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berrryparfait · 21 days ago

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take my cock, milady ! ˖𓂃 .⚜ ݁˖

♥︎ ︎ featuring: servant! caleb, sylus, zayne, rafayel, xavier x countess! fem-afab!reader

— ༉‧₊ᐟ premise: you are the beloved countess of a prosperous noble family, cherished for your innocence and grace. but no one is perfect, for in a secluded room at tonight’s social ball, something rather ungraceful is unfolding…

❝ but—we're not allowed! it's improper—! ❞

— ༉‧₊ᐟ tags/cws: [nsfw] pure smut, regency au, piv, creampie, indecent / semi-public exposure, dubcon, classist / sexist sentiments, forbidden attraction

— ♫₊ᐟ soundtrack: wildest dreams (from bridgerton s1)

✧ a/n: inspired by the lewd royal manhwas they don't allow on the naver webtoon app (and bridgerton, ofc) <3

It’s social season again.

You…dislike it. The wide, blinding smiles with little behind them, the stuffy ball gowns with far too many frills, the uncanny conversations about the weather you’re forced to endure… It’s all so tiring.

Here you are, in your poufy designer skirts, growing more anxious by the second. Your pink lace corset is squeezing the life out of your lungs. It wouldn’t be the most admirable display of manners, but you could really use some time alone right now.

You enter one of the empty study rooms down the busy hallway, suffocated and overwhelmed all at once. But what you don’t expect is your freshly-hired servant to follow you in…

“Are you quite alright, Milady?” You startle, surprised to hear another voice in the room with you. Male. Oh no. “Yes, yes, I’m just fine. Thank you, Caleb.” You politely request some peace and quiet, waving him away with delicate, gloved fingers. Let’s just say, it would be less than ideal if someone were to catch you alone in here with a man. A playful grin plays at his lips, and you freeze. How have you not noticed his ravishing good looks all this time? “It seems to me that you’re in need of a little release. A beautiful maiden like you must be…frustrated.” You pretend to misunderstand him, though you know perfectly well what he means. He’s right—being cooped up in the manor all day has left you dry, in every sense of the word. Heat pools in your core, though you try your best to ignore it. After all, it isn’t proper for a noblewoman to be consulting her servant on intimate matters like these.

His breath warms your cheek as he steps infinitely closer, and the throbbing between your legs intensifies. “Let me handle you, Milady…” he whispers, soft and alluring. Your body leans into his, even as your mind screams at you to shove him straight to the heavens.. His hands are on your hips, bunching up the fabric of your skirt— “This is improper— We can’t—” But instead of pulling away, you let yourself succumb to his ministrations, lost in the wonderful feeling of his searing touch on your skin. He’s planting wet kisses on your neck now, gently pushing you up against the wall as you sigh and wonder if anyone outside can hear you. “You’re wet for me, Princess,” he muses as he reaches a skilled hand between your legs, his thumb brushing against your nub of nerves. A small squeal leaves your lips. “Shh shh shh, they’ll hear us…” He pushes your skirt all the way up to your waist before freeing his large, erect cock, angling it so that the tip rests just between your folds. Your mouth hangs open as he pushes his length all the way into your sex—the first long, delicious glide of his dick along your walls like releasing a breath of relief. You fail to suppress a tortured moan, and he chuckles against the curve of your neck.

His thrusts are slow at first, unhurried. But then his grip on your waist tightens and your pussy clenches in response, the blinding pleasure overwhelming you. Distantly, you remember this man is your servant—a man without status or recognition—yet here he is, fucking you into oblivion at a ball with your back against a priceless, likely stained painting. He groans into your ear and your whimpers come out louder, prompting him to press a hand to your mouth and muffle your cries. “You’re going to go back out there…and act like nothing happened… You hear me?” he grits out between pants, holding your thigh up to pound into your cunt with unforgiving force. You come undone. Hot, sticky cum fills you to the brim while you shake and spasm like a hummingbird, the most euphoric sensation washing over you.

By the time he’s pulled out and gathered his composure, you’ve only just smoothed down your unruly mess of hair, your legs still trembling as you attempt to straighten your skirt. “Alert me whenever you’re in need of a little fun, Milady. I’ll make sure you never forget how it feels to be wanted again.” He winks at you, and your heart stills. His cum is still dripping down your legs when you return to the ballroom.

“Well, you look awfully pale, Milady.” You bristle at the deep, husky voice, unaware someone had followed you in. “Relax. It’s only me. I came in to check on you,” he pauses, examining the sleeves of his uniform. “Am I right to say that you’re a little…wound up right now?” He says it with concern, though a teasing lilt punctuates his words. “Sylus, we can’t be seen here together.” You say, panic rising in your throat. What will people think? What will your family say? Rumors spread like wildfire in high society—it won’t be long before your reputation is irreversibly tarnished. He merely snickers at your urgency, low and ominous. The smirk on his face is telling, though you don’t want to know what it is he’s trying to tell you. He steps closer to you, towering over your ribboned head with an un-servant-like ease.

Sparks ignite in your belly, a strange, filthy feeling that leaves you wanting more. His gloved hand brushes the side of your face as he tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. “I happen to know all the ways to satisfy a lady…” Your eyes flutter as he loosens your corset, every inch of your body responding to his touch. “The pleasure I’m capable of providing… Aren’t you tempted, Kitten?” And even though you know it's wrong, and you know it’s unbecoming, and that you’ll probably regret this the second it’s over, you breathe, “Yes…” He hums in response, trailing soft licks and kisses down the side of your neck as he wrenches your corset apart. Your plump breasts spill out, and his pupils dilate, his gaze fixated on your bare chest like an animal watching its prey. Hickeys bloom across your shoulder as his fingers twist your nipples, eliciting squeaks of surprise from you that only fuel his desire. “I’m going to bend you over, and you’re going to stay quiet. You hear me?” he orders, and you nod pathetically. As much as you hate the thought of submitting to your servant right now, the growing arousal between your legs is too much to bear.

You get on all fours on the carpeted ground, hoping to god no one walks in. The door doesn’t have a lock—it’s entirely possible for someone to stumble upon you like this. Impatient, he rolls your skirt up to expose your rear, and you shudder as he pulls your knickers down to your knees. “Wait— What if someone walks in—” But your protests are silenced by his rock-hard cock sliding into your pussy, the feeling of his girth stretching you from the inside sending waves of suffocating pleasure to your head. It’s obscene, the squelching noises echoing through the room as he plunges into you so fast and hard you see stars on the ceiling. With every thrust, his balls slap against your clit, and your eyes nearly roll to the back of your head. “Sylus— Slow down— I’m going to—” You moan into your elbow as he slams into you from behind, grunting and swearing under his breath as his cock swells.

Warm cum bursts from his engorged tip, the thick, viscous fluid leaking out of your pussy like syrup funneled from a tree. You collapse onto the floor, utterly spent. You were wrong—you don’t regret this one bit. “You’re free to take my cock whenever you’d like, Milady. After all, I do live to serve you.” The sardonic grin on his face nearly has you coming apart all over again.

“Is something the matter, Milady?” You recognize that voice. It’s your new servant, Zayne—the younger one. He isn’t supposed to be in here. “You looked a little pale earlier, so I took it upon myself to accompany you.” Your heart warms at his display of concern, though it does little to ease your distress over the situation. A woman must not be in the company of a man unchaperoned. “Can we speak outside?” The worry in your voice is clear. He walks up to you in an attempt to console you, his stride cautious. Right off the bat, you’d identified Zayne as “bright”. He’s hardworking, earnest, and never meddles in other people’s business. Today must be an exception. “Allow me to offer my help, Milady. I believe I know just the way to soothe a lady’s nerves. It’s…textbook.” Your stomach drops. He’s going to defile me—right here in this room! The indecency of it repulses you, yet you don’t head for the door. Your feet are rooted to the ground, completely helpless as his icy gaze travels the length of your body.

Gently, he guides you down onto the wide couch, settling you on his lap with a care that makes your breath hitch. “You’re my servant, Zayne—” But your efforts are futile. He’s dragging his hand along your thigh, his touch scorching hot as your skirt hikes up with it. You’ve never felt such powerful sensations before. It’s intoxicating. He reaches under your knickers and, with his thumb, begins to draw small circles on your most sensitive spot. You whimper in response, slickening almost instantaneously. How embarrassing..! “Does this feel good, Your Grace?” Your eyes respond for you, half-lidded and needy. It isn’t long before you’re grinding on his leg, chasing that sweet friction you now desperately need. Is he doing this on purpose? Drawing it out for your benefit?

He doesn’t torment you for long. Withdrawing his hand from between your legs, he pulls his pants down to his ankles and his twitching, hard cock springs free. You gape at the size of it, wondering if it’ll even fit. But that wicked, aching need in your core only grows stronger with every second that passes; the idea of him barely fitting sounds… To put it plainly, you're willing to do many unladylike things in this room right now. And though every last brain cell is telling you to get up and leave while you still can, you slide onto his cock anyway. It tingles so wonderfully where you’re connected in his lap—you give in to your body’s desires and bounce on it. “Faster, please—” he groans as you fuck yourselves silly on the couch, keeping your pace as best as you can and crying out each time his tip hits your sweet spot. People might hear us… you think anxiously, yet somehow your pleasure only heightens, the mental image if you and your servant fucking like rabbits in a room that doesn’t belong to you so thoroughly demented.

His dick throbs inside you, and your walls flutter. You both struggle to muffle your cries as he pumps his thick seed into your cunt, every part of your shaking so violently you nearly fall off his lap. “I sincerely hope that was…effective, Milady. Judging by your body’s response, I’d say you’ll be satisfied for a while. But when that satisfaction eventually fades…” His dick is still snug in your pussy, and you feel your walls tightening again. “Eventually” may come sooner than he thinks.

“Tough crowd, Milady?” You gasp and spin around. What? “You look like you’re about to faint.” Your new servant, Rafayel, stands by the closed door, a curious expression on his face. “I-I’m fine. Could I have some privacy, please?” you stammer, flustered. It isn’t acceptable for a lady to be hiding away at a social event like this, let alone with a male servant. So many things could go wrong. “Why? Don’t you think it’d be in your best interest to let off some steam?” He smirks at you, coy and sensual. There’s a hidden edge to him you’ve never noticed before—it’s making your knees weak. He tosses his gloves onto the floor and approaches you, slowly. Darkly. He looks like he’s about to give you orders.

“Face the wall. You’ll do as I say, won’t you?” He’s lust-drunk, hazy and hungry at the mere sight of you. The command—along with the aching throb between your legs— offends you, and you spit, “I am a noblewoman, excuse you—” “You’re a woman. And we both know you’re wet for me…” he whispers, sending shivers down your spine. Your body involuntarily arches against his, and he chuckles sadistically. Silently, you start to pray. You don’t know exactly what it is you’re praying for, but it involves his hands all over you and your mouth on his— Your sinful thoughts shock you, yet you’ve never longed for anything as miserably as you do this. Fresh arousal dribbles down your inner thigh as he corners you against the wall. At a loss, you glare at him defiantly. “You’re a nobody—”

You’re spun around and pressed up against the wall in an instant, the outline of his cock pressing against your ass. A started whimper leaves your lips as he nips at your earlobe, sharp and angry. “You’re gonna regret all that mouthing off, Princess,” he snarls, and your toes curl in anticipation. In one sudden movement, his pants are on the ground, and your skirt is pushed up to expose your ass. He shoves your undergarments to the side and thrusts his length into your sopping cunt, a firm hand restraining yours to the wall. The pleasure is euphoric, foreign—each jerk of his hips sending you into a mindless daze. His breath warms your cheek as he groans, and in the heat of the moment, he seizes your mouth, hot and hurried. “I think I’m going to—” But you choke on your words as a strained moan erupts from your throat, his dick hitting the ceiling of the sticky space inside you. What would the other nobles think if they saw you like this; all whiny and pathetic while taking your servant’s cock?

