#i did not know HOW i did that in the first place... | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

honeyandruin · 3 days ago

Text

Torque and Tension - Mechanic!Joel Miller x Reader

____ •°• ⚙ •°• ____ ____ •°• ⚙ •°• ____ ____ •°• ⚙ •°

Pairing: mechanic!Joel Miller x Reader (also dbf!Joel)

Summary: Your dad’s best friend is a mechanic. You’ve been finding excuses to bring your car in—he’s been finding excuses to keep you close. One late night in the garage, the tension snaps.

Warnings: 18+ only. MINORS DNI. Age gap (dad’s best friend). Praise kink (“good girl,” “you were made for this”). Sex in the garage (including over the hood of a car). Joel being big, sweaty, and losing control. Guilt, denial, and emotional restraint. Soft, intimate shower aftermath.

Word count: 6.7k

____ •°• ⚙ •°• ____ ____ •°• ⚙ •°• ____ ____ •°• ⚙ •°

You really did have a reason this time.

The check engine light had been blinking for two days—flickering on and off like it couldn’t make up its mind, like it wasn’t sure whether to ruin your week yet. By the third morning, your car started making a sound you could only describe as “anxiety in metal form.”

So you drove to the only place in town you trusted.

And that’s the problem.

Because Joel Miller owns the shop. Joel Miller has been fixing cars since before you were born. Joel Miller is your best friend’s father.

And Joel Miller is under your car with his shirt rucked up to his ribs and your ability to think clearly lodged somewhere between your thighs.

You shift on your feet beside the garage lift, arms crossed tightly against your chest. The fan in the corner of the bay blows hot air in lazy circles, mixing with the burnt tang of rubber and the sharp, dry bite of old oil. It smells like heat and metal and him—soap and skin and sweat, overlaid with that cologne he probably applies without thinking. That kind of clean, masculine scent that never fades. Just clings.

He’s flat on his back beneath the undercarriage of your car, a socket wrench clutched in one thick, stained hand, the other braced against the metal frame as he mutters something under his breath.

You can see a bead of sweat roll from the edge of his hairline, down the side of his temple. His shirt’s damp at the neck. There’s a streak of grease running from the side of his palm all the way up his forearm.

You’ve never been so jealous of a car in your life.

Joel’s voice cuts through the thick air, deep and rough like gravel dragged over concrete.

"How long’d you let it rattle like that?"

You blink. “Uh… not long. Just since yesterday.”

“Bullshit,” he mutters, scooting further underneath with a scrape of denim against concrete. “This belt’s dry as hell. It’s been slippin’ for at least a week.”

You scowl down at his legs—long and solid, boots planted wide, knees slightly bent.

“I didn’t know it was a big deal.”

“It’s always a big deal when a car sounds like it’s tryin’ to cough up a lung.”

You bite your tongue.

Not because he’s wrong.

Because it shouldn’t do that to you when he gets short with you. It shouldn’t make your chest tighten and your face heat. You shouldn’t like the way he throws the full weight of his attention behind a reprimand, like your stupidity is a personal affront.

You glance toward the open bay door, sunlight slanting through the wide space, picking up dust and sawed-off shadows. No one else is here. Not Kenny. Not Zack. Not your friend. Just Joel. Just you. Just the lazy whir of the fan and the rhythmic click-click-click of the ratchet in his hands.

You hear him grunt.

Then he slides out from beneath the car, slow, like a movie scene you’re not allowed to be watching.

The first thing you see is his stomach.

Exposed skin.

Not toned. Not soft. Just… real. Solid. Covered in a sheen of sweat that catches the light.

You look up fast. Too fast.

But he notices.

His brows twitch just slightly as he sits up, shirt still bunched halfway up his chest, hands braced behind him as he stretches his back.

You pretend to be deeply invested in a smudge on your shoe.

Joel wipes the back of his hand across his mouth and pulls the rag from his back pocket, scrubbing at his forearms in slow, rough strokes. You swear you hear the fabric drag over his skin.

“You’re lucky,” he says, low. “Could’ve been worse. Belt’s dry but not cracked. I’ll grease it, retighten the pulley.”

You nod, because your mouth is dry and your throat is tight.

“Thanks,” you say. It comes out softer than you mean.

Joel doesn’t answer right away. Just grabs another rag from the workbench and scrubs at his arms in hard, focused strokes. You watch a streak of black fade from his wrist to his elbow, leaving behind red, raw skin.

He doesn’t look at you.

“You can sit,” he says, voice low. Almost gruff. “Be a bit.”

You hesitate, then take the bench near the wall.

He drops back under the car without another word.

And you sit in the heat, listening to the hum of the fan and the click-click of his wrench, pretending you’re not watching every flex of his arm, every shift of his shoulders, every slow drag of breath that smells like grease and soap and skin.

You hadn’t expected to leave your car overnight. When Joel told you it might take a few extra hours, you’d figured you’d linger around the garage, kill time scrolling your phone or walking the nearby strip until it was done. But then the sky started to dim and he said he wanted to run diagnostics before letting you take it back out—"just to be sure," he’d said, voice unreadable—and you knew it wasn’t a request.

Your dad offered to pick you up without hesitation. “No sense in waiting around that late by yourself,” he’d said over the phone. “Besides, I haven’t seen Joel in a while.”

You hadn’t thought much of it until your dad pulled into the lot, familiar truck rumbling low and slow into the driveway, just as the last of the sun dipped behind the trees. Joel stepped out of the garage as the headlights flicked off. And then, in an instant, you weren’t standing next to a man who barely looked you in the eye anymore. You were standing next to someone your father trusted.

Your stomach turned.

“Been a while,” Joel said with an ease that didn’t match the way he spoke to you. “You still tryin’ to squeeze another hundred thousand outta that Ford?”

Your dad laughed like it was an old joke. “Still runs, doesn’t it? And you’re still the only bastard I trust to keep it that way.”

They clapped hands and exchanged a look that made your chest tighten. There was history between them—respect, camaraderie, the kind of bond built in shared years and broken engines. It was a good thing. Normal.

But you couldn’t ignore the twist in your gut. Couldn’t stop the guilt from blooming beneath your ribs as you remembered how your eyes had lingered too long on Joel’s exposed skin earlier. How you’d sat on the bench with your legs crossed too tight, pretending not to watch the flex of his arms, the drip of sweat at his temple, the dark smear of grease along his collarbone.

You didn’t say much on the ride home. Just stared out the window, jaw tight, heart louder than the radio.

–

You return to the garage the next morning just after opening. Your dad dropped you off with a request to “give Joel my best” and a promise he’d see you later that night at home. The air is still heavy with late-summer humidity, thick enough to cling to your clothes as you step across the gravel lot. One of the bay doors is rolled halfway up, casting a slanted beam of sunlight across the concrete floor. You spot your car immediately—hood popped, turned sideways in the center bay—and Joel standing beside it, already elbow-deep in the engine.

He doesn’t glance up when you enter. Doesn’t greet you. Just wipes his hand slowly down the length of a clean rag and gestures toward the car with a small tilt of his chin.

“Found something else.”

You blink. “Seriously?”

“Timing’s off. Slight knock. You’d never hear it unless you knew what to listen for, but it’ll wear out the internals if it keeps runnin’ like that.”

You step closer, the scent of motor oil and dust growing stronger as you cross into the shadow of the open bay.

“I didn’t hear anything,” you say.

Joel finally looks up. His expression is unreadable, jaw set, brow faintly furrowed. “That’s ‘cause you weren’t listenin’.”

There’s no malice in his tone—just honesty. Matter-of-fact. You’re not sure if that makes it better or worse.

He turns away before you can respond and grabs a slim metal tool from the bench. His movements are deliberate and calm, but his silence feels thick, pressing in at the edges. There’s something different about him this morning—focused, yes, but quieter. Like something unspoken is coiled beneath his skin, just waiting for the wrong word to shake it loose.

“You’re not careful with it,” he says, his back still turned.

You blink, startled by the bluntness. “Excuse me?”

“You drive it too hard. Push it when it’s not ready. Ignore the sound of it strugglin’. It’s not invincible, you know.”

The words are soft but direct. No raised voice. No frustration. Just a quiet kind of judgment that lands harder than it should.

You cross your arms, the heat creeping into your chest. “I don’t need a lecture.”

“I’m not givin’ one.”

He sets the tool down with a soft clink and turns toward you. The sunlight hits the edge of his face, casting a sharp line down his cheekbone, the smear of grease on his temple darker now in the angled light.

“I’m offerin’ to teach you,” he says.

You falter, unsure what to say to that. There’s no sarcasm in his voice. No teasing. He just watches you, steady and still, like he’s waiting to see what you’ll do next.

“I don’t know how to do any of this,” you admit quietly.

Joel nods once.

“Then come here.”

You step forward slowly, each footfall echoing faintly across the garage floor. The closer you get, the harder your heart pounds. By the time you reach his side, your hands feel clammy and your breath sits too high in your chest.

He points to a specific piece tucked within the open frame—metal and rubber and coiled tension that means nothing to you by name, but everything to the way the car moves.

“This is the tensioner,” he says. “Keeps the belt in place. If it’s too loose, it slips. If it’s too tight, it pulls too hard. Either way, it’ll eat through the engine.”

You nod, pretending you understand. You don’t. Not really.

“Here.” He reaches for a wrench—clean, heavy—and offers it to you. You curl your fingers around the handle. It’s warm from his hand. Solid.

But he doesn’t step back.

Instead, he shifts in behind you, one arm sliding carefully around your waist to reach for your hand on the tool. His chest brushes your back, and you freeze.

He doesn’t press. Doesn’t lean.

He just breathes.

“Hold it like this,” he says, voice low near your ear, almost a whisper. “Let it lock. Then turn.”

His hand stays over yours as you move, guiding you through the motion. His palm is rough, callused, the press of his fingers steady and firm. You feel every ridge, every tendon. The heat of his body behind yours makes it impossible to focus on anything else.

Your breath catches in your throat.

He doesn’t move away.

You stare down at the engine, willing your pulse to slow, willing your knees not to shake.

His voice is quieter when he speaks again. “You’ll feel the pull when it’s right.”

And you do, but not from the belt.

From him.

Then, slowly, Joel pulls his hand back. Steps away. The space between you widens, but the air doesn’t clear.

He clears his throat and wipes his hands again.

“Good,” he says.

The word hangs there. Unfinished. Weighted.

You stand still for a long time.

Neither of you speaks.

—

You don’t hear the bell at first.

Your shop is too warm, too quiet. The kind of stillness that settles when you’re alone with routine—focused not by calm, but by the familiar rhythm of your hands. You’re stripping peony stems at the prep table near the back, thumbs slick with sap, the faint cut of green staining the pads of your fingers. The water’s cold against your skin where it splashed your forearms earlier. You’ve been too busy to wipe it off.

The scent in the room is thick and clinging. Wet leaves. Rosewater. A sharper, bitter green where eucalyptus hangs to dry in bundles from the rafters. Everything around you feels alive—stems reaching, petals opening—but there’s no sound besides the slow rustle of your hands moving, and the steady beat of your heart, louder than it should be.

Until the bell above the front door rings.

You glance up, mildly surprised. The morning rush is long over. No one usually comes in at this hour except the mailman, and he never—

It’s Joel.

Your hand stills.

He stands framed in the doorway, backlit by sunlight, boots planted solid on the threshold like he’s deciding whether to come all the way in. He’s in the same navy work shirt as yesterday—buttons undone at the collar, sleeves rolled halfway to the elbow, the edges of his white undershirt clinging faintly to his chest. There’s a smudge of something dark near his wrist. Oil, probably. Or maybe grease. His hair’s a little mussed, like he’s already run a hand through it more than once.

You don’t say anything. Not at first.

Neither does he.

Eventually, Joel steps forward, the door closing behind him with a quiet click. His boots are loud on the wood floor, the sound somehow more invasive in the softness of the shop.

You go back to cutting stems, or at least pretending to. He stops a few feet away, just close enough to fill the air with that familiar scent—soap, sweat, whatever cologne he wears that clings too deep into his skin to be store-bought.

He doesn’t browse. Doesn’t look around. Just stands there watching you work, like he has every right to.

“I tried calling earlier,” he says after a pause.

Your hand doesn’t slow. “I saw.”

“You didn’t answer.”

You reach for another stem. “You didn’t leave a message.” You glance up, “I figured you’d call back if it mattered.”

Joel’s expression doesn’t give much away. But his hands are in his back pockets, and you’ve seen him long enough to know that means he doesn’t trust them right now.

“What do you need?” You ask, voice calm. Cool, even.

His eyes flick to the flowers. Then to your hands.

“Just checkin’ in on the car.”

You don’t smile, but something shifts behind your ribs. That same pressure you’ve been carrying since the garage. Since you left his space and came back to your own, only to realize neither really feels neutral anymore.

“It’s running fine,” you say simply.

Joel nods once. Slow. His gaze lingers for a second longer before dropping.

There’s a bucket of hydrangeas on the floor to your left—half-submerged in murky water, their stems a tangled mess. You nudge it toward him with your foot.

“If you’re going to stand there, you might as well do something useful.”

He raises an eyebrow but crouches down anyway. Lifts one of the dripping stems with care he probably doesn’t even realize he’s showing. He holds it up awkwardly.

You reach for it.

The water rolls off in a slow line down your wrist.

“Clean the end. Diagonal cut,” you murmur, barely glancing up. “About an inch off.”

Joel watches you for a second, then steps closer. The flower still rests in his hand, suspended between you. You reach for the shears, grip light but steady.

He doesn’t move away.

Not even when your fingers brush his.

Not even when the cut lands too close to the base of his thumb.

The scent of the flowers is heady here. Sweet. Almost cloying. But it’s his breath you feel. His eyes you sense. The tension in your own body has nothing to do with the work and everything to do with the silence stretching taut between your bodies.

Joel looks down at your hands—your bare forearms, your stained fingertips. The soft pull of your mouth as you focus. He doesn’t speak again.

He doesn’t need to.

The weight of his gaze says enough. Too much.

You drop the stem into a clean vase and step back before you can do anything stupid. Before either of you says something that can’t be unsaid.

But Joel doesn’t move.

He stands there longer than necessary, eyes fixed somewhere near your shoulder. He’s quiet in a way that makes your skin itch—like he’s weighing something in real time, trying to decide whether or not to let instinct win.

Then, slowly, his hand lifts.

You don’t flinch.

He reaches just past your ear, fingers brushing the edge of your hair as he pulls something free—a small, green leaf caught near the base of your braid. He holds it between his fingers for a second too long. Doesn’t look at it.

Doesn’t look at you, either.

Then his eyes flick down to your chin, and his brows pinch—just a little. Like he notices something out of place.

“Hold still,” he mutters.

You do.

He lifts his thumb, presses it gently to the corner of your jaw—light, dry, careful. He wipes away something—sap, maybe. Or dirt. You don’t know. You can’t think with his hand on your face.

The pad of his thumb drags over the soft line of your skin. Not a caress. Not quite.

But close enough.

Too close.

You feel your pulse jump in your throat, sharp and sudden. His touch is too warm. His breath too steady. You feel him before you see him—the weight of his stare, the quiet fall of his focus as he lingers there, not quite pulling away.

Then Joel blinks.

And the moment shatters.

He steps back like he’s burned.

“Shit,” he mutters. Not loud. Not angry. Just… resigned.

His hand drops to his side. He glances toward the door, jaw tightening.

“I shouldn’t—” He stops himself. Shakes his head. “I need to go.”

You don’t say anything.

You couldn’t if you tried.

He turns and walks out without another word.

The bell chimes once behind him, sharp and bright against the silence he leaves in his wake.

And you stay there, heart pounding, cheek still warm, wondering how much longer either of you is going to keep pretending.

—

The garage lights are off when you pull up in your dads car, except for one dim bulb still glowing behind the open bay.

The rest of the lot is dark. Quiet. The kind of quiet that settles when the world has moved on for the day—when businesses are closed, sidewalks are empty, and the only sound left is the cooling tick of your engine as you park.

Your heart is already pounding.

You told yourself you were coming for your wallet. That you thought maybe you left it in the center console after your dad dropped off your keys that morning. It’s a stupid excuse—thin and see-through—but it’s all you could come up with when you hit call on his number.

He didn’t answer.

But the door was unlocked.

You step into the bay before you talk yourself out of it, the soft echo of your boots on concrete announcing you before you speak.

He doesn’t turn right away.

Joel is bent under the hood of your car—again. Elbows braced, shirt clinging to his back with sweat. There’s music playing somewhere in the background—something low and twangy on a half-broken radio, the notes floating around like smoke.

You see him pause. Hear the click of the ratchet stop.

Then he exhales and straightens slowly, his movements tight. He glances at you just once before turning toward the utility sink near the corner of the bay.

You watch as he pumps soap into his palms, head down, shoulders tense. The water runs loud for a moment—harsh and quick—while he scrubs his hands under the stream. He doesn’t rush, but he doesn’t linger either. When he shuts the tap, he wipes his hands off on the worn towel beside it and finally turns back to face you.

His shirt is still damp. His hair curls behind his ears. And even from where you stand, you can still smell the oil on his skin. It clings to him like heat—faint and bitter and unmistakably Joel.

“I left you a message,” he says, voice low and rough. “Heard from your dad you’re driving upstate this weekend. Figured I’d check the plugs. Run a final scan.”

You nod, like you’re grateful. Like you’re not dizzy from the way he’s looking at you now.

“Wasn’t sure you’d still be here,” you manage. “I thought I left my wallet.”

Joel tilts his head slightly.

“Didn’t think you were comin’ back tonight.”

Your stomach flips.

“I thought I left my—”

“I know what you said.”

He says it quiet. No edge, no push. Just a statement. Heavy with something he won’t name.

You don’t move.

The silence stretches.

He tosses the rag onto the bench without taking his eyes off you.

“Find it?” He asks.

“What?”

“Your wallet.”

You swallow. You haven’t even taken one step towards your car, “No.”

Joel takes a step forward after closing the hood of your car.

Just one.

The lighting is bad. Harsh overhead, buzzing faintly. It casts long shadows across the concrete and catches on the sweat at his collarbone, the dark smudge near his temple. His fingers are still streaked with oil.

You don’t know if you want to touch them or fall to your knees.

He doesn’t get closer, but the air between you tightens. Pulls taut like a cable ready to snap.

“You need to stop,” he says suddenly. Voice quiet. Hoarse.

Your breath catches.

“Stop what?”

Joel shakes his head once. Slow. “Comin’ around like this. Lookin’ at me like that.”

“I’m not—”

“Yes, you are.”

His tone isn’t cruel. It isn’t even angry.

It’s worse.

It’s regretful. Raw. Like he’s already halfway through losing this fight and trying to pretend he isn’t.

You force a step forward.

Maybe two.

The scent of the shop rises up—rubber, fuel, sweat. And underneath it, faint but familiar, him.

He watches you like he’s daring you to keep going.

“I didn’t mean—”

“Don’t lie to me.”

That lands hard.

You stop walking. Swallow.

He’s still standing perfectly still, jaw tight, chest rising a little faster now. His fingers flex at his sides like they want to grab something. Hold it. Break it.

You want to say something sharp. Deflect. But nothing comes.

You meet his gaze, and the silence between you stretches tight, drawn so thin it could tear with a whisper. Neither of you speaks. Neither of you breathes. And then—almost imperceptibly—he shifts.

Joel moves first.

Not abruptly. Not dramatically. Just one slow, deliberate step forward, and then another, like he’s already made up his mind and his body is only now catching up. There’s no hesitation in the way he closes the distance—only weight. Only heat.

Like this was always going to happen.

Then his hands are in your hair and your back hits the side of the car hard enough to knock the breath out of you.

His mouth finds yours before you can gasp—hot, rough, desperate. All teeth and tongue and punishment. Like he’s mad at himself. Like you’re a sin he can’t stop touching.

Your fingers claw at the front of his shirt, yanking him closer. You moan into his mouth and he swallows it whole, one hand cupping your jaw, the other anchoring low on your hip. His thigh wedges between yours, hard and hot, pinning you in place.

“You have any fuckin’ idea,” he growls into your mouth, “how hard I’ve been tryin’ to be good?”

You shake your head, dazed, drunk on him already.

He kisses you again—filthy, possessive, not asking.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” he mutters against your throat, licking a stripe up the skin before biting down gently. “And I sure as hell ain’t supposed to be doin’ this.”

“Then stop,” you whisper.

He growls.

“Too late.”

He lifts you effortlessly—hands under your thighs—and sets you down on the edge of the workbench with a low grunt. Tools rattle somewhere behind you, but neither of you notices.

Joel grabs your face with one hand, his thumb stroking roughly along your cheek as he stares down at you, breathing hard.

“You want this?” He asks.

You nod.

He shakes his head.

“Say it.”

“I want you.”

That’s all it takes.

The rest comes undone fast.

Joel surges forward like he’s been waiting years for permission—like the second those words leave your mouth, there’s no universe where he doesn’t ruin you for anyone else.

His mouth crashes into yours again—open, messy, all heat and breath and hunger. It isn’t gentle. It isn’t precise. It’s needy. The kind of kiss that tastes like restraint finally giving out. You moan against his lips and it only spurs him on, his hands already sliding down the backs of your thighs, gripping hard like he doesn’t trust himself to let go.

He lifts you without warning, big hands digging under your legs, your back arching as he sets you on the edge of the workbench with a grunt. The cool metal bites into the backs of your legs, a stark contrast to the heat rolling off him in waves. Tools clatter somewhere behind you from the movement, but neither of you registers the sound.

All you can feel is him.

His fingers spread wide over your skin, anchoring you, holding you like he’s afraid you’ll change your mind.

And when he leans back just enough to look at you—forehead pressed to yours, sweat slicking his brow, eyes gone dark and hungry—you forget how to breathe.

“You want this?” He asks again, his voice wrecked. Like maybe he just needs to hear it one more time to believe he hasn’t dreamed this.

You nod. Your voice barely comes out. “Yes.”

He shakes his head slowly. “Say it.”

And God, you want to be good for him. You want to give him everything.

“I want you,” you whisper, breathless, shaky.

His eyes flutter shut for half a second—like it hurts to hear. Like he’s been waiting for this and dreading it at the same time.

And then he drops to his knees.

He doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t speak. Just spreads you open with both hands, and drags your skirt up so fast the fabric scrapes your skin. His breath hitches when he sees what’s waiting for him—slick, swollen, glistening under the dim light.

“Jesus Christ,” he murmurs. “No fuckin’ panties…”

You flush, your heart hammering in your chest.

“I didn’t plan on—”

“You didn’t plan on gettin’ fucked in my garage?” His voice is strained, but he’s already leaning in. “Coulda fooled me, sweetheart.”

Then his mouth is on you.

Hot. Open. Devastating.

He moans into your pussy like he’s starving—like he needs it to breathe. His tongue drags through your folds, slow and deep, and your head snaps back against the wall with a loud, broken gasp.

Everything goes hot.

The pressure of his palms on your thighs, the humid air clinging to your skin, the obscene sound of his mouth working between your legs—it’s all too much, too fast, and not nearly enough.

“Fuck,” he mutters into you. “This—this is what I’ve been thinkin’ about. Every night. Every time you walked through my shop like you didn’t know what you were doin’ to me.”

His tongue flicks your clit and your legs jerk.

He groans, low and filthy, like he’s grateful for your reaction. Like he needs it.

“You’re so sweet, baby,” he whispers, lips dragging across the sensitive skin there. “So soft. So wet for me. Fuck—you were made for this. Made to sit right here and let me taste you.”

You whimper. You don’t care how loud. You grind against his mouth because you can’t not, and he lets you. Encourages it. Holds you down with one arm across your stomach while he devours you like he’s trying to bury something in the act.

Your body burns. Your toes curl. Your fingers tangle in his hair and you pull, hard.

He groans and pushes a thick finger inside you.

You nearly scream.

“Jesus—Joel—”

“That’s it,” he breathes, pumping it slowly, curling it just right. “Fuck, baby. You’re squeezin’ me so tight. So fuckin’ good for me.”

His mouth finds your clit again and you shatter.

The orgasm hits like a truck—fast, hard, all-consuming. Your whole body locks up, your thighs clench around his face, and you cry out, loud and wild and unfiltered.

He moans against you while you fall apart, keeps licking like he can’t get enough, doesn’t stop until you’re trembling and panting and trying to push him away.

When he finally stands, he’s breathing hard. His beard is soaked with you. His lips are pink and swollen and glistening.

And he looks completely fucked.

“You okay?” He asks, voice hoarse.

You nod, unable to speak, your whole body still buzzing.

His hands go to his belt. His eyes never leave yours.

“You want me to fuck you now, baby?”

You nod again.

“Tell me,” he breathes.

“I want you inside me.”

He growls—actually growls—and frees himself with shaking hands. He fumbles with a condom, cursing under his breath, and when he rolls it on, you see how thick he is. How long. Your mouth goes dry.

He steps between your thighs and drags the head of his cock through your soaked folds.

“Shit,” he groans. “You feel that, darlin’? That’s how bad your pussy wants me. You’re so fuckin’ ready.”

You whimper again and he presses in—slowly, gently, watching your face.

Your mouth drops open. Your head falls back.

You’ve never felt so full.

“Goddamn,” he rasps, hips shaking. “Takin’ me so good. So fuckin’ right—Jesus, you were made for me.”

He doesn’t move for a moment. Just holds you there, bottomed out, letting you feel all of him.

Then he starts to move.

He fucks you slow at first, like he’s trying to make it last.

His hips rock into yours in long, deep thrusts that make your breath catch, your thighs tremble, your body arch. His hands are everywhere—cupping your jaw, sliding under your shirt, gripping your waist so tight you know you’ll feel the shape of his fingers tomorrow. The smell of oil and sweat still clings to him, thick in the air, mixing with the sound of skin meeting skin and the ragged, breathless groans spilling from his throat every time he sinks back into you.

“That feel good?” He grits against your ear, voice shaking with restraint. “Feel how tight you are, squeezin’ my cock like you don’t wanna let me go.”

You nod, gasping, already wrecked—and he kisses your shoulder, your neck, your mouth like he can’t pick where he wants to be.

But after a few more strokes, his rhythm stutters. His breath catches. And you feel it—the need, the desperation building behind every thrust.

Joel pulls out suddenly with a sharp, choked sound, and you gasp at the loss.

“Up,” he pants, grabbing your hand. “Come on—c’mere. Over here.”

You stumble down from the workbench, legs shaky, knees weak, and let him guide you across the bay—until the cool metal of your car’s hood hits the backs of your thighs.

He turns you gently, presses your palms flat against the surface, and says, low and breathless, “Bend for me.”

You do.

And then he’s behind you again—hot, heavy, hands greedy as he spreads you open, tilts your hips just right.

“Oh, fuck,” he mutters when he slides back in. “That’s it. That’s the fuckin’ angle, baby.”

You cry out—louder this time. The stretch hits deeper now, every inch filling you so perfectly, so thoroughly it feels like he’s reaching parts of you no one else ever has. Your cheek presses to the hood, fogging the metal with your breath as he starts to thrust harder, rougher, the slick drag of his cock making your thighs tremble beneath you.

Joel groans behind you—long and low and needy—and his hand comes down on your ass in a firm, claiming grip.

“Goddamn, look at that,” he breathes. “Look at me, baby. Look at how pretty you’re takin’ it.”

You lift your head, barely, just enough to glance toward the windowed wall of the garage—and catch his reflection in the glass. His eyes are on you. Or more specifically, on the spot where his cock disappears inside you again and again, glistening and perfect and obscene.

