnt her pussy with a frown, holding her hips down as you continue eating her out, giving the pleasure she so desperately needs.

"please baby i'm gonna cum, c-can i come? please please please please... mmh~!" she tries to rub your her hips roughly agaisnt your tongue again, to no avail.

Unfortunately for her and her glistening pussy, you pull away, resting your face on her muscular thigh, an innocent, faint smile on your face despite what you've been doing to her. "aw baby, already?" you can't help but grin as she whines in frustration, her voice already hoarse.

you press two fingers agaisnt her pussy, mking her let out a whimpery moan, slightly entering her but then pulling out your index and middle finger again. "aw your pussy's so wet... so fucking wet baby, your mess is all over the sheets, fuck..."

"please baby, put them in... i need you..." she looks down, lolling her head to the side after.

"hm yeah? you need these fingers inside your pussy? want me to make you feel good? like those fucking wet dreams you've been having about me?"

Vi's eyes widen at your words, looking into your eyes in embarassment. "what? h-how'd you-"

Before she can finish her sentence you plunge your two digits deep inside her, ripping out a loud moan from your pretty wife. You groan in satisfaction at the sight, biting your bottom lip, pumping your fingers again and again, her juices flying everywhere as she rolls her eyes to the back of her head.

"of fuck, look at that! if i didn't know any better i'd say we're at the goddamn brothel." you tease, letting out hearty chuckles. "how about a third one hm? you're wet enough already" you, plunging your ring finger into her aswell.

"A-AH! Fuck, don't stop don't stop! yes baby! gonna come! m' gonna come!" Vi yells, squirming as your fingers are punishing her, more needy for you than ever.

A few more thrusts and she finishes on your three fingers, letting out a loud, whiny moan as she comes. You of course take the chance to suck up all of her fluids, not stopping as your tongue works between her thighs again, making her body convulse in sensitivity and pleasure.

"mm so good, you're so good for me baby..." you mumble agaisnt her, making her come again from those words alone as your eyes widen.

"damn, that bad huh?

"shut up..."

[bambi-lamb]

seeing green

Summary: So maybe you made a not-so-great choice... in your defense, it was fun at the time. But now, looking at Wanda's raised eyebrow and dark smile, maybe you shouldn't have tried to make her so jealous. Hindsight is everything.

Tags: wanda maximoff x f!reader, 18+, smut, edging, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, fingering, dacryphilia, oral sex, cunnilingus, mommy kink, mean mommy wanda!!

WC: 1,266

A/N: was hit by a spark of irritation— i mean, inspiration, today

You pant loudly in the living room, gasping for breath. The curtains are drawn, only a thin shaft of light spilling onto the rug and one arm of the couch.

Wanda is leaned leisurely back against the couch, smiling darkly up at you as you cry out. Her hand stops for just one moment, and she hums softly as you twitch in her grasp.

"You sure you don't want Avery here instead, detka? You certainly seemed to be having a good time with her."

"No, no— no mommy just want you don't want her please— pleaseplease please let me come," you whine, squirming in Wanda's lap. She allows it for but a moment before her free hand clamps down on your hip again, holding you still.

"Really? I don't think I believe you…"

Wanda licks her lips, tracing soft, slow circles around your clit with the pad of her finger.

"Please, mommy. Don't want her, just want you. Just want mommy," you plead desperately, tears gathering in the corners of your eyes.

"Hmm," Wanda hums, tutting softly when you whine again. "I don't know if I believe that, detka. You were all over her." Her voice dips dangerously, eyes flashing. You can tell she's displeased, and you flush; she's not wrong—you had been basically attached at the hip to your newest work friend Avery.

Normally, you wouldn't spend so much time with her, but it had been at least a little bit fun to see the way Wanda's jaw worked through her displeasure, and you'd enjoyed the dark glare she'd kept leveled on you the entire night. It sent shivers down your spine, knowing how much she wanted you, and so maybe you'd pushed it a little too far, leaning into Avery heavier or laughing a little brighter than you normally world.

It's not fun now as Wanda stops for probably the 6th or 7th time in a row, bringing you down from the edge of your orgasm and holding you still as tears drip down your face.

"You look so pretty, detka," she murmurs, leaning forward to lick away some of your tears.

You inhale sharply, feeling more tears spill over as she chuckles in the back of her throat.

"Regretting it now, honey?" she coos softly, thumb still pressed to your swollen clit.