With one final thrust, ropes of cum drench the walls of your pussy, and the feeling of coming undone around his cock is indescribable. He grunts as he pushes his seed deep into your heat, his grip on your waist never loosening. Though you loathe to admit it, you needed that. You cling to his strong arms as you descend from your high. His voice is possessive, sinister when he says, “You’re mine. I don’t care who stands in my way. You’ll always be mine.”

“I couldn’t help but follow you in, Milady.” Xavier? What on earth is he doing in here? “It’s come to my attention that you haven’t been feeling your best tonight.” He’s naturally reserved and a bit on the no-nonsense side—you know that much. Surely he’s only here with good intentions. “No worries, Xavier. Just needed a little breather, that’s all.” His icy blue eyes lock on yours, and your breath catches in your throat. He looks…unconvinced. “Don’t look at me like that,” he murmurs, averting his gaze. Like what? There’s no one else in this room. Could he be…in heat right now? You frown at him, wary, and make your way to the door.

A hand reaches out to grab you by the elbow, effectively stopping you in your tracks. “What—” He pulls you into his embrace, his breaths short and labored. “You’re not leaving this room, Milady. I need to have you here.” He unties the ribbons holding your corset together, his fingers fumbling with urgency. You’re too stunned to move, yet you don’t yell at him or push him away. Heat pools in the pit of your stomach, an ache begging to be soothed. Your perky breasts are freed in an instant, swaying in his face before he latches onto your nipple and begins to suck at it like a man starved. The wet, sloppy licks of his tongue cloud your brain, and your pussy clenches. “Xavier, wait—” you protest, but he’s sucking on your other nipple right now, and your words die in your mouth. He’s clearly skilled, but you still can’t wrap your head around it. This servant of yours—a quiet, modest boy—is driving you to tears by suckling on your tits.

“Do you want my cock?” he asks, suddenly arrogant and crude. You nod obediently and let him pull you down onto the floor, shivering as he frees his hardened length and pushes your legs apart. You’re so wet it’s embarrassing, but it only seems to encourage him. He removes your knickers and presses his tip to your folds, the friction making your hips roll upwards. “Be patient,” he orders, and you nod once more. Slowly—torturously so—he inserts himself into your tight heat, making sure you feel every inch of his cock rubbing against your walls. You moan his name and flush hot, unused to the feeling of being this naked, this vulnerable in front of a man. He’s pounding into you seconds later, unable to hold back himself. Thrust. Thrust. Thrust. His control is slipping, and you’re paying the price for it. You feel so full, so dirty with his cock between your legs, like you’re committing an unforgivable sin that will bar you from heaven forever. But you don’t care—this is heaven to you. This is pure, inexorable bliss.

His movements stutter, and he blows his load deep into your cunt as you fail to muffle your screams. Your pussy spasms hard, your juices leaking onto the carpet in an obscene puddle. Can’t—stop—shaking— He helps you up, his hold around your waist steady. “I apologize, Milady. I-I couldn’t resist.” You stare at the cum gliding down your calf and consider making him your personal servant.

— ⋆˙⟡ ©berrryparfait

《 please do not copy / plagiarize / translate my works or publish them on any other platforms. 》

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missdynamighttt · 4 months ago

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asking bf! katsuki what he feels about prenups makes you fall in love with him all over again.

you were lounging on the couch, legs draped across katsuki’s lap as the tv played some random show neither of you were really watching. his hand rested on your thigh, thumb tracing absentminded circles while you scrolled through your phone.

the thought hit you out of nowhere, and before you could second-guess yourself, you blurted it out.

"hey, what do you think about prenups?"

katsuki froze mid-circle. his eyes shifted from the tv to you, brow furrowing. "the fuck?"

"a prenup," you repeated, sitting up slightly. "y’know, legal agreements before marriage, just in case things go south. if we get married."

"when we get married," he corrected automatically. his brows drew together. "why the hell are you askin’ me about prenups?"

you shrugged, fiddling with the hem of your shirt. "i dunno. i was just curious. a lot of people get them."

katsuki scoffed, sitting up straighter. "yeah, greedy assholes who don't trust each other."

"not always," you countered. "sometimes it's just making sure both people feel secure. it doesn't mean you don't trust each other. to protect assets, just in case—"

katsuki scoffed, cutting you off. "just in case? you plannin’ on leaving me or somethin’?"

your eyes widened. "what? no! i'm just saying—"

he made a face, the kind he always did when he thought something was bullshit.

"tch. i don't need some dumbass piece of paper to tell me what's yours or mine."

"'sides..." he shifted, his hand sliding from your thigh to your chin, tilting your face toward his. "everything i got's yours anyway."

your heart skipped a beat. "everything?"

"yeah. the apartment, the money, the dumb shit i spend on workout gear. all yours. even me," his thumb brushed over your bottom lip. "especially me."

you swallowed hard, warmth flooding your chest. "that’s... really sweet."

his lips twitched into a smirk. "yeah? so does that mean i get all your shit too? ain’t that how it works?"

you grinned. "sure. you can have my stuffed toy collection and my 2 digit savings account."

"fuck yeah," he said, voice dripping with sarcasm. "knew you were a catch."

you laughed, swatting his chest. he caught your wrist easily, kissing each and every knuckle. his face softened as he looked at you, calloused hand cradling the back of your head.

"don’t need a prenup, pretty," he said, quieter this time. "what we got... it ain't temporary. i'm all in. always."

your heart melted on the spot. "yeah?"

"yeah," he leaned in closer, his nose brushing yours. "if things do go south, we talk. ‘cause i’d rather die than let you go."

your heart stuttered in your chest. you were expecting some casual discussion, maybe even some banter, but instead, you got this—your boyfriend looking at you like he’d burn the world down before letting anyone take you away from him.

"...so, no prenup?" you squeaked.

katsuki huffed, pressing a firm kiss to your lips. "no fucking prenup."

"now quit talkin' about stupid legal shit and kiss me."

‎‧₊˚✧[ it's me, kia ! ]✧˚₊‧ ｡ﾟ•┈꒰ა ♡ ໒꒱┈• ｡ﾟ ‎‧₊˚✧[ more of katsuki ! ]✧˚₊‧

⋆˚࿔ kia's note ˚⋆ hii! inspired by @gojosprettyprincess 's post about opinions on prenups and thought this up >< i PROMISE i will do some requests before i get to the twitter porn links with katsuki^^ hope you guys enjoy!!

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daryltwdixon · 2 months ago

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Summary: You’ve never felt fully at home in your own skin, but that has never stopped Joel from showing you just how much he wants you. One night, you gather the courage to show him what you’ve been too afraid to share, and he shows you exactly what it means to be wanted, worshipped, and seen.

|| smut MDNI 18+, Joel is down bad in love, self conscious reader, no physical description (except 'soft belly') but reader is insecure of their body, no specific timeline, age gap mentioned but not specified, pinv, f!receiving oral, little bit of (f!receiving) ass play, dirty talk, praise kink, daddy kink, soft!joel, he calls you like every pet name in the book. some aftercare || notes: joel miller in reading glasses hello? dont kill me for being a little bit of a cornball in here. joel is a cornball when he's in love. Yes I know I wrote the word pretty a lot! That’s the point!!! Inspired by this request

Joel’s bed became home long before you were ready to admit it.

It’s where you feel safest. It’s where he tugs you into his chest first thing in the morning, rough hand splayed over your back like it belongs there, murmuring something low and sleep-thick against your temple. It’s where you read curled into his side at night, him propped up against the headboard in that worn old Henley, eyes flicking lazily over the pages of whatever book you handed him, while yours is gripped a little tighter, the latest thriller mystery that has your heartbeat ticking up by the final chapters.

He had told you to stop reading them before bed once, but he didn’t really mean it. Not when you curled tighter into him, not when your hand slid across his stomach and stayed there gripping him like you needed to be close to something steady, something warm. Something like him.

Joel loves you like this. Warm and soft and pliant in his bed.

It’s one of his favorite places. Not just for pressing you down into the mattress and filling you, not just for the pretty, breathy sounds you make when you’re too far gone to think about what you look like or where his hands are. No—he loves the quiet moments, too. The ones where your limbs are tangled up with his, hair a mess, lips kiss-swollen, your skin still carrying the ghost of his touch.

And every now and then, when you’re asleep on his chest or laughing at something dumb he said, he still finds himself wondering how the hell he ended up with a girl like you.

You’re so much younger. So much softer. He doesn’t know what you see in a man like him—older, rougher, carved from all the years you haven’t had to carry yet. You could’ve had anyone. But you chose him.

You’ve been together a few months now, and he still hasn’t wrapped his head around it. Still doesn’t know what he did to deserve your trust, your sweetness, your sharp quick wit when he least expects it.

He tried to keep his distance at first. Tried not to look too long when you smiled, not to follow the sound of your voice like a damn tether every time you were in the room. Told himself it wasn’t right. You weren’t for him. You were good. But you kept coming closer.

And once you started to pursue him—sweet and fearless and so goddamn certain—his resolve didn’t just crack. It collapsed.

The years between you didn’t matter to him anymore. The guilt didn’t matter. The voice in his head that told him to stop, that warned him he was too old, too jaded, too broken to ever deserve you—it all went quiet the second you looked at him like he was worth wanting.

He had to have you. To feel you, hear you, know you. So he gave in.

But there was still something there he didn’t quite understand, even now. Something that never quite leaves him.

Because every time he takes you to bed with the singular thought of getting you naked, of taking you until he gets his fill, until you’re trembling and wrecked and crying out his name—every single time, he sees it.

That flicker of hesitation.

He watches your shoulders shrink inward. Watches the way your hands move to cover your belly the second his fingers slip beneath your shirt. The way your breath stutters like you’re already bracing for something—even if it’s just his eyes.

You never say it out loud. You don’t have to.

And every time he settles over you, broad chest looming, palms sliding down your sides with reverent slowness as he lays you down on his bedspread, you ask him in that sweet, uncertain voice:

“Can we turn the light off?”

And Joel… hesitates.

Just for a second. Just long enough to take one more look at your face—flushed and perfect and lips swollen from letting him kiss them until they’re bruised. He always obliges. Always reaches over and clicks off the bedside lamp without a word, even if something in his chest aches as the room goes dark.

In the low moonlight, he can still see pieces of you. The softness of your belly. The curve of your thighs. The arch of your back when you start to melt beneath his touch. And he reveres it. All of it.

Worships you like you’re something holy.

But even in the dark, he notices everything.

The way your breath hitches when he kisses down your body—not with pleasure, but with discomfort. The subtle tension in your limbs when he trails his lips past your ribs. The way you squirm when his mouth lingers at the tender skin between your stomach and mound. Not because it’s too much. But because you don’t want to be seen.

And it kills him a little every time.

Because he wants to see you. All of you. Wants you to know that there is not a single inch of your body he doesn’t adore.