“You see that?” He pants. “You see how good you look like this? Bent over your car with my cock buried deep in your tight little cunt?”

Your breath stutters. He presses deeper, and you feel your muscles start to tighten again, pressure coiling low and fast in your belly.

“Joel,” you whimper.

His hand slides up your back, slow and hot, until it curls around the base of your neck. He leans forward—chest against your back, mouth at your ear.

“You’re bein’ so good for me, sweetheart,” he whispers. “Takin’ every inch like you were made for it. You feel me right here?”

He presses a palm against your lower stomach and thrusts once, deep.

You cry out.

“Incredible,” he groans. “You’re doin’ so fuckin’ good. My good girl.”

That wrecks you.

You come with a sob, body locking up, cunt pulsing around him so hard he nearly drops his head to your shoulder and curses into your skin.

“Shit—fuck—you’re squeezin’ me so tight,” he pants. “Fuck, baby, you’re gonna make me—shit—gonna make me come—”

His rhythm breaks, thrusts getting sloppy, desperate.

And then he groans, deep and raw and wounded, as he spills into the condom with a final, shuddering thrust.

For a moment, all you can hear is the hum of the lights above, the soft click of cooling metal beneath you, and his panting breath as he leans against your back—sweat-slicked, trembling, completely undone.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, finally. “What the fuck are we doin’?”

You don’t answer.

You just feel his hand slide around your waist again, holding you close.

Because you both know—this isn’t the end.

Not even close.

—

The silence after is loud.

Joel doesn’t say anything when he pulls out. Just exhales, rough and uneven, and rests his forehead between your shoulder blades like he’s trying to remember how to breathe. His hands stay on your hips—one tight, one shaking—until your legs nearly give out beneath you.

Then he moves.

He tucks himself away, peels the condom off, and tosses it in the shop bin without looking at you. The air in the garage is cooler now. Your skin sticky with sweat, your heartbeat still trying to find its rhythm.

You’re about to speak—ask what happens now, what the hell that was—when his voice cuts through the quiet.

“C’mon.”

Just that.

He slides a hand beneath your shirt again—gentler now, fingers warm on your spine—and guides you toward the side stairwell, one that leads to the apartment above the shop. You follow him barefoot, legs unsteady, your skin still flushed and sore in the best kind of way.

The upstairs is small. Just a kitchen that opens into a living space, dimly lit, with a narrow hallway beyond it. Joel doesn’t pause. He just leads you straight to the bathroom, flicks on the light, and turns on the shower.

You stand there while steam begins to fog the mirror. Joel doesn’t look at you as he moves. Just grabs two towels, sets them beside the sink, and pulls his shirt off over his head. It’s only when he reaches for the hem of yours that his eyes finally meet yours again.

He doesn’t speak.

Doesn’t have to.

His hands are slow this time—soft, careful—as he undresses you, like he’s afraid you’ll flinch. When you don’t, he finishes pulling off what’s left of your clothes, then his own, and steps into the shower behind you.

The water hits first. Hot. Heavy. You lean into it instinctively, and he follows—arms bracketing you, one hand on the wall above your head, the other sliding gently up your side like he can’t help himself.

He doesn’t touch you like he’s trying to start something again.

He touches you like he’s still stunned you let him.

His fingers find your hair, work through it slowly. You close your eyes as he massages shampoo into your scalp with firm, steady hands, lathering without a word. When the soap rinses clean, he switches to your shoulders, down your arms, the curve of your spine, the backs of your thighs.

He scrubs the sweat and oil from your skin in reverent silence. Not a word spoken between you. Only the sound of water hitting tile, the gentle scrape of his calloused hands moving with surprising tenderness.

Eventually, you turn to face him.

He looks exhausted. Damp curls sticking to his forehead, chest still rising and falling like he hasn’t come all the way down yet. His eyes trace your face like he’s trying to memorize it.

Then he lifts one hand—just one—and wipes the corner of your mouth with the pad of his thumb. His hand lingers.

And before either of you can think better of it, he leans in—slow, hesitant—and presses his lips to yours.

It’s not like before.

It’s soft. Careful. The kind of kiss that feels like an apology wrapped in something warm. His mouth moves gently over yours, no hunger, no heat—just something quiet and aching, like he’s trying to say all the things he never will.

When he pulls back, your fingers find his face.

You touch his jaw first—just a ghost of contact—and then cradle his cheek in your palm. The coarse stubble, the heat of his skin, the way his breath catches when you do it—it’s too much and not enough all at once.

He leans into your touch.

Like it hurts to be seen that way. Like it’s been so long since someone’s touched him with anything other than need.

And for a moment, the garage, the rules, the guilt—all of it—just falls away.

It’s only him. Only you.

And the silence in between.

“I shouldn’t’ve let that happen,” he murmurs.

You don’t reply.

Not because you disagree—but because it’s already too late.

Later, in the quiet of his apartment, you find yourself standing in front of his dresser while he digs through the bottom drawer.

“Here,” he says, tossing something soft your way.

You catch it.

It’s an old garage tee—black, worn thin, with a faded logo over the left breast: Miller Automotive. It smells like him. Like grease, pine soap, and something warmer. Something that makes your stomach twist.

You pull it on without a word. It hangs long on you, brushing your thighs, the sleeves swallowing your hands. Joel watches the whole thing from where he stands by the door, his expression unreadable.

“Bed’s this way.”

He nods toward the back room.

You follow.

The sheets are clean. The room is dim. When you climb in, he doesn’t hesitate. Just clicks off the bedside lamp and settles in behind you, one hand flat on the mattress between you like a line he doesn’t trust himself to cross again.

But he stays close.

So close you can feel his breath on your neck.

So close his voice, when it finally comes again, is barely more than a whisper.

“Shouldn’t’ve happened,” he says again, quieter now. “But I don’t think I could stop it even if we tried.”

You don’t say anything.

Just lay there in his shirt, still damp from the shower, the scent of him pressed into your skin, your body warm from where he’d touched it—held it—like something he wasn’t ready to give up.

Eventually, you fall asleep to the sound of him breathing beside you.

And the feeling of something unfinished still hanging in the air.

____ •°• ⚙ •°• ____ ____ •°• ⚙ •°• ____ ____ •°• ⚙ •°

Here’s another one shot, you freaky little fiends. I hope you enjoyed it! If you have any suggestions, requests—whatever, send me a message and I’ll try my best to make it happen💚

#joel miller #the last of us #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller fic #joel miller tlou #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller fanfic #joel miller smut #tlou #joel smut #smut #joel tlou #joel x reader #tlou joel #dbf!joel

610 notes · View notes

erwinsvow · 2 days ago

Text

𝐝𝐨𝐧'𝐭 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐲, 𝐛𝐚𝐛𝐲 — 𝐣.𝐚.

summary: also known as the story of how you became jack abbot's sugar baby.

word count: 7.8k

tags: younger reader/sugar baby dynamic, reader is in an unspecified masters program, reader is poor (sorry girl), descriptions of burn wound, jack tends to reader's wound because why wouldn't he!, robby guest appearance, smut (hard and fast and creampie.. sorry), these two are so cute and i love this reader

note: based on this blurb. enjoy! crazy what motivation can do. go listen to don’t worry baby by the beach boys 💛

you should have known you were in trouble when dr. jack abbot of the closest emergency room handed you a full-size tube of the expensive burn gel you needed and said in a firm yet gentle voice: don’t worry about it, kid.

little did he know that you did worry about it, that you worry about everything and then some. like the ridiculous injury that led you here in the first place—ridiculous and embarrassing, a double whammy. you were writing a paper at two in the morning despite the fact that the words on the screen had stopped making sense hours ago, determined to get at least another three pages done before calling it quits.

what you really needed was a coffee, but instead, stupidly, you settled for making hot chocolate. you thought it would be comforting, like a warm hug, which is probably what you really need and since you live alone, it’s not like you’re going to get that anywhere else.

so—hot chocolate, with milk rather than water, and mini marshmallows. you make it on the stove because it’s just better that way, and despite how you feel about yourself deserving things, you think you can waste the few extra minutes to make it the right way.

except you probably should have made the cup of coffee. after two am, your brain really, really stops working. your palm ends up against the burner of your stove and you cry out from pain before realizing what you’ve just done.

“fuck. fuck, fuck, fuck-” you curse, taking your hand to the sink immediately and running it under cold water. it stings and the pain isn’t going away, and then you realize a few other things.

one—that you have nothing besides bandaids and neosporin in this apartment. two—that you have no idea how to take care of a burn. and three—you really, really should have just gone to sleep.

on the verge of tears that are about to spill over, you keep your hand wrapped against a towel, slip into real shoes, and call an uber to the nearest emergency room. you’d walk but you’re in pajama shorts and a hoodie and it’s three in the morning and you don’t think you can handle anything else going wrong right now.

your paper is abandoned at your desk. the cup of hot chocolate with marshmallows melting in it looks at you almost jeeringly. and you think you’ll never trust your stove again.

you wait for a little bit but luckily, it’s not as packed as you were worried it’d be. you still have to finish that paper when you get back home, and if the sun is up by then there’ll be no sleeping for you. the nurse looks at you kindly when she notices your wet eyes and wobbly chin as you explain you accidentally burnt yourself and you didn’t know what to do.

“hold tight, honey. the doctor will be right in.” you thank her and then curse to yourself—you’re reaching levels of stupidity unknown to man. you hope she’ll tell the doctor it was just a burn and whoever it is will leave it at that. you don’t think you have energy to explain this to anyone and your face burns with embarrassment at the very idea.

then the curtain gets pulled back and he walks in and whatever thought you were thinking flies out the window.

“hi, i’m dr. abbot,” he says, his head tilted down—showing you a mane of messy salt and pepper curls—and looking at the tablet in his hands. he looks up at you to confirm your name and then your birthday, though in all honesty, he could have said something completely wrong and you would have nodded and agreed.

your doctor is handsome. he’s hot. like grey’s anatomy level hot. like, some other medical show that your brain recognizes but can’t currently remember the name of hot.

“so you burned yourself? can i take a look?” as stupid as it is—you don’t think you’ve ever been stunned into silence by a man before. his words are gentle and sincere and it sounds like he really cares about whatever's wrong with you—so many things you can't begin to name them all right now. fuck, he asked you something. you nod and then he looks up at you again. “i kind of need to hear you say it.”

fuck. me. what the hell kind of doctor says things like that to deliriously delusional women at three in the morning?

“yes. yes, thank you.” you move the towel and lift your palm towards him and he takes a gloved hand to support you. you can feel his fingers against the back of your hand, holding you in place, and normally that contact would be enough to have you reeling into never-never land where all the doctors are hot and single and you’re presenting with a more much cool, mature injury.

but then you notice his arms, and you have to bite your cheek so hard to not accidentally say anything you will without a doubt regret. hot doctor is jacked, with huge arms and a scrub top that covers most of his biceps. his forearms are thick and veiny and your eyes focus on them for way, way too long. you can make out so many freckles on his skin that it presents like a galaxy. you momentarily forget how badly your hand hurts. he sucks in a breath and looks at you again, making intense eye contact that you can’t bear. you look away immediately.

“ouch. so how’d this happen?” he asks, and you groan before you can stop yourself—of course he’s a good doctor who doesn’t cut corners and has to make sure you’re not suicidal or a masochist or something. “you okay, kid?”

what the fuck. one man cannot be doing it for you in so many ways—this dr. abbot should have never existed because you don’t know how you’re going to stop thinking about him. when you meet his eyes again and can actually look into them—hazel and very pretty, because of course they are—they’re filled with concern.

you can’t imagine how crazy you must look to him right now. plaid pajamas shorts, a grey hoodie for some sports team you know nothing about, messy hair. you curse yourself for not doing your makeup earlier.

“yes, i’m sorry. i-i was just hoping you wouldn’t ask.”

“yeah?” he says, with a teasing lilt to his voice. seriously, fuck this guy. “why’s that?”

“i…i was making hot chocolate. y’know, the good kind. stovetop with milk and the tiny-” jack looks at you with a smile, holding back a laugh and you lose your train of thought and trail off. “marshmallows. the tiny ones. and i was half-asleep already working on this paper, so, yeah. that’s, um, the story.”

jack asks you some other questions quietly—about what you’re in school for and how you like it—probably to distract you while he cleans your wounds. his touch alone is enough of a distraction and the way the muscles in his arms move while he does is enough to make you black out, but you still answer politely and try to not embarrass yourself further.

when your wound is all wrapped up, you cover your mouth to stifle a yawn and blink tiredly at dr. abbot.

“thank you,” you repeat for what must be the hundredth time—though you are very thankful. different people wearing scrubs interrupted him to ask a question probably three or four times and he never once stepped away from your bedside or left to go help someone else, even though you told him you could wait.

“you’re very welcome,” he stands up and you get your hand back and it feels much colder without his touch. stupid, you think to yourself, don’t think that! you are stupid! “now, don’t get this wet and change the wrap daily. when you’re changing, if it looks red or swollen or there’s any pus, you come straight back. and you’ll need burn gel. the nurse is going to give you some packets but it’s a bigger wound so you’ll have to buy a bottle at the pharmacy. that sound okay?”

you want to shake your head and tell him no, it kind of doesn’t. for starters you don’t want to leave his comfortable presence—maybe you’re just really lonely. if you had more money you’d get a cat so you’re not so alone all the time, but it’s one thing to subject yourself to poverty, bringing in a cute little kitten to your life is just stupid. oh god—there you go again. he said something and you can’t even remember what it is. you blink dumbly at dr. abbot.

right—burn gel. the real answer is no, insanely handsome doctor jack, i unfortunately cannot buy a bottle of burn gel at the moment, not until my next paycheck. but admitting all of that to him right now, after the already humiliating hot chocolate story, seems the emotional equivalent of your own personal 9/11. instead you lie and nod.

“sounds good.”

he smiles at you and you smile back, though you feel incredibly silly.

“don’t try to make hot chocolate half asleep again, kid. just go to bed next time,” jack says and you feel your face flush and burn at his words—you feel like a child getting scolded by dad. “and get some sleep, okay?”

“yeah. thank you, dr. abbot,” you say quietly. he smiles one last time, closes the curtain and leaves you in there alone again.

and though you thought it very nearly impossible, you do fuck up one more time before leaving pittsburg trauma medical center. you ask the nurse, who brings you two tiny samples of the burn gel, if there’s any way you could have more, explaining in not so many words that you’re a student and hoping that she gets the gist of what you’re trying to say.

“oh. well, let me go ask dr. abbot, and if he says yes, i can-”

“no! no, never mind. this is perfect, i’ll figure it out, um-” you scramble to your feet to get the burn gel packets and your paperwork.

“just one second, okay, i’ll be right back.” the nurse—young and very pretty and probably new, which is why she wants to make sure she’s not making a mistake, rushes out.

and you, not sure if this is exactly against-medical-advice, take your belongings and head outside to go back home.

(the nurse does go to jack—asking if she can give you some more packets of burn gel because you can’t afford it. he agrees immediately, thinking that he would have given you more if you had told him, wondering why you hadn’t. he goes back to your bed to give them to you himself, but you’re not there.)

and two days later, staring at your hand post-shower, still needing to write two thousand words before bed, you wonder if it looks a little… red.

you hadn’t gotten it wet, but you’re using the burn gel sparingly, and maybe because you’re not using enough, it had gotten infected.

fuck. you should have just coughed up the money to pay for the big bottle—you’re so dumb sometimes. you try to justify that it’s not red, it’s just the lighting, but when you take a picture with flash, you don’t think it’s in your head.

an hour later, it starts to hurt again like the first day. double fuck.

grumbling something about cyclical poverty, you pull on your hoodie over your outfit of the day, which was at least some-what cute. both things thrifted—a denim skirt and a plain pink henley—but it’s cold, so on the jacket goes. it’s a struggle to get it on without hurting your hand but you figure it out. it’s only just hit nine o’clock but it’s dark—so there goes another charge for the uber.

you go inside and go up to the lady with whom you check in, telling her you were here a few days ago for a burn, and that somehow must mean you get priority access, because the nurse—a different one—brings you back right away.

you wait for someone to tell you dr. abbot’s not here but there’s another just-as-good doctor, preferably one with normal arms and a normal smile that doesn’t make the lines around his eyes crinkle and light up his whole face and doesn’t make you fall headfirst into numerous, unrealistic fantasies, mostly centered around what a hug in those absolutely abnormal arms would feel like and—

you realize you’ve lost the plot as soon as dr. abbot pulls back the curtain.

“oh. i didn’t know if it would be you again.”

“it’s me again.” you must look starstruck, you conclude, with the way he looks at you and smiles and takes a seat on the stool in the room. now you’re the one staring—crow’s feet and all. “so what happened?”

“i was looking at it after my shower and, i-i don’t know, it just looks red. and it started to hurt again and i-i have to write so many papers and i don’t wanna lose my whole hand because i didn’t use enough burn gel-”

“hey,” he says, firmly yet still tinged with gentleness. like someone talking to a skittish animal—which, you think, you pretty much are at this point. the fact that he's the one taming you makes you dizzy. “you’re gonna be fine. you’re here now, so i can take of it.”

you refuse to let yourself read between the lines—the way he only mentions himself. the way you think he should have said so i can take care of you.

“o-okay. thank you, dr. abbot.”

you peel away the shitty, rushed bandage wrap and let him observe your palm closely. he’s so close that you can almost feel the heat radiating from his body.

after what feels like ages, he tells you it’s not infected. you sigh before you can stop yourself, shoulders sagging in relief. jack looks at you with an expression you don’t recognize—like he’s a little confused and amused at the same time.

“but it’s good that you came in anyways.” you face burns when he pulls out a tube of the burn you were supposed to be using generously from the pocket of his scrubs.

“oh, um, listen, i can explain-”

“don’t worry about it, kid.” you accept the bottle and stare at him and he does the usual thing—tells you to come in if it gets worse, use the gel and if you need another tube, just come back here and find him, making you flush hard and get teary-eyed when he finally leaves.

maybe it’s just nice to be taken care of, for once. but you shouldn’t get dependent on it. you indulge in the reality until the uber is there to take you home, and then you conclude that you’ll likely never see dr. jack abbot, the kind hearted, good physician who took care of your wound twice now, ever again.

until you do.

sometimes your work writes itself when you’re in a new environment, and you blame the lack of progress on your boring, tiny apartment. there’s a coffee shop not too far from campus that another girl in your masters program had told you about. good coffee, even better pastries, and there’s always cute guys, she had said with a laugh.

you had been so focused on figuring out what the cheapest thing to buy was that you forgot the ending half of your friend’s sentence. from the hospital nearby.

there’s always cute guys from the hospital nearby.

you get settled with a small iced coffee and start typing away, working with an intent to make sure this paper gets done because it’s been put off long enough, when the door opens and you almost feel him before you see him.

it’s eight in the morning. why would he even be here? it’s not him—you conclude, staring at the back of a man in a dark blue shirt that fits him a little too snugly and green cargo pants. you don’t see the telltale black stethoscope or an id badge that tells you anything, just the profile of his back and a head of messy, gray curls.

fuck. it's him, isn't it? of course it's him. jack orders and then steps away to wait for it, hot coffee black in the biggest size they have. and when he turns around, he sees you looking at him like a deer in headlights. then you turn your head down immediately, as if you’re trying to hide and make yourself as small as you can.

he chuckles to himself because you’re pretty cute when you do things like that.

you keep your head down long enough, pretending to be so engrossed in your paper, that you get a little too locked-in, not realizing the footsteps approaching belong to him.

“is this seat empty?” jack asks, and you almost jolt with the realization that he’s so close to you.

you look up tentatively, bracing yourself for the encounter, reminding yourself not to act a complete fool like you have the last two times.

“yes. hi, dr. abbot. small world, huh,” you say, though it’s not a question, more of a cruel joke.

“yeah, kid. you still working on that paper?”

“yes. it’s, um, a real beast,” you say, before realizing how dumb you must sound to him. “oh my god, not that, it’s like a real job, or anything, or as hard as yours. it’s just taking a lot longer than usual, and-” “don’t say that. that’s plenty hard. i couldn’t do it, that’s for sure,” he says, in that gentle voice that still sounds like he’s teasing you but you know he’s not because he’s so sincere. your head feels like it's spinning from a single sentence.

“really?�� you ask, feeling like a stupid, scared child all over again.

“yes.”

the validation washes over you and you try to soak in every drop—it’s been a while that someone older than you hasn’t made you feel silly for what you’re pursuing. or rather, for the fact that it is hard sometimes, that it’s not just typing away at a computer all day. the research and the readings and the discussions and everything that you pour into your work, the stuff that no one in your life save for your favorite professors seem to understand.

jack is intoxicating, and you’re beginning to realize how much of a problem that is.

he smiles at you and you smile at him, reaching for your coffee just so you have something else to focus on because his attention is almost blinding, when you stop your hand half-way. it’s empty.

you bring your hand back to your lap awkwardly and look up at him, hoping he didn’t notice. he did.

“so, are you coming straight from the hospital?” you try to pivot the conversation away from yourself because the truth is that you could listen to him talk for hours.

“yeah, i just finished the night shift. and i’ve got a couple days off so i figured i’d get a coffee before tackling my list of things i’ve been putting off.”

“that’s always a smart idea,” you say.

“yeah. you’re doing the same thing, huh?”

“i guess i just needed to get out of the house. and drink something that’s made without bodily harm involved.”

he laughs, so you laugh, and then you stare at his pretty, sparkly eyes and wonder why everything feels so easy around him. the concern that you’re not good enough or not working hard enough melts away and you feel so much lighter. your struggles are forgotten, if just for a moment, and you realize that this, unfortunately, is something very bad. because he’s not going to be around you much longer.

the barista calls out his name and he says he’ll be right back, getting up quickly. you think he would have said that he’ll see you around and in true doctor fashion, remind you to take care of your wound, but he didn’t.

you conclude that he must be saving it for after his coffee, that he’ll pass by on the way out. you’re a little distracted with your thoughts to notice that he’s gone for a little too long.

he comes back with his coffee—large and in a hot cup, the polar opposite of yours—and a pastry in a bag.

but then he hands it to you.

“oh—what?” you ask, confused.

“it’s for you. you haven’t eaten, right?” “well, no, but i-” he sets the bag down next to your empty coffee cup. “you didn’t have to do that, i, um, i-”

“that’s okay. i was a student once too, y’know.”

“yeah. wow, um, thank you. that’s so nice of you.” you’re so stunned you can’t even begin to piece together jack’s reaction. it’s a five dollar pastry, and he thinks briefly he’d buy you ten of them if you really wanted, with how grateful you seem.

“they’re making you another coffee, so pay attention for your name.”

“dr. abbot, i-” your eyes are wide like coins, heart thudding in your chest, confused and dizzy and unable to process how nice this man is.

“it’s nothing, kid. don’t worry about it.”

you laugh at how crazy this whole things seem to you—or maybe you’re just not very used to nice things.

“you should stop because i’m gonna get used to this,” you say half-joking with a smile and another laugh, taking a bite of the delicious pastry so he’ll be appeased.

“maybe you should.” you blink at him. “i gotta go, kid, but here’s my number.” he takes out a pen from his pocket and scribbles the number on the back of the paper bag the pastry came in. “call me if you need anything, hm? for your hand or anything else."

you stare at him blankly, and he laughs, and heads out with his coffee, turning to look at you one last time when he’s at the door.

the barista calls out your name and there’s a large iced coffee waiting for you on the counter.

yeah, you’re in trouble.

you save jack’s contact but you don’t text him, worried that he’ll think you only want to see him for his money or the seemingly endless generosity that’s always pouring from him.

you do need need help—there's a half assembled desk from facebook marketplace that you didn't have the tools to finish yourself, despite how hard you tried. but you can't possibly ask him for help with that—he's a stranger. he's your doctor. so you don't do anything with his number.

it’s just as well because the universe has other plans for you two.

you work a part-time job to pay for your tiny apartment. it’s inconsistent, you get scheduled when they’re really busy, and now that it’s getting warmer out, there's more shifts.

so saturday morning, bright and early, you get ready, first wrapping your hand as discreetly as you can. it’s doing much better now, half of which you attest to the burn gel and half to jack’s healing powers. then your hair and make-up, and then whatever seems suitable for the hot weather today.

there’s no uniform, at least, and you decide on a black athletic skirt and a pink shirt with the material that helps you not get too sweaty, even though you’re in the shade of the drink cart for most of your shift.

it’ll be a full day so you pack lunch and fill up your water bottle before making your way to the golf course. you’re assigned a specific section and you pray to god it’s filled with stupid, rich businessman who tip way too much if you flutter your eyelashes at them.

it’s a little skeevy at times, but money is money, and no one’s ever tried anything more than a failed pick-up line or the more sober friends dragging away the drunk guy who lingers, even though they all wear wedding bands.

you make the first round, and though it’s early and you’re more of a disarming, clumsy sort of charming, when you smile brightly and say it’s five o’clock somewhere, it’s enough to the men golfing to laugh and buy hard seltzers.

a little bit later, the beers start selling, and by noon, you have to go restock your cart. it’s been a good shift—you think if it keeps up like this, your tips will be enough to put towards rent and if there’s extra, you can go find a dress if you ever work up the nerve to text jack and ask him on a date.

but post lunch, to your surprise, it slows down a little. it’s hot out and you have to admit to yourself you were never going to be brave enough to text jack. at least if your rent gets almost paid, you’ll feel better than you did last night.

you drive around on the cart, stopping in front of a tall man who you think is golfing alone. in your experience, if they’re alone, they’re looking to get drunk.

“hi,” you sing, hoping he’s a good tipper. he looks nice when he smiles at you but you never know. “would you like anything to drink?”

“two beers, please. thank you, sweetheart.”

the nickname, like always, make you a little flustered. it’s always the older guys who lavish them on you, and when they’re wrinkly and too old it’s not that big of a deal, but when they’re in this one specific age range—your heart churns remembering that jack is probably a part of that group, just like this guy—it’s enough to make you spiral. many things are, you conclude, unsure how you’ve made it this far in life.

“two?” you confirm, since you don’t see anyone else around.

“yes, just waiting on a buddy of mine.”

“oh, okay. coming right up,” you respond, leaning over to pick up two beers. when you turn back to tell them the price, again, you feel him before you hear it.

“our livers are gonna be shot, man.” you hear it in the distance.

“well, after the week i’ve had, i deserve it-” the man next to you shouts out to his friend, who you, unfortunately, recognize. you hear footsteps getting closer and closer.

“yeah, yeah. don’t come calling when you want a piece of my liver. i got it,” jack says, approaching you. you turn around to face him. “oh. hi, kid. talk about a coincidence, huh?”

you want to say something but you’re not sure how to get it out without stammering.

jack’s eyes rake over your body—short skirt, tight shirt, cute golf shoes that you had spent way too much money on. you just wanted to play the role and fit in and it had all seemed worth it at the time.

and then he notices how you’re holding onto the beers with both hands, condensation dripping onto your mostly-dry bandage. and he turns into dr. abbot right before your eyes. “hey, hey, let me take those. you’re supposed to be keeping this thing dry,” he says, handing one over to robby.

“you two know each other?” his friend says, his eyes going from you to jack and back to you.

“yeah. listen, i’ll be right over.”

“sure,” robby says. “thank you again for the beer,” he tells you and you weakly smile before he walks away.

“i-i did keep it dry. it’s doing better. but i didn’t want to turn down work so-”

“yeah, but, i don’t want you compromising the healing. how long have you been out here? have you been drinking water?”

“yes, i have,” you say earnestly, his concern for you making you light-headed, though you resist the urge to fall directly into his arms, no matter how much it possesses you.