"I'm sorry, mommy," you whimper, trying your best attempt at the saddest puppy-dog eyes you can manage, but she doesn't budge.

"Oh, pretty girl, you should've thought about that before you decided to spend the night flirting with Avery." Wanda hums dismissively as you whine and start crying again.

"No use crying over spilled milk, baby," she chuckles. "What's done is done. Maybe next time you'll think twice before you try another little stunt like this one."

"Please, mommy," you beg, wracking your brain for anything you can possibly say to appease Wanda. "Please, I belong to you, mommy."

Wanda looks at you sharply, interest piqued as she tilts her head slightly.

You chase the tail end of your declaration eagerly, perking up as you continue babbling.

"I'm yours, mommy, please. I just want you. I'm all yours."

Her thumb restarts its slow rhythm against your clit, and you nearly sob with relief, chasing the feeling as your mouth runs on and on without a single thought.

"Belong to mommy, please, just for mommy, all yours."

Her thumb is firm against your clit, and you shiver at the stimulation — it's too much and not enough all at once, and you yelp softly when she begins rubbing faster. Her entire hand is dripping wet, no thanks to you, but she just keeps looking up at you, encouraging the deluge of words flooding out of you.

"Please, mommy, please let me come, please."

Just as you reach the very edge, Wanda stops again, and you feel the tears restart without warning, pouring down your face as you whimper desperately.

"Tell me who you belong to again, baby," she coos, brushing your tears away with her thumb this time.

"You, mommy, please," you whine. "Belong to you."

"Then how come you were basically sitting on Avery's lap the whole night, huh?"

You sob softly, tears drip-dripping unstoppably now.

"Because I wanted to make you jealous, mommy," you hiccup, whining when Wanda presses down on your clit.

"And have you learned your lesson, detka?"

You nod fervently, abashed and apologetic. Wanda hums absently, but her thumb starts moving again, and you melt into the touch.

"Please, mommy, I belong to you," you profess eagerly, tears still flowing.

"It's okay, detka, I know. Be a good girl and tell me again, why don't you? Whose girl are you, hm?"

"Your girl, mommy," you hiccup softly, moaning when she loosens her grip on your hip and lets you start to rock against her finger.

"Again, detka, say it again," she whispers, eyes sharp and intense.

"I belong to you, mommy. I'm all yours. Please."

"One more time, baby, I just wanna hear you say it one more time and then you can come, okay?"

Wanda looks nearly feral, her pupils blown as she leans into your space, her thumb rubbing fast, tight circles over your clit. You can't help but shiver, gushing against her hand again as your orgasm fast-approaches.

"I'm yours, Wanda," you murmur, softening as you see her breathe a shuddery sigh of relief. You also lean forward, drawn to her magnetic allure, and meet her in the middle for a feverish kiss.

"Mine," she mumbles as she nibbles on your bottom lip, thumb rubbing furiously over your clit.

You jolt back, crying out as she drives her index and middle finger into your cunt, working double-time in an effort to make you come.

"Come for me, baby. You can come now," she's murmuring into your neck, but you can barely tell she's saying anything at all, the vibrations of sound a distant consideration as your vision whites out completely.

When you come to again, she's rearranged you entirely so you're lying down on the couch. You have a moment to just blink and breathe as sound and feeling returns to you, and as soon as you can feel your fingertips again, you whimper.

Wanda, tucked between your thighs, is licking softly at your cunt, dark green eyes intent on your expression.

You tremble your way through another orgasm, shivering as she crawls up the length of your body to settle herself on your chest.

"You did such a good job, detka," she murmurs softly, leaning up for a soft kiss.

"Felt good," you whisper in return, blushing lightly when she grins into your neck.

She reaches up to run her fingers through your hair, and sits up momentarily to reach for a blanket that she promptly pulls over top of both of you. As you lie on the couch, you hear Wanda's breath slowly even out, and your eyes begin to droop.

Clearly, though, she isn't really asleep, because you hear her voice, softer and more hesitant, float up.

"You don't actually like her that much, do you?"

You smother your grin against the top of her head and pull her up for another kiss, this one longer and warmer.

"No, I don't," you reply easily, watching the way the crease between her eyebrows smooths over and she finally seems to relax.

"I love you and only you," you murmur softly. "You're my favorite person."

She hums contentedly and presses a kiss to your chin.

"I love you too, detka."

She sits up momentarily, squinting at you suspiciously.

"But don't do that again."