But still, like many nights before, he obliges you tonight and reaches over to turn out the light at your request.

The room falls into darkness.

Joel wakes to the warm and golden light of the morning, the kind where sunlight filters through the blinds in soft, slatted beams, pooling across the hardwood floor. The kind where the world outside feels far away, like it can wait a little longer while the house stays quiet.

His mind fully catches up to the scent of coffee and the soft creak of floorboards.

The bed is empty beside him, blankets still warm, your pillow carrying the shape of your head. He rubs the sleep from his face and swings his legs over the edge, the weight of last night still humming low in his chest.

He finds you in the kitchen.

You’re at the counter, barefoot, wearing nothing but his t-shirt—one of those older ones, soft and stretched out, the hem barely brushing the tops of your thighs. Your hair’s a little messy, skin still marked in places from where his mouth had worshipped you in the hours of the night.

You’re so focused on pouring coffee into your favorite mug—the pink one with the little chip at the rim, just big enough to catch your lip if you’re not careful—that you don’t hear him come in.

He steps in behind you, silent as ever, warmth radiating off his chest before you even feel his hands.

One arm slips around your waist, the other gliding up beneath the hem of the shirt you’re wearing—his shirt—until his hand splays flat across your stomach. His lips find your neck a second later, soft and unhurried, brushing along your skin as he breathes you in.

You stiffen, just a little. It’s not resistance, you could never resist him, but your body goes still beneath his touch, that automatic flicker of self-consciousness rising to the surface like it always does when he touches you in the daylight.

Still, you don’t move away.

Joel’s voice is low and rough in your ear, all gravel and morning warmth, “‘Mornin’, darlin’.”

You smile, small, a little sheepish, but it’s there. “Morning.”

His hand drops lower, fingers brushing the curve of your hip, then sliding up again, slow and lazy. His other arm tightens around your front, keeping you pulled against him as his lips trail from your neck to your cheek.

“Joel—” you murmur, half a protest, half a laugh, squirming under his touch.

“You look so pretty like this,” he says, voice thicker now, rougher with sleep and want. “So sexy in my shirt, honey.”

You go quiet. Not because you don’t like it. But because it still hits that spot—the part of you that flinches at being seen. You press your lips together, focus on the coffee in your hand, as if the words might disappear if you just don’t look at him.

But Joel sees it. Feels the shift. The way you tense ever so slightly when he calls you nice things. Like the words don’t fit, not yet. Like you still haven’t figured out how to wear them.

He kisses your cheek again, slower this time.

“I mean it,” he adds softly.

You nod once, a breath catching in your chest before you murmur, “I know.”

Joel leans in and kisses the back of your head, just behind your ear, then murmurs against your skin, “Put the coffee down for a second.”

You glance over your shoulder, suspicious but smiling. “Why?”

“Just do it, baby.”

With a soft sigh, you set the mug back on the counter. Before you can ask again, he’s turning you in his arms, hands firm but careful on your hips and over the shirt, as he spins you to face him.

He steps in close, real close, until the backs of your thighs press against the cabinets and his hands come up to cradle your face. Big, warm palms on your cheeks, thumbs brushing the softness there like he’s memorizing the way you feel under his touch.

Then his hands squish your cheeks between his hands, just enough to puff your lips out like a fish.

Your brows furrow as you try in vain to pull away. “Joel—!”

“Say it,” he says, dead serious despite the ridiculous hold he has on your face.

Your eyebrows knit further as you still. “Say what?”

He smirks, dipping his head until your noses bump. “Say: I’m pretty.”

You groan, giggling despite yourself as you try to wiggle free. “Joel, oh my god—”

He holds on, pressing exaggerated kisses to your squished face—your cheek, your forehead, your nose and your puffed out top lip. “Say it. Go on. I’ll wait all day.”

“Fine!” you huff, lips barely moving from the way he’s still holding your face. “I’m pretty.”

He grins, loosening his hold just enough so you can speak properly, though he keeps his hands right where they are. “Didn’t hear you.”

“I’m pretty,” you repeat, cheeks heating as you say it, soft and unsure but not sarcastic. Not deflecting.

Joel beams, eyes crinkling at the corners, kissing your lips as he loosens his hold on your face. “Damn right you are. Prettiest girl I ever saw.”

You can’t help but smile now, wide and a little bashful. You duck your head, but he catches you again, presses a kiss to your lips again, sweet and unhurried.

And when he backs away and you finally reach for your coffee again, cheeks still warm, he’s watching you like he’s already counting the seconds until he gets to do it all over again.

That night starts like any other night.

Late, quiet, the house dipped in soft shadows. The windows are cracked just enough to let in the evening breeze, the hum of cicadas drifting in with the warm air. Joel’s in bed already, reading glasses sliding down his nose, thumbing through the same page of his book he’s read three times without taking in a single word.

He’s waiting for you to join him, your book is still closed on the side table. You’d excused yourself to the bathroom before you could even cuddle up in bed beside him. You had said you needed two minutes.

That was fifteen minutes ago.

He figures you’re brushing your teeth. Or lost in one of your little bedtime routines—rearranging things on the counter or doing your 10 step nightly skincare. He doesn’t mind. He’s gotten used to your rhythms the more you stayed over. Grown to love them, even.

But then he hears the bedroom door open, and when he glances up, expecting to see you in one of your usual pajamas, his breath catches. You’re not wearing one of his big T-shirts or those soft cotton sets you like so much.

You’re standing in the doorway in white lace, delicate and sheer and almost ethereal in the low glow of the lamp light.

It damn near knocks the air out of him.

He forgets all about the book in his lap—doesn’t even feel it fall to the mattress as his gaze rakes over you, slow and disbelieving. His jaw goes slack as he removes his glasses and sets them on the side table.

The bra—he doesn’t know what it’s called, not that it matters—looks daintier and more delicate than anything he’s ever seen in his goddamn life. Feminine in a way that hits him right in the chest. It wraps around you like it was made for your body, hugging your curves in all the right places. The straps are thin, dipping into the softness of your shoulders, and the lace cups give just enough to let his imagination blur with what’s already in front of him.

The matching bottoms sit high on your hips, scalloped lace tracing the tops of your thighs, giving him a perfect view of the skin he’s only ever touched in the dark.

Your hair is pulled back behind your shoulders—intentionally, he thinks, like you wanted him to have the full view.

Your lip is tucked under your top teeth, and your eyes flick down for a second, uncertain—then back up again.

But then you smile.

Shy, but proud. Like you’re showing him something precious and a little terrifying. Like you finally believe, even just a little, that he might actually mean every word he’s ever said about you.

Joel shifts to the edge of the bed, jaw tight with restraint as he beckons you to him. Slowly, you make your way over, and he soaks in the look of your thighs as you move, the way your body is begging to be marked and taken. His hands curl against his own thighs like he’s afraid to touch you too fast, too hard, and shatter the moment.

But when you move to stand between his knees, and he lifts his eyes up to meet yours, you don’t flinch.

He lets out a long, shaky breath. Then his hands lift slowly, reverently, palms brushing along the outside of your thighs, up to your hips.

His voice is low, almost reverent. “Christ, baby… look at you.”

You let out a nervous laugh, eyes dropping for a second—but you don’t cover yourself. Don’t twist away like you usually do. You stay right there, between his knees, close enough for him to smell the soft scent of your lotion and whatever little perfume you’d put on just for him.

Joel lifts his hands, slow and sure, and holds your hips, warm, steady, splayed wide like he wants to cover all of you. His thumb strokes gently over your skin where the lace ends, just above your hipbone.

“You did this for me?” he murmurs, looking up at you.

You nod once, eyes still shy but glowing with something soft. “I wanted to. I…I know I usually…”

“I know,” he says quietly, thumbs stroking your skin under his touch. “Don’t gotta explain nothin’ to me.”

His voice is gentle, but there’s something else beneath it now. Thicker. Hotter. Like he’s barely keeping a lid on what he really wants to say.

You bite your lip again, tucking it under your top teeth as you gauge his reaction. Joel leans in, eyes never leaving yours, and presses a kiss between the valley of your breasts—slow, open-mouthed, just wet enough to make your breath stutter.

You exhale, body already leaning into him, melting under the heat of his mouth, the drag of his stubble, the way his hands are rubbing slow circles along your thighs. His fingers toy with the hem of the lace between your legs, pinching the delicate fabric between them, like he can’t decide whether to rip it off or worship it.

“You know what this does to me? What you do to me, angel?” he rasps, voice rough now, filthy and unfiltered. “You got me starin’ like a damn animal. Don’t even know where I wanna taste first.”

He kisses the underside of your breast, and even though it's covered by lace, he bites softly at the curve, tongue soothing the mark he leaves behind. His hands move to grip your ass tightly now, pulling you closer, positioning so your stomach and hips are flush against his chest.

“You’re so fuckin’ pretty, baby. Every time I think I’ve seen all of you, you go and give me this?”

His eyes flick up, hungry and reverent. You squirm, a tiny whimper slipping past your lips, but Joel doesn't back off. He presses another kiss to your stomach, then just above your belly button, murmuring into your skin.

“Timid little thing—but deep down you like it, don’t you? Like when Daddy talks like this?”

Your thighs twitch under his hands and you nod.

He grins, feral and soft all at once. His hands slide up your sides, palms hot and steady against your ribs, thumbs brushing the edge of lace as his mouth follows—slow, open-mouthed kisses trailing higher, tongue flicking against the fabric covering your breasts. His tongue pokes out over the lace of your bodice right where your nipple would be, teeth grazing over the hidden but pebbled skin. Your jaw falls open as you watch him.

“Goddamn,” he mutters, breath catching against your sternum. “You wore this just to drive me crazy, didn’t you?”

He doesn’t wait for an answer.

One hand lifts, fingers tugging gently at the strap of your bralette, sliding it down your shoulder. Then the other. His movements are careful, almost reverent, as he peels the lace down and away, baring you inch by inch.

And when your breasts spill free, his breath catches audibly.

“Jesus Christ.”

He sits back just far enough to look. Just for a moment. Just to see you.

“Prettiest fuckin’ thing I’ve ever laid eyes on,” he murmurs, thick with awe and heat. He brings his hands up to grip the flesh of your breasts, kneading them together, “Bet you don’t even know what you do to me, baby.”

You bite your lip again, that flicker of shyness still dancing across your face—like you have to physically restrain yourself from trying to cover the revealed skin. But no. Not this time.

Joel leans in and licks a slow stripe over one nipple, making you gasp. He drags his tongue in a lazy circle, then sucks it into his mouth, groaning low in his throat like he’s tasting heaven.

You whimper, your hands flying to his shoulders, fingers gripping him as your back arches on instinct.

“That’s it,” he growls, pulling back just to press a kiss between your breasts before taking the other into his mouth, this time sucking harder, leaving it damp and peaked from his tongue. “Let me hear you, baby. Wanna hear every sound you make when I touch you like this.”

Your hips roll against him, thighs trembling as you stand between his legs.

“Sensitive little thing,” Joel mumbles against your skin. “Just needed someone to show you how fuckin’ perfect you are.”

He kisses lower, down the underside of your breast, then back up again, licking softly, sucking just enough to leave the faintest mark.

“M’gonna take good care of you tonight, baby,” he breathes, dragging his mouth back to your nipple. “Gonna take my timeand take every fuckin’ inch of this sweet body. You gonna let me?”

You nod, breathless, voice caught somewhere in your throat,“Y-yeah.”