“as your doctor, i don’t think i can recommend this.”

“i’m sorry,” you say, unsure of what else you can tell him. “you know how it is. gotta pay for coffee somehow, right?”

“you didn’t text me. or call. i was hoping for a call but i figured you’d send a text, but then you didn’t.”

“i’m sorry-” “stop apologizing. i-i’m kidding. you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. i just meant-” “i wanted to,” you pipe up, interrupting him. “i still want to. i just-i just got nervous, i guess. you’re like a real doctor and i’m, i’m barely a real student.” “why do you do that?” “do what?” “make it seem like it’s lesser. you are a student, you told me all about it. it’s impressive.”

“no it’s not. you don’t have to lie-” “i’m not lying.”

you pause, processing everything happening in front of you.

“i’m sorry i didn’t text you.”

“that’s okay, kid. i’ll take your word for it this time.” “i didn’t think you’d actually want to see me, i guess.”

“yeah? why’s that?” he gets in a little closer, until he’s in the shade of your cart with you. he stares intensely and you feel yourself getting warm, unable to answer, unable to even remember what he had said.

“i-i-”

“you, you?” you hear it in the distance—his friend calling out his name. jack takes a step away from you and looks over. “i gotta go. thanks for the beer, kid.” he pushes cash into your hand and you feel like you’ve been shocked with a live wire where your hands touch. “if you don’t text me, i can’t get your number, you know.”

and then he walks away. and in your hand is a hundred-dollar bill for two beers.

it turns out, that texting jack was, indeed, a mistake. you text him a simple sentence—hi, followed with your name so he knows who it is. maybe he has other former patients he’s giving his number out to—you don’t know. (you hope not, as the thought just made you nauseous.)

he calls you a few minutes later and completely unprepared, you have to answer, and talk to him on the phone as you pace around your tiny living room until your downstairs neighbor hits the ceiling with a broom to get you to stop.

jack is a planner, you realize, because after the phone call where he asked about your day and you learned about his, you have a date for friday night.

against every better instinct, you go buy a new, used dress for the date from your favorite consignment store, using the money from jack’s tip. you get dressed up hours in advance, unable to focus on your work, but rather chewing your cheek and reapplying your lip gloss until it’s time to go downstairs.

jack meets you outside your apartment, though he tells you he was going to come up. he has flowers for you but you elect to carry them, not sure if you’re prepared for him to see the tiny place you call home.

this has never happened before. your first date with a man, rather than a boy, and he brought you flowers and he’s driving you to the restaurant and he gets out first and tells you to wait and then goes around and opens the door for you.

it’s ridiculous. it’s like a movie.

the first date goes well, you think.

well—it’s the best first date you’ve ever had. jack tells you all about his life but he always stops to ask about yours, though yours isn’t nearly as interesting. instead you preen him on about his time in the service, and he tells you about the prosthetic you saw when he was at the golf course, and why he wanted to become a doctor and how he likes it there now.

(when you bring that up, he puts his hand over your injured one, still wrapped with a much smaller bandage than before, and asks how your hand is for probably the third time that night, like he has to keep checking to make sure you’re okay. it’s dizzying. everything about him is dizzying.)

he lets you pick dessert and walks you up to your door and kisses you goodnight, and you have to refrain from inviting him inside right then and there.

you stare at the flowers daily—not sure when one date had become two, and then three, and then four.

he brings you a box of chocolates—the good kind—on the second date and you makeout for twenty minutes in his car after. new flowers on the third one, when you end up seeing inside his gorgeous apartment for the first time and also end up on his lap for the better part of an hour.

and then the fourth one, which was supposed to be a late lunch after his shift at the hospital, you very nearly have to cancel. jack is outside your door and you still have a complex about your apartment, but you let him inside while you scramble around.

“woah, woah,” he says, steadying you by your shoulders and turning you towards him. “what’s going on?”

“um, work called and this girl is sick and they want me to come in but i-i have to see the bus times or call an uber and i don’t even know where my golf shoes are and-”

“just tell them no, then sweetheart,” he says, and you blink at him.

“but i should really go. if it’s busy it’s like enough to pay half my rent, and-” jack sighs, moving his hands from your shoulders to your waist.

“i don’t think you should have to worry about things like this.”

the way he says it, it sounds very final, very firm and absolute.

“i wish it was that easy,” you say, but when you turn to meet jack’s eyes again, he’s already looking at you intensely.

“it is. let me care of it.”

and it’s jarring. letting him pay for every date—though you paid for the ice cream after date two, something you pride yourself on—is one thing. letting him pay for coffee because he sends you money when you mention you’re going to the coffee shop to work is… something. but letting him pay for your life—your rent and your bills—is something else entirely. it’s dependence, it’s serious, it’s what you’d expect if you were engaged or his sugar baby or something—

“stop overthinking it. you know how much i like you, right?” you nod dumbly. “then let me take care of it. let me take care of you.”

unfortunately—it’s way, way too easy to give in. you’ve never been the spoiled sort, ever, but with jack, you get to be. you tell work you can’t come in and you don’t feel incredibly guilty about it for the first time. you get to go on your lunch date and then kiss jack goodbye and tell him to have a good day at work, instead. jack sends you a direct deposit for your rent, and you think he’s made a mistake at first—it’s almost double what you need. you call him to tell him about his mistake but he says the same thing he always does.

i know. the extra is for you. don’t worry about it, kid.

it’s incredible what those five words can do to your body and soul. it gets worse—the next time you see him, when you’re hearing home after a day of classes and he’s heading to the hospital, he takes out a little box and hands it to you, telling you to open it at home. and then he kisses you until your knees are weak and drops you off at your apartment.

on the elevator, you open it—a pretty necklace with a glittery diamond that probably costs three times your monthly rent.

you’ve never thought you’d get used to be spoiled like this so quickly—but you do. it’s not like you need so many luxurious things, but the little luxuries add up so quickly to the point where you’re overwhelmed. a new pair of shoes for every day because your old ones were hurting your soles. a large coffee and a pastry when you go to the coffeeshop to work. when your laptop stops working, you don’t freak out and cry like you’re programmed to do, you just tell jack and he helps you pick out a new one a few hours later.

intoxicating is the only word you can use to describe jack abbot and his affect on you.

and after another date—matching earrings for your necklace this time, ones that he helped you put on—you end up in apartment, staring at the bustling city below you from his huge windows. jack comes up behind you, kissing your cheek and then your ear, which makes you laugh, and then your shoulder and your neck, and you melt into his touch.

you’ve been doing nothing but kissing for the time you’ve known him, and you think you’ve been fed up for long enough. actually, you know you have, but he’s been the one insisting to take it slow, like he doesn’t want to scare you off.

you wrap your arms around him and bring him in for another kiss, though this one feels slightly different. hot and wet and hard, the two of you pushed so tightly against each other that your mouth hurts. you open it further to let him push his tongue inside, and you realize as fun as this is, you need more. you need whatever jack abbot will give you.

his hands—still enough to make you think voltage is buzzing through them because every time he touches you, you feel like you’ve been hit with a live wire—grab your waist and roam up and down your back. you moan into his mouth and jack pulls away briefly, letting you catch your breath.

“please, jack?” you ask, and that’s all he can let you get out, smashing his mouth against yours again.

you squeal when he picks you up, carrying you to the bedroom and letting you land on his bed with a gentle thud.

“i wanted to stay out there,” you say softly, running your hands over his shirt, exploring his chest. your hands go to the buttons, undoing them even through your hands feel a little shaky.

“yeah? why’s that?” jack answers in that quiet, rough voice that makes you so wet you can’t think straight. he hovers over you, leaning into press another kiss to your neck that makes you moan. “wanted to give everyone a show, huh?” he presses his lips to yours and you giggle against them.

��s’not my fault you have such big windows.” then, emboldened, you keep going. “maybe i just wanted to show everyone that i can take care of you too.”

jack pulls away, staring at you with those eyes. those eyes, those eyes. it’s enough to drive you crazy, the way his gaze is so intense. you feel chills run through your whole body despite how hot and flushed you feel. you can’t help it—jack abbot makes you feel every emotion in the book at the same time.

“yeah, kid? you want to take care of me?” you nod, your hand finishing unbuttoning his shirt and helping him take it off.

“please, jack. i really do.” you let your hand wander to his bulge, palming him while biting your lip at the sheer size you’re feeling. he’s so big it’s going to hurt—though right now you can’t think about anything other than getting him inside your mouth so you can finally begin to take care of him how he’s been taking care of you.

“next time, kid, i promise-”

“ja-ack,” you whine. you think you’ve gotten a little too used to getting exactly what you want from him. it’s his own fault—he shouldn’t have spoiled you so much.

“come on, sweetheart. i thought you’d be good for me, huh?”

“but i wanted to-” you feel jack’s hands wander up your thighs, searching for the fabric of your panties, but he can’t find it. instead he feels the wetness between your legs, the your juices coating the inside of your thighs. he chokes out a laugh, burying his head into your neck like he can’t believe the sight in front of him.

“you’re not wearing anything underneath this?” he asks, and you shake your head, biting back a smile. “oh, kid. you’re in for it now.”

you squeal again, trying to fight his hard grip but jack keeps you firm in place, his lips crushing down on yours again, his tongue in your mouth. he pulls your dress up until it’s bunched around your thighs, and he’s still in his slacks but you want him inside of you so badly that you don’t think you can wait for the clothes to come off.

“shh,” jack says against your ear, nipping at it right above your pretty new earrings. “i’ll give you what you want. i just gotta stretch you out first.”

the words are enough to make your eyes roll all the way back—your head hits the pillow with a thud. jack keeps you distracted with a kiss while your wrap your hands around his neck. his finger get closer and closer to where you want them, and when he slips inside one thick finger, you gasp against his lips.

“yeah?” he teases, “feel good? i know, sweetheart, just take it.”

the stretch of just one is incredible, but then he adds a second, pushing them in and out with his palm flush against your clit, the pressure building in your stomach already.

it’s a combination of everything, you think. the soft sheets that smell like him, the way you’re both too eager to even take your clothes off. how the jewelry you’re wearing is from him, just because.

and finally, his weight on top of you, even when you’re begging him to let you take care of him for once, he can’t rest, he can’t stop it, like it’s so engrained in him. like his only mission in life is to take care of you.

jack adds a third finger and you don’t think you’ve ever been so stretched out in your life. panting against him, you lean in for another kiss, sloppy and wet.

you pull back so you can stare at jack’s expression while he fucks his fingers into you harder and faster, so wet that he’s almost slipping out. he’s flushed, pretty silver hair damp against his forehead, and you reach over without thinking to brush some of it away.

“c’mon kid, cum for me. i know you want to. let me take care of you, hm? don’t think, don’t think, just cum-”

and you do. it’s explosive, though you’ve always thought this sort of orgasm was impossible for you to achieve. you guess nothing’s impossible when jack abbot is the one doing it. you hear him before you fully feel it—fuck, yes, good girl—and your entire body tenses and tightens as that coil low in your belly snaps and washes over you. if you had ever thought his touch was electric, then today it was lightening. he rides you through it, not stopping until you’re practically pushing his hand away, and even then, he only stops to laugh against your sweaty skin.

like he knew it’d be too much for you. like he’s only just begun breaking you in.

every muscle is aching and sore by the end of it. your body collapses into his mattress and you flutter your eyes shut, still leaning for another kiss, even when your brain is so tired it can’t think straight.

“good job, sweetheart,” he says, and you hum against him. “you think you’re ready for it?”

when he says it like that, you can’t help but nod.

jack lines himself up with your leaking cunt, and you can’t imagine what a mess you’ve made on his nice sheets. but when he pushes inside you, your eyes roll back again and you lose all train of thought.

damn him—you can’t even keep a sentence coherent anymore. it’s not fair.

you feel so full. your toes curl and your muscles scream at you, but with jack’s grip tight on your hips, the fabric of his pants rubbing against you because he had just taken himself out, not taken them off entirely, it’s hard to complain.

he sets a rhythm that makes you cry out against him, so loud that you’re worried his neighbors will hear. but jack doesn’t seem to care, encouraging you, hitting that spot inside of you that makes you see stars over and over again.

the sheer size of him is enough to make you cum again, you think, deliriously and delusionally.

your eyes are shut tight, but when you open them and meet jack’s eyes, you smile at him like you can’t believe this is real.

“j-jack,” you moan, unsure of your own volume. you hear the bedframe thud against the wall repeatedly, feel jack hold your legs up to get deeper in you, if that’s even possible. he looks down at where you two are connected, like he’s unable to pull his gaze away from there. “jack, it feel s-so good,” you hiccup, wet eyes meeting his.

“yeah, kid?” he asks, the words coming out in a shuddery breath. “fuck, oh fuck.” hearing him say that makes your toes curl, and when he picks up his pace and starts battering against that one spot in you, your feel it again—the electric current washing over you and running through each nerve, making your limbs into jello and your heart race so fast you think it’ll thud out of your chest.

you dig your nails into jack’s back, leaving little crescent shaped marks in your wake. and when you bring him for another kiss, you whisper it against his lips, watery eyes blinking up at him through wet eyelashes, just because you felt like you had to say it.

“thank you for taking care of me, jack.” you feel it before you hear him—his hips stuttering, streams of hot cum filling you up endlessly until you’ve made a mess all around him. he groans loudly—a noise that you wish you could hear on repeat from how good he sounds, how good you made him feel.

none of this is grounding—it’s so extremely un-grounding that you feel like you’re floating on clouds.

though you wish he wouldn’t, jack pulls out of you. his sheets must be ruined by now.

“you okay, sweetheart?” he asks, and you can’t believe this is your life.

“yes. are you okay?” you ask quietly, throat sore.

“yes,” he says, with a laugh, he helps you pull the skirt of your dress down and curl up next to him. his chest is warm and you think you could fall asleep pressed up against him like this.

you trace patterns on his forearm where it rests next to you and stare at all the freckles.

“we should have stayed out there. the sun’s setting soon.”

“yeah?” “yeah. i like your apartment.” you sigh and mew next to him, curling in closer, close to sleep.

“yeah, kid? how would you feel about moving in?”

♡ thanks for reading!

#as a 9/11 baby i am allowed (1) one joke per year #jack abbot #jack abbot x reader #guys this is so rushed im sorry but i hope everyone likes it!! <3 #sugar baby reader

1K notes · View notes

fic-girlie · 3 days ago

Note

Can you please write a fic for qz!Joel where him and reader are smuggling partners and are in a situationship (fwb but with something more?). One day reader is going over to Joel's apartment and she gets jumped by a few guys (a few cuts and bruises). Joel is POSSESSED to say the least and decides that he has to make things official with reader so everybody knows she's his and not to mess with. He beats the shit out of one of the guys but doesn't kill him, makes sure he stays alive and that his battered body serves as a warning of what happens when you mess with Joel miller's girl.

Claim what's mine

Pairing: qz!Joel Miller x f!reader Summary: After you're attacked, Joel makes it official—you’re his—and leaves a brutal warning behind for anyone who might forget it. Warnings: mentions of violence, mentions of blood, Joel being very protective and beating the shit out of everyone, confessions

You're still bleeding by the time you get to his door.

Your right knuckle is ripped open and pounding like it's got a heartbeat of its own, and you can feel the slow trickle of blood seeping from a gash just below your eyebrow. There's a bruise swelling beneath your ribs that takes your breath every few steps, and your coat is torn, some of the material hanging on threads where they tried to grab you and pull you down behind the heap of rusted-out cars at the old ration center. You didn't scream. Not once. Because you knew it wouldn't do any good—not here. Boston's QZ doesn't listen. But you fought. You got away.

And here you are now.

You don't even knock. Your hand trembles on the knob when you shove the door open, shoulder easing in with a grunt, swallowing the thick, hot iron taste of pain that's been brewing at the back of your throat. Joel's sitting at the table carefully cleaning a pistol—he always cleans his guns like it's therapy, like if the barrel gleams and snaps into place clean enough he won't turn into the man he swears he doesn't want to be. You don't even say anything. You just kick the door shut behind you and let it slam. It takes him by enough surprise that he looks up abruptly, frowning, already on edge—

And then he sees you.

You can feel the change in him, the way his body stills all at once, not like he’s frozen, but like something just snapped tight and locked into place. His gaze drags over every inch of you, calculating damage. The blood on your lip. The shaky grip you’ve got on the doorframe. The way you’re holding your ribs. And Joel… Joel fucking stands.

"Who," he snarls, in a voice so low it might be underground, "did this to you."

You almost laugh. You don't, because it would hurt too much, but the sound draws back from your teeth. "Couple of guys off the south wall. They tried to pull me behind the fence by the old checkpoint. One of them had a pipe, I think." You shake your head as if you can brush it all away. "It's not that bad."

He's already going. The same rag he's been using to clean his gun is still balled in his fist when he brushes past you, but he doesn't make contact—not yet. He paces once, like he needs motion to keep from exploding, and then goes still as stone in the middle of the room, back to you, chest heaving like a storm's about to erupt there. You watch the veins in his neck twitch, jaw clamp shut tight. It's a beautiful, terrible thing-how Joel Miller uses his anger like a sword, like he could slice the world open wide with it and never blink.

You go first. You sit down next to your bag by the couch, hoisting up your shirt to examine the damage, gritting your teeth. The bruise is already discoloring, purpling like ink. "You don't have to do anything, Joel. I got away."

He turns.

"You think they care that you got away?" he says, his voice low and biting. "They think they could've had you. That's all they need. That's all every other bastard in this sector needs who thinks they can look at you, touch you, take you, because they don't see you walking around with someone who makes it clear—" He cuts himself off like he's just realized what he was going to say.

Your heart beats once. You can barely breathe. "Makes it clear what?"

He doesn't answer. Not really. Instead, Joel is across the room in two steps and is kneeling in front of you, his hands finally on your legs—tentatively, reverently, fingertips tracing up your thighs as though searching you for hurt. "Who were they?" he whispers.

You hesitate. Just for a moment, however. "The tall one's named Ray. He's always hanging around that garage on the corner near the north patrol gate. The others didn't say much. One of them had a snake tattooed around a skull on his hand."

Joel's already standing again.

"What are you doing?" you ask, though you're aware. You've seen that spark in his eye before. Never for you, never for you. You've seen it in alleyways, in the dark moments between smuggling runs when things go bad and someone tries to cheat him. You've seen Joel press a man into a wall for skimming a quarter of a ration card. You've never seen him like this.

"I'm making sure that everybody in this damn neighborhood knows not to lay a hand on you."

You rise, wincing at the soreness in your side, taking his arm. "And then what? You think this makes it better? You go down there and beat them bloody, you think it won't draw more heat? You think they won't come back?"

He looks down at your hand on his arm, then back up into your eyes. Something liquid in him now—dark, hot, and ancient.

"No," he says, "I don't think they'll be back. Because I'm not gonna kill 'em."

That surprises you. He says it like he's doing you a favor.

"I'm gonna let 'em live. Barely. Enough so every motherfucker they know gets the message: you don't touch what's mine."

Your mouth goes dry. "I don't belong to you."

Joel's hand comes up to your jaw, slow, his thumb hardly grazing the dried blood at the corner of your lip. "Don't you?" he asks.

You gaze at him, chest constricting, pulse pounding so hard it's even more painful against your bruised ribs. The truth between you like a question you've never been brave enough to ask. It's always been like this—after runs, in other people's rooms, in the dark still when you both needed something warm. You've fucked him more times than you can recall, against mildewed mattresses and wet brick walls, whispered things that you both pretended didn't mean anything. You let him touch you like he meant it, and he did. You let yourself feel it, even when you told yourself that you wouldn't.

You could lie now.

You don't.

Joel sees it in your face before you've said a word, and his jaw tenses again, not in anger now, but in something more like hunger. Possession. He moves in slow, like he's giving you the opportunity to make him stop—but you don't. You let his mouth brush against yours, slow and claiming, and when he kisses you it's different from before—there's no urgency, no chase of release. This kiss is telling you you're his, and he's making sure you know.

When he pulls back, he whispers, "Stay here. I'll be back in a few hours."

You almost argue. But there is no point. Not the way he says it. Not the way his eyes are.

And when he comes back, it's nearly daylight.

You're half asleep on the couch, painkillers helping to ease the throbbing of your ribs, when you hear the door open. Joel enters covered in blood that isn't his—dark spots on his shirt, knuckles raw. He reeks of sweat and anger and old rust, and there's a small smile playing at the edge of his mouth that looks just a little wolfish.

"You left him alive," you say, sitting up.

"Course I did." He shrugs off his jacket, moving toward you. "He'll be front of that garage for the next two days, rolled up like a dead dog. Anybody comes by will recognize his face and know why."

You swallow. Joel stands before you, a man who's stepped across a line and isn't returning.

He bends down and touches your cheek, the pad of his thumb tender where the skin's bruised purple.

"You're mine," he whispers.

You want to interrupt. You want to deliver some diatribe about choice, about autonomy, about not belonging to anyone.

But you also remember the sensation of it—fighting for your life alone behind those cars. How no one helped. How no one cared.

And you remember how Joel looked at you tonight, like there was nothing else in the world but the sight of you hurt.

So you nod once, slowly. "Okay."

His mouth shatters yours in the next heartbeat, all heat and claim and promise of something finally real. And when he takes you to bed, he's careful with the bruises. His hands are rough but respectful. His mouth whispers your name like a prayer.

It's not just a casual fuck anymore.

It hasn't been in a long time.

#pedro pascal #pedropascal #joel miller #joelmiller #joel miller x reader #joel miller x f!reader #pedro pascal x reader #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller fanfic #joel miller fic #qz!joel #pedro pascal fandom

548 notes · View notes

shuafiles · 1 day ago

Text

hands to myself [c.sc]

★ MDNI, 18+ ★ SUMMARY | seungcheol can't keep his hands to himself. i mean, he could, but why would he want to? ★ PAIRING | boyfriend!seungcheol x fem!reader ★ CONTENT | pwp, inappropriate touching in an elevator with people around (lmao), semi-public sex, car sex, nipple play, fingering, dirty talk, unprotected sex (dont) ★ WC | 2.1k ★ A/N | yay im back to writing again. hope you enjoy this!

y/n: where are you? cheol: elevator, baby :)

You tucked your phone in your bag before standing from your desk. You neatly organized your stuff before walking near the elevator shaft while waiting for your boyfriend.

The elevator dinged, and the doors slid open, revealing your handsome boyfriend.

Seungcheol flashed you his signature smile. His arms open, waiting for you to engulf yourself in them, which you gladly ran into. He wrapped his arms around your waist, lightly lifting you off your feet. You buried your face into the crook of his neck, inhaling his musky scent.

“Missed you, baby,” Seungcheol mumbled, slightly swaying your bodies into the hug. “How was work today?”

You pulled away from his neck, eyes scanning his frame. He was clad in a black polo shirt, neatly tucked into his pants. “Tiring.” You responded, placing your hands flat against his chest. He took this moment to reach behind you and push the elevator button for basement parking.

Seungcheol’s eyes roamed over your body. Your white polo is perfectly snug on your waist, bringing out your curves. Your black bra peeking through the sheer fabric of your shirt, giving him a sneak peek of your perky breasts. Your black pencil skirt hugging your ass deliciously. He unconsciously licked his lips as he shamelessly checked you out.

You couldn’t help but giggle at his gaze, tiptoeing to place a sweet peck on his lips. The elevator halted on a random floor. You turned around in his clutch as a group of people entered the tiny metal box. You were pushed against the crowd, your backside pushing against your boyfriend’s crotch. His manly arms caught you from tripping. Turning your head, you flashed him a thankful smile. In which he pressed his lips against your temple in return.

The elevator ride was excruciatingly slow for Seungcheol. He silently cursed that you were nearly on the highest floor. His dick grew hard as every floor passed. He wondered if you could feel him; you probably could, but didn’t say anything. As more people filled the elevator, your body pressed flush against his even more. It didn’t help that you kept wiggling your ass against his already hard cock.

Little did he know, you did feel everything. Your breath got caught in your throat the first time you felt it. Your fingers digging into your palms as you felt him grow beneath you. You glanced at the tiny screen that displayed the floor number—fifteen. How was time so slow?

People started gradually getting off the elevator at each floor. You pulled away from Seungcheol’s chest, letting out a tiny cough in the process. He smirked behind you, reading your body language all too well. He began to kneel behind you, reaching for his shoe laces. You didn’t mind it until you felt his cold fingers on your ankle, making your eyes widen. He slowly danced his fingers up to your legs, making it seem like he was done tying his laces. He continued to drag his fingers until he reached your thighs, slipping them underneath your skirt until he stopped in between your legs. You glanced around the elevator, checking if anyone could notice what your dirty boyfriend was up to. You released a shaky breath as you realised everyone was scrolling on their phones or having different silent conversations.

Seungcheol’s rough fingers made contact with your already soaked panties. You let out a tiny gasp, head swiveling to face him. He had a cocky smile on his lips. His lips moved towards your ear.

“Already so wet for me?” He whispered. His deep voice shot sparks throughout your body. You shot him a playful glare before returning your focus to the screen before you.

Five.

Seungcheol pushed his hand further between your thighs, his fingers tracing your slit through your underwear.

Four.

He slowly drew lazy circles on your clothed core. You bit your lip to prevent any noise from spilling from your lips.

Three.

Your eyes roamed around the elevator once more, checking if anyone can see your boyfriend’s hand up your ass. Thankful for the lack of cameras inside.

Two.

Seungcheol pushed your underwear aside, collecting your arousal with his finger. Tiny crescents formed on your palm as you continued to dig your fingers into your skin, needing to relieve any tension.

One.

He slipped his fingers between your folds, but he didn’t insert them, just resting them between your lips.

Basement.

The soft ding of the elevator pulled you out of your trance. Seungcheol quickly pulled his hand from your underwear and straightened his posture. You tried casually fixing your skirt to prevent any suspicion. People started flooding out of the elevator. You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding before glancing at your boyfriend, who had a cheeky smile plastered on his face.

Seungcheol grabbed your hand with his dry one before guiding you to where he parked his car. Conveniently enough, he was parked on the far side of the basement, barely surrounded by vehicles. You walked to the shotgun seat, but his hand blocked you from opening the door. Instead, he opened the door in the passenger seat.

“Get in,” Seungcheol murmured. You looked at him, confused, before sliding in. You were even more surprised when he climbed in with you.

“What are you—“ You could barely finish your sentence before he hoisted your body so that you were sitting on his lap, straddling his thighs while facing him.

“I can’t wait until we get home, pretty. I need you now.” Seungcheol grumbled. His mouth instantly found yours, greedily capturing your lips. Your hands flew to grip his hair while his found your hips. “Wanted to fuck you then and there at the elevator.” His hands slid to grip your ass, pushing your hips against his. Your skirt ruched up your thighs, giving him a complete view of your already soaked underwear. “You’re fucking soaked, huh?”

You glared at him, as if he weren’t the complete reason you were practically dripping right now. “Are you gonna do something about it?”

“On it, baby.” Seungcheol wrapped his fingers around the waistband of your skirt and your underwear, swiftly pulling them down your legs with your help in the process. You sat back down on his lap, your arousal sticking to his pants. His hands reached for the top button of your blouse before he turned, frustrated with the number of buttons. In a swift motion, he pulled apart the fabric, buttons flying around the car. You gasped at his suddenness, weakly slapping his shoulder.

“That was expensive!”

“I’ll buy you ten more of those,” Seungcheol mumbled, eyes falling to your newly exposed chest. Your tiny black lace bra is tempting him to sin. He leaned down to your chest, lips brushing the hill of your breasts before placing soft kisses on them.