Joel looks up, eyes blazing, lips slick from kissing you.

“‘Yeah’, what? Tell me, honey.”

Your begin to squirm as you tell him, “I want you to, Daddy. Please.”

Joel groans like it physically knocks the air out of him. His hands trail back down your sides, slow and reverent, fingertips grazing the lace waistband still hugging your hips.

“You’re killin’ me, baby,” he murmurs, dragging his mouth lower.

He kisses down your stomach, tongue peeking out to trace the little dip of your navel, his hands smoothing down your hips and behind to cup your ass again, fingers squeezing tight. The lace panties are all that remain, soft and delicate, slightly damp already with your arousal. He noses along the waistband, breathing you in.

“Fuck, you smell so good,” he growls, teeth catching gently at the fabric. “Bet you taste even better.”

Your hands slide into his hair, tugging gently as he tongues over the lace, not pulling it down yet—just feeling you through it, his mouth wet and hungry over your hips and tummy.

You moan, your hips grinding against him again as he teases you, his one hand reaching down to drag his fingers over your clothed mound, the slick of your folds soaking through. He groans at the feeling before pulling back with a sharp exhale, looking up at you with wild eyes.

“On the bed. Hands and knees. Now.”

You blink, heart leaping, but you don’t hesitate. You scramble onto the mattress, crawling forward on shaky limbs until you’re positioned right where he wants you—on all fours, back arched, breath quick and needy.

Joel groans behind you at the sight, pulling his shirt over his head before dragging a hand up your spine, slow and heavy.

“Goddamn, baby. Look at you.”

Once he’s climbed onto the bed behind you, spreading your knees a little wider, he kneads at your ass with both hands, reverent and gentle. He settles his body lower, shifting on the bed until his face is level with your center. He drags his thumbs along the backs of your thighs, spreading them a little wider, groaning low when he sees how soaked the lace of your panties is—slick and clinging to your folds, a perfect puffy outline of everything he’s about to taste.

“Look at this,” he breathes, like it’s something sacred. “Fuckin’ drenched for me.”

You gasp when you feel his mouth again—not on your skin, but over the lace. A slow, deliberate kiss right to the center of you, hot and wet and perfectly placed. His lips part, tongue nudging against the fabric, teasing your clit through the sheer barrier.

It’s maddening.

He hums, the vibration making your hips twitch.

“Fuck, baby… I could spend all night like this. Kissin’ you through these pretty little panties. Smellin’ you. Feelin’ how worked up you are for me.” He nuzzles in deeper, breathing hot against you, licking a wide, slow stripe up the center of your heat—through the lace—then mouthing at it, sloppy and wet, soaking it even more.

You sob, spine arching, thighs quivering where they try to stay upright. Joel groans against you.

“Can’t believe you wore this just for me,” he mutters, dragging his tongue back down. “So fuckin’ soft. So sweet. Pussy’s beggin’ for it, ain’t she?”

You nod frantically, already breathless. “Yes—God, Joel, please—”

He chuckles darkly, biting gently at the fabric. “Please what, baby?”

“Take them off,” you gasp. “Please—need you.”

Joel pulls back, and you feel the shift in the air before you feel his hands—rough palms curling under the waistband of your panties, fingers brushing the skin of your hips as he peels the lace down slow. Agonizingly slow.

“Anything for my girl,” he says.

Joel’s broad, warm hands palm at your ass, kneading every inch as he situates himself behind you. He dips lower, mouth pressing open-mouthed kisses into the flesh of your left cheek, then the right, before his teeth sink down into the soft meat.

You yelp, hips jerking at the sharp nip.

“Prettiest noises too,” he murmurs into your skin, kissing the sensitive mark he left behind. His hands spread your cheeks, thumbs firm as they open you up for him—and when you peek over your shoulder, you find his eyes locked on your center, gaze dark and fixated, the pupils blown wide.

When he catches you looking, his eyes flick up to meet yours.

“She’s flirtin’ with me,” he says, grinning like the devil.

Your face burns, and you let your head drop into the pillows, hiding from the embarrassment that curls through your belly—hot and helpless, tangled with molten want.

Joel’s lips find your skin again, slower now, more reverent as he holds you open. His tongue drags between your cheeks, a deep, teasing stroke that makes your whole body tense. He kisses your slick folds with a wet, lewd sound that makes you gasp.

He hums, low and satisfied, then laps at your dripping arousal like it’s his first taste of water in weeks.

“And the prettiest pussy,” he rasps, lips brushing your folds. “You know that, darlin’?”

You moan, unable to answer, as his tongue pushes deeper. He flattens it and licks slow, wide strokes up your slit before circling your clit. His nose bumps your entrance, barely prodding, teasing you as his tongue works your clit in tight, filthy circles.

Your hips start moving without your permission, grinding into his face, seeking more.

Joel groans like you’re his favorite meal, tongue flattening again, letting you push into him.

“That’s it, baby,” he coos, eyes fluttering shut. “Ride my face.”

You mewl, your body bucking, wild and desperate, grinding into him like a goddamn bronco at the fair. Your walls flutter, your core pulsing with pressure as it builds, and builds, and builds.

Your thighs begin to shake.

Joel’s grip on you tightens as he takes over, tongue working your clit with expert flicks, fast and relentless.

The pressure in your belly snaps like a pulled cord, your spine arching as your orgasm crashes over you. You cry out, pushing yourself deeper into his mouth as you come, loud and wrecked, your fingers gripping the sheets.

Joel moans into you like he’s the one coming undone, tongue never faltering, coaxing every last wave of pleasure from your trembling body. Even as you start to come down, breath catching in your throat, he doesn’t stop. He just slows, letting you twitch and gasp and shake through it.

Then, you feel it. The warm, wet pressure of his tongue pushing up past your folds, over the skin between, then circling your tighter hole. You jump at the intrusion, a sharp gasp breaking from your lips—but the haze of your orgasm makes your body soft, receptive, already melting for him.

You whimper, hips twitching. Joel just groans again, closing his lips around your sensitive rim, suckling gently.

“F–fuck,” you whisper, unable to think, to move, to breathe.

He licks you there once more before planting slow, open-mouthed kisses up your spine, up to the small of your back, your shoulder blades, and finally your neck.

Then he’s curling over you, beard scratchy against your skin, his lips brushing your cheek.

“Turn around,” he whispers, voice low and rough, "Wanna see your face when I stuff you full a'me,"

You can’t help but giggle at the tickle of his scruff against your neck, still dazed, still boneless, but do as you’re told—twisting under him until you’re on your back, staring up at him.

Joel’s eyes, though dark with hunger, hold something else too. Something deep and aching. Something sweet.

And then, with that same steady tone he uses when talking patrol routes or fixing fences, he says, “Now. Here’s what’s gonna happen, sweetheart.”

His lips brush your jaw, then your ear.

“I’m gonna fill you up so deep, fuck you so full of my cock, my cum, me, that when you look in the mirror tomorrow, all you’re gonna see is how fuckin’ beautiful you are—‘cause you’ll still be wearin’ what I did to you tonight.”

Your chest heaves, the words settling deep in your stomach, curling there like heat and honey.

“Joel, I—” you start to say, only to gasp when you feel the hot, thick head of his cock nudge at your entrance.

“You feel this, honey?” he murmurs, pulling back to look down between you, voice rough and reverent. “Feel how bad he wants you? How bad I want you?”

You nod, gripping his forearms tight, your thighs falling open even wider for him.

He notches just the bulbous tip inside you and hisses at the wet heat.

“Jesus,” you breathe. “I feel it, Joel, I—I… pleasepleaseplease—”

“I know, angel, I know,” he pants, his thumb stroking your inner thigh, grounding you. “Now I wanna hear you say it.”

Your brain lags, thick with need, swimming in lust and love and the ache to just feel him.

“W-what?”

Joel watches you, eyes burning into yours.

“Say, ‘I’m pretty, Daddy.’”

Your whole body flushes, lips parted in disbelief, already whining at the way he just knows how to unravel you.

You groan wordlessly, bringing your hands to your face to hide. He is so on your shit list for this.

Joel chuckles darkly, pushing in another inch, and you whimper behind your hands.

“I’m waitin’, darlin'.”

You squirm under him, thighs trembling, skin turning hotter and hotter by the second. Every nerve in your body is screaming for him to move, to fill you, to do something.

But Joel waits. He always waits—until you give in, until he gets what he wants.

You lift your hands from your face slowly, eyes hazy, cheeks heated, lips parted. He’s watching you like a man possessed, one hand gripping your thigh, the other wrapped around his pulsing member with agonizing patience.

“M’pretty,” you whisper.

Joel’s brow arches, lips curling, “Not quite, sweetheart. You know how I want it.”

Your chest heaves. Your pussy clenches around just the tip of him, and even though you see the twitch in his jaw, he still waits.

So you gather your courage, heart pounding in your throat: “I’m pretty, Daddy.”

Joel’s smile breaks across his face, so bright and full of something so tender it nearly knocks the air from your lungs. It almost pulls you out of the heat of it, the haze of arousal, until your core clenches and he sinks into you just a little deeper.

You gasp, the stretch sharp and perfect.

He leans down slowly, hands braced in the pillows beside your head, lowering himself onto his forearms until his chest is flush with yours, until there’s no space left between your bodies.

He’s still not fully sheathed in you.

“Again.”

“I… I’m pretty, Daddy,” you breathe, voice shaky as your pussy tries to adjust around the thick stretch of him.

“The prettiest,” he nods, and his lips mold to yours as he finally pushes all the way in. Your mouth falls open with a gasp, the sound swallowed by his tongue slipping between your lips, hot and hungry, as he bottoms out. His balls press firmly against the slick, wet crevice of your ass, and the mess between your thighs is obscene—your arousal dripping, sticky and hot, soaking the sheets beneath you.

Joel groans into your mouth, loud and wrecked like its been trapped in his chest for hours. His hands come up to cradle your head, keeping you right there beneath him as he begins to move, slow at first, pulling out a few inches before rolling back in, the full weight of him rocking your body with every deep thrust.

“Shit,” he mutters, voice low and reverent. “Pussy’s so damn tight.”

He pulls out slowly again, then drives back in hard, enough to jolt you up the bed, the sound of it lewd and perfect. His brow furrows, eyes fluttered shut as he focuses on the way your walls cling to him.

“Fuckkkk,” you mewl as he continues sawing into you, filling you and stretching you around him, buried to the hilt.

Joel grins, feral and hungry, sweat starting to bead at his brow.

“Sound even prettier when you take my cock.”

He sets a rhythm—deep, grinding thrusts that hit all the way up, filling you to the brim. His body covers yours, chest brushing your nipples, beard scratching your throat as he nips and kisses every inch he can reach.

“Been thinkin’ about this for so long, baby” he grits out between thrusts, hips slapping against yours. “The way you’re always hidin’ yourself from me, coverin’ up like you’re not the most beautiful fuckin’ thing I’ve ever seen.”

Your hands claw at his back, your legs wrapping around his waist, trying to pull him impossibly closer.

“I got you, honey,” Joel pants, head dropping to your neck as his arms wrap around you, pulling you into him even tighter. “And you’re gonna start seein’ it for yourself,”

His pace picks up, rougher now, slamming into you with the kind of need that’s barely human.

“Gonna fuck you so full you forget every goddamn lie you ever told yourself in a mirror. Gonna make sure the only thing you remember is me—how you sounded, how you looked, when I wrecked this perfect little body.”

You’re gasping, whimpering, shaking beneath him, stars flashing behind your eyes as he pounds into you like he’s never going to stop.

“That’s it, baby. You take it,” he growls. “Take my cock so good, like the good girl you are for me. Fuckin’ made for me.”

“Joel—” you cry, voice breaking.

He lifts his head, eyes wild and tender all at once.

“Say it again, sweetheart. Tell Daddy how pretty you are.”

“I—I’m pretty,” you choke out. “I’m—fuck, I’m so pretty, Daddy—”

He loses it.

His hand slides under your thigh, hooking it up, opening you wider, deeper. His hips slam into you harder now, the rhythm filthy, brutal, perfect.

“I know, baby. I know. Look at you. My good girl, look so beautiful takin’ it so fuckin’ well.”

His other hand comes up to cradle the back of your neck, guiding you forward as he sits back—craning your head up so you can look down, see exactly where you’re joined.

Your mind barely registers the softness of your belly, too focused on the thick stretch of him splitting you open, the obscene way you take every inch. You both watch as he drives into you, slick and deep and devastating, a ring of your last orgasm glistening around his cock. The pressure builds again, white-hot and unbearable.

And Joel knows—he feels it in the way you clench, the way your voice goes high and desperate, the way your hands grip him like you’ll fall apart if you let go.

“You gonna come for me again, sweet girl?” he pants, fucking you into the mattress. “Gonna let Daddy feel you pulse around his cock?”

“Yesyesyes—Joel, I—please—”

“That’s it,” he snarls, “give it to me.”

You shatter.

Your orgasm crashes through you with a scream as he releases your neck, letting you arch your back, trembling as you milk his cock with spasms so tight it makes Joel curse, a broken sound from deep in his chest.

And then he’s coming, hips stuttering, burying himself to the hilt as he spills inside you, filling you just like he promised. His voice breaks on your name as he grinds through it, hands gripping you enough to leave bruises, breathing ragged.

Neither of you move for a long moment. Just the sound of your breathing, tangled and uneven. His chest heaving against yours. Your legs shaking around his waist.

His hand slides up, cradles the side of your face. His thumb brushes gently beneath your eye, even though you’re not crying—but something about the touch makes you want to. Makes your throat ache.

“Hey,” he whispers, voice all gravel and reverence. “You okay?”

You nod, eyes still fluttered shut, heart pounding. “Y-yeah.”

Joel presses a soft kiss to your lips—barely a touch, like he’s afraid of ruining you more than he already has. Then another, and another, until you're giggling quietly beneath him, too dazed to hold it in.

He smiles, the kind of smile he doesn’t show anyone else. The kind that barely reaches his eyes, because he’s still looking at you like you’re a dream that might disappear if he blinks too hard.

“Look at me, baby.”

You do. You always do when he asks.

“You’re so beautiful,” Joel murmurs, voice low and rough with what sounds almost like awe. “You know that?”

The words hit you deeper than they should. You suck in a sharp breath, trying to even out your breathing, but your lungs don’t cooperate. Your eyes dart away, suddenly misting and too overwhelmed by the intensity in his gaze—by the sincerity written all over his face. It's too much. Too close. Too real.

But Joel’s hand is already there, catching your chin gently, tilting your face back toward his. His thumb grazes the edge of your jaw, soft and steady.

“No,” he says, barely more than a whisper. “Don’t do that. Not tonight. Not after everything you just gave me.”

Your chest stutters, emotion building so fast and so sharp you feel like you might spill over with it. Your fingers twitch against his back before finally settling, drifting across his damp skin in slow, absent circles. You take deep, calming breaths to settle yourself. Breathe in, breathe out.

He’s still inside you, still heavy over you, like neither of you are ready to let go just yet. Your limbs are tangled, the air still thick with sweat and heat and something quieter—something softer.

The room is quiet now, the kind of quiet that doesn’t feel empty. Just your shared breaths, slow and unsteady. The low thump of his heart where his chest presses to yours.

Joel shifts only slightly, just enough to press a kiss to your cheek. Then another to your jaw. Then your temple. The way he moves is unhurried, like he’s memorizing you. Like he’s kissing more than just skin—like he’s kissing the pieces of you he’s afraid to speak out loud.

It makes your chest ache.

“You’re being so sweet,” you whisper, throat tight almost like it’s a secret.

His lips hover at your lips, pressing gently but not fully, “I don’t know how not to be,” he says softly. “Not with you.”

You close your eyes, pressing your face into the curve of his neck. His scent wraps around you—salt and skin and something warm and comforting that’s just him. The warmth blooms under your skin again, curling around your ribs, spreading down your spine.

“I love you.” he says, like it’s always been there, waiting. Like it’s not a confession so much as a truth that finally found its way out.

Your breath catches. Not from fear, not from panic, but from the sheer weight of it. The gravity. The sound of those words, spoken into the low light of the room while he's still buried inside you, holding you like you’re the most precious thing he’s ever touched.

Your eyes flutter open. You don’t move. Not yet.

Joel doesn’t either. But his voice dips low, softer now. A hint of uncertainty laces the edges. “Too much?”

You shake your head instantly, and your hands rise to cradle his face, looking up at him, fingertips brushing his temples like you need to anchor both of you in this moment.

“No,” you whisper, a tear finally escaping your eye. “No, not too much.”

Your fingers slide into his hair, tugging gently as you pull him down and press your lips to his. And when you pull back, your words are trembling but sure.

“I love you too.”

He exhales like he’s been holding that breath for years.Then he kisses you—slow and deep and home, his mouth moving against yours like he’s sealing the promise between your bodies.

taglist: @mrs-hardy-hunnam-butler-pascal, @anxiousscribbling

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

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dollishmehrayan · 6 months ago

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# BATBOYS WITH A SUNSHINE!READER ── .✦ ( basically batboys with a optimistic reader )

a/n: this was requested by anon (here) but anywayss i think I’m gonna do the world tour thing after my winter inspired fics/hcs end on like February 28th! (Dw i’ll still do the world tour thingy in between) but yahh also I desperately need writer mutals + mutals I mssg daily like I’m a very kind person idm if you dm me at like 4 AM, tags: (batboys x fem!reader)

DICK GRAYSON ── .✦

Absolutely smitten. Your optimism is like a magnet for Dick, who thrives on positivity.

He calls you his “little ray of sunshine” (even if you roll your eyes at the nickname).

If he’s feeling down, your relentless optimism is a game changer. “How do you do that? How do you make the world seem so… bright all the time?”

Constantly teases you, especially if you’re being overly cheerful during random moments. “Are you seriously smiling right now? We’re getting ready to head to bed!”

But secretly, he loves it. Your energy balances his occasional doubts && insecurities. (he lovesss positive people who live in their own world)

Dick starts picking up on your habits leaving little notes of encouragement, giving random compliments to strangers and realizes how much better it makes his day.

JASON TODD ── .✦

At first, he’s skeptical. He’s not used to someone so genuinely cheerful, and he might think you’re putting on an act.

“How are you this happy all the time? What’s your secret? Coffee? Dark magic?”, “I just like seeing the world differently, I’m a poet in my mind.”

But over time, he warms up to your positivity and even craves it (to a point he gets sad if you aren’t around for more than 4 hours). You’re the light that cuts through his darker moments and more sulking personality.

“I don’t know how you do it, but you make me feel like the world’s not completely screwed.”, “what did you say?-“, “Nothing go back to sleep.”

He pretends to be annoyed when you try to cheer him up after a rough day, but he secretly loves when you coax a laugh out of him.

Jason starts jokingly calling you his “emotional support sunshine.” He’ll tell Roy, “Yeah, they’re like my personal antidepressant.”

Will protect your positivity at all costs. If anyone tries to dim your light, they’ll have to deal with him.

TIM DRAKE ── .✦

Finds your optimism so refreshing. Tim can be a little too caught up in stress and overthinking, so your energy is like a breath of fresh air.

He’s constantly asking, “How are you so happy all the time? Teach me your ways.”

If you leave him little notes of encouragement, he’ll treasure them forever. He has a drawer full of them and pulls one out whenever he’s having a bad day.

Sometimes, your cheerfulness makes him feel a little guilty. “You’re so good, and here I am being a grump.” But you always remind him it’s okay to have bad days.

Tim loves how you bring optimism even to his most chaotic moments. “Yeah, sure, we’re being late, but hey, at least it’s not raining, right?”

He’d be a little overwhelmed by your energy at times, but he admires you deeply for seeing the good in everything.

DAMIAN WAYNE ── .✦

Damian does not know what to do with you at first. Your cheerfulness is a complete mystery to him.

“Why are you smiling? We are surrounded by incompetence.”

He pretends to be annoyed, but deep down, he finds your positivity oddly comforting.

Over time, he starts looking forward to your optimistic take on things. “Yes, fine, maybe there is a silver lining. Stop gloating.”

You have a knack for breaking through his tough exterior. If he’s grumpy, you’ll say something so genuinely kind that he can’t help but soften.

Damian secretly loves how you see the good in him, even when he doesn’t see it himself.

He starts to mimic your habits, like giving Alfred small compliments or trying to look on the bright side, but he’ll deny it if you call him out.

BRUCE WAYNE ── .✦

Bruce admires your positivity but doesn’t always understand it. “How do you manage to stay so cheerful in Gotham of all places?”

At first, he worries your optimism will make you naive, but he quickly realizes it’s your strength.

Your energy is a stark contrast to his brooding nature, and he starts leaning on it more than he cares to admit.

When he’s stuck in his head or doubting himself, you always know what to say to pull him out of it.

“You make it sound so simple,” he says after you give him one of your pep talks. But he smiles because somehow, you do make it simple.

You bring a sense of warmth and nostalgia into the Wayne Manor. Bruce finds himself more relaxed when you’re around, even in the middle of chaos.

He’ll never admit it to the others, but your optimism is one of his favorite things about you.

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theosbaby · 9 months ago

Note

Brother’s best friend!theodore smut please!! Super soft!dom Theo where he makes LOVE to reader. Perhaps shy!reader as well??

thank you so much for your request! i really loved this idea. i'm sorry that it took me so long to write this, but i've running low of inspiration lately. i hope you like it babe!

𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅ casually thinking about...

brother's bsf!theo taking your virginity

NSFW content ahead, +18

you can't believe you're actually making out with the theodore nott, sprawled on your brother's bed with theo between your spread thighs. his lips are avidly kissing yours, playful tongue delving inside your warm mouth as his hands roam over your gorgeous curves, fingers gripping your sides to tug you as closer to him as possible, not leaving even an inch between your bodies.

and you swear you're on cloud nine.

you're whimpering so prettily into his mouth, your body arching against his while you grasp his dark t-shirt between your slender fingers, the sweet flavor of your chocolate birthday cake still lingering on your plump lips as you return the messy kiss with equal fervour. the act is almost sinful —you're mattheo's little sister, for god's sake. not that he cares about it right now, anyways, not when your body molds itself so perfectly to his, like you were made for each other.

theo groans into the kiss, his hands sliding down to your backside to hoist you up against him. you gasp against his mouth, wrapping your legs around his waist, and you feel him grinding against the junction of your thighs, his own breath hitching as he feels your warmth through his jeans.

your pretty cheeks flush at the intimate contact between your heated bodies, your lips becoming sloppier as you struggle to keep up with him. this is the first time you're actually making out with a guy like this, and you're feeling embarrassed, nervous and excited all at once, which is kinda overwhelming.

he'd notice how your body slightly tenses beneath him. not wanting to make you feel uncomfortable, he slides his hands back to your hips to give them a gentle squeeze, trying to reassure you. he doesn't want to rush you if you're not ready —but oh how bad he wants to fuck you.

the kiss comes to an end, leaving you panting against his swollen lips, agitated. the way you find his deep set, blue eyes looking down at you when you open yours, makes you feel weak on your knees, the blush on your face deepening. he gives you a lopsided smile, his eyes glazed with lust as he brushes your long, soft hair out of your beautiful face.