You sighed in content, your hand gripping his hair as he peppered your chest affectionately. His hands snaked behind your back, hastily unclasping your bra. The thin fabric falling from your shoulders and quickly tossed aside. He wasted no time latching his mouth around your nipple, licking and sucking the sensitive bud eagerly as if he had been waiting for it all day. Tiny moans left your lips. He certainly knew how to make you feel weak.

Seungcheol placed his hand on the small of your back, while his other free hand softly caressed your other breast. His rough fingers twisting your nipples, you couldn’t help but arch your back, further pushing your chest into his mouth. His cock violently hard beneath your core with every sound you made.

“Cheol,” You whined, fingers reaching for the hem of his shirt, tugging at it. He took the signal and pulled away from your chest, a string of spit forming. He let you pull his shirt off his body. Your hands roamed his chest, adoring your boyfriend’s body. He’s perfect.

Seungcheol smirked at your sparkling eyes. He quickly undid the button of his pants before slipping them down along with his boxers. His cock sprang against his stomach and you licked your lips at the sight. His tip was red and twitching, precum was leaking from his slit. Your hand reached to pump his cock but he prevented you from doing so.

“Lift your hips, baby.” He commanded, and you did as you were told. Kneeling in front of him, he leaned down and pressed a kiss on your stomach. You gasped, legs nearly giving up. He snaked his hand between your thighs before guiding you back down on his lap. He collected your arousal with his fingers before easing two fingers into you.

You moaned, resting your forehead on his shoulder as he skillfully worked his fingers inside you. Pumping them in and out of you in a way that makes your legs shake. Curling them ever so slightly that it makes the pit in your stomach form.

“Always so tight for me,” Seungcheol grunted. His other hand reached to grasp your hair, but not enough to hurt you, making you face him. “My pretty girl always takes my fingers so well, huh?”

You merely nodded at his words, your fingers digging into his shoulder. He continued his addicting pace, pulling out only to rub your clit before inserting them in again. You nearly cried as he added his thumb to the mix. Rubbing circles on the sensitive bud, your hips bucking to meet his touch.

Seungcheol felt your insides clench as he quickened his pace. Your mouth drops open, unable to make any sound as he works you through it. Fingers fucking you deliciously, your hips grinding against his palm.

“You look so beautiful like this, fuck—“ He pressed his lips against yours, tongue exploring your entire mouth. Your stomach was coiling at the intense pleasure.

“Please,” You whimpered. Your orgasm is peeking through. The windows started to fog from the warmth you two were exhibiting.

“Come on, baby. Cum for me.” That was all the encouragement you needed before your walls tightened, releasing all over his hand. You chanted curse words, and his fingers helped you through it. His pace dying down when your legs began twitching, pulling his fingers from you before placing them into his mouth. “Absolutely delicious.” He muttered before reaching down to his cock and pumping them. “Think you’re ready for me?”

You meekly nodded, weakly lifting your hips to align his tip with your entrance. He guided his length to your core, rubbing the head along your folds, collecting your arousal. You bit your lip at the sensation before his hand guided your hips down to his cock.

You moaned out his name, grabbing onto his shoulders for support while his eyes gazed upon your fucked out face.

“Holy shit, how are you still so tight for me?” Seungcheol grunted once his length was fully deep inside your walls. Both of his hands landed on your hips, and once you got used to his size, he carefully guided you up and down on his length.

“Oh god!” You cried out, tears welling in your eyes as his cock split you in half. Even after all this time you were still surprised at his massive cock. Your toes curled as he lifted you before jerking you down again. The car was surely shaking from riding his cock but you didn’t care. He felt so fucking good and you needed more.

Sweat beads down Seungcheol’s forehead as you continue to grind your hips on him. His eyes darted to your chest as your breasts bounced with your every movement. You throw your head back, legs burning from fucking yourself on his cock. You were too desperate to chase after your high, and he loved it. He loved it when you used his cock just to make you feel good.

“Fuck, fuck, Cheol, please.” You begged, lifting your head to face him. He nodded before placing his lips against your chest, sucking on the skin before trailing down to capture your nipple once more. “So fucking close.” You began frantically grinding your hips against his. You almost looked insane, but you couldn’t care less.

You felt his cock twitch inside you, pulsating and you continued to grind your hips. Your thighs began to shake as you clenched around him. You started panting as he continued to suck and lick your nipple, switching between breasts.

“I can’t—I’m gonna, fuck!” You cried out. Your orgasm spilling out of you. Your walls closed in on his cock as you reached your high.

“Me too, baby,” Seungcheol grunted, his hands continued to guide you on his cock as white spurts of his cum exploded inside you. “S-shit, you’re gonna milk me dry.”

Out of breath, you rested your head against his sweaty chest while he lazily drew comforting patterns on your back. His cum dripped from your cunt as he pulled his dick out of you.

“My perfect girl, I couldn’t keep my hands to myself.”

#💌 — reqs #seventeen #svt #choi seungcheol #scoups #seventeen imagines #seventeen drabbles #seventeen scenarios #seventeen reactions #seventeen smut #seventeen angst #seventeen fluff #seventeen x reader #seventeen au #seungcheol imagines #seungcheol smut #seungcheol x reader #seungcheol x fem reader

434 notes · View notes

lucidfairies · 3 days ago

Text

— prey

synopsis: 1 Corinthians 6:18 states that one must flee from sexual immortality, but it's hard to flee from something that is forever chasing you.

pairing: priest!sevika x semi-religious!reader

warnings: religion as part of the main plot, fun mix of Catholic branches, age gap, light angst at the end, bottom!reader, top!sevika, virgin!reader for religious reasons, perv!sevika, massive corruption kink, mean!sev, pet names (little lamb, lamb, pretty, baby), hand/arm kink, humiliation kink, praise kink, reader masturbation mentioned, pillow humping mentioned, cunnilingus, fingering, fucking in a church, degradation, sub headspace if you squint, spanking, pussy slaps, crying, eating it from the back + through panties

wc: 7.7k

a/n: please read the disclaimer that has already been published! all the thanks in the world to my girl @sevsgiirl ❤ they helped me so so much per usual and I'm their biggest fan.l

Oh forgive me if I love being bad for you.

Your mama always said that being good would get you to far, far places. She said that every man and every job and every opportunity admired a good woman. And so, you were. You were the perfect, thriving, glowing definition of good. Stunning grades, sports, church on Sunday. You talked to God like he was your best friend, and for a time, he was. She was right, too. People did admire you for your perfection. But it wasn’t long before the cracks started shining a bit brighter, and you realized that maybe this wasn’t the life for you.

“You be safe, okay?” Your mom rubbed her hands down your arms, pulling you in for a tight hug. “Oh, I don’t want to let you go!” She squeezed harder, holding you there like a lifeline. “Now listen, I already called some friends in town and of course, prayed over your new apartment. God is watching, he’s here with you-”

“Mom,” you interjected. “I know. I’m an adult, I’m ready for this. I’ll be just fine.” Her eyes welled with tears, pulling you back into a hug. Your dad walked over, wiping his hands on his pants and smiling. He was finished loading the car, which meant that you had a steady escape from your mother’s spiraling.

“Well, time to send you off, kiddo.” He opened his arms and you attached from your velcro mom, shifting your attention to your father. He didn’t squeeze you like it would keep you here, he held you and let you go, knowing that it was time. “Bye sweetheart, we love you.” You waved to the both of them as you got in the car, wasting no time before clicking your seatbelt in and driving off. This was it.

Your parents' relationship with religion wasn’t one that you saw very frequently. None of your other friends had parents that obsessed over your entire life, always dragging you back to God. Not even your friends from church. They used God to tell you what to say, how to dress, how to act. Everything was done in the eyes of God, and at times, it was crushing.

So, when your Mother texted you the name of a priest she knew in your new town, you swiped away the notification and let it sit in your inbox for weeks. You were convinced that, if you ignored it, you wouldn’t live a life that they controlled any longer. Even after you turned eighteen, went to the local college, made new friends. They still had a full hold on everything you did. Now, five hours away, you were free!

Your first day in town you wore a crop top - one that your mother took from you and hid in her closet years ago. She made you pray for days and ask God for forgiveness for something so sinful, so immodest. You felt terrible afterwards, and only wore things that covered everything but your wrists and ankles, absolutely convinced that you betrayed God with the shirt. But it didn’t, and it wasn’t, and when you wore it then, it fit you well, made you feel pretty.

God, did you feel so free.

Your mother checked in on your daily, but you only replied to a handful of them. When you told them that you had plans to move to the gayest part of the country, they all but freaked out, sure that you would come home transgender, or worse, gay. What on earth were they to do with a gay daughter? It wasn’t God’s commandment to be gay, and the thought of you as a gay had your mother’s mind spinning. You were sure you saw her life flash before her eyes when you told them.

You wouldn’t pretend that the town was out of your comfort zone. There were so many people compared to your small town, you couldn’t even understand how so many people lived in the same place. That being said, it felt, to you, like everyone was a model. There were so many faces that you had never seen before, so many identities and styles.

It wasn’t until the end of your first month that you ran into your first problem.

You found a coffee shop that you enjoyed, and began frequenting it. But, when they hired a new, tall, buff, female barista, you found yourself there more often than not. You were undeniably drawn to her, found yourself thinking of her when you shouldn’t be and striking up conversation with her like some kind of lovestruck fool.

Then, of course, the thoughts began creeping in. Terrible thoughts, about her voice and her arms and her fingers. All while you did terrible things to yourself - with God watching. You were screwed. The woman lived in your mind all the time, everywhere you went and everything you did. Every night before you went to bed, thoughts driven by lust guided you. You knew then that you would have to take your mother up on her priest offer.

The church was large, on the outskirts of the city. It had beautiful panels and stained glass windows that light poured through gorgeously. You followed the line of people, joining them in waiting to confess. Even if you had never been to this church or knew these people, they were kind to you. You had to tell someone, and if a priest that your mother heard was good had to be it, then she was it.

The booth was cramped when you stepped in and took your seat. You face forward, as one does, and placed your hands in your lap, waiting. “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been three months since my last confession,” you started, “I’ve never been to this church, and I’m new in town. I… I’ve been struggling with some lustful thoughts.. about women,” the words felt like dirt coming out of your mouth.

“Go on,” the priest spoke, and the voice was warm and thick and held you there like honey.

“Well, I haven’t exactly acted on them, but I have, um, touched myself thinking about… a woman.” The priest hummed and sat in silence for a moment, calculating. You were red with embarrassment, confessing something that went so against everything you had learned growing up.

“Was it one woman specifically, or have you had these tempting thoughts about several women?” The priest asked. You sat with yourself, pondering whether or not you had ever had those thoughts before. Well, maybe you had.

“There was a girl when I was younger. My thoughts weren’t driven by lust but I thought of what life would be like with her. This woman is so.. different. I’ve never done anything with anyone, I’ve never had such filthy thoughts about anyone before, especially not a woman.” You whispered the last word, as if it would change anything.

“Everyone struggles with temptation at some point in their lives. I myself have struggled with sexual temptation to the same sex. But, what’s important is that you didn’t act on these thoughts outside of your body. If you feel driven, you have this space to share your thoughts. If not, I can bless you and provide you with your penance.” You pondered, once again. This was a stranger. What if this priest wasn’t as good as your mother claimed?

“Well… I thought of her performing.. sexual acts on me. With her fingers and her mouth. Saying dirty, terrible things to me. I don’t know anything of lesbian sex, I don’t even know where these thoughts came from.” You felt like crawling into a ball and just sitting there with your thoughts.

“In God’s name, I grant you forgiveness for your sins,” you released a breath. “I order you to fast for the next week, read your Bible, and return next week. In Jesus’ name we pray and forgive, Amen.” You said Amen, letting the priests’ words sink into your skin. You would fast, intermittently as instructed, but you weren’t sure how abstaining from food would remove the desires that you weren’t even sure you wanted to be rid of.

“You have a very kind voice,” you said quietly. “Thank you kindly, Father.” You spoke, southern charm briefly snaking its way into your vocabulary. You left the booth, feeling as if every eye in the room was digging into you, even though the booth is soundproofed. Like they knew that you were full of it, that you didn’t want to get better. All you wanted was to uphold your perfect little image. God didn’t have a place in your life.

It wasn’t until the following week that you were sure God wouldn’t ever forgive you.

The week had been long, almost torturous. Going without food didn’t feel like a penance, it just felt like work. You didn’t feel any more connected to God than you did the previous week, and all you were getting out of it was fatigue and falling asleep at work. Your bible did nothing, praying did nothing. You felt like none of it was ever going to cure you.

When you arrived at the church one week after you first stood there, you had no idea what to say to the Reverend. Would you say that you didn’t want to give up your sin, that you didn’t care what God thought? That what you were instructed to do wasn’t working, and the orders were wrong?

The church was empty when you stepped in, and it was daunting. It made the room look larger, the ceilings look taller, the rows of pews doubling as you walked closer to the front. Nobody was there, and you were sure that you did something wrong. Maybe you got the date wrong, maybe this was a fever dream, or a test from God.

You looked around, taking in every aspect of the church. The stained glass windows bared their blooming colors down onto your skin, changing it to shades of purple and green and blue. The room was warm, welcoming even. But that didn’t change the fact that it didn’t feel right. None of this was right.

Someone cleared their throat and you whipped back around to the front, taking in the person before you. It was a woman, but not a woman that looked like any other you had seen before in your entire life. She had short hair, cropped at the ear, and the shadow cast across her face made her grey eyes gleam. She was one hell of a sight.

That was when you knew.

“May I help you?” She asked, and you immediately recognized the voice. This was the priest that you spoke to last week, when you recited every thought that was currently resurrecting in your brain.

“I’m here for confession, I think,” you said quietly, slightly embarrassed as it appeared the event was cancelled. “I may be in the wrong place, I just moved here. Are you the Reverend?” She smiled, setting aside what she was doing.

“Yes ma’am. I’m sorry you couldn’t join us on Sunday, I announced then that this week’s confession had to be cancelled. But, I’m not busy if you want to talk. I’m Sevika,” she leaned against a railing that divided the altar and the nave, offering a hand for you to shake. “Have you confessed before?”

Sevika knew the answer. She knew the moment she saw you, the way you spoke, the look in your eyes. You were the woman from last week, who told her about your sexual desire for women. She was sure, now that she saw your face, that she would never forget you. There was a breathtaking person behind the filthy confessions, and it made her mind wander to places God would frown upon.

“Yes, last week, I was told to come back this week. I found that what I was ordered to do hasn’t been working. I still feel the way I did last week.” You huffed. She gestured to a pew and you followed her, taking your seat beside her.

She was so close, too close. Her knee pressed against your own, and you could basically hear the sound of her breathing. She was warm beside you, and her entire person drew you in, causing a lack of disconnect for the disgusting thoughts in your head. There were so many things. Her hands were huge, and the material of her black shirt stretched thin around her bicep. You were dying to see what was under the shirt, and if it was as tempting as it appeared to be. And then, of course, you were smacked in the face with the reminder of the fact that she was your future Reverend.

“Since we’re alone, do you feel compelled to remind me of your confession?” You shifted nervously, confessing out of the booth making you feel as if God had a better watch on you. Maybe you weren’t ready for this; maybe you didn’t want to change.

“Well.. it was about lust, and, um, other women. I’ve been having some thoughts about what it would be like to, maybe, indulge in.. sexual acts.. with other women. I think a lot about hands and voices, and..” you trailed off as your eyes slowly painted their way from the tips of her fingers, across her arm, up her neck, and all the way back to her eyes.

Sevika was good at hiding whatever she was thinking. She was desperate to know every thought that you had, pick apart that pretty little head until she had you in a perfect, open position. But she didn’t. “Is that so?” She hummed. Your thighs rubbed together as a familiar feeling rose between them - except this time, it was brought upon by another person, and not your own thoughts. “I remember you, now. Tell me why you don’t think your penance is working.”

You forced your brain to come back into the moment. “I made my fast, as instructed, and I prayed. I read my Bible every night, cover to cover. But.. it still doesn’t feel right. It doesn’t feel fixed. I’m still having these thoughts even when I don’t want to have them. They just creep up on me and take my mind under control.”

“Healing doesn’t happen overnight, lamb,” she watched your pupils dilate, and an ever so slight change in the pace of your breath. “It takes time. Once you open your heart and mind to God, He will take His time healing you. He doesn’t make mistakes.” You looked up at her, realizing then that she was dramatically taller than you, even when sitting.

“Reverend,” your gaze fell once again, this time focusing on your hands in your lap. “What if.. what if I don’t want to get better? A part of me wants to walk out of this church and never return. What if I like these thoughts, and I like what I’ve come up with? What if I want it to happen to me?” You thought back to the barista, who hadn’t even wandered into your mind since you got here. It was like she meant nothing any more, now that you had such a woman in front of you.

“My previous statement still applies. Moving away from the temptation of sin and sin itself comes with time,” she turned to you, placing a hand on your knee. “Inherently, your thoughts are not sin. They only become sin when you act on them.”

“Does touching myself count as acting on them?” God, her mind was racing.

“God never says that pleasuring yourself is a sin, but your thoughts leading up to doing such are what makes it a sin. If your fantasies include other women and doing sexual things with them rather than, let's say doing it to aid period cramps, then it turns into falling into temptation.” You nodded, taking in her words. You knew the answer, but you still didn’t feel bad.

“Thank you, Sevika. Would you be willing to offer me further penance?” She smiled, letting out a quick chuckle.

“I’m going to order you a personal one, and a church related one,” you met her eyes, scanning the depths of her face. You never wanted to forget it. “Though I’m not sure how often you do it, I want you to restrict touching yourself to the best of your ability, and I want you to continue your fast. Now, in Jesus’ name we pray, Amen,” you repeated her Amen, “return next week, or join us for church. We have a Wednesday night session at eight this week, if you’d like to attend.”

“I just might.” Your eyes were practically glued to hers, unrelenting. You needed to learn her, know every crook and crevice in her face. Every color in her eyes, and every wrinkle that found its way onto her aging face. “I’ll see you on Wednesday, Reverend. Thank you.” You stood with her and pulled her into your arms without thinking. You reached as far up onto your tippy-toes as you could, and the poor woman still had to bend to reach you.

“Have a good night, little lamb.” Her hands slid off your waist as you pulled away, walking away and leaving the church with your head in a daze.

You found yourself trapped in her daze until you were back to your apartment. Everything about her beyond fascinated you. There was a small color shift in her eyes, a haze of blue and dark grey that mixed together to create the most perfect color, dressed with growing crows feet in the corners, that pulled when she smiled. Her nose was large and round and stapled her face in a beautiful way, almost touched by a large scar that found its way down her cheek and neck.

You wondered how far the scar went, underneath her clerical collar. If it touched her chest, or found its way to her stomach, all the places you were desperate to see. Desperate, that was the word for you. Desperate to know the shade of her lips, and the way they felt on yours. Desperate to know how she spoke out of uniform, the things she liked to do.

Wednesday service was going to be unbearable.

Sevika was in a position similar to yours, but she liked the idea that she had the upper hand. She liked how you looked at her, and the way your thighs rubbed together ever so gently at the names she called you. She knew you didn’t want to get better, and she knew you wouldn’t. Not when you sat in the church, squirming and eyeing her arm like a slut.

But it also meant that she had you. If she wanted you, wanted to break her oath and ruin her purity for you, she could. You would let her. There wasn’t an inch of your body that would put God before her if she asked. She knew you were thinking the same things about her fingers and her mouth as you were about whatever woman drove you to come in the first place.

She never considered herself a particularly observant person, but the way she noticed the shift in your eyes, from good to bad, and the way you listened to her, patiently, she may have to start using the title. You were practically pliable, ready to be morphed into what she wanted from you.

She would never forget the words touching yourself leaving your mouth. She could imagine it, truly. See your hand sliding over your stomach and over your panties, rubbing your clit like it was enough. Refusing to fuck yourself on your fingers, afraid of what God might think. And when it wasn’t enough, she could see you sitting pretty on one of your pillows humping yourself on it like a dog, chasing any feeling of pleasure that you could derive from it. She could envision you like she was watching you on video.

Sevika was absolutely dripping wet in her living room, where she let her thoughts run several minutes ago. This was the first time anything of this sort had happened to her in years - she never thought like this, and was never this driven to act on it. Guilt overrode any substantial plans of finding the vibrator stuffed away in her closet.

No matter what happened, you were both fucked.

You let weeks pass. You had to. There was no way you could step into a house of God with her in it and pretend that you didn’t crave her from the depths of your skin. There was no use pretending anymore, not when thoughts of her crept into your mind at all times of the day, everyday, for the last two weeks. You were waiting for them to subside before going to the church, even thought about going to a different church to try and improve your thoughts.

Unfortunately, it didn’t help. The longer you were away from her, the stronger the thoughts grew. You had to go back. Somewhere, deep inside, you thought that if you went to the church, watched her preach about God, what she knew best, you would be relieved of the things holding you back.

And so, you got home from work, dressed nice, and prepared to go to church. The only thing your mother gifted you before you left was a rosary - it was beaded in red, with the equipment matching in gold. You wore it around your neck, the first time you had bothered taking it out of the box since she gave it to you, like it would save you. It wasn’t going to.

None of your thoughts about going to the church revolved around anything inappropriate. Sevika knew that, she knew it when you walked in quietly, five minutes before her sermon began. She knew when you sat in the front, and closed your eyes, letting her words melt into you while the rosary clung tight to your palm burned your skin. You were here for a reason that wasn’t known to your sweet little brain yet.

You were such a pretty thing, sitting there proper in a skirt that dusted your ankles and a headband that matched. Her eyes found you in the crowd every time she lifted her gaze from the holy book before her to the crowd. It wasn’t busy late on a Wednesday night, and she knew that’s why you were here. There were less suspecting eyes, less people to grow weary of an unfamiliar face amongst them.

Most importantly, there were less people that knew.

It wasn’t obvious to everyone, but someone in the crowd, you were sure, knew that you were thinking a grand scheme of unholy things about the reverend. You couldn’t stand it, these thoughts. You tried to convince yourself that she wasn’t looking at you when she preached, but the way her dark eyes drilled into your own when she read a verse forced your thoughts otherwise. When the service was over, you were going to bult. You couldn’t stay, couldn’t ever come back.

This was the end of your time as a Catholic. You had disappointed God far too much.

“Ladies and gentlemen, for the end of our service tonight, I want to talk about something that many of us in the crowd know and love,” Sevika smirked, “all of our married folk in the room, as I send you off tonight, I want all of y’all to remember that God calls us to enjoy and place importance in our relationships with sex,” there were hoots and hollers throughout the hall. “So I ask, in the name of God, have some fun between this service and our Sunday service. Let’s end with a prayer.”

Sevika began her prayer, but your mind was focused on her encouragement of sex. It made you wonder if Sevika was married, and if everything you had created in your head was just that - a creation. Fake. If you imagined the way she looked at you and the names she called you. It wasn’t real.

You had almost made your escape from the church without having to speak to her before you were cornered. Of course. Every priest did this. They bid farewell to those leaving the church at the end of the service, shaking hands and kissing babies, encouraging the group to return the following Sunday.

And like every other, she did it to you. “Thought I’d never see you again, peach.” She chuckled. Like a puppy, you were drawn to her as the stranglers made their way out. “Walk with me,” you did as told, following by her side as you walked back up the aisle towards the altar. “Did you enjoy the service?” You contemplated giving a half-assed answer, anything that could get you out of this church as quickly as possible.

“Yes, it was nice to sit in on a service again. It’s been a while. Speaking of which-” you tried, once again, to get away, the outcome reflecting similarly to the first time.

“Will you be joining us on Sunday?” Sevika was doing everything in her power to get you to stay. The more she talked to you, the more she asked, she knew you would. Pliant. It was a phenomenal word for you. So… flexible. Willing, even. With the way your eyes widened with every word she said, lips parting and cheeks reddening like she was the most fascinating thing on earth… it was easy. You were easy.

“I’m not sure if I’ll be able.” It felt like lying. The short answer was no, and the long answer was no, you couldn’t ever step foot into this church again without the fear of God coming down and smiting you himself. Telling her that you may have plans wasn’t a lie, simply an aversion to the harsh truth.

“Well if you can, we’d love to have you. You make a great audience member.” You stopped dead in your tracks, still. Hopefully she didn’t notice. The comment was clearly an innuendo, hinting at the way your thighs pushed together under your skirt and the way your hands bunched up the material every time you thought she looked your way.

“That’s kind of you to say,” your fingertips smoothed over the rosary around your neck, drawing her eyes to the spot on accident. She was good at watching you, and you were aware. She took a step closer to you, entering your personal space. She wasn’t far - close enough that you could smell the cologne she had on. It was a musky mix of wood and something deep, and you let your eyes flutter closed.

“Is this new?” She asked, large fingers finding the piece like a feather. You were burning now, burning like you were floating in front of the sun itself. She could inevitably feel the temperature of your skin and the rapid pace of your heart, and feel it she did.

“No,” you whispered back, “my mother gifted it to me before I left.” Your eyes were squeezed shut tighter than they had been for the extent of your life.

“Do you pray to it every night? You feel saved yet, pretty?” She pushed further, seeing how much you would take before you snapped out of it and left, never to be seen by her again. You were pretty. The prettiest girl she’d ever seen, will ever see. It was only her duty to tell you that.

“No.” You opened your eyes, meeting hers and immediately realizing her closeness. “In fact, I think I may try a new church, one that feels more right.” You felt weak, trying to pretend to be strong. But her proximity to you, her smell, her hand still rubbing over the cross, it was all too much to be strong.

“Are you now?” Sevika was amused by this, especially knowing that nothing would tear you away from the things you felt about her. “Why’s that, lamb? Something I should know about in my church that’s bothering you?” You sighed, frustrated and turned on more than you’d like to admit.

“I feel as if your penances aren’t working, nothing has changed. And you..” She cut off the end of your sentence, abruptly.

“Me?” She asked in a playful tone, like she knew this was working. Like she knew that heat was pooling in your belly and your panties were wet.

“You’re distracting me. From being saved.” She smirked, stepping even further into your space. You backed up, not going far before your back hit the railing that divided the ambo and the crossing. You were stuck between her and the railing, but there was nothing to object. Not now. Her knuckles ran down your bare chest until they reached the start of your top, where she switched to her fingers.

Leaning in, with her fingertips running down your side, she spoke. “No, little lamb,” she leaned in, mouth finding the shell of your ear. “You just don’t want to be.” Her hand fastened around your hip, pushing it into the railing. “In fact, with all of these thoughts of yours, I don’t even know if God can save you.”

“I don’t.. I don’t know what you want me to say to that.” You pouted. You weren’t exactly scared, at the moment, but something else was creeping up inside of you. She had the means and opportunity to do absolutely whatever she wanted to you, right now. And the worst, most gut wrenching part of all of it, is that you’d say yes.

“Give in.” The moment your eyes met hers, her lips were slamming into your own.

Kissing her was like kissing an angel. You had kissed plenty of boys in your life, but where their spit and shitty tongue turned you off, Sevika’s bruising force and toe-curling kisses turned you on. She pressed her lips into you with fervor, chasing every feeling she could get out of you, and you didn’t resist.

It was terrible, truly, how you let her do it. Let her suck your tongue into her mouth and wrap her large hand around your throat. Awful. Ungodly. It would be best if you pushed her away and ran out of the church, chasing your dignity that seemingly flew out the stained-glass window. But it was so fucking good.