"you okay, pretty girl ?" he'd ask, his voice husky, just to make sure you're not regretting what's happening. "are you enjoying this?"

the pet name he gives you makes you smile. "yeah," you whisper coyly in response, nodding slightly while your pearly white teeth sink into your bottom lip, which is a bit swollen from all the kissing.

"good," he murmurs against your mouth, "because i'm really enjoying it too." he pauses, his breath warm against your lips. "i was thinking maybe we could... you know... take things a little further?" he leans in and starts kissing your neck softly. "would you like that?

your heart starts hammering in your chest at his words, butterflies fluttering about crazily in your tummy, but you tilt your head to the side to give him better access to your throat despite your nervousness.

"we don't have to do anything you're not comfortable with, okay?" he reassures you softly, his hands squeezing your waist soothingly.

he continues planting gentle kisses on your neck, feeling you relax little by little against him. you let out a sigh, eyelids fluttering shut.

"i wanna do it," you admit, not being able to look into his eyes as you do, blushing, "just... don't tell anyone about this, my brother can't know."

you feel him smirking against your throat as he stops the gentle kisses, cupping your face to make you look at him; there's sincerity in his eyes as he says, "i won't, pretty girl."

"pinky promise?"

you'd extend your pinky, waiting for him to intertwine his finger with yours. theo smirks as he tenderly rubs the tip of his nose against your cheek, and he tangles his pinky with yours. "i promise."

he keeps kissing you for a bit more, caressing you over your clothes and whispering sweet nothings into your ear, before he starts undressing you with such care, as if he's afraid of breaking you. and you look so pretty while you're naked beneath him, just like a precious doll.

then, he'd spread your creamy thighs and ask for permission to touch you, eager to get his hands on that gorgeous pussy of yours, which is fucking soaked just for him, your juices dripping down your pink slit and onto mattheo's sheets —that fact has him painfully hard inside his pants. is he a perv? probably.

he's taking his time preparing you, thumb rubbing your puffy clit in tight circles while he plunges his thick, long fingers in your pussy. you're so fucking tight he struggles to push the first one in without hurting you, but after a few minutes, you're taking two of them like a champ, completely soaking his hand in your arousal when you finally cum on it.

theo can't take it anymore, seeing you so flustered and hearing your sweet little moans have him on the verge of bursting in his pants like a bloody teenager, so he withdraws his digits to start taking his clothes off too, and you whine at the loss. but the feeling of emptiness doesn't last long, soon he's pushing his thick cock inside your little cunt.

you're so slick that he slides in pretty easily despite the resistance of your tight walls, his dick stretching you a lot wider than his fingers. and it hurts a bit, but it's a sweet pain that has you whimpering as you beg for more. after a few thrusts, you're cock drunk underneath him, nails digging into his back and leaving scratches that he'll have to hide from your brother for the next few days.

he actually gets you to cum on his dick too, pussy milking him so good that he doesn't even have time to pull out. he spills inside you with a whimper, pounding sloppily into your spasming cunt to ride his orgasm as he stuffs you full of his cum.

more.

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emchante · 10 months ago

Text

thighs

masterlist | requesting rules

summary: daniel notices how much you love his thighs, yet are too shy to mention it. he shows you what you've been missing by not telling him before now.

WARNINGS: 18+ content, thigh riding, use of good girl, slight dirty talk.

wc: 1.9k

a/n: hi!! i’m super excited to start posting on this blog. of course, the first post had to be dedicated to daniel and his thighs, so i hope you enjoy! requests are open, so if anyone has any prompts or ideas, please send them into my inbox! + a massive thank you to @thef1diary for beta reading this, and inspiring me to start the account.

daniel knew you loved his thighs, it wasn’t exactly a well kept secret. he was sure all of your friends knew too. your eyes wouldn’t leave the meat of his thighs when they were on display – which was often, god bless the extreme heat of most places you travelled to for making him wear shorts everyday.

it wasn’t something that you spoke about often though, in fact, daniel realised you had never really brought it up yourself. you were shy, didn’t really like bringing such things up yourself. daniel usually had to coax what you wanted out of you, and tonight wasn’t any different.

daniel trailed kisses from the nape of your neck, up your jaw until he reached your ear. he whispered sweet nothings to you, telling you how beautiful you were, how he would do anything you wanted. your face was on fire at the wet kisses, the sultry tone of his voice already starting a fire in your belly. you tilted your head to give him more access to your neck, but he pulled away from you, causing your eyes to follow him.

he moved his rose-inked hand to cup your jaw, allowing his thumb to gently stroke your cheek. you leaned into his hand, enjoying any and all touch you received from him. you only had your eyes shut momentarily before daniel gave your chin a squeeze, causing them to flutter open again.

“for me to give you what you want,” he started, his voice low. “you need to tell me exactly what it is.”

you smiled at his words. daniel, ever the gentlemen, always doing what you wanted. it was never any different. “i just want you, danny.”

daniel let out a breathy chuckle, shaking his head as he looked down. you furrowed your brows, confused at his reaction. with a tilt of your head, you asked him what was so funny.

“you are,” he told you, looking back up. “always too shy to tell me what you want. always have to work for it to get it out, don’t i?” daniel explained, raising a brow with a grin. you felt your face heat up again, but it wasn’t due to arousal this time – not for the most part, anyways.

“what are you–” you had started to question him, but you cut yourself off with a surprised gasp as daniel moved you to sit on his right thigh. you looked to him for answers, but you were only met with a small smirk on daniel’s face.

“i see the way you look at my thighs, sweetheart,” he began to explain, moving his hands to rest on your hips. his thumbs rubbed small circles into them as he continued to speak to you. “you’re always looking when i’m in shorts, eyes always on me. you know how hard i get when i watch you squeeze your thighs together, all because you can’t contain yourself?”

your jaw dropped at daniel calling you out. you knew that you weren’t exactly subtle about your interest in his thighs, but his words made your full body heat up. you stuttered over your words, but you couldn’t get a coherent sentence out. all you managed to squeak out was a “sorry”, and it only made daniel laugh.

“sorry? for what?” he asked as he laughed, moving his right hand off of your hip to grab at your own. he moved it to rest on the fabric of his clearly straining shorts, making you gulp lightly. “you mustn't have heard me, your gaze gets me so fucking hard.”

you meekly nodded, not really sure how to respond to him. daniel knew what you were like though, he didn’t expect much else. he liked how shy you were, how easily flustered he managed to get you. moving his hand off of your own, he slowly ran it up your bare leg, allowing it to slip under your short skirt, smirking as his fingers grazed your clothed pussy.

“so wet for me,” he cooed, and you could only whine as his fingers were so close to where you needed them. you let yourself rut against his thigh once to show him you were desperate for him. daniel’s eyes darkened as he felt you move against his thigh, and he couldn’t contain the groan that left his throat.

slipping his fingers to move your underwear to the side, daniel’s left hand dragged you across his thigh once more to test it, and he couldn’t have landed the jackpot quicker. the feeling of your bare pussy against his thigh, starting to soak it due to how wet you were was all he needed.

“fuck, darling,” he moaned, his right hand moving back up to your hips so he could guide you through it. “you gonna ride my thigh? like a good girl?” he asked you, looking right into your eyes as he said it.

the friction of his thigh against your clit, along with the good girl caused a whine to escape your mouth. you nodded as you moved your hands onto his shoulders, gripping them tightly as you continued to rut against him, desperately lapping up the pleasure you got from your bare cunt against his tattooed thigh.

you suddenly came to a halt though, causing you to break out of the pleasure-bound spell you seemed to be entranced in. daniel’s brows were furrowed, his hands gripping your hips tightly so you weren’t able to continue your movements.

“danny please– let me move,” you pleaded with him, looking down at his thigh as you desperately tried to move your hips. his grip was too strong for you to fight against, and daniel only tutted, clicking his tongue to get your eyes to land on him.

“so now you can talk? i want verbal confirmation as soon as i ask you a question,” he told you, his hands squeezing your hips even tighter to make sure you understood. you were sure it was going to leave bruises tomorrow, but you couldn’t find it in yourself to care, in fact, the thought only turned you on more.

“i‘m sorry, dan,” you apologised, eyes pleading with him to continue so you could go back to what you were doing. he nodded, and repeated his question for you. “so, are you going to be a good girl and ride my thigh?” he asked you, eyes trained on your face.

you nodded again, but verbally confirmed it this time too. “yes, danny. i’ll ride your thigh,” you told him, making a small smile appear on his face. you tried to move your hips again, but daniel was still holding you in place. you whined in frustration, hopelessly trying to recreate the friction from moments ago but to no avail. he tutted, shaking his head at you.

“tell me you’ll be my good girl,” he commanded, eyes dark. one thing about daniel, he was always going to make you tell him you were a good girl. his good girl.

“going to be your good girl– but please dan, i need– your thigh again,” you plead, and if it wasn’t obvious by your constant attempts at grinding against your thigh, the urgency in your voice would’ve been a dead giveaway.

“alright gorgeous, you can have it,” he cooed, loosening the grip of his hands on your hips so you could move, but still holding them securely so he could help move you against him.

you couldn’t believe it had taken so long for this to happen, and it was so much better than any fantasy you ever had about it. each grind against his inked thigh sent sparks shooting throughout your body, the whimpers and moans escaping your lips were music to daniel’s ears as his dark, hungry eyes watched the way your body moved.

daniel groaned at the sight of your tits bouncing each time you rut against him, moving between watching them, and the facial expressions you were making due to the immense pleasure from his thigh alone.

“you look so perfect riding my thigh, sweetheart,” he started, making your eyes land back on his face as you focused on his words. “soaking it too, because of how fucking wet you are,” he groaned, and bit his lip at the moan you let out at his words.

he couldn’t stop himself from moving one of his hands up to your chest, toying with your hardened nipple through the fabric. the friction of the fabric, along with the touch of his thumb sent a streak of pleasure through you, head snapping back as you let out a guttural moan.

“can’t keep my eyes off these, either,” he continued, alternating between circling his thumb around your nipple, to squeezing the swell of your breast. “everything about you is perfect. made for me, weren’t you?” he asked, looking into your eyes for confirmation.

“made for you and you only, danny,” you sighed, panting as you felt yourself getting closer. daniel could tell too, your voice pitches up, and he feels your hand’s grip onto him tighter.

“such a good girl f’me. getting close, aren’t you?” he questioned, despite already knowing the answer. he just wanted to hear your needy, desperate voice say anything. you nodded frantically at him, high pitched whines escaping your throat.