She was so much bigger than you, also. There was no way that you could escape from her now, not like this. Not when your mind was spinning and your legs were about to let out, all from a kiss. All from her hands on your hips and her warm body pressed to yours. And when she pulled away, looking at you darkly like her next meal, you couldn’t help but let out a pathetic noise, and she smirked.

“This is wrong,” you insisted, but your grip on the front of her gown didn’t cease. “This isn’t good, this isn’t what God wants.” You were battling with the fact. This wasn’t anything close to what God wanted. God called for pleasure in marriage, marriage between one man and one woman. But here you were.

“Leave, lamb. Walk away. Go be good,” she took a step back, your grip on her shirt releasing, teasing smirk still painted on her stunning features. This was your chance, your opportunity to move back home and keep being good, keep being that sweet little version of you that seemed to be gone forever. But you didn’t move, you couldn’t move. “That’s what I thought. You want this, don’t you, sweet thing?” You were practically shaking like a leaf in the wind.

Hesitantly, you nodded. It was slow, and only once. Sevika was back on you in an instant, trapping you against the railing once again while she dragged your legs up and around her hips. She kissed your neck, doing far more than any stupid boy had in the past. It wasn’t long before any thoughts of God began to slip from your brain, too busy focusing on the way her warm mouth sucked the skin on your neck, adding her teeth and quickly flicking her tongue over the spot to ease any pain.

You couldn’t blame anyone for enjoying this. Not when she did the things that she did to you. “You’re always so good, baby,” she kissed the spot right below your ear. “Don’t you think you deserve something for being so good all the time?” Once again, you nodded slowly. “Answer me, lamb. You’ll learn quickly that doing what I say will get you what you want.”

“Yes,” your voice shook with your answer, eyes drifting to the side. It was an embarrassing experience, but it was only deserved. She let your legs down, backing away slightly with a chuckle.

“Yes what, baby? What do you deserve?” A flush of red warmed your cheeks. It was hard to say something you didn’t agree with; you hadn’t been good, you didn’t deserve anything because you weren’t good. If you acted right, you still didn’t deserve anything. God didn’t give out favors for simply doing what you were called to do.

Sevika’s words snuck their way into your mind quickly. You were so far gone already, what’s a little bit more? She had already made you feel this good and she had hardly touched you. What was just a little more? Maybe she was right, maybe God hated you.

“Yes, I deserve something for being good,” you cringed at your own words, flinching away from her gaze. She pulled your forward off of the railing, lifting you over her shoulder like it was nothing. Like you were a piece of paper in comparison to her strength.

You found purchase atop the sermon table, the fat of your thighs morphing against the divots in the wood, through your skirt. Every church had a table in the altar, one where the reverend could sit things out or create a sort of symbolism of God, but right now, she was pushing everything off to sit you onto it, reattaching her lips to your neck rapidly.

You were writhing under her by the time her lips found your collarbone, leaving a trail of dark marks. “Let’s take this off, pretty thing. Can you do that for me?” She ran her pointer and middle finger under the elastic of your skirt as she whispered in your ear, planting a kiss under it.

You didn’t hesitate in lifting your hips and slipping it down, leaving you in your top and panties. It was the epitome of a compromising position, looking up at her half naked with your hair static and your makeup messed up. “You’re so pretty, aren’t you?” You nodded, but that was hardly enough for her, as you should've anticipated. She grabbed your jaw, pressing her fingers into your cheeks to hollow them out. “What did we just talk about?”

“Yes, I’m pretty.” You mumbled through the force of her hands.

“That’s it,” she cooed, removing her hand in favor of pulling you up by your upper arms and spinning you around, folding you over the table in front of you. With a gasp, your cheek came down on the wood with your hands flat next to your head. You were ass up, pink panties covering the one thing that nobody else had ever seen. “Whatever will I do with you, little lamb? God doesn’t like sluts who bend over for their priests.” Her hand came down to knead the flesh of your ass.

You whimpered, pushing back into the touch. It was humiliating, really, how wet you got when she said such vile things, using your religion, your existence against you. Even with that in mind, you were practically dripping through your panties, you may even be. All you knew was that your thighs were wet and that Sevika was the only one who could see anything else.

“Aren’t you going to do something?” You whined, glancing over your shoulder at her. The look in her eyes had far surpassed something sinister. She pressed her flesh thumb into the wet patch on your underwear, against your drenched entrance, laughing as you mewed.

“You’re in no position to make demands, peach. Not when you're this wet from some kissing. This how you feel every time you see me?” Her mech hand came down hard on your ass when you didn’t answer, making you flinch again. “The first time we met, I knew you’d be easy. Wide eyes and those pretty legs that rubbed together with every word I said. Has anyone ever touched you here before, little lamb?” She ran her flesh thumb up and down the sensitive skin and you attempted to tighten your thighs with no avail.

“No, only..” you trailed off as she sank to her knees, pressing a kiss into the crease between your ass and your upper thigh, letting them travel down your hamstring.

There was a pause before she answered you, “Only?” she pushed, desperate to know if her fingers would be the first in your pretty cunt. She continued her trail of kisses all over your thighs as you pondered whether or not to answer her.

“Only my own.” You whispered, guilt taking you over as you decided that answering was probably a better idea than whatever consequence she would award you if you didn’t.

She hummed. “What do you think about when you fuck your cunt with your fingers, pretty thing?” You clenched down on something nonexistent as her words shot straight to your core. This was absolutely disgusting. Before you could think to answer, her tongue was lapping lazily at your clit over your panties, taking a fat lick from your clit to your hole. Her hand came down on your ass again, learching you forward with a moan.

“You,” you sputtered, “I think about you.” she moaned into you, sending soft vibrations through your system, just enough to make you tense, a new wave of slick rushing through your panties.

She didn’t bother with any more humiliating questions with forced answers, instead opting to press her face into you and continue licking at your center over your panties. She went like that for several minutes, until you were practically crying and your panties were soaked - partially her spit and partially the wetness that was leaking from you like a hose.

Your mind was in a daze when she stood, tucking her fingers underneath the elastic of your underwear as she began to drag it over your ass. “Lift your hips, pretty girl. Let me make you feel good, since you’re so needy.” You couldn’t even think to do it, resulting in her lifting them for you. It only made you wetter, the way she lacked any form of struggle when lifting you, essentially doing it with one hand while she used the other to drag your pantues down.

She didn’t allow them to come all the way off before she was attaching her wide lips to your clit. With your panties strung around your ankles and her tongue on your clit, you knew that this was the end of anything pertaining to you and God. There was no place for God when she had a mouth like that.

“I think God blessed y’r pussy, baby. Tastes so fucking good.” She followed with a groan, sucking your clit into her mouth. You almost shrieked, lurching forward once again as the nerve exploded with feeling. Porn had never even come close to making you feel this way, let alone your pillow or fingers.

With a final peck, Sevika flicked her tongue against your entrence, pushing it through the tight muscle and wasting no time tongue-fucking you like you weren’t in a house of God. She was messy, grabbing your hips with both hands and pulling you into her face, letting you rock into it and hump her like some sort of dog. Her face was soaked, from her nose to her chin, but nothing was stopping her.

Sevika was having the time of her life. She got exactly what she wanted, just like she knew she would. And to make it even better, you had the wettest pussy of any girl she’d ever fucked. When she took her oath, she was sure that she would miss eating out the most, making you a prize. Your cunt was so good that she was sure she would resign the moment she got you home safe. THere was no way in hell she would be able to go without this for longer than a day.

Not only were you drenching her like a baptism, but you were also moaning and squirming and making all the best noises that drove a sane woman crazy. Your cunt had to be heaven, your body that of an angel. This was her blessing, her calling and her salvation. It was you, all of you.

A pit grew in your stomach, wrapping itself around every inch of your body until she whispered, “come, lamb” had your muscles relaxing and your legs shaking, wave after wave of pleasure rocking you like a punch. Sevika didn’t halt, drinking up every last drop that she could get from you, and she didn’t stop there.

Once she was sure your orgasm was over, she stood, flipping you over until your back was resting against the wood. She pressed her middle finger against your hole, groaning into your neck as you swallowed her in. “You’re such a good girl, yeah? Gonna get broken in tonight, peach. ‘m gonna stretch you so good, make you so full.” You practically screamed as she curled her single finger up into the best spot in your body, one that you hadn’t touched yourself.

“Vika, ‘s too much,” you slurred, but all she did was press her cold, mech thumb onto your tongue, husing you. She added another finger, letting you adjust knuckle by knuckle until you were full. She fucked you like that for some time, crooking up with every thurst until your tears were regular.

“One more big stretch, my girl can do it, can’t she?” you shook your head no, but it wasn’t true. You wanted to see how far you could go, how much you could take. Your body begged to indulge and be stretched open for her, molding to every part of her.

Her third, thick finger protruded your entrance and you cried out, fat salty tears falling down your cheeks. It burned when she got the first knuckle in, and your hand shot down to her wrist to hold it in place. Using the wetness that your mouth provided, she rubbed circles into your clit with her mech hand, helping you adjust to the feeling.

When she bottomed out, you were close to sobbing. She wasn’t joking when she insisted on filling you, you were full to the hilt, shaking like a leaf with every delicious curl of her fingers. Once she got going, there was no slowing her down. She fucked into you like the world was ending, unrelenting in her pace as she did nothing but watch all three fingers get sucked in every time.

Your mind was swimming, stuck in what you were sure was an alternate universe. There was no way that a single woman was making you feel this good, making your eyes roll back and your tongue loll out like you had no thoughts. “Hey,” she caught your attention, but your brain and recognition was at an all-time slow. “Watch your greedy,” you whined as her mech hand came down no your clit, “fucking,” it came down again, only increasing your noise, “cunt,” she finished it off with one final slap, “sucks in my fucking fingers.”

You gazed down, watching every thrust. You reached up, pulling her body against your own as you approached your next orgasm. You held her close to you, nails scratching and digging into her toned back when her mechanical hand began its pace on your clit. “Sev.. Sev, I-I can’t do it, it hurts,” you cried, hands tightening on her shoulders as your muscles tensed.

“My strong girl, you can do it. Give me another one.” She increased her pace ever so slightly and that’s what did it, clenching down on her so tightly that you feared for her circulation. You came for what felt like hours, shaking and crying and holding her like she was the only thing keeping you alive. “Atta girl, little lamb. See how good you are at listening?” You only moaned, further extending your finish.

When you were finally finished, she pulled her fingers from you and tapped your lips, motioning for you to open them. You did, not expecting her to push all three in and down your throat. You caught on quickly that she wanted you to suck them, sucking them clean of your own release. It was purely erotic, not coming anywhere close to things that you had done to yourself or thought of having done to yourself.

Once her fingers were clean, Sevika dipped her head down once again, this time only licking up the mess that you had already made. Her intentions didn't stop you from twitching and squirming, though. She pulled you up, letting you put all of your weight on her as she redressed you. Your legs were basically jelly, so much happening that there was no way you could stand or even manage to get yourself home.

Without asking, she effortlessly scooped you into her arms and out of the church, only briefly sitting you down to lock the doors. You wondered whether or not she had left things since she was clearly in a hurry, but it hardly mattered with the fuzzy state of your mind.

She got you home and helped you up the stairs to your apartment, but she didn’t stop there. She helped you change and tucked you in, even pressed a kiss to your forehead. “Sleep well, lamb.” She said softly as she disappeared out your door.

And you knew, then, that you weren’t ever going to see her again.

taglist: @viperinthecastle @sw33td3ath @caroteniodstereo @thehoneybeestings @losernb @ferxanda @livslifeonline @mommyissuesismypersonality @barelykiramman @ilyjupit3r @genderfluidlesbian999 @ghost-queen101 @lipglosskxsses @honeyylove @lesvii @diouna @inyavika @cinnamoworld @sevikassneakylink @lilithyys @beewwebb @mxlfchaser @coffinboy666 @half-of-a-gay @skullsbown @pinkysweettooth @swaggycunts-blog @windytulips @sevikaswifeomm @miguellover6969 @luvnette @okayyesbutno @babyspice333 @sallyfaith @ghostluvv3r @leeidk87 @chaiteasthings @thalchmy @glittzygorilla @lonerslug @ilovemealotz @bunni3wh0r3 @nonexistentsourcherry @pinkembodiment @lesbonym @rosebg @spring-sparrow @strawberrylipglossx @koralinebox @furpantscollective @bunnslittlecottontail @violetsangel1 @foreverordinary404

#Spotify #sevika #sevika smut #sevika my love #sevika x reader #sevika arcane #arcane sevika #arcane league of legends #arcane league of lesbians #league of legends sevika #league of legends #sevika league of legends #league of lesbians #arcane smut #sevika x you #sevika x y/n #prey

425 notes · View notes

mulloey · 3 days ago

Note

If you’re comfortable with it, could I request a free use with ateez (doesn’t matter who between hg, sh, yh, ys or mg) with 101 + 106 + 111 + 113 please ? 😚

hush, puppy!

free use + somno + cnc + pet play + daddy kink

dom bfs!yunho & yeosang x sub gf!reader

part of my 2k event.

warnings: all warnings in the prompts and…feral dom yunho, dl feral dom yeosang (he hides it well), condescending dirty talk, unprotected sex etc

disclaimer: this wasn’t as much of free use + pet play as i originally intended, but my works often do get away from me, but hopefully that’s something yall are used to by now…i hope this is good for you anyway! and at any given time (including now) i have some free use AND pet play atz coming so dont you worry abt that. anyway! here!

—

You don’t know what time you fell asleep; don’t remember closing your eyes, feeling the exhaustion creep in the way it usually does.

But you obviously did fall asleep—and somewhere between then and now you’ve been moved to bed from the couch, your clothes peeled off and cast aside and your legs eased apart.

Their presence is familiar—large, strong, protective; safety and stability as it lives and breathes. Their touch—light, gentle but unmistakably possessive on your skin.

The familiarity is why you don’t panic when you wake up pressed between them even though you fell asleep alone; why you don’t feel anxious or confused even in the few seconds it takes for your brain to catch up and understand what’s happening to you and who’s doing it.

You’re in tune with them now, on an almost primal level. You’d recognise their touch, their scents, even if you were unconscious. Even after a hundred, a thousand years without it.

You know what they’re doing now; why you’ve woken up in this position and why they seem to have been trying to keep you unconscious. Yunho and Yeosang love, more than they admit even to you, to fuck you in your sleep.

Maybe it’s the power; the knowledge that they can use you at all hours and you won’t and couldn’t say no. The feeling of you, tiny and weak and helpless in their arms, taking everything they give you and never resisting. Never even knowing, if they’re careful enough.

Maybe it’s just that you look so sweet and innocent when you sleep, that they just can’t help it. Certainly nothing like the pervert they’ve made of you when you’re awake.

The kind of pervert who’d have come to them not too long ago and proposed this arrangement in the first place. Who’d have sat them down and explained, with flushed cheeks and hands shaking so hard Yunho had had to hold them in his own to keep you steady, that you wanted, from now, to be their toy. Their doll, free for the taking no matter your state.

“Careful.” Yeosang’s voice comes low, quiet; small hints of arousal hidden beneath the calm, level composure he keeps. You recognise his hands on your breasts; stroking, claiming, fingers running across your nipples with enough pressure to make your breath stutter. “Don’t wake her.”

Yunho’s hands are on your thighs; larger, thicker than Yeosang’s yet just as gentle and adoring. Just as worshiping. He hums in agreement, pulling your legs further apart almost agonisingly slowly, and you realise then that they haven’t noticed.

They don’t know you’re awake. They don’t know you’re aware. For the first time since you’d sat them down and told them you wanted to try this, you get to play the game too.

Win it, even.

You keep your eyes closed, squeezed shut even as you feel them so close to you; even as you want so desperately to open your eyes and see your big, beautiful boyfriends staring down at you like you’re all they’ve ever wanted.

But this is more fun. Yunho pushes in one finger, pulling you tenderly backwards closer to his chest. He’s naked too, you realise; firm chest bare and flushed and sticky with sweat. How long have they been doing this?

His finger goes in easily—suspiciously easily. He makes a noise of quiet surprise. “She’s soaking,” he mutters.

“Is she?” Yeosang asks. With your head buried in the crook of his neck you feel the vibrations of his voice in his throat against your skin, soothing and electrifying at once. “How soaking?”

Yunho slides another finger in just as easily. “So soaking,” he starts, “that I’m starting to think she’ll have some explaining to do when she wakes up.”

“Ah.” Yeosang presses a kiss into your hair and you feel his lips curl against your crown in a small, knowing smile.

Caught. Dread fills your stomach, mixing with your arousal and adrenaline to create a feeling you’re all too familiar with but still can’t quite describe.

Them, you’ve started calling it. It’s the closest thing to an explanation you’ve been able to come up with.

“If she’s been misbehaving,” Yeosang says, “I don’t think we need to bother stretching her out. Puppy’s obviously desperate for it.”

Yunho’s dick pulses where it’s pressed against your back; rock hard and leaking. He breathes out a quiet laugh. “What do you think?” He asks.

The tone—cooing, patronising, talking down instead of talking to—is familiar in the worst way.

That’s not how he talks to Yeosang. Which means—

There’s a hand in your hair, grabbing a fistful of it and yanking it back, so quickly and violently you don’t have time to react; or to not react, with your attempt to trick them into thinking you’re still asleep in mind. You cry out, half pained and half shocked, and your eyes dart open in surprise.

Yeosang is there, inches away, looking at you like he’s just won the game. “Good morning,” he smiles. “Have a nice sleep?”

“I—”

“I’m sure she did,” Yunho says, cutting you off. “Always tires herself out doing that, don’t you?”

“Doing what?” You ask. May as well give it one more go playing innocent.

They don’t seem amused. Yeosang’s grip—you know it’s Yeosang’s now; the large hand curling around your neck and the thick fingers still stuffed inside your pussy make it the obvious conclusion—tightens in your hair, pulling your head back further and making you hiss in pain.

“Fucking yourself,” he says, voice low. “Breaking our rules. Coming on your fingers because you’re too needy to wait for our cocks.”

“That’s what you did, isn’t it?” Yunho’s voice is purring almost; hummed into your ear and making you shiver involuntarily. It’s as delicious as it is dangerous. “Admit it, puppy. Admit you couldn’t even wait a few hours for us to come back.”

You say nothing; probably couldn’t if you tried. Not when they call you that; the one word they know always sends you into subspace with the flick of a switch. All you do is whine, trying to nuzzle back into Yeosang’s hold but his grip is too strong on your hair.

“Naughty girl,” he hums. “Naughty puppy. Putting her fingers in our hole and pretending to be asleep like we wouldn’t know. Did you think you’d get away with it, pretty?”

“No,” you mumble, defeated. Yunho chuckles.

“That’s right,” he says. “Of course you won’t. You think we don’t know your body by now? Know our property enough to tell when she’s awake?”

“She’s gotten cocky,” Yeosang says. “Thinking she can trick her daddy like that.”

Oh. You know he feels the way your breath hitches at the word; the implication. They’re in one of those moods.

So are you, you realise. Then again—you usually are.

Not your fault they’re just so damn good at making you feel tiny.

Yunho’s voice comes low. “Flip her over,” he orders, pulling his fingers out of you at the same time. “On her stomach.”

Yeosang is quick to follow, situating you in position with your face pressed into the pillow. The silk is cool and soft against your skin and completely covered in drool. You flush, embarrassed; was that you? It must have been.

“Messy girl,” Yeosang coos. His hand is pressing down on the back of your neck, holding you in place; with the other he feeds three long fingers into your mouth, just deep enough to make you dizzy and pliant without outright choking you. “There we go,” he smiles. “You suck on your bit, puppy. We’ll use you nice and good.”

It takes you a moment to digest his words; with your mouth full, body immobilised and surrounded by your daddies, it’s hard to process anything beyond the sound of their voices and the heaviness of their touch. You blink, slowly, moving your head to the side just enough to meet Yeosang’s eyes.

He looks fucking ravenous.

And yet—still as gentle as ever. A balance only Yeosang, your Yeosang, can strike.

You whine around his fingers, trying to say something but he shushes you with narrowing eyes. “Nuh uh,” he tuts. “Dogs don’t talk, princess. You wanna tell us something, you can bark. Unless you need your bone?”

No, you shake your head desperately. You don’t need your bone—the thick, bone-shaped gag that’s too big for your mouth and makes you drool all down your face and chest, “like a true puppy,” as Yunho puts it. It’s uncomfortable and humiliating, and as much as you secretly love it (the closest thing to a secret you can have with two men who know you better than you do, anyway) you don’t want it now. The feeling of being gagged with a bone in your mouth always makes you so dumb so quickly that you can never feel and enjoy their cocks the way you want to.

The way you need to, tonight, when they’ve been so busy recently getting ready for their comeback. So busy that you haven’t had them like this in weeks. God, you feel like you’ve been dying.

No. No gag tonight. Next time, maybe.

“Didn’t think so,” Yeosang says. “I’m glad. You know we don’t like having to do that to you, pup.”

Lie. You both know it. But right now he could tell you just about anything and you’d nod along like a brainless little mutt.

A strong arm hooks under your waist and lifts your hips, pulling them up for better access; Yunho wastes no time, pushing himself inside you with fervent desire; the sound of your wet folds and leaking pussy squelching as he pushes in makes him groan, hips bucking against you before he quickly gets ahold of himself. “Still so tight,” he grunts. He starts to thrust, slowly, then faster. “Always tight for us, aren’t you? Even when you disobey—fuck—little pussy still knows who her daddy is. Knows who to clench around like a good little cunt.”

“That’s what we trained her for,” Yeosang says. He sounds remarkably cool, indifferent as he lies next to you; his fingers thrust lazily in and out of your mouth, in time with Yunho’s movements in your pussy. The younger’s eyes are hooded, desire evident, but he seems in no rush to act on it. Always in control, he is—not just of you but of himself.

It’s why the three of you work so well, you think; Yeosang’s composure, his self-control, tempering Yunho’s more feral side. Always there to rein him in when he gets too rough with a soft smile and a low, firm voice. Enough. Control yourself. She’s only little.

It’s probably the main reason you haven’t been completely and irreversibly destroyed in your time with them—why you so look forward to the times Yunho loses a little too much control; when he bites a little too hard, hits a little too heavy. Because Yeosang is always there to keep you in one piece.

He has to, of course. If he lets Yunho break you in the way he wants to, what would be left for Yeosang to play with?

What would be left for him to break himself?

He pulls his fingers out of your mouth, gripping your flushed cheeks with the wet, sticky digits. “Open your mouth,” he hums. “Wider.”

Then he lifts himself up and onto his knees, dick hard and heavy in your face and pushing past your lips without warning. You accept it eagerly, greedily, just as you’ve been taught; let it hit the back of your throat with tears in your eyes. Crying so prettily for them, just the way they like.

“That’s it,” he smiles. “Milk your daddy nice and dry, puppy. Do your job, pretty thing, and maybe we’ll get you off too.”

He pushes deeper again, holding your head in place as you gag and splutter around his cock. “This is what you’re made for,” he grunts. “A free use little puppy for us to abuse. That’s what you like, isn’t it baby? You like being nothing but a cocksleeve for us. Just barking and crying around our cocks ‘cause it’s the only thing you know how to do.”

Tears are streaming freely now, your sobs vibrating against him as you try desperately to take him the way he expects. A particularly hard sob makes your teeth scrape ever so slightly against his skin, just enough to hurt. Most men, you think, would hate that, but Yeosang isn’t most men; the noise he makes is guttural, feral, the closest to a crack in composure you ever really see from him. His fingers tighten in your hair, unyielding, and you know what’s about to happen before it does.

The first taste of cum in your throat, coming down even before Yunho breaks, reminds you of the truth you tend to forget until moments like this.

Yeosang is controlled, yes, keeping Yunho in check when it comes to you—but it’s not for your sake.

It’s for theirs. To keep their toy, their puppy, in good condition, so that they might use you easier.

You wouldn’t want it any other way.

—

#ateez smut #ateez hard hours #ateez x reader #ateez hard thoughts #jeong yunho smut #yunho smut #yeosang smut #poly ateez x reader #mulloey writes

421 notes · View notes

crustyfloor · 1 day ago

Text

My fragile god, fading fast. - ( english translation free on Patreon🫩)

Rather than sheltered, Mizi's life was surrounded by death and gore; she never got a break from it. When Shine adopted her, it was like a reprieve from all of the horror she's been through because she was loved, she may not have understood them, but she knew how much they cherished her, and it made her happy that she at least didn't feel like she was in immediate danger around them because she was such a beloved pet, as long as this alien loved her, she would be safe and survive.

Still, I think she was haunted by the implication that she was still always in danger, even in Shine's care, she was getting hurt, she was weak (While she was relieved to be with Shine because it didn't feel like she felt safe and cared for in the first place) . The differences and the inherent misunderstanding between Aliens and their "pets" are so key in this one. While Shine did care and genuinely believed they were doing the best for Mizi, they didn't understand her. It doesn't look cruel on the outside, but it's intentionally hidden in the subtlety. Shine is careless, insensitive, and makes mistakes because they don't understand humans; they are treated much like puppies. It's the quiet calmness and detachment and carefreeness, even as Mizi is in pain or crying in front of them, they lack the care of a human, despite trying to take the place of one. She was a pet for them to ogle and coo at until she would be too much to handle- "Raising a child isn't easy, huh. How about you buy her a TV?"

I think, then, Mizi wanted an escape from that place somehow. I think this is how she realized how weak and destructible other humans are on that stage, just like she felt about herself. Aliens are too different and too powerful to empathize and understand her, so she wanted to go to Alien stage to seek out what she was missing, to find some sort of solidarity, or she would die there and be freed

I'm glad this question was somewhat answered, because I've always wondered why it was Mizi's choice to go to Anakt Garden, but I think Mizi wanted to go to Alien stage so badly because she wanted to feel in control of something; she couldn't control losing her "provider", she couldn't control how the aliens perceived her. But she could control this. Because she hated feeling like the fragile one, like she could be "crushed", she wanted to feel like more than a pet; she wanted to be liked, to be understood when she couldn't find it in the aliens, it made her so lonely. So she wanted to be around humans who were also like her, weak, fragile. That explains why she was so drawn to Sua in the first place

Mizi's fascination and adoration of the way Sua is so perfect, so human, like herself, and weak, is fascinating... I especially love this sequence where Mizi is adoring her from bottom to top, not just because it's so tender, but because Mizi truly adores Sua like a god, because Sua is her god, it encapsulates how Mizi is obsessed, how in love with all that Sua is to her, and all the freedom and peace she feels in Sua's love and presence, the escape and guidance Sua was made her godlike to Mizi

In many ways, right now, when she speaks, she's projecting her own feelings of weakness and insecurity onto Sua, who is comparatively weaker and smaller than Mizi.

It comes from a place of wanting control; Sua is so perfect to her because she could be crushed, Mizi could hurt her, and Sua allows her that kind of control. She feeds into Mizi's insecurities and need for autonomy through control. Mizi doesn't mean to hurt Sua, but she is a traumatized person who takes it out on Sua because she knows no better than this; still, they try to understand and console each other despite all of it. (It's so.. ironic. In a way, they end up inevitably perpetuating their own pain and abuse by repeating the behavior and habits that hurt themselves and each other because this environment fosters these interactions; they can't do anything else about it, can't worry about 'healthy love' like this.) --Their love is more profound and unconditional than anything Mizi has ever had before, even with her owner, Shine, who would love her until she was difficult to manage, but not Sua. And Sua loved and trusted her completely, let Mizi have her completely. In many ways, Mizi found someone who wouldn't abandon her, accepted her completely and unconditionally, as flawed as she was, and no matter how many times she did things she wasn't proud of, even hurt Sua, Sua would always accept her, and in turn, Mizi would be a comfort and an escape for Sua too, such unconditional acceptance and love made them soothingly equal and reliant on each other to feed into each others delusions for a safe place just for them in the world (To Mizi, who hated feeling inadequate or weak, this must've been freeing even if Sua couldn't be completely understanding, they had each other in a world where it was one for oneself or you were under a constant threat otherwise)

-- Sua offers herself and never faults Mizi for what she does, or her feelings, no matter how ashamed Mizi is of it, or how her insecurities can manifest in the ugliest of ways because Mizi didn't know how to express herself in the first place. This is how Sua thinks she's fulfilling her desire to protect Mizi's innocence and to keep her safe by reassuring each other that their lives aren't up to the segyein, that they have each other. Mizi felt a sense of control and stability in Sua that she had never had in her life. Mizi's escapism and coping mechanism is finding security in repression, ignorance, or a facade. She couldn't feel at peace even in the safety of her Guardian no matter how "safe" she was, she wasn't understood, but she could feel at peace in the illusion of control and safety, of having someone that she perceived as weak and unable to "crush" and hurt her like so many others in her life could and did.

The psychology behind it is also super fascinating, from somebody so human, Mizi thinks of Sua like how the segyein think of all of them, as aforementioned, she's projecting what she's heard before, Shine calls her adorable even when she's in pain because her clumsiness and the defenselessness she exhibits as a human is funny and endearing to them, the aliens look down on them because humans are fragile. To Mizi, Sua is all (adorable, small, weak, unthreatening). In a situation where they are both two abused children under a similar threat by aliens who control them, Mizi finds security and comfort in the fact that they are both vulnerable, lacking power, and the idea that she has upper hand over Sua in this circumstance is like Mizi is trying to substitute a feeling of powerlessness with taking back a sense of control that she's never had before.

#alien stage #alnst #alien stage mizi #alnst mizi #mizisua

361 notes · View notes

kuncitizen · 2 days ago

Text

(S)cream for me, baby!

Synopsis: What starts as a flirty late-night phone call turns into something far more sinister when a masked stranger begins describing everything you're wearing — and everything you're hiding. But Ghostface is already inside the house. Even worse? He’s someone you know.

And he's about to make you the star of his favourite scary movie.

W.c. 9.2k

Pairing: Ghostface!Geto Suguru x reader

Content. MDNI, cheerleader!reader, dubcon themes, home invasion, stalking, manipulation, voyeurism, psychological horror, oral (f!receiving), intense power dynamics, knife play (panty-dropping & aesthetic, not gore), orgasm denial, unhealthy obsession, filming/recording during sex, creepy phone calls, unprotected sex, implied cheating (if you squint?), mentions of blood (minor injury), manhandling, phone sex, slasher undertones, masturbation, possessive behaviour, BACKSHOTS RAHH rips off shirt like a werewolf in heat, Sorry for the Satoru slander I love my glorious blue-eyed king.

A/N: Due to my unhealthy obsession with Billy Loomis's Ghostface, this takes place around the time that the first Scream movie was released (1996). Enjoy ;)

The living room light hums low, warm against the quiet. Your chemise sticks a little where your skin’s still warm from the shower, and the silk robe’s already given up trying, one sleeve hanging off your shoulder.

You lean against the kitchen counter, hip jutted, phone receiver tucked snug between your cheek and shoulder.

“How could cheerleading go wrong?” a slow smile plays on your lips. “I mean, we did win.”

Shoko snorts on the other end. “No, dumbass— I mean how’s it going going? With Mr. Star Quarterback. I heard he took you home after the game.”

You click your tongue, dragging your finger along the counter like it’s boring you already. “He did.”

“And...?” she presses silently in anticipation like she already knows where this is going.

“It was… whatever.”

“Whatever?” Her voice rises in disbelief. “Girl, don’t you dare—”

“He came in, like, one minute and forty-five seconds, Shoko. I’ve boiled noodles slower.”

Shoko gasps so hard you can hear her light a cigarette out of pure trauma. “No. You’re lying.”

You sigh. “I wish. He was looking me dead in the eye like he changed my life. I had to throw in a moan just to let him sleep at night.”

She breaks into laughter, disbelief crackling through the receiver. “God, and they make Satoru Gojo sound like the second coming of sex.”

You click your tongue disappointedly. “I've gotten more action from a shower hose.”

Shoko laughs harder at that, urging a giggle from you too— until another unpleasant flash of memory makes you groan.

“And I even brought my new digital camera, like an idiot.”

“What, why?”

“I thought he was gonna take me somewhere nice. So I packed it thinking I’d take a few cute shots,” You exhale sharply. “Instead I ended up starfished on his nasty dorm sheets and forgot the damn thing in his room.”

Shoko chokes. “You left your camera? Your new one?!”

“Yep. It’s probably in there somewhere, next to his condom collection and that tragic poster of Tom Cruise.”

You're both still snickering when you hear a sharp knock on your door. You glance towards the direction of the sound, brows furrowing in annoyance.

“Hold up,” you say, setting the phone down with a clatter and sliding off the counter.

You walk barefoot through the hallway, silk brushing your thighs with each step as you crack open the front door.

Unsurprisingly, you're met with nothing but silence.

The porch is as empty as ever. A cold breeze brushes past you, enough to raise goosebumps. You linger a beat there, tongue against your teeth, before clicking it shut.

“Probably the neighbor's kids.” You huff, flopping back against the counter. “They’ve been little shits ever since I told their dad to stop ogling me while mowing the lawn.”

Shoko hums, but her voice has dipped lower, more serious. "You sure it's them? Not..... you know."

You roll your eyes. “Don’t start.

“You should be very careful,” She warns. “You heard what happened to that girl, right? The one from Lit?”

You listen to her noncommittally. “Yeah, yeah. No one’s coming after me. I'm a bitch, remember?”

“Yeah, well, even bitches bleed.” She retorts, half-joking, half not.

You snort, but there’s a sting in her words that lingers. “Sounds like someone’s been watching too much Dateline.”

“No, seriously." She presses. "I heard he asks girls their favorite horror mo—”

Whatever Shoko was trying to say gets cut off abruptly, as the doorbell rings obnoxiously again.

You groan. “Fucking hell.”

“Wait—”

“I’ll call you later,” you mumble, hanging up without waiting for a goodbye.

You walk towards the entrance slower now— less amused, more pissed. The robe, at this point, is clinging on out of spite.

You swing the door open again. But this time around, you step out onto the porch, arms crossed against the night.

“Very funny,” you speak into the dark, voice just loud enough to cut through whatever bush they’re probably hiding behind. “Real fucking original. Maybe next time try growing a pair instead of playing doorbell roulette, dickwads.”

You pause, waiting for any sign that would give them away. But you retreat upon hearing no sound except for the rustling of underbush.

“What a bunch of virgins,” You hiss under your breath, slamming the door shut.

But as you walk away, you don’t see the silhouette watching from across the street. A cheap plastic mask gleams under the porch light, breath fogging behind it predatorily.

♡⛧♡⛧♡⛧♡⛧♡⛧♡⛧♡⛧♡⛧♡⛧♡

The TV screen flickers weakly, channels skipping between static and late-night reruns of soap operas with bad lighting and worse acting. Saturated colors bleed into one another — crying women, cheating husbands, some dramatic slap that plays out in blurry slow motion. You sit curled on the couch, legs tucked under yourself, aimlessly clicking the remote with a glazed-over look.

Click. Click. Click.

Still nothing good.

Your eyes skim over somewhere around Channel 76, where a woman in a sparkly gown is screaming into a rotary phone. You’re not even watching anymore. Just letting your thumb drift over the remote while the glow of the screen pulses across your bare fore legs.

You're mid-yawn, head tilting back on the couch cushion, when the sharp crash of glass shattering cuts through the stillness like a gunshot.

The sound cracks your skull open from the inside. You jolt upright so fast your knee slams into the coffee table, sending a coaster flying and your heartbeat into cardiac arrest.

Your first thought is Shoko, you evil bitch, because of course she jinxed it with her 'you gotta be careful' bullshit, and suddenly you’re living in the Dateline episode she was probably referencing.

Your eyes flick toward the kitchen— the hallway looks darker now, like it knows something you don’t. The shadows stretch longer than they did five minutes ago. You don’t like it. Not one bit.

As if remembering your own limbs, you shove the remote aside and push up off the couch. Swinging your legs down without a sound, you grab the fruit knife still dripping with pineapple juice from the coffee table, and march toward the kitchen barefoot— silk flapping around your thighs.

You move toward the kitchen, steps light, pulse hammering loud enough to fill the silence. Whatever’s waiting, it’s about to meet a very pissed-off version of you.

But instead of some creep, a tiny gray blur shoots across the floor.

It's a kitten.

Your goddamn neighbor’s stray, probably.

It skids through the shards of what used to be your favorite set of crockery with the little sunflowers on it, then books it right out the door you had left slightly ajar earlier.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” you exhale sharply, slapping the knife down on the counter with a thud. “All this over a fucking Hello Kitty reject.”

You crouch down and start picking up the shards, still mumbling to yourself like that’ll keep the fear of being home alone at bay. “Just a stupid cat. Just a stupid plate. Just a stupid—shit—!”

A sharp sting shoots through your finger. You suck in a breath and see the blood welling fast from a slice near your knuckle.

“Motherfucker,” you hiss, yanking your hand back.

You stare at the cut, jaw tightening as the blood wells and runs down the side of your hand like it’s trying to make a dramatic exit.

You march to the cabinet with righteous fury, yanking it open one-handed. And of course, the first aid box is nowhere to be found. No band-aids. No gauze. No antiseptic. Just expired allergy meds, a single mint from a sushi delivery bag, and something that might once have been a condom but now looks like beef jerky.

Your eyes scan the room for something — anything — to MacGyver a solution, before a dish towel catches your eye. Old, kind of crunchy, and probably hasn't seen detergent since the stone age. It'll do.

You rip a strip from the corner with your teeth, wrapping it haphazardly around your finger like you’re some war-torn soldier in a lingerie ad. It's definitely not sterile, but you're no Florence Nightingale either.

The ringing of the landline splits the air again, loud and shrill like it’s laughing at you. You freeze, pulse kicking up a notch.

Your gaze turns towards the living room, where the receiver sits crooked on the hook, cord swinging slightly.

“I swear to God, if this is Satoru asking for a second chance, I will shove my foot up his ass.”

Still, you make your way over, more annoyed than scared, ready to stab anyone who makes your night worse. You reach for the receiver, fingers stiff.

“Hello?” you say, voice sharper than you mean it to be.

“Didn't think you'd actually pick up,” A voice echoes through the speaker, velvety smooth, rich like melted chocolate poured over a razorblade.

“Wrong number.” You fret, ready to disconnect the call.

“Oh, I don’t think so.”

You narrow your eyes at the nerve of this unfamiliar voice, as you tilt your head in curiosity. “Bold of you to assume I answer calls from strangers.”

“Stranger?” the man muses in mock offense. “That hurts. You’ve been on my mind all night.”

You raise a brow amusedly, shifting your weight onto one hip. “Well, I hate to break it to you, Casanova, but unless you’re selling thin crust pizza, I’m hanging up.”

A soft chuckle ripples through the line. “I could do that if you'd like. Your wish is my command."

Your mouth curls despite yourself, satisfaction flickering at the corners as your teeth catch your bottom lip. Whoever this man is— he’s smooth, but not desperate. And honestly? This is already more entertaining than any soap opera rerun flickering on the living room screen.

“You don’t even know what I look like,” you tease, tracing a lazy fingertip down the cord, feigning boredom you don’t feel.

“Mmm,” he drags the sound sleazily. “That’s the fun part. I get to imagine.”

“Then tell me,” you purr, sliding your thumb to brush along your lower lip. “What do I look like to you?”

There's a momentary pause from the other side, like he's contemplating the question heavily. Or already picturing you.

“I think you’re the type to wear silk. Something dark… maybe red.”

Your throat tightens a little at the suspiciously accurate observation and the color drains from your fingers slightly, but you say nothing.

“It hasn't been too long since you took a shower,” he adds, softer now, almost like he’s whispering it against your skin. "Which means your hair's still a little damp at the edges.”

Your lips part involuntarily as you glance down at yourself. The damp cling of your chemise, the droop of your robe.

“You’re making a lot of assumptions,” you say, voice just a little dimmer than before.

He laughs again, lower this time. “And you haven’t denied a single one.”

You force a chuckle too, just to buy a second of normalcy. “Peeping Tom is the new trend, huh?”

“Let’s just say I’ve got good taste,” His breathing is audible now, unhurried, like he’s been reclining this whole time. “And you have a bad habit of leaving your curtains open when you're home alone.”

You don’t answer. A shiver passes through you, but you try to convince yourself it’s from the coolness of the night.

“The lace suits you.”

The silence after his words expands like a balloon in your chest, pushing against your lungs. For a second, there’s no air, no thought, just the sterile burn of panic lodging itself behind your ribs.

“…Sorry?”

“Your robe’s cute, too,” he says, voice dripping with smug satisfaction. “But I think I like the way it keeps slipping off better.”

Suddenly the robe around you feels a little looser. A little thinner. You grip the fabric tighter across your chest, shifting against the counter with a new kind of tension.

“Don’t be shy now,” he croons. “I liked the show. That little sway in your hips when you thought nobody was looking? Fuck—I could watch you walk around like that all night.”

You press your lips together tightly, eyes darting towards the window. “You’ve got ten seconds to say something that doesn’t make me call the cops,”

“Let’s not pretend you want cops poking around. Not with that little history you’ve got. Be a shame if someone leaked it. But go ahead, I’ll be gone before they get here."

You back away from the counter, as if the contact alone might burn you alive.

“There she goes,” he hums. “That’s it, baby. I like the way you move when you’re scared.”

You hear shuffling from the other side, like sharp metal scraping against a surface before he speaks up again.

“Y’know, I’ve always wondered..... was it worth it?”

You pause. “What?”

“Getting your teacher fired.”

The ground drops out from under you. No. that can't be it. Your parents made sure the news wouldn't make it outside the principal's office, made sure that the report didn't have a single trace of your name.

Then how the hell does he know about that?

“Mr. Kenzo, back when we were in our final year of high-school. You remember?”

He waits, letting the silence crawl inside your body. Your grip tightens on the phone, casting a harsh imprint on your palm.

“He lost his job, his marriage," the man clicks his tongue. "All for a seventeen-year-old with a short skirt.”

He doesn't even wait for you to answer.

“You know what was sad?" his voice drips with mock sorrow now, "The way he begged you to delete the messages like a puppy. You really should keep your nudes out of the staff room.”

Your nails dig inside your thigh, engraving moon-like stamps on your flesh. The tremor in your voice isn't even trying to hide itself as you speak.

“What do you want?”

There's a beat of silence before he speaks up again.

“What's your favorite scary movie?”

You blink, dumbfounded. “Seriously?”

His voice tilts toward a smirk. “Gotta set the mood, don’t I?”

“This isn’t some horror movie,” you snap.

“Mmm,” he says, slow and low, curling under your skin. “Could’ve fooled me. You’re the girl alone in the house. I’m the voice on the line. All we’re missing is a knife and a dead body.”

Your stomach knots. You grip the phone tighter, palms digging further into the plastic.

“Oh wait,” he adds lazily. “We already have the knife, don’t we?”

You slam the receiver down so hard the plastic cracks.

For half a second, you just stand there, blinking at the phone like it might spontaneously combust. Your pulse is riotous in your throat, in your fingertips, even in your goddamn eardrums.

This is not the time to think.

You sprint through the apartment like a mad-woman, slamming locks, drawing curtains, yanking the bedroom window shut so hard it nearly takes your fingers off.

The phone rings again, shrill and furious. Like it’s screaming at you to pick up.

You don’t answer.

Instead, you grab the knife from the counter—the same one dripping with pineapple juice just ten minutes ago, before your night took a nosedive into a fucking slasher film—and stomp back to the living room.

And in one clean slice, you sever the cord with a satisfying snap.

Your chest rises and falls in tight little jerks. The knife stays clutched in one hand, your reflection warped in it. There’s something almost liberating about it, if you weren’t one second away from pissing yourself.

You stagger back towards your bedroom. It’s not safety, but it’s got a lock and it doesn’t have any windows facing the fire escape. That counts for something. You shut the door behind you and press your back to the cold wood.

Ring. Ring.

Just a moment later, the piercing sound returns. Slowly and impossibly, your head turns towards the direction.

It’s the cordless landline by your nightstand. You don’t remember plugging it in. Hell, you don’t even remember owning that model.

It rings again. And again. And again.

You inch towards it gradually, like one would acknowledge impending doom. Your hand is shaking so hard you’re not sure you’ll be able to hold it steady, but somehow you pick it up.

“...Hello?”

The man's voice snaps through the line, no longer playful and suave. “Don't you fucking dare hang up on me again. You got that?”

You flinch like he’s standing right behind you. His voice is primal now, completely stripped of it's initial charm.

“Who the fuck are you?” your voice isn’t strong anymore, it’s shredded with disbelief.

“You really wanna know?”

There’s something slick in his tone now. The promise of something worse.

“Check under your bed.”

You don’t want to. Every cell in your body is shrieking don’t look. But your legs move anyway— one slow, crawling step at a time.

You crouch beside the bed, cold air kissing your bare knees as the floor creaks. Lowering yourself further, your trembling fingers curl around the edge of the duvet as you lift it.

Shoved just barely under the frame, nestled between a dust bunny and a forgotten sock— is a digital camera.

Not just any digital camera— your camera. The same one with a pink little sticker on it. The same one you'd left at Satoru’s apartment.

Your hand darts out and snatches it. You fumble with the latch, hands slippery with sweat as the screen flickers to life.

You tap Playback, and the world tilts on it's axis.

Dozens of photos.

All recent.

All… of you.

Sleeping, brushing your hair in the mirror, walking around in your robe. One where you’re bent over tying your shoe. One taken from inside your apartment.

There’s no sound inside the room except for your own breathing. The line is dead silent.

“Why do you have this?” you whisper, voice cracking mid-sentence. “How did you even—?”

The man only chuckles. “I told you I was watching, didn’t I?”

You lurch to your feet at that, camera clutched like a weapon, phone still glued to your ear.

The voice on the line doesn’t even sound human anymore. He’s not just speaking—he’s writing a script, and you’ve fallen into the role before you ever had a chance to decline the audition.

“Now that you know your place,” he sighs, as if already bored of her resistance. “be a good girl… and do exactly as I say.”

You don’t answer.

Not because you can’t, but because your instincts have gone eerily quiet, like prey trying to fool the predator into thinking it’s already dead.

“There we go,” he lilts, a low hum of approval. “Knew you were smart.”

You hate that you feel warm under the compliment. Hate it even more that heat is already blooming somewhere low and out of your control.

“I want you to get on the bed.”

You don't bother resisting this time— sitting back on your heels, chest rising and falling like you’ve just run a mile. The phone is warm against your cheek.

“Would you be a sweetheart...” he pauses. “and spread your legs for me?”

You shift your knees apart on the mattress, the hem of your robe slipping further up your thighs, cool air kissing skin that feels too hot.

The way he says it makes your skin erupt in goosebumps. You feel as if his eyes are dragging over every inch of you, peeling you apart. And your breath catches, because some part of you wants it.

“Such a fast learner,” he adds, voice slick with satisfaction. “You like this, don't you? You want to be told what to do.”

You sit there, legs parted, knees digging into the mattress, your pulse a frantic little rabbit in your throat. You don’t even realize you’re holding your breath until he speaks again, low and amused, as if he’s savoring your reaction leisurely.

"You're doing so well," he says softly, like a verbal reward.

And fuck, you feel it.

It slides down your spine, warm and syrupy, until you’re arching just slightly without meaning to, robe slipping further off one shoulder, baring the swell of your collarbone.

"Alright,” he murmurs coaxingly, “run your hand down your thigh.”

You let your head tilt back against the pillows, hair spilling out like ink over white cotton.

"I wonder,” curiosity seeps into his tone. “If I told you to touch yourself right now… would you?”

Your lashes flutter. There’s a pause in your breathing but not in your movement. Your fingers skim higher. Not quite there, but enough to know that your body is already betraying you.

"Say it,” he demands. “Say you’d do it.”

You don’t speak.

You just press your thighs together tightly, biting your lip so hard you taste blood. But still, you don’t say a word, instead squeezing your eyes shut. You don’t know what’s more terrifying, his words, or how your body responds to them.

“…Yes.”

He groans, quiet and low, like the sound itself is meant to crawl under your skin and live there.

“That’s my girl.”

The phone crackles with static for a second, but then his voice comes back, heavier and thicker, soaked in need.

“Slide your hand down further,” he instructs, gentle but firm. “Let’s see how obedient you really are.”

You hesitate.

Not because you don’t want to, but because you do. That’s the biggest problem.

Your fingers trail over the curve of your thigh slowly, every nerve ending screaming for contact. The moment you brush over your panties, you suck in a breath—sharp and traitorous.

A low, throaty laugh escapes him. And just by that, you know he heard that too.

“Soaked already?” he drawls. “Fuck, you really are the sweetest little thing, aren’t you?”

Your face burns, but your thighs part wider. Shame tastes like sugar on your tongue, wetness pooling with each word.

“Pull them to the side,” he says, voice huskier now. “Just one finger.”

You do.

And the first one is electric, your body arches up without permission, legs tensing beneath you as a whimper slips past your lips.

“There she is,” he exhales a shuddering sigh. “You hear how pretty you sound when you’re not pretending to be tough?”

You clamp a hand over your mouth, as if that can trap the sound in your throat. But your body is moving on instinct now, chasing the drag of your fingers, the friction that barely satisfies.

“Faster,” he says, breathing heavy through the receiver. “Let me hear you lose control.”

You whimper again, this time without restraint.

Your hips rock into your hand, breath coming in broken gasps. The sheets twist beneath you as you move, the phone pressed tight to your ear like it's the only thing keeping you from disintegrating completely.

Your body tenses as your fingers stutter, control fraying dangerously.

God, you're so close.

So close it hurts.

“Don’t cum yet.”

Your whole body jerks, fingers halting. Your legs tremble with the effort of holding back. It’s agony. Perfect agony.

“What?”

“I said don’t—” he says, voice unforgiving. “cum until I say so.”

The line disconnects, leaving nothing but a slow hum of static before deafening silence. You hear a shallow creak, making you jump mid-motion.

The phone is forgotten beside you on the mattress, tangled in the sheets and your own ragged breath. The distant sound of footsteps echoes, creeping closer with each tap on the marble.

You whip your head towards the door. The hallway lights cast a long, lean shadow across the floor. Your stomach flips, a warning scream silent in your chest as the man steps into view.

He stands there like a shadow made of flesh, broad shoulders cloaked in black, shirt unwrinkled, and tucked neatly into the waistband of matching slacks that taper over long legs.

Dark, sleek gloves encase his hands like second skin, no fingerprints and absolutely no warmth.

Then there's the mask.

White, sculpted to the upper half of his face like poured porcelain. The exaggerated contours curve into the hollow-eyed, slack-jawed sneer of the Ghostface, a distortion of terror frozen in a silent scream. It gleams faintly in the low light, making the sharp lines of his jaw beneath it seem almost surreal, like something out of a fever dream.

One hand slips into the pocket of his slacks indifferently. Like he’s waiting in line at a café instead of your bedroom. The other holds a knife— nestled casually in his grip, silver blade catching the light like it wants to be noticed. Not threatening, just inevitable like it’s always been there.

He kicks his shoes off with sleazy precision, each movement coiled with a kind of obscene elegance, like a panther peeling itself out of it's restraints.

Once those are off, he climbs onto the bed like he belongs there. Like you belong to him. The mattress shifts beneath his weight, breath stilling in your lungs as his knees slot between your thighs.

Your body reacts before your brain does, and you sit up on your elbows, instinct curling your legs in just slightly.

His gaze flicks over you gradually— messy hair, sweat-slick skin, soaked panties still pulled aside. He cocks his head with a smirk as if you’re something curious on display.

“Look at you,” His voice is just as it was on the phone, amused and soaked in mockery. “So fucked out already. And I haven’t even laid a finger on you yet.”

Your lips part, the words trying to catch up with your racing pulse. “Who—who are you?”

His fingers drag up your thigh with the ghost of a touch, leaving goosebumps on their wake.

“You really wanna know, baby?”

You nod just barely. But it’s enough.

“How could I say no to such a pretty little thing?” he purrs, tipping your chin up with a single gloved finger.

With the slow, practiced flourish of someone who knows the moment is cinematic— he slides the mask up, knuckles brushing his cheek like it’s part of the act.

A grin spreads slow and sharp beneath it, eyes gleaming like he already knows you’re fucked.

And you damn near choke to death on your own spit.

“Miss me?”

It's Suguru.

Geto fucking Suguru.

Satoru’s best friend and flatmate— the kind of guy who blends into the background with his quiet presence. The one who always has his nose buried in a book, never bothering to make eye contact in the hallway, moving with that low-key, almost invisible energy that makes you forget he’s even there. Boring. Yeah, that’s what everyone thought when they weren’t blinded by Satoru’s spotlight.

Your whole body goes cold, then hot, then cold again.

You would be lying if you said you didn’t recognize him—if you said you hadn’t fantasized once or twice during awkward breakfasts when he wore nothing but gray sweatpants and irritation.

His grin widens when he sees the flicker of familiarity in your expression. “Ah. So you do remember me.”

You open your mouth, but Suguru cuts you off with a shake of his head, chuckling softly.

“Y’know,” he muses, lips pouting slightly in faux offense, “I was kind of offended when you didn’t recognize my voice.”

The cool edge of the knife in his hands traces lightly along your cheek, then slides down your jaw, tilting your face as if he’s inspecting you for the slightest flaw.

“But then again… you were too busy screwing my best friend, weren't you?”

The sting in his tone isn’t jealousy, it’s insult. It’s wounded pride disguised as cruelty. Suguru leans closer— long, midnight hair brushing your shoulders, the knife now resting casually beside your hip.

“I heard that little sigh you gave when he finished from my room,” he says, voice darker with intent. “Heard you fake your orgasm like a fucking champion.”

“But i-” You try to open your mouth in protest, but his eyes flash.

“Don’t lie to me, sweetheart. You don’t even realize how loud you are when you’re bored,” Suguru interrupts, a mocking smile ghosting across his face. “You do that little tongue click, like you’re disappointed.”

Your face burns as shame crawls up your throat. He isn't just mocking you, he’s dissecting you. Peeling back the curtain you didn’t even know were open.

“You’re so pretty when you’re frustrated,” he whispers, brushing your hair back from your face. “Made it so hard for me to not walk through that door and do it right.”

You swallow, thighs still twitching with restraint. You stare at him, heart in your throat, trying to hold your need and your sanity at once.

“You… you were listening the whole time?”

Suguru hums, fingers sliding from your hip to your bare thigh again, tracing slow, teasing patterns that set your skin aflame.

“You know,” he murmurs, voice dripping with that dangerous sweetness, “I didn’t come here just to watch. I came for more.”

You swallow, cheeks burning part embarrassment, part something electric. Your eyes flicker to the knife still glinting on the floor, a dull reminder of how this night spiraled out of control. But right now, it feels like neither of you could care less.

He leans in further, breath warm against your ear, voice low enough to make your pulse skip. “You’ve been keeping all that frustration locked up tight… I think it’s time to let it out.”

Your body responds despite yourself—shivers racing down your spine, legs parting like they crave the touch he’s promising.