“so– fuck, so close, dan” you breathlessly admitted, slightly angling your hips so your clit was getting more friction, and daniel knew you found a good angle when a sudden but pleasant moan escaped you.

daniel suddenly got an idea. “got an idea, sweetheart. it’s gonna help you feel even better, do you trust me?” he asked, waiting to see if you’d agree, or rather just let yourself finish like this. his eyes lit up when you squeaked out a please, hands gripping your waist a little tighter before he started to bounce his leg.

it was somehow better than before, a new experience which felt like absolute euphoria. you let out a shaky, breathy moan as your eyes rolled back, unable to control yourself any longer. daniel moved you back slightly, a little closer to his knee than his thigh, and it worked like magic, as it worked even better.

“fuck– yes, yes daniel–” you panted out, almost falling into the category of babbling due to how much you kept repeating almost incomprehensible chatter, too focused on the feeling of pleasure to respond properly.

“let go for me, c’mon. cum for me,” he coaxed you, feeling your thighs tighten around his own, before you came, chanting out daniel’s name as you rode your high. you immediately fell into daniel’s chest, body slouching as you sighed, smiling lazily when his arms wrapped around you.

it was silent for a while, the only noises being your heavy breaths until you recovered back to your normal state. daniel’s hand gently stroked up and down your back, leaving soft kisses on the crown of your head as he let you recover from your orgasm. you used your still shaky hands to push yourself up, meeting face-to-face with daniel as he smiled softly at you, leaning in to initiate a passionate kiss between you.

daniel carefully carried you into your shared bedroom not long afterwards, making sure you were a-okay before helping you get into fresh pajamas and getting you ready for bed. much to your dismay, of course, as you wanted him to clean himself up first, especially after the mess you made on his thigh, but daniel paid no mind to your whining, carrying on with his duties of making sure you were sorted for the night.

#daniel ricciardo x reader #daniel ricciardo x you #daniel ricciardo oneshot #daniel ricciardo smut #daniel ricciardo fic #daniel ricciardo imagine #daniel ricciardo fanfic #f1 smut #f1 imagine #f1 fic #f1 fanfic #formula one x reader #formula one fanfiction #f1 blurb #smut #em's filth

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caracalla-dondus · 3 months ago

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The Augusta

Pairing: Emperor Geta/wife!reader

Summary: Geta desires to give his wife the title of Augusta.

Dividers: cafekitsune

Author's Note: Probably not historically accurate. I read that the wives of emperors were not automatically given the title of Augusta and it inspired me to write this fic. I originally was going to write this fic for Caracalla because I feel like he would want to bestow his wife with every possible title he can give her but I decided it was time for Geta to have another fic written for him lol. Also for anyone who sent me requests, I am still working on them. I've just been a slow writer recently.

The night air was heavy with the scent of burning oil and incense. The festivities happening elsewhere in the palace were still alive with boisterous laughs and drunken voices heard distantly, the spirited sounds echoing throughout the halls. But the chambers of Emperor Geta were quiet. For once.

Geta lay in bed, his arm draped lazily over his wife’s bare waist, his fingers tracing random patterns on her skin. The warmth of the wine still lingered within him, though it was nothing compared to the intoxication of having her so near. He had always enjoyed the comforts of indulgence: wine, feasts, the pleasures of the flesh, but there were few things he truly valued. His brother. And her.

His Empress.

He turned his head slightly, watching her as she lay beside him, her lashes fluttering as she teetered on the edge of sleep. The soft glow of the oil lamps cast golden shadows on her skin. She was beautiful, always had been, but he liked her best like this: bare, undone, her careful words and courtly airs stripped away, leaving behind only the woman who had, against all odds, come to know him better than anyone.

Better than even Caracalla perhaps.

Geta exhaled slowly, shifting so that his lips brushed against her temple. He could feel her pulse beneath his mouth, steady and calm, as if she was still unaware of the weight of what he was about to say.

"I want to make you Augusta," he spoke softly, his voice low, rough with something between affection and ambition.

She stirred, blinking drowsily before tilting her head toward him, looking at him with narrowed eyes. "You’re drunk."

"Not drunk enough that I don’t know what I’m saying."

She pushed herself up slightly, resting on one elbow, her eyes scanning his face for any sign of jest. "Geta…" She hesitated, wary, as though the words were a dream she dared not believe in.

It was of course not unheard of for an emperor’s wife to be granted the title of Augusta. Sometimes the title would even be given to a sister, a mother, or a daughter. Not every wife of an emperor had received it, it was not a title lightly given. Simply being married to an emperor just made her be seen as an imperial consort with no true formal power with an unofficial influence over her husband. The title of Augusta would provide power, political and court influence, an elevation above all other women in Rome. She could even be put on coins. It was a statement that she was not merely the woman he shared his bed with, but the woman he ruled with.

Geta watched her closely, his hand sliding up to cup her cheek, thumb brushing against her jaw. "I mean it," he said. "You are my wife. You have stood by my side through everything. It is only right that you are honored as such."

Her lips parted, but for once, no retort came. Instead she let out a soft breath, the weight of his words settling over her. "And Caracalla?"

At that, Geta let out a short, wry laugh, rolling onto his back. "Caracalla will not care," he said. "My brother will be pleased with the celebrations the announcement of your title will bring”

She gave him an unsure look. Caracalla’s moods were unpredictable, but Geta had learned how to navigate them. His brother’s mind was fractured, constantly shifting between violence and childlike joy, a state worsened by the illness that slowly ate away at him.

"You truly believe he won’t oppose it?" she asked, testing him.

Geta sighed. "Even if he does, what will he do? I will not ask his permission. I will give you the title myself."

There was a moment of silence before she finally spoke, her voice softer than usual. "You would do that for me?"

He turned back to her then, his brow furrowing slightly as if the answer should have been obvious. He reached out, pulling her closer so that she was half draped over his chest, her weight grounding him in a way that nothing else could.

"I would do anything for you," he murmured against her hair. "You and my brother are the only people in this world who mean anything to me."

She pressed her forehead against his shoulder, her hand splaying over his chest as though feeling the steady rhythm of his heart. The weight of his promise, of his love, settled between them, unspoken but understood.

Outside their chambers, the palace still roared with life. But within the emperor’s bed, there was only the quiet certainty of a man who had decided what he wanted.

And he would see it done.

I have wife!reader being concerned about Caracalla's reaction because while I think he would normally be happy for his family, I feel like if he was in one of his moods he may occasionally feel even more inferior and even more sidelined.

#emperor geta x reader #geta x reader #emperor geta x you #gladiator x reader #gladiator fanfiction #gladiator x you

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couldeatthatgirlforlunch · 4 months ago

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Paint Me Red

Synopsis: You and Damian like horror movies for the same reason.

Pairing: Dark!Damian Wayne X Dark!AFAB!Gn!Reader

Tw: 18+ pwp; Kinda gore?; Cannibalism kink? Definitely hinted; Biting link; Blood kink; Fingering; Watching straight porn; Torture porn? It's all fake and no one’s suffering; Pain kink maybe; They are freaks and they are in love; Worshipping?; A hint of love-bombing? I repeat, they're freaks and they're in love, your honor; Mention of hipersexuality; Damian enjoys pain, gore and death, despite not killing anymore, Reader likes it too; Reader has long hair and is implied to be wearing a shirt or dress with straps and bare thighs; English isn't my first language.

Word count: 1,2k

Requested? No.

Extra notes: Inspired by the movie May and everyone who yaps about yandere!Damian being cannibal coded. I also love when someone writes Damian a little psycho, a little sadomasochist. And a Damian who worships his S/O is the best Damian!!! I recommend reading this while listening to Tear You Apart by She Wants Revenge. Not sure I like my writing here tho, especially the title, there were many good options that also seemed bad options

General masterlist

Damian was odd, you knew it from the start. Everyone who interacts with him knows it from the start.

That didn't stop you from being flustered when he confessed his — in his actual words — all consuming, undying love. You never thought anyone would actually use those words while declaring their feelings for someone, but as always with him, Damian was different.

And maybe you were different too.

You came back from your weekly date with him to the apartament you recently started sharing, despite being so young and having been dating for only a month when he asked. Your friends called it love-bombing. You had never heard of a more romantic term.

He took you to the bedroom as soon as you crossed the threshold, excited about a surprise he planned for you, but there was nothing different there, until he pulled his laptop out, fiddled with something, connected to the overhead projector you bought once on a whim, after watching a tiktok, only to realize it wasn't any better than just watching on your television or laptop. At least it wasn't as expensive as one would think.

Regardless, you still used it sometimes, even if for the sake of being spontaneous — and making your money worth it —, and your boyfriend was clearly looking for that.

You sat on the edge of the bed, and in less than a minute, Damian was sitting beside you, while a weird video started playing.

— I found it online, beloved. — Damian explained. — A short film, made by a group of independent artists, I think. — You nodded along, this level of cinephilia was not exactly your thing, but you did enjoy watching movies and leaving reviews on Letterboxd, if it caught Damian's interest, then it must be something.

— Yeah, very Texas Chainsaw Massacre. — You commented, not because it actually looked to be a horror movie, but more because of the quality of the camera, the eery atmosphere, and the scenario being filmed in the middle of nowhere. It seemed like an actually calm movie, but you knew something was up, there was only a young couple having a cute picnic.

Damian looked at you with wide, almost innocent eyes, boyish excitement coupled with some glint you couldn't identify.

— Exactly!

You felt some satisfaction and pride. You were the one who presented him with the classic slasher movies — one of your favorite genres — and were surprised by his eager acceptance of them, since a lot of them didn't have much quality. But he seemed interested in the death scenes and gore. Maybe it was the remnants of his childhood on him, but you didn't have that past and still related to him, much to his delight. He also commented about how unreal a lot of it was, from experience, no doubt.

It was almost cute. And hot.

Damian's hand laid on your thigh, while his thumb started rolling circles on your bare skin.

You let out a gasp when the girl in the movie, out of nowhere, bit hard on her boyfriend’s finger while he fed her a piece of pie with his hands. An exaggerated amount of blood started sliding down her lips and his hand, but he didn't scream, he just stared at her while she had mischief and desire in her eyes.

Damian's hand squeezed your flesh.

— How did you find this on YouTube? I'm pretty sure they wouldn't allow it there. — You wondered out loud, squeezing your thighs when the guy used his bloody hand to push the strap of her sundress down, revealing her supple breast. He leaned forward and peppered kisses down her chest, while pushing the other strap down, revealing her torso even more, until he bit her ribs’s flesh just as hard, face partially covered by her left tit.

Now, they were both smeared in lots of blood, from his hand travelling her body and the new wound.

— I did not mention YouTube. — He answered, and you hummed, paying extreme attention to the movie, intrigued, and half surprised to be turned on. But it was shallow, a thin layer of lust that went unnoticed by you, mistaken by intrigue and excitement.

You only noticed how hot you were, when Damian did the same thing to you. He slowly and deliberately got closer, pushed your hair back from your shoulder, and left wet, slow pecks down your neck, while pushing your straps down. You just stared at the images while he did his thing.

You were interrupted when he bit down on your shoulder, hard, leaving teeth marks, but not enough to bleed. You couldn't help the yelp of pain that escaped you by surprise, but didn't feel like reprimanding him when he soothed the feeling by still kissing you, and buried his hand between your legs, invading your underwear.

You opened your legs to give him more space, while your lips also parted to let out a deep breath, not out of nervousness, but anticipation. When you paid attention to the movie again, the guy was lying between the girl’s legs, leaving a nasty bite on her inner thigh. The blood dripped down and ruined her white underwear, but her boyfriend just started eating her out with the fabric still on the way.