His hands move with slow care, fingers sliding beneath your robe’s edge, brushing over your slick heat. Your heartbeat thunders loud in your ears, breath catching in your throat as his touch grows more and more demanding.

He presses his palm flat against the fat of your breasts, pinching the swell of your nipples lightly as you let out a gasp. For a moment, the world narrows to that single, heated contact.

Suguru’s smirk softens into something darkly amused, maybe even possessive, as his fingers casually unwrap that sloppy dish towel around your bleeding finger. You catch the faint drip of blood, barely visible.

Without warning, he leans in close, eyes locked onto yours, as his lips close around that injured fingertip.

He sucks on it steadily. Not a lick, not a quick kiss, but that deep, slow suction that sends a shiver rattling down your spine.

You bite your lip, caught between surprise and a twisted kind of release, breath hitching like you’re right on the edge of losing control.

His lips pull back from your finger with a soft, wet sound, a smear of blood glinting faintly on the corner of his mouth.

“Messy,” Suguru says, a teasing glint in his eyes. “But I like it.”

The knife beside him gleams in the dim light, but right now it feels like the least threatening thing in the room.

Your nerves are screaming, but God, his attention feels like a spark in the dark. Dangerous, yes, but alive.

Suguru's eyes flick to the floor— to that little black digital camera.

The one you’d forgotten. The one you’d left at his shared house with Satoru after that stupid fucking fling. It must’ve fallen out when you scrambled under the bed, and now—it’s just lying there.

He reaches for it listlessly, like he’s got all the time in the world– and turns it over in his hand, thumb brushing the power button. The lens extends with a soft mechanical whirr.

“It would be a waste…” He says, examining the camera. “If i didn't take a picture of you like this.”

He lifts it to eye level, head tilting slightly as he frames you, eyes lingering on the subtle heat still rolling off your skin.

You can feel the weight of Suguru’s gaze as it traces the pink tint in your cheeks, the way your lower lip’s caught gently between your teeth, the tension in your shoulders. His stare drags lower, catching on the thin strap that’s slipped from your shoulder, the lazy, intimate slope of it revealing the soft dip of your cleavage.

Click.

The sound slices through the air like a whipcrack.

“Perfect.”

Suguru turns the camera around and shows you the photo. The image is small, grainy, but still: there you are. Eyes wide, mouth parted, a shoulder bared like you’re undressing for the camera itself. You can’t help it as your thighs press together.

And he notices.

“Oh? You like that?” he says, one eyebrow raised in teasing. “Wanna see what you look like when I’ve got my fingers inside you?”

You whine at his teasing— at just how much he's making you wait— hips bucking up to grind against his for any semblance of friction. Suguru pins you down with hands on either side of your hip, stopping you in your action with maddening restraint.

“You know what’s crazy?” He says, trailing a finger down your throat. “I used to hear you moan through the wall and want to tape your mouth shut.”

“But now?” A smirk curls his lips as his hand maps across your collarbone, squeezing the plush of your breasts. “Now I kinda want to hear what you sound like when you’re not pretending.”

Click.

The camera flashes again, this time angled further downward, catching your half-lidded eyes and parted legs.

“Let me do everything he couldn’t, ” Suguru murmurs, setting the camera up and leaning down, forehead brushing yours. He presses a kiss on the base of your neck. “And I’ll make a whole fucking gallery out of you.”

His fingers ghost up your thigh with agonizing patience. One gloved hand planted beside your hip, the other gently coaxing your legs wider as he slots himself lower between them.

His mouth ghosts over the inside of your thigh, warm breath skating across your skin.

"God, look at that.” Suguru gazes at you with hooded eyelids. “Satoru’s sweet little fucktoy, putting on a show for his best friend.”

His tongue peeks out, finally touching your skin. He presses a kiss just shy of your aching pussy, then pulls back with an infuriating smirk. The action urges a soft squeal out of you.

“She's fuckin' soaked for me, baby.” He says, tongue darting across his own lower lip. “No wonder you didn’t recognize my voice. Bet your pretty little head was empty.”

He leans in nose-deep into your cunt, licking one long, decadent stripe up your folds like he’s tasting something forbidden— groaning deep in his throat as your back arches and your fingers fist the sheets.

One gloved hand holds your hip steady while the other moves to grip your thighs, thumb pressing against the meat of it possessively. Suguru doesn’t look away once.

Not when his tongue circles your clit slow and lazy.

Not when you gasp, a breathy whine slipping past your lips.

Not even when your hips stutter upward and he hums into you like you’re the first thing he’s eaten all day.

“Shh,” he coos against your core, lips slick and curled in a cruel smile. “Don’t wanna ruin the audio.”

Your head falls back, neck arching, and the camera blinks red in the corner— recording, capturing every breathy moan, every flutter of your lashes, every subtle tremor in your legs as Suguru feasts on you like a starving man.

You try to focus, to breathe evenly, but it’s useless. His mouth works you open with veritable filth—tongue flat, then pointed, then curling into the spongy spot deep inside you that no one's ever reached.

“I should’ve done this the first night I heard you,” he murmurs, pausing only long enough to pant against your dripping heat. “Should’ve walked in, thrown that little white towel over your mouth, and fucked the arrogance out of you.”

His grip tightens as his tongue prods at a faster, unrelenting pace. Your thighs start to shake with the onset of your climax—encasing his head tighter between them.

“You gonna give it to me now, sweetheart?” he grunts into your cunt, hands bracing around your legs firmly. “Gonna come all over my mouth while your boyfriend's waiting for you to call back?”

“He's not my—”

You try to form words, to retort— but your control snaps finally, as the knot in the wells of your stomach comes undone with a mewl. You cream all over his tongue while his eyes bore into yours.

Suguru's mouth is onto yours as soon as he detaches from your slick. His tongue licks into your throat, deep and claiming, the taste of salt and sweet from your release still clinging to his lips.

Your fingers tangle in his hair, pulling him closer, harder—his grip on your waist bruises, but you don’t care. Every drag of his tongue, every sharp nip urges ragged breaths against your cheek, his body pressing you into the space between restraint and sheer hunger.

He pulls back, a string of spit connecting both of your lips, mouth glistening, chin slick, and that stupid little grin planted on his face like he’s carved you into a masterpiece.

You’re panting, legs trembling where they’re spread, hands fisting the sheets so tight your knuckles ache. He watches you catch your breath, dark eyes dragging over your body like he’s already planning the sequel.

The camera light blinks red like a heartbeat in the dim room, capturing every second of your ragged breaths and flushed skin.

Suguru leans back just enough to drag a gloved hand through his hair— hand tightening, tense, hungry — then slides the other glove to the edge of his fingers.

You watch as he bites down on the cuff with those perfect, ruthless teeth. A little snap, followed by the faint pop of latex breaking free.

Suguru pulls the glove off in one smooth motion, lips trailing the edge, pearls flashing dangerously close to your skin. Without warning, he snakes his hand under your waist— flipping you onto your stomach, that bare hand hitting the fat of your ass— earning a surprised squeal from you.

His fingers splay over your thigh, nails grazing, teasing, before he presses his palm flat against your hip, holding you steady.

“Your turn,” he breathes, eyes gleaming like he’s dared you to try and resist. You’re shaking too much to do anything but obey.

The camera, still recording, gets brought up to your flushed, desperate face—spit lewdly coating swollen lips, eyes glossy with sex. Suguru props it in your hand, fingers curling over yours just enough to steady it.

“Keep it steady, sweetheart,” he murmurs, kissing the inside of your thigh again. “Wanna see you take me from the back.”

You make a soft, wrecked sound, which at this point, sounds more like submission to each one of his actions.

“And don’t you dare look away. You’re gonna watch yourself fall apart for me.”

Before you can answer, he’s shifting behind you, fingers slipping under the edge of your chemise, dragging it up slowly— touch scorching hot against your cool skin.

The fabric slips over your ass, teasing, exposing that smooth curve, the soft skin just begging for his hands.

And then he lowers the camera. Just a little. Still watching you through it, but now one hand’s smoothing up your calf, gliding higher.

Suguru pries your legs apart gently, a devilish smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

You’re bent over the bed now, chest pressed against the mattress, back arched like a bow—every muscle taut and trembling with torment.

His gloved hand slides down your spine, then dips between your legs, fingers finding your wet folds again, rubbing your sensitive spot in delicious torture.

"Jesus–" you whimper, hands trembling, barely keeping the camera still. "Put it in already."

"Patience," Suguru clicks his tongue in disappointment, though you know he's anything but disappointed. "Don't be a brat."

The camera shifts in your hand, lens capturing your flushed cheeks, the arch of your back, the way you gasp when Suguru's hands cup your ass, kneading on the flesh tantalizingly.

“You ready, baby?”

You nod shakily, breath catching in your throat with anticipation.

You hear the soft clank of metal as the hook of his slacks comes undone. Suguru lines himself up, fingers pressing into your hips, positioning you like a damn goddamn king claiming his throne.

He sinks inside slowly, filling you inch by scorching inch, stretching your hole dangerously with his massive size.

Your body quivers under him, desperately trying to adjust to his girth, eyes rolling back in pleasure.

"F-fuck," he shudders, balls-deep inside your pussy, matress creaking with the weight of the collision. "So tight... So fucking tight f'me."

You're letting out porn worthy moans, hands clawing at the sheets as his pace quickens, each thrust more intense, more claiming than before.

“You’re not bored now, are you?” he teases, teeth grazing your ear as his pace gets even meaner. “No little tongue click tonight, huh?”

Your breath stutters—half caught in your throat, half moaned into the pillow—when his hips snap into you harder, the slap of skin-on-skin obscenely loud in the otherwise quiet room. The only other sound is the camera’s soft whir, faithfully recording every ruined inch of you.

“Back arched just right,” he says, voice is ragged in between grunts like it’s scraping out of his throat. "You’re made for this, y’know that?”

Another thrust, sharper this time, more punishing—and the pillow swallows your cry.

“Don’t hide from me,” his hand fists in your hair, tugging harshly to pull your head up, to make you see yourself wrecked. “Look at yourself.”

Your gaze is forced to the screen again. To your glassy eyes, tear-stained cheeks, mouth falling open around a sob as your body rocks with each drive of his hips.

Your fingers tremble around the edge of the mattress, barely holding on. You choke out a broken noise when he slams in deeper into your cervix, tilting your hips just so.

“Ah, fuck—yeah, there,” he rubs circles into your clit with his fingers as he thrusts into the spot that makes you see stars. “You feel that?”

Your legs shake weakly, and you can do nothing but nod helplessly. Suguru tugs harder at your hair when you give no verbal response, making your head jerk back.

“I said—do you feel that?”

“Yes!” you wail, shame and pleasure burning like wildfire in your blood.

“Atta girl.”

His hand slides down, flattening over your belly, pinning you in place as he ruins you from behind.

“You think he ever fucked you like this?” he taunts, breathless, lips brushing against your ear. “Think he ever made you forget your own name?”

The coil in your stomach is taut now, stretched impossibly close to snapping.

He knows. Of course he knows. He feels it in the way your thighs tremble, in the frantic clutch of your fingers at the sheets, in the way your walls tighten around him.

“S-shit—” he groans, pace stuttering. "Gonna cum inside you baby, yeah?"

And when it breaks, when it snaps. It tears through you like lightning, leaving your body quaking and your throat hoarse from the sound you make. You feel thick, warm, creamy ropes of his own release pump inside your cunt, filling it to the brim.

But he doesn’t stop. Doesn’t falter with his movements. Keeps fucking you through both of your releases, watching the aftershocks rack through your spine.

“Look at you,” he growls, nails digging into your flesh. "Never want you any other way.”

And then, abruptly, Suguru pulls out completely— both of your bodies now connected with nothing but a long, stripe of white.

Your body bucks at the loss, instinctively chasing him.

“Don’t worry,” he smirks upon seeing your reaction, reaching for the camera and angling it to a new view.

“I’m not done with you yet.”

♡⛧♡⛧♡⛧♡⛧♡⛧♡⛧♡⛧♡⛧♡⛧♡

You’re still catching your breath—legs shaking like anything, chest heaving, the mattress soaked with sweat and whatever else he’s pulled out of you—when Suguru finally shuts the camera off with a casual flick of his thumb. He hums under his breath, the sound low and oddly pleased, like a man who just finished a particularly satisfying meal.

His fingers trail lazily down the curve of your spine, feather-light, like he’s painting you into memory. The gentleness would almost be sweet, if he hadn’t been two thrusts away from murder hours earlier.

“You good?” he murmurs near your ear, lips brushing just below it in a kiss that's far too tender to be trustworthy.

You manage a slow nod, still a little drunk on adrenaline. “Y-Yeah.”

He brushes your hair back from your face, then rises with unhurried grace — shirt wrinkled, pants unzipped, camera still dangling from his hand like an afterthought. Like a trophy.

He points it at you again, this time with the lens off, just watching. Admiring the view.

“God,” he says softly, almost to himself. “You’re a fucking vision.”

Your eyes don't waver as you stare at him, and something behind your ribs shifts.

It’s not that he looks dangerous. It’s that he looks… content. Like this was never improvisation. Like every step was scripted, and you’re the only one who didn’t get a copy of the lines.

Your stomach tightens, but you keep your expression still. If there’s one thing you’ve learned tonight, it’s that fear just makes him smile wider.

“Suguru,” you whisper. “What’re you gonna do with that footage?”

The camera in his hands lowers a little, before a smile graces his lips, slow and sticky with ardour.

“Jerk off to it when I miss you. Duh.”

You shoot him a flat look, nose scrunching in distaste. “You’re so damn disgusting.”

“Yeah?” He grins wider at that, tilting his head. “Well, you got fucked silly by disgusting, old me.”

You open your mouth — maybe to argue, maybe to throw a pillow at his head — but the landline rings.

Both of you freeze over as if someone hit a pause button. Suguru tilts his head, like he’s listening to the universe set up the punchline.

“…Expecting someone?” he asks lightly.

Your shake your head, mouth dry. “No.”

“Hello?” he says, voice polite. Cheerful. Like the kind of guy who holds the elevator door open.

You can’t hear what’s said, but whatever it is has his lips curling into a slow, poisonous smile.

He turns to you, eyes gleaming with mischief. Then mouths: It’s him.

Your stomach turns inside out.

Satoru.

Your heart lurches into motion again, the floor tipping beneath you.

Suguru stretches the cord with one hand and flicks the camera back on with the other, angling it towards you.

“She’s a little tied up right now,” he says into the receiver casually.

You scramble upright, heart racing faster. “What the hell do you think you're doing—”

He silences you with a finger pressed to your lips gently.

You hear Satoru’s voice crackle distantly through the receiver. “Is she with you?”

Suguru’s eyes don’t leave yours— smile all teeth and vicious.

“She’s not just with me, Satoru,” he says, tilting the camera a little, like he’s lining up a better shot. “She’s on me.”

Your cheeks burn brightly. You mouth stop it but he just winks, like this is the highlight of his week.

“She’s still shaking,” he drawls, voice thick with satisfaction. “Twitching from the last time I made her come. Poor thing can barely speak.”

You groan into your hands, full-body cringe. Because if humiliation could kill, you'd already be embalmed.

“I could let her talk to you,” Suguru muses, panning the lens down to your legs like he's conducting a tour, “but I don’t think she wants to. Not when her mouth’s already so—”

You slap the phone out of his hand before he can finish the sentence. It hits the hardwood with a thud. You slam the receiver back into its cradle, fists shaking.

“What the actual fuck is wrong with you?” you spit.

He pauses, like he’s genuinely going to reflect on your words. Then steps forward and kisses your throat. Right over your pulse. Right where he could end everything, if he felt like it.

“You know,” he murmurs, thumb stroking your jaw with fondness. “you should’ve been dead by now.”

Your breath catches. He lets it hang in the air, not as a threat, but as a simple and unapologetic truth.

“But I guess,” he adds, smirking again, “I’m sentimental.”

Suguru leans in, lips hovering a breath above yours, close enough to graze, not enough to kiss.

“You moan too pretty to waste.”

Then he pulls back a fraction. His eyes scan your face — the flushed cheeks, the wide pupils, the lip caught between your teeth.

“…For now.”

Tags: @anime201283 @11thlife02 @smolcooki33 @savagecatsuga @luv3nti

@starlixers @sophistication-as @plswtfdontdoitagain @angie420 @arabellasolstice

@valiantqueenalien-blog @bunnygorex @miss-u-koo @ll0rona @ladyjanesstuff

#getou suguru x reader #geto suguru #geto suguru x reader #jjk smut #jjk x reader #geto smut #jjk imagines #geto x reader #jjk geto #jujustsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen #gojo satoru x reader #gojo satoru #ghostface #masked kink #masked men #ghostface x reader #scream

276 notes · View notes

ackermanrage · 2 days ago

Text

~ Protective!Levi who immediately clocks the way another scout looks at you during a strategy meeting, just the way their gaze lingers too long on your mouth when you speak, or how they lean in just a bit too close when handing you a map. But Levi sees it. Of course he sees it.

~ Protective!Levi who doesn’t say a word about it. He just subtly moves, placing himself beside you without a sound, arms crossed and gaze cold as steel. His presence is unmistakable—sharp and heavy like a blade unsheathed. You feel it before you even look up and catch the way his eyes are narrowed, jaw tight.

~ Protective!Levi who doesn’t need to be jealous to be wary. He’s been around long enough to know how quickly a harmless look turns into something that makes you shrink away. And that’s something he won’t fucking allow.

~ Protective!Levi who brushes past you slightly when the meeting ends, his fingers ghosting against your lower back—just enough to guide you out of the room, just enough for you to feel his silent question. You don’t have to answer. You don’t even have to look. He already knows something was off.

~ Protective!Levi who corners you gently outside, somewhere quiet, somewhere just the two of you. His voice is low, almost casual—but you know better. “Did he say something to you?” he asks, eyes never leaving yours. You shake your head, and he nods slowly. “Tch. Still...he was staring like a damn idiot.”

~ Protective!Levi who walks with you the rest of the day, not touching, not speaking much—but always there. Every hallway, every courtyard, every moment you glance around, he’s near. It’s not smothering—it’s him. Calculated, quiet, and absolute.

~ Protective!Levi who steps between you and danger like it’s instinct. Whether it’s a mission gone sideways or just a sudden explosion of movement, he’s always in front of you first—ODM gear already in motion, blades drawn, body coiled like a loaded spring.

~ Protective!Levi who doesn’t flinch in battle, doesn’t speak unless needed, but the second you stumble—even just a scrape or a misstep—he’s at your side. His hand catches your wrist, his eyes scanning for blood or worse, his voice low and clipped. “The hell happened? You hurt?”

~ Protective!Levi who doesn’t let go right away. Not until he’s sure. Not until he sees the way you breathe and move and nod and reassure him quietly, “I’m fine, Levi. You’re always watching out for me.”

~ Protective!Levi who exhales through his nose, forehead resting against yours for half a second longer than it should. His hands are rough, callused, but the way they hold your waist is anything but. “Yeah,” he mutters. “I noticed. I always fucking notice.”

378 notes · View notes

maskedbyghost · 2 days ago

Text

where you left me (part 2)

part 1

You don’t sleep that night.

The bed feels wrong as you lie flat on your back, staring at the ceiling, while his voice keeps echoing in your head.

Being with you was a mistake.

You know he’s lying. You know it. You saw the way he froze when you said his name. Still, it doesn’t stop the hurt. You can’t shake the hollow ache in your chest.

By morning, you don’t bother pretending to sleep anymore. You get up early, earlier than you need to, and go through the motions. Shower. Uniform. Boots laced tight. No one says anything when you sit quietly in the mess with untouched food. Soap gives you a nod but doesn’t push. Gaz tries to get you to take his coffee again, like clockwork. This time, you hold it in both hands and keep it close to your chest even though you still don’t drink it.

You keep busy with training, cleaning, or running laps. You volunteer for everything, take the worst shifts, anything that keeps you moving. Anything that keeps you from thinking.

But no matter what you do, he’s still everywhere.

You catch him in the reflection of a window once, his mask back on, and for a second, you forget how to breathe. It’s cruel how easily your body still reacts to him. Like it doesn’t care what your mind knows. Like it’s still waiting for him.

The first few days, you waited. You told yourself he just needed space. That he’d come back when he’d thought things through. You even left your phone on loud, in case he texted or called in the middle of the night. He never did.

After a week, you stopped checking your phone as much. After two, you started leaving it in another room so you wouldn’t obsess every time a notification popped up. After a month, you stopped bringing him up in conversations. Not because you were over it, but because it hurt too much to explain something you didn’t even understand.

You tried to move on. You really did. You started sleeping on both sides of the bed. Started deleting pictures slowly, one by one, until your phone felt less like a trap and more like yours again. You even stopped wearing his hoodie when you were alone.

And then, on a completely normal Tuesday, someone asked you out.

He wasn’t special. Just some guy you knew from a mutual friend. He was decent looking, funny enough. And when he asked if you wanted to grab a drink sometime, you didn’t hesitate. You said yes. It felt easy. Light. Like maybe you really could move on.

Until Simon fucking Riley somehow overheard.

You didn’t even know he was there. But a few hours later, your phone buzzed, and you saw his name pop up for the first time in weeks.

Simon: If you go out with him I’ll kill him.

You stared at the message. Read it twice, three times, because there was no way he just said that.

You: Fuck you, Simon. We broke up, and I can do whatever the fuck I want.

Simon: Come tonight. Need to talk. Somewhere private.

You didn’t answer right away. You stared at the screen for a long time, your stomach twisting. You told yourself you should ignore it. That if he wanted to talk, he should’ve done it a long time ago. But you knew you were going.

Even as you typed out “ok” and threw your phone on the bed with a groan, you were already halfway through planning what you were going to say. What you were going to scream, really. You were going to punch his stupid, beautiful face the second you saw him.

You met him at his place. You hadn’t been there since the breakup, but everything was still the same. Same lights. Same scent. Same fucking shoes by the door that made your chest hurt.

He opened the door before you even knocked, like a dog waiting at the window. If you weren’t so mad, you’d laugh, but instead, you stared him down.

"You look pissed," he said.

"I'm not here to fucking smile at you," you shot back, walking past him.

"Fair enough."

You turned to face him, arms crossed. "Well? You dragged me here to say something, so say it."

He looked at you for a long second. Then, "I don’t want you dating other people."

You blinked, then laughed. "Wow. That’s rich. You broke up with me, and now you get jealous the second someone else looks at me? That’s really fucking mature, Simon."

He didn’t say anything.

"What the fuck do you even want from me?" you snapped. "You didn’t want to be with me, but I can’t be with anyone else either? What is that?"

He muttered something under his breath.

"What?"

He glanced away, jaw tight. "I said, preferably, I want to keep you in a fucking glass cage."

There was a beat of silence. Long enough for you to blink, tilt your head, and reconsider every life choice that had brought you to this exact moment. Because he hadn’t just said that. He couldn’t have.

You narrowed your eyes. "Hello, Joe from You? Are you out of your fucking mind?"

Simon sighed. "I'm not joking. I can't fucking bear to lose you again."

You scoffed, stepping back. "Right. That’s why you broke up with me. Because it was too good, huh?"

"I was scared. It wasn’t your fault. It was never your fault."

"No, it wasn’t. But you made it mine anyway. You made me think I fucked something up. You made me sit with that for months."

He took a step closer. "I could’ve done more. I should’ve done more. I didn’t know how to handle what I felt for you, and I’m sorry."

"You should be," you said, voice quieter now, angrier in a different way. "Because I was all in. And you walked away."

Simon nodded slowly. "I know. And it kills me. You think I didn’t want to call you? You think I didn’t stare at my phone every night thinking about it? I didn’t think I deserved you. But now… I don’t care. I’ll be selfish. I want you back. I want you with me. Not him. Not anyone else. Me."

You stared at him for a moment. Everything about him made your chest ache. Your fists clenched. "You don’t get to do this unless you mean it."

"I mean it. All of it. I don’t care what it takes. I’ll do it. Just… don’t shut the door on me. Not yet."

Your voice was shaking now, but you didn’t look away. "I want to hit you."

"Go ahead."

"I want to scream at you for making me feel disposable."

"You weren’t. You aren’t. You never will be."

You paused, eyes burning. "You better fucking grovel. I'm not making this easy."

"Wouldn’t expect anything less."

You finally let out a shaky breath. Your shoulders dropped just a little, and your voice was low when you said, "I’m not dating him."

"Good. Because I was serious. I would’ve killed him."

"You're an idiot."

"But I'm your idiot. If you'll have me."

You didn’t say anything, just stared at him, still trying to decide if you wanted to punch him or kiss him. Maybe both.

Simon stepped closer, his eyes softening a little. Without a word, he reached up and gently brushed a stray hair behind your ear. Then, before you could react, his lips touched yours, and you didn’t pull away. Instead, you let yourself lean in, closing the space between you.

When you finally broke apart, he smiled, a little shy now. “Still want to punch me?”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t stop the small smile creeping up. “Maybe just a little.”

----------------------------------------------

@daydreamerwoah @kylies-love-letter @ghostslollipop @kittygonap @alfiestreacle @identity2212 @farylfordaryl @rafaelacallinybbay @akkahelenaa @lovelovelovelovelove987654321 @wraith-bravo6 @tessakate @xocandyy @nightfwn @robinfeldt98 @xiisblogs @mad-die45 @readingthingy @actualpoppy @amongthe141 @whore4romance @thatghostlykid @syofrelief @avgdestitute @sheepdogchick3 @echo9821 @imalapdog @foxintheferns @trulovekay @preeyas-world

#simon ghost riley x you #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley #simon riley x you #simon ghost riley x female oc #simon riley imagine #simon riley x reader #simon riley #simon ghost x reader #simon ghost x you

377 notes · View notes

dollyswishingwell · 3 days ago

Note

the lads men with a chivalrous/protective mc who likes spoiling them? Brings them flowers, gives them gifts, stands up for them (quietly and visibly- depends on the guy she's with I think)

Thank you! Have a nice day!

ᯓ★ˎˊ˗ My Knight

𝒲𝒾𝓈𝒽 𝑔𝓇𝒶𝓃𝓉𝑒𝒹 𝒻𝑜𝓇 ˙⋆✮ Rafayel, Zayne, Xavier, Sylus, Caleb

𝒢𝑒𝓃𝓇𝑒/𝒲𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔 ˙⋆✮ fluff, i hope i fulfilled your request, i think this is such a cute unique idea!

> ࣪𖤐.ᐟ You’re their knight in shining armor

𝙍𝙖𝙛𝙖𝙮𝙚𝙡 °‧🫧⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

The studio lights were hot. Too hot. Rafayel was already yawning before the photographer even lifted the lens.

“You were scheduled two hours ago, Rafayel,” snapped Thomas, teeth clenched behind his business smile. “Do you know how much time and money this cost?”

“I was swimming,” Rafayel replied easily, reclining deeper into the white velvet couch they’d stuck him on. “The kelp blooms were in season. Time and money can’t buy that.”

The assistant photographers exchanged glances. The lead producer’s brow twitched. Thomas opened his mouth again, wound tight, about to snap, but he never got the chance.

Because you stepped forward.

Quiet. Composed. A cool sea breeze after a thunderstorm.

“I understand you’re frustrated,” you said, your voice soft but steely. “But if you want a picture-perfect shot, screaming at the subject won’t help. Especially not my husband.”

The room went still.

Thomas blinked. “I— But. I didn’t mean—”

“I know you didn’t.” Your eyes didn’t flinch. “But next time, speak to me first. I manage his schedule.”

That wasn’t even true. Rafayel didn’t have a schedule. But no one argued.

Silence stretched. Then you turned to him, calm as ever, and offered your hand.

“Come on,” you said gently. “Let’s go home.”

Rafayel stared up at you, stunned. Then, slow as ink, a grin crept across his lips. He slid his fingers through yours and stood, the sunlight catching on his earrings and his smug, pleased flush.

As you walked out, Rafayel leaned close, lips brushing your temple. “You looked so scary back there,” he whispered, eyes glittering. “You gonna defend my honor again later? Maybe punish me for skipping?”

You gave him a sideways look. “You did flake again.”

“Mmm. Then punish me gently.”

You rolled your eyes. He kissed you anyway, just behind the ear, where it made you shiver.

Later that night, as you were brushing your hair, you caught him watching you from your bed, head tilted, cheeks still faintly pink.

“…What?” you asked.

He shrugged, pulling your brush from your hands to do it for you. “Nothing. Just wondering how I ever tricked a knight into marrying me.”

You smiled. “You didn’t trick me.”

“Oh no?”

“You just needed someone to protect you from everything you hate.”

He didn’t reply, just pressed his face into the crook of your neck and stayed there.

𝙕𝙖𝙮𝙣𝙚 ⋆꙳•❅‧*₊⋆☃︎ ‧*❆ ₊⋆

Zayne’s office was dimly lit, just the slant of city dusk creeping in through the blinds. He’d removed his suit jacket, rolled up his sleeves halfway, and was hunched over a file, knuckles white around the pen. Another emergency surgery. Another twelve-hour shift. Another award shoved to the back of the shelf, untouched.

You didn’t say anything when you entered. Just walked in quietly, heels soft against the tile, a small bag in hand.

He didn’t look up.

“You’re supposed to be home,” he said, voice low, even.

You stepped closer, placing the bag gently on his desk. “So are you.”

Zayne finally glanced up. His eyes were bloodshot behind his glasses, the skin beneath them faintly gray. His tie was still neatly knotted, of course, but you could see the tremor in his hands. The smallest fatigue-induced shake.

You didn’t ask permission. Just undid his tie slowly, fingers brushing his collarbone, and began unbuttoning the top of his shirt so he could breathe.

Zayne blinked. “You’re acting like I’m the patient.”

“You look like one,” you murmured. “I brought dinner.”

“I don’t need—”

You leaned in, kissed the corner of his mouth. “Let me take care of you. Just this once.”

There was a pause. A long one.

Then Zayne exhaled, very quietly, like he was trying not to sound relieved. He reached up, slid his hand along your waist and pulled you into his lap without warning. Your knees bumped the desk as you gasped, but he didn’t flinch.

“I’m not fragile,” he said, lips brushing your throat.

“I know,” you whispered, hand moving through his hair. “That’s why I want to protect you.”

His chest rose and fell. You felt it more than saw it.

Zayne didn’t respond right away. But his arms wrapped around you fully, and he pressed his face into the side of your neck, letting you hold him close in that too-quiet office, the scent of antiseptic still clinging to his sleeves.

You stayed like that until the stars rose outside the window, until his breathing slowed, and the tension melted from his frame bit by bit.

That night, he let you feed him. He let you undress him carefully, guiding him into a warm shower. And when you tucked him into bed at home with his glasses off and his hair still damp, he caught your wrist just before you turned away.

“…Stay,” he murmured. “Just for tonight.”

As if you’d ever leave.

𝙓𝙖𝙫𝙞𝙚𝙧 ⋆⭒˚.⋆🪐 ⋆⭒˚.⋆

You found him exactly where you expected: curled up sideways on the couch, still in half of his uniform, his white coat draped over his eyes like a makeshift sleep mask.

The soup was still warm. The bag was still tucked under your arm.

You knelt beside him, brushing the coat back just enough to uncover his face.

“Xavi. Wake up.”

He cracked one eye open, slow and unfocused. “Hm.”

“I brought food.”

That got both eyes open.

You pulled the thermal container from the bag, unscrewing the top. “Seaweed soup and rice with egg. You haven’t eaten anything today.“

“I was…thinking.” Xavier sat up, blinking. His hair was tousled, his jacket somehow still crisp. “Why are you feeding me?”

You blinked back at him. “Because you’re mine.”

His ears turned pink. “I see.”

You handed him the chopsticks. He took them with that slow, deliberate grace of his, and immediately tried to eat the rice without breaking apart the clump.

You sighed. Took the chopsticks back. Broke the rice for him.

Xavier watched you with quiet fascination. “You’re being very gentle.”

“I always am with you.”

“…I don’t deserve it.”

“You do,” you said simply.

You let him eat in silence, slow, thoughtful bites, and once he’d cleaned the container, you reached for the last thing in your bag. A small rectangular box, wrapped in soft cloth.

He stared at it. “What’s that?”

“A present.”

“I didn’t do anything.”

“You don’t have to.” You placed the box in his lap.

He unwrapped it like it might explode.

Inside: a set of custom socks. Soft, warm, pale purple. Each one had a tiny stitched version of your face on the ankle.

Xavier stared. Then stared some more.

“You always forget to wear warm socks in winter,” you said softly, suddenly feeling a bit ridiculous. “So I thought—”

“I will wear these for the rest of my life,” Xavier said, in a deadpan.

“…What?”

He looked up at you, blue eyes unwavering. “I will never remove them.”

“You have to wash them, Xavier—”

“No.”

“You’ll ruin them—”

He was already peeling off his boots and putting them on. The moment they were on his feet, he looked down at them… and smiled. Barely. But it was there.

You blinked.

“You’re smiling.”

“Am I?”

“Yes.”

He pulled you gently onto the couch with him, arms sliding around your waist.

“Thank you,” he said, voice muffled in your sweater. “For feeding me. For the gift. For staying.”

You kissed his forehead. “Always.”

Within seconds, he was asleep again, socks and all.

𝙎𝙮𝙡𝙪𝙨 ✮ ⋆ ˚｡𓅨⋆｡°✩

The gala was opulent, white marble floors, crystalline chandeliers, and the kind of guests who could afford to wage wars with pocket change. The kind Sylus found unbearably dull.

He sat at the head of the table in the inner circle, legs crossed, wine untouched, expression unreadable. His red brooch caught the light like a drop of fresh blood.

He hadn’t said a word in twenty minutes. Not because he had nothing to say, but because the moment his wife walked in, everything else became… irrelevant.

You were dressed in deep crimson to match the streaks in his shirt, tailored, commanding, predatory elegance. And you weren’t subtle.

You stood behind his chair, one hand on the back of it, the other gently smoothing his hair like you owned him.

Because you did.

“I see you’re finally done loitering,” Sylus murmured, lips twitching. “Did you buy out the boutique this time?”

“Only half.” You leaned down, lips brushing his ear. “I saved the rest for your penthouse. Your closet looked lonely.”

He smirked. “You spoil me.”

“You let me.”

Across the table, one of the minor dignitaries, a green-eyed scion from a neighboring trade alliance, dared to hold Sylus’s gaze too long. Dared to smile at him.

You moved before Sylus did.

Your hand slid from the chair to his shoulder, and you leaned forward just enough to speak into the scion’s line of sight, your tone saccharine sweet.

“I’d appreciate it,” you said, voice calm but cold, “if you looked at your own man.”

The scion paled slightly. Sylus let out a slow, amused breath.

“Mm. Jealousy,” he hummed, tilting his head back to glance at you, “or chivalry?”

“Ownership.”

Sylus laughed. Genuinely.

Later, back in the hovercar, you found a black velvet box tucked into your coat pocket. Inside: a new version of his crow brooch, this one shaped to mimic your silhouette, perched beside his.

When you looked up, Sylus was already watching you from the passenger seat, red eyes glowing faintly in the dark.

“Careful,” he said softly. “You keep spoiling me like that, I might forget how to be cruel.”

You smirked. “You won’t. But you’ll remember who let you be soft.”

He smiled then, smug, dangerous, yours.

𝘾𝙖𝙡𝙚𝙗 ⋆｡ ‧˚ʚ🍎ɞ˚‧｡ ⋆

The Farspace command deck was silent as you stepped onto the bridge.Not because you weren’t allowed there, no one would dare question your presence, but because you were holding something no one in the fleet had seen in years.

A bouquet. Sunburst lilies, warm yellow and orange, hand-tied with a silk ribbon.

Civilian. Soft. Beautiful.

Just like you.

A pair of lieutenants stared. One of them opened his mouth, caught your eye, and immediately decided oxygen wasn’t that important after all.

You moved past them without a word, boots echoing on the polished floor, until you reached the elevated platform overlooking the planetary maps.

He stood there, arms crossed, coat tails swaying with the artificial breeze. Black gloves. Tactical harness. That cold, unreadable expression that sent shivers through entire ranks.

“Caleb.”

He didn’t turn. “I told the bridge to hold all communica—”

The bouquet touched his shoulder.

“…What.”

You leaned up and gently tucked one of the lilies into the front of his uniform, right beneath the Farspace insignia. It didn’t match at all. That was the point.

“Colonel,” You said sweetly. “Your wife is here to pick you up.”

Finally, he turned.

His eyes were still that deep, eerie purple, but softened the second they landed on you.

“What are you doing here, Pipsqueak?” he asked, voice lower now. Loving. Curious.

“Bringing you flowers.”

“I can see that.”

“I missed you.”

Caleb blinked once. Then again.

“…You walked onto my command deck. With a bouquet.”

You smiled. “You’re still my Caleb.”

And somehow, that was the thing that broke him.

He stepped forward suddenly, wrapping one arm around your waist and pulling you flush to his chest. The bouquet bent between you.

“You’re insane,” he murmured into your hair.

“I know.”

“Do you have any idea what they’re going to say when I walk around with a flower on my uniform?”

“Yes.” You grinned. “They’ll say the Colonel is taken.”

He chuckled. Quiet, fond. The kind of laugh only you got to hear.

“…Come home with me,” he murmured, lips brushing your temple. “Before I do something unprofessional in front of my officers.”

You arched a brow. “Like kissing your wife?”

“Like clearing the bridge,” he said softly, “so I can kiss her properly.”

235 notes · View notes

holyblonded · 2 days ago

Text

ain’t no sunshine | chasing sunshine

pairings: barcelona femeni x teen!reader

summary: you get injured and start to loose your path

warnings: angst, but it’s hurt/comfort!

notes: this was written at 2am randomly so if you see any grammar mistakes, no you don’t🫡

Everything happened too fast. But that’s the way football is.

One minute, the ball was at your feet and everything was fluid—your run, your timing, the play unfolding like it was meant for you. The next, your body twisted the wrong way mid-challenge. A sharp crack, then a wave of pain so blinding you couldn’t even hear yourself scream.

Which made sense, because your cochlear implants had flown out on impact.

You didn’t even notice at first. Just that the sound was gone, the world muffled and distant like you were underwater. And that your ankle—your whole damn leg—felt like it was on fire.

You clutched it instinctively, curled up on the turf with tears streaming down your face. The panic hit you almost as hard as the injury. Shapes moved in your peripheral vision, blurry, fast, but you couldn’t hear a thing. It made everything worse. You couldn’t tell if someone was yelling for a medic or if it was just your pulse crashing in your ears.

Alexia’s face was the first you really focused on. She was crouched next to you, mouth moving, panic in her eyes. You couldn’t make out the words.

Then Irene appeared, kneeling at your side, signing quickly and clearly.

“Let them look at it. You have to let go.”

You were shaking, still gripping your ankle so hard your knuckles were white. The pain was blinding, but worse than the pain was the not knowing—not hearing, not understanding, not being able to ground yourself.

“Soleada,” Alexia said again, slower this time, making sure you could see her lips. Her hands gently wrapped around your wrists. “Sunny, let go. Let the medics do their job.”

You were sobbing now, gasping like the air wouldn’t stay in your lungs. Irene took over, gently prying your fingers off your ankle and placing your hands in hers.

“Squeeze mine if it hurts,” she signed.

You did. Hard. If it hurt Irene, she surely didn’t show it.

Two medics rushed in and began assessing your leg. You winced and flinched as they rolled your sock down and started palpating your ankle. You kept trying to sit up, to look, to move, but Alexia pressed a hand firmly against your shoulder.

“No, no, stay still,” she said, and though you couldn’t hear her, the message was clear on her face. You locked eyes with her and she leaned closer, tucking your hair out of your face, smoothing her hand over your curls in comfort.

They tried to lift you onto the stretcher. You panicked. Your whole body tensed, legs kicking, arms scrambling like they were going to carry you away forever. Your breathing turned shallow and fast, and you thrashed, “No, no, no!”

Irene had to help pin your arms gently as Alexia climbed halfway onto the stretcher with you.

“We’re coming with you. I’m not leaving. You’re okay.”

You felt their hands—warm, grounding. Alexia rested hers on your heart to calm your breathing. Irene stayed at your feet. You stopped fighting.

In the medical room, someone finally found your implants. One was in the grass, the other had landed in the side netting. Once they were back in and adjusted, the sound of voices flooded in all at once—doctors, equipment, someone asking you to breathe normally.

“I got you,” Alexia murmured from the chair beside the bed. She signed it too, just in case. “I’m not going anywhere.”

The medics ran a quick squeeze test and your yelp confirmed what they feared. They took an X-ray. The silence in the room afterward felt suffocating.

“It’s not a break,” the doctor finally said, glancing between you, Alexia, and Irene. “But it’s a high ankle sprain. Bad one.”

Your face crumpled instantly.

“No. No, no, no, please—how long?” you asked, voice cracking. “How long am I out?”

“Four to six weeks. Maybe more.”

You went quiet. Too quiet. Alexia shifted closer, placing a hand on your shoulder.

“Sunny, talk to us.”

You exploded.

“I just got here! I’ve been working so hard! This isn’t fair!” you yelled, your voice rising with every word. You smacked the blanket off your legs and tried to sit up, furious and heartbroken and not ready to hear the truth.

Irene put a hand on your knee, firm but calm. “You’re allowed to be upset, nena. But you’re not allowed to give up.”

“I’m not giving up,” you snapped, tears falling again. “I’m just… sick of always starting over.”

Alexia leaned in, pulling you into her arms like she had a hundred times before. You buried your face in her shoulder, fists clenched at your sides.

“You’re not starting over,” she said softly. “You’re just taking a breath.”

She signed it too. Slowly. Clearly.

“You’ll be back. I promise.”

You didn’t answer at first, just pressed your face deeper into her shoulder, letting the rhythm of her breathing pull you back down to earth.

Eventually, you signed back, fingers shaky and eyes red, “Okay. But I still hate this.”Alexia kissed the top of your head.

“Yeah,” she whispered. “Me too.”

Recovery wasn’t your strong suit. Not physically—you could handle ice baths and physio and resistance bands. It was the sitting still part that drove you insane. The not playing, not training, not feeling like part of the team. You’d wake up every morning half-forgetting your ankle was messed up, only to swing your legs out of bed and get immediately humbled by pain.

At first, you tried to tough it out in your apartment—barely two blocks from the training ground, a cozy little Barca-paid place that made you feel like you had some semblance of independence. You’d limped your way to the elevator and back, heating up whatever frozen food you could hobble to and telling yourself it was “fine.”

Except it wasn’t fine.

Alexia noticed first. She lived in the same building—coincidentally, which you swore wasn’t intentional, but she never confirmed nor denied—and she’d show up uninvited with food, meds, and that mom stare of hers.

“You’re not eating real meals,” she said one afternoon, peeking into your sad excuse for a fridge. “This is a bottle of water and four sauce packets.”

“I like my space,” you grumbled, refusing to meet her eyes.

Then Irene started texting you. Then Marta. Then Caro (forced by Marta.) Then literally half the team. Every conversation was some variation of: “Please move in with Alexia, she’s worried,” or “You’re not supposed to be healing alone,” or “We all know you haven’t washed your hair in three days, don’t lie.”

You resisted. For a while. Until they called in the nuclear option.

Your phone rang one night and you didn’t even think to check the contact until you picked up.

“Sunny.”

You froze. “Leah?”

“Why the hell are you playing hard to get with your health?” Her voice traveled within your implants.

You stammered. “I’m not—I just—”

“I don’t care. You’re moving in with Alexia. You need people. You’re a footballer, not a superhero.”

You bit your lip. You couldn’t argue with Leah. No one could. She was your national team captain and lowkey your big sister, and she knew exactly how to guilt-trip you with kindness and firm love.

“…Fine.”

“Good girl. And while you’re at it, eat a vegetable.”

So you moved in with Alexia.

It was… weird, at first. Not because of her—she gave you space, didn’t hover, only fussed when you actually needed it. But being taken care of? That felt foreign. You were used to handling things alone. Hiding pain. Hiding how deep things cut.

She made you tea in the mornings and helped wrap your ankle before physio. She always made sure your implants were charging. She’d help braid your curls on the days you couldn’t reach. She didn’t treat you like you were broken. She just showed up.

You’d lounge on her massive couch in her very aesthetic, very Alexia-coded living room, scrolling aimlessly or flipping through the weird cable channels. That’s what you were doing one random afternoon when she left to grab the mail.

You were mid-scroll, background noise humming from the TV. A sports talk show—nothing unusual. Until you heard your name.

You looked up. A panel of older men in suits, microphones clipped to their jackets. Your name was on the chyron in bold: SUNNY – INJURED YOUNG STAR.

At first, you sat up straighter, curious. But it turned fast.

One of the anchors chuckled. “I mean, honestly, what has she contributed, really? She’s barely played a full season—got talent, sure, but no discipline. Always injured, always something.”

Another nodded. “Barcelona took a gamble. She’s flashy, but unreliable. And as for the Lionesses—she’s no Russo, no Williamson. I don’t see where she fits in.”

“Right,” the first one said. “Lot of hype. Not a lot of product. What has she really done?”

You stared, frozen. The words crawled under your skin like poison ivy. You muted the TV without thinking, eyes still glued to their smug, dismissive faces.

What has she really done?

You grabbed the remote and switched the channel. Cartoons now. Colors, noise, nonsense. Anything but them.

The door opened behind you.

Alexia walked in, sorting through the mail with one hand, keys in the other. “You good?” she asked, glancing at you.

“Yeah,” you said quickly. “Fine.”

Her eyes narrowed, and she stepped closer. “You changed the channel fast.”

You shrugged. “It was boring.”

“Your face says different,” she said gently. She sat on the arm of the couch and tilted her head at you.

You hesitated. Shook your head. “It’s not a big deal.”

“Sunny.” Her voice dropped. Firm. Soft.

“I’m fine,” you insisted. If it weren’t for the doorbell ringing, you know Alexia would’ve pressed on. She went to answer the door but not before shooting a concerned look towards you.

Saturdays were for breakfast dates.

That was your tradition with Vicky—one that started back in your Barca B days and somehow stuck even when the two of you had grown into fully fledged first-teamers. No matter the schedule, the chaos, the jet lag, or injuries, you always found a way to link up at your favorite little café tucked into the corner of Gràcia, right after morning treatment or gym sessions.

This Saturday was no different. Except… it was.

Vicky noticed the second you sat down. Normally you came in with some cheeky comment about the waiters, or how the coffee tasted different every week. Normally you made fun of her ridiculous order—avocado toast with a side of “air,” as you called it. But today?

Today you sat down, offered a tight smile, and said, “Hey.”

Just hey. Vicky blinked. “That’s it? No roast? No ten-minute rant about the menu fonts?”

You half-laughed. “Guess I’m tired.”

She side-eyed you but didn’t push—yet. She launched into some ridiculous story about Salma and Patri getting locked out of their flat after forgetting the keys and their phones. You listened. You really did. But all your replies were one-word answers.

“Wow.”

“No way.”

“That’s crazy.”

Dry. Unbothered. Emotionally elsewhere. And Vicky knew you too well.

The car ride back to Alexia’s was quiet. You stared out the window, your foot propped up with a compression sleeve hugging your ankle. The sky was clear, the sun doing that warm, sleepy thing it always did in late mornings. You weren’t wearing your cochlear implants—you didn’t need them with Vicky driving and nothing else to focus on.

When she parked outside the apartment, she turned the car off and didn’t move.

You glanced at her. “We home?”

“Yeah.” She paused. “Sunny.”

Your stomach twisted.

“You okay?”

You blinked fast and reached for your bag. “Yeah. Totally. Just tired.”

“You’ve said that five times today.”

You turned, smiled wide, too wide. “I’m good, Vick. Seriously.”

She stared at you for a beat, like she wanted to say something else, but then nodded slowly. “Okay. But if you’re lying, I’m telling Alexia.”

You rolled your eyes and laughed, but it sounded weird. Too hollow. She didn’t call you on it. She just got out of the car.

You sighed.

The second time was with Ingrid.

She invited you over for a movie night at her place, just you and her and a stack of snacks she insisted on personally baking because “cinema popcorn is poison.” You’d usually laugh at her weird health-food superiority complex, but that night, you just nodded.

You barely touched your popcorn. You sat curled up on her couch, staring at the screen, but not really watching. The movie—a light comedy—was full of jokes, but you didn’t laugh once. You didn’t even smirk. Ingrid chuckled at something and turned to share the moment with you, only to find you completely spaced out, eyes glazed over, jaw clenched.

She paused the film.

“Sunny?”

You flinched at the sound of her voice, shook yourself out of the trance. “Yeah?”

She leaned in. “Are you alright?”

You nodded. “Mhm.”

“You’ve been… not you. This whole week.”

You offered her a small, tired smile. “Just bored. Being injured sucks.”

She didn’t look convinced. “If there’s something else, you can tell me.”

You looked down at your hands. “I’m good. Promise.”

She didn’t push. Just reached over and gave your shoulder a little squeeze.

You hated how her kindness made your throat burn.

The third time was Irene.

She picked you up for a lunch run—nothing serious, just grabbing food before heading to the training ground to watch the team practice without you. A week ago, you would’ve made at least six jokes in the car, bullied her playlist, and begged for an extra dessert.

But now? You sat in the passenger seat, arms crossed, your eyes locked on the window. Not angry. Just… gone.

Irene clocked it fast. She always did. As she parked the car in front of the café, she looked over and said, “Alright. What’s wrong.”

You hesitated. “Nothing.”

“Nope. Try again.”

You looked at her, forced the corners of your mouth up. “I’m fine.”

Irene didn’t speak for a second. Then she sighed and rested her hand on your knee. “You can’t lie to me, you know. I’ve known you since you were all elbows and oversized cleats.”

You laughed a little, soft, real, but still not enough.

She smiled. “You’re allowed to be upset.”

But you weren’t ready. So you shrugged and said, “I’m really okay.”

You got out of the car before she could say anything else.

But the words from that sports show stayed in your mind like a bad echo.

“What has she really done?”

“Flashy, but unreliable.”

“She’s no Williamson.”

Every time a teammate reached out, every time someone asked if you were okay, it took everything in you not to snap. Not because they didn’t care, because they did. And that made it worse. Because they were treating you like you mattered, like you still belonged, and your brain kept whispering what if you don’t?

What if you were just a phase? What if this injury broke more than your ankle? What if they were right?

Recovery was going steady. You were hitting all your marks—every stretch, every pool session, every painful rep with the resistance bands. You pushed through the stiffness, the soreness, the bone-deep frustration of being benched while your teammates played on. It sucked, but you were focused. Determined. You told yourself every morning that this was just temporary. You’d be back.

Alexia was your rock through it all. She kept things light when you were sulking, kept you grounded when you started spiraling. And slowly, the limp faded. The mobility returned. You even started ball work again—light touches, nothing wild, but still. It felt like progress. Like you were coming back.

Until the setback.

It wasn’t even anything dramatic. You just felt it—one small wrong movement in training, a tug that shouldn’t have been there. Your ankle lit up again, like someone was holding a lighter to it, and you just knew something was wrong.

The next day, the medical room was too quiet. The doctor held the scan results like they weighed more than her entire body.

Alexia was with you, sitting in the chair beside the exam table, arms crossed like she already sensed what was coming.

“Sunny,” the doctor started, gently, “you’ve re-aggravated the ligament. It’s not a tear, but… we’re going to need to pause your return to play timeline. At least another four to six weeks. I’m really sorry.”

That was all it took.

The walls started closing in, the room shrinking until your vision blurred. Your chest seized up. You couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t even think. The only thing playing in your head was that damn voice from the broadcast.

“What’s her contribution, really?”

“All flash. No consistency.”

“You can’t build a team around someone so fragile.”

You felt like you were suffocating. You didn’t even realize you’d started hyperventilating until Alexia stood up and moved in front of you, concern written across every line of her face.

“Sunny. Look at me.”

You couldn’t. You stared at the wall, trying to swallow the rising panic.

“Hey.” She gently reached for your hands, then placed one of them flat against her chest. “Right here. Match me. Just breathe with me, okay? In… and out.”

You tried.

At first it didn’t work, your body didn’t want to listen, like it had decided to betray you along with your ankle. But Alexia kept her hand over yours, her breathing slow and rhythmic.

“In…” she said, her voice low and steady. “Out.”

You clung to the sound of her voice. You focused on the rise and fall of her chest. Gradually, your lungs caught on. The shaking slowed. Your eyes welled with tears.

“There you go,” she whispered. “You’re okay.”

Once you were calm enough to actually look at her, she sat beside you on the edge of the bed, still holding your hand.

“Spill,” she said, not unkindly. “Something’s been eating at you for weeks. This… this is more than the injury.”

You opened your mouth to deny it, but the words didn’t come. They broke instead, fragile and aching.

“I saw this broadcast a few weeks ago,” you finally confessed. “Some sports anchors talking about me. One of them just… went in. Said I was useless. Said I don’t contribute. That I’m flashy but not dependable. That I can’t be trusted to stay fit.”

Alexia’s eyes darkened.

You kept going, your voice shaking. “I didn’t even want to believe it. But then I got hurt. Again. And now this. And I just keep thinking… what if they’re right? What if I’m not good enough? What if I’m wasting everyone’s time?”

Alexia didn’t speak right away. She didn’t need to. She just reached out and pulled you into her chest, wrapping her arms around you so tightly it felt like she was holding your broken pieces together with sheer will.

When she did speak, it was fierce. Steady.

“I don’t ever want to hear you say that again. Ever.”

You blinked.

“Sunny, you are not flashy. You are brilliant. You are one of the smartest players on the pitch. You see things others don’t. You scored seven goals this season before Christmas. You’ve saved our defense more times than I can count. You’ve created magic with Vicky and Patri like it’s nothing.”

She cupped your face in her hands, thumb brushing your cheek.

“Your worth is not defined by how many minutes you’re on the pitch. We don’t love you because you’re useful. We love you because you’re you. The same girl who’ll trash-talk a grown man one second and then turn around and share her last cookie with a ball kid. The same girl who plays like the ball owes her rent.”

That made you laugh. Just a little.

She smiled. “That’s more like it.”

You exhaled. Deep. Shaky. But it felt a little lighter now.

“You’re not done, Sunny. You’re just in a hard chapter. And I’m gonna be here, every day, until you believe in yourself again. Got it?”

You nodded slowly. “Got it.”

She bumped your forehead with hers.

“Good. Now let’s go ice that ankle and make the boys in the broadcast room eat their damn words.”

#woso community #woso x platonic!reader #woso fic #woso x teen!reader #woso x reader #woso imagine #woso #barca femeni x teen!reader #barca femeni x reader #barcelona femeni x reader #barcelona x reader #barca x reader #barcelona femeni #barcelona femeni x teen!reader #alexia putellas x teen!reader #alexia putellas x reader #irene paredes x teen!reader #irene paredes x reader #·˚ ༘ chasing sunshine

348 notes · View notes