Meanwhile, Damian played with your wet clit with his thumb while he inserted two fingers into your moist hole with ease, catching you both off guard with how wet you were with basically nothing. He had a hunch you would like his surprise, but not that much.

In need to let out some pent-up desire, he bit your flesh once more, this time above your breast. A low whimper of pain forced its way out of your throat. You looked down and noticed Damian's full-on boner.

You reached and pressed your hand against him, making him hiss and finally stop lapping at your skin, to look at you with desire. You kept eye-contact while rubbing him through his pants.

Damian pressed his lips to yours in haste, eager to taste your tongue while pumping his fingers faster and deeper against your walls, focused on abusing your sweet spot. The kiss was more sensual than ever, a dance which consisted in sharing heavy breaths, exchanged pecks, sucking lips and caressing tongues. While you both were like rabbits a third of the time, you being hipersexual and him being in love with you, the newfound shared taboo kink definitely turned things up a notch. And you expressed it by interrupting the kiss with a hard bite on his bottom lip.

Damian hissed like a cat until you let his lip go. When he glared at you, anyone would think he was livid like you just kicked his dog, but you knew him better than anyone. In fact, you were the only one to ever see him in the vulnerable side that came with intimacy, the only one he would ever want and trust to either lay beside his naked body, or willingly allow to leave a mark on his scarred flesh. Taste his muscles. Drink his blood.

He used his free hand to touch his lip, and found blood there. You licked your own, bright crimson and wet.

When he looked at you again, you wondered if you had finally ruined him for anyone else forever, and he made sure to paint both your faces red with a kiss, while he made you cum on his fingers.

Like, comment and reblog 🥰

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sp4ceboo · 5 months ago

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a/n: ok so. alpha deku. this was specifically inspired by this art here and here because. what the fuck man. this gave me severe brain rot. absolutely delicious artwork, belongs in museum.

tw: 18+, smutty, afab omega reader, a/b/o, alpha deku goes into rut, breeding kink (it's a/b/o, what were we expecting)

wc: 1.2k

Everyone knows when your alpha is close to his rut.

Since Izuku has risen on the hero rankings, ‘everyone’ has become anyone who happens to be watching the news that week. Citizens, villains, news reporters, hell, even his mother - they all know. It would be hard to not notice, not with the pheromones that practically ooze off him, and especially not with the way he acts.

Normally, the villains are the first to know. You always patrol with Izuku (he insisted it be that way, but you wouldn’t have been paired with anyone else with how obvious it is that the two of you work best together), and usually, you’ll divide and conquer any minor villains with ease. You’re ridiculously attuned to each other, able to communicate in battle just as well with your eyes as with your words, and it makes it pretty hard to mount a defense against.

All of that flies straight out of the window the moment his pre-rut hits; the hormones give him an extra edge, a strength derived from something primal, and his hindbrain takes control. Your mate is a force to be reckoned with already, but in pre-rut, he’s unstoppable.

You’re aware that he knows you’re perfectly capable of holding your own, but once his instincts take over, there’s no stopping him. He’ll break a villain’s hand if they come too close to you, flashing his canines and snarling keep away from my omega while he pumps out a ridiculous amount of pheromones. By then, they’re already running: it’s no secret that his threats aren’t empty when it comes to you.

The reporters are the next to find out, and you hope that the ones that get sent to interview you and Izuku while he’s in pre-rut get paid extra, because he’s impossible; once he’s sure the villains are successfully detained, he’ll latch onto you, curling an arm about your waist and wrapping himself around you from behind.

It’s worth acknowledging that Izuku is big, even by alpha standards. He’s fucking huge, broad shoulders and massive thighs, still bristling from the fight, and he dwarfs your frame entirely when he crowds into you the way he does. You’ve seen fan-made compilations, clips of him draped over you, nose buried in your hair as you answer reporters’ questions, captioned with things like ‘proof pro-hero Deku can’t get enough of his mate, if you hadn’t noticed already’.

You always politely smile for the cameras, but he has no patience for them. He never speaks during those interviews, instead drowning his restlessness in the familiarity of your scent, growling if anyone comes too close and only letting up once they retreat.

At that point, you already reek of him - well, more than you usually do - and when you feel that you’ve shown face enough, you excuse yourself. No one can refuse you, not when you have a more than just sizeable alpha hanging off your shoulders, glaring at anyone who might dare to object.

On the way home, you’ve made a habit of filing your request for leave from work (that is, if your manager hasn’t seen the news and already granted it). You’ve never been refused leave, but that doesn’t surprise you. The risk of having pro-hero Deku off patrol is nothing compared to having him half crazy, half feral and fully grumpy, supposedly watching over the city while in reality all he does is want after his omega.

Reliably, you’ll barely have gotten through the doorway of your home, struggling to close the door behind you, when he finally lets loose.

He’ll be all over you, hands tugging at your clothes while he laps at your scent glands, almost drooling as he breathes in your pheromones. Rut reduces your alpha to nothing but a mess. You won’t even be more than a metre into your house, and he’ll be grinding against you, fondling you, groaning in your ears and telling you sinful things: that you smell so fucking good, that he can’t wait to be deep in your sweet omega pussy.

They’re always dirty, the things he mumbles in your ears, but it always circles back to the same thing - I protected you so well, didn’t I, omega? I kept you safe, right? - and you nod every time, kissing him sweetly - yes alpha, of course you did - and tilting your head back to give him access to your throat, a display of trust, because that’s what he needs to hear. That’s what has his cock throbbing against your hip, achingly hard.

It’s what sets that part of him ablaze, just like you burn whenever he tells you that you’re such a good, pretty omega for him and that you take him so well while he fucks you through your heat. Yes, Izuku understands you can protect yourself, but he needs to know that he’s a good alpha to you, that he takes care of his mate and keeps you happy and safe and content.

The moment he hears that, he won’t stop until you're knotted and pumped full of his come.

He’ll take you against the first flat surface that presents itself (usually the wall of your foyer), slipping in easily because your body responds to him even before you’ve smelt his exquisite pheromones, your pussy all slicked up and fluttering for him. He won’t stop for days after that, ruining you on his cock over and over again, eyes rolling back in his head as he slurs about how he’s going to give you his pups, and though you know it won’t take because of your medication, sometimes you wish it would.

Right now, you lie on his warm chest, tracing the constellations of his freckles with your fingertips. Today his rut started no different from how it normally does, and he’s purring softly in his sleep beneath you, his warm palms splayed wide over your back; you smile at the occasional snore that leaves him. Your mate has been busy recently. You’re not surprised that he knocked out so quickly.

He’s fucked his knot into you already, and from where it sits snugly inside you, you can feel it slowly coming down. You don’t bother to lift yourself off him though - he’s far from done, and besides, he’ll just ease it right back into you the moment he wakes up.

You’ve heard people comment on how your Izuku is pretty high maintenance during his rut, that he should take suppressants to give you a break, but you wouldn’t have it any other way.

He stirs, and you watch his green lashes dip as he blinks his way back to consciousness; gently, he catches your fingers, his palm calloused against your skin, and lifts your hand to his mouth to press kisses your knuckles. Your lips curl up at the sight of him, unruly hair mussed, glowing in that way he does during his rut, and sleepy eyed, he smiles back.

Already, you can feel him stiffening inside of you, his body getting ready for another round. He cups your face in his hands, fitting his lips to yours, and you find yourself grinning into his kisses.

Yeah, you definitely wouldn't have it any other way.

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lisalamona · 4 months ago

Text

Lover Boy

. Summary: After years of stolen glances, unfortunate interruptions, and sneaking out of the palace, Telemachus finally musters the courage to confess to you, well… not without a little help, of course. . Pairing: Telemachus x gn! Reader . Warnings: None . Notes: This one had been rotting in the drafts for a while. You can all thank @selena-of-ithaca for inspiring me to finish it! I will probably be doing a second part of this closer to what the request originally was cause it left me thinking about some ideas I wanna explore Art taken from duvetbox's animatic of Legendary Stars devider made by @saradika-graphics, taken from this post

You can say what you will about love at first sight—that it's not real, that it's just an exaggeration poets use to get their point across. But for Telemachus, it was real. Way too real. He just didn't know it at the time.

The first time he saw you, he was just a boy, running from the suffocating walls of the palace. It had stopped feeling like a home—what it was supposed to be—and had become a den. He felt like a lone sheep trapped in a cave full of wolves, and there was no escape. He couldn't leave. He had duties, responsibilities. And most importantly, his mother needed him.

Ever since the suitors had stormed in, treating the palace and everyone inside it as if they were nothing, life had become unbearable. The halls were filled with laughter that wasn't joyful, voices that weren't kind. Every step he took had to be careful, every turn of a corner calculated, just to avoid crossing paths with them. It didn't matter that he was the prince, the heir to Ithaca's throne—his title held no weight with them.

He felt like he was drowning, even though he stood on solid ground.

So naturally, he went to the beach. Or at least, that's where he intended to go. Lost in his thoughts, his mind running rampant, he barely noticed where his feet were taking him. He was halfway down the docks when he collided with someone—hard. The impact sent both of you to the ground, and something clattered beside you.

"Are you alright?"

The voice reached him before he even opened his eyes. The blow had forced them shut, but when he finally blinked them open, the sight before him left him speechless.

At the time, he would've chalked it up to embarrassment. Maybe that was part of it. But looking back, he thought maybe—just maybe—he knew you were the one right then and there, even if he hadn't fully realized it yet.

"Uh... hello?" You waved a hand in front of his face. That snapped him out of his daze, but before he could speak, another voice cut through.

"Kid!"

Both of you turned in unison. A man stood at the edge of the docks—a gruff, towering figure with a bit of gray streaking through his hair. His arms, covered in calluses and old scars, looked like they belonged to someone who could crush a person with a single tap. But you knew better. You knew his heart was made of gold.

"What happened? Are you alright? I knew I shouldn't have let you hold the spears," the man grumbled, his deep voice thick with concern.

"Dad," you muttered, a hint of embarrassment creeping into your tone.

But he wasn't listening. He kept going, mumbling about how he should keep a better eye on you.

"Dad! I'm alright," you reassured him, then turned back to Telemachus—though at the time, you didn't know his name. "Are you?"

He nodded quickly, still a bit unsettled by the sheer presence of your father.

"See? Everything's fine." That seemed to calm the man, at least a little.

You rose from the ground, dusting yourself off before gathering the fallen spears. With one hand, you picked them up. With the other, you reached down and helped Telemachus to his feet.

Your father studied him with a keen eye. "What's your name, son?"

"Telemachus, sir." Anyone could hear the uncertainty in his voice.

Your father's brows lifted slightly. "The prince? What are you doing all the way out here?"

"I just wanted to take a stroll along the beach." Telemachus gestured toward the shore—a more desolate place, one few people ever ventured to.

"Oh, well, that's always a delight to see," your father said with a knowing smile. "Why don't you take [Name] with you? They love going there."

"Dad!"

Heat rushed to your face. That was all you could muster in your embarrassment.

"What?" Your father shrugged. "You could use a break. You need friends your age, anyway." He muttered the last part, but it was loud enough for Telemachus to hear—making your face burn even more.

That day was the first of many.

Over the next ten years, you and Telemachus built something unshakable—a bond carefully woven over time. And in those years, Telemachus came to a realization.

He liked you.

Really liked you.

He had always been hesitant to use the word love. He had never really seen it with his own eyes—not the kind poets spoke of. He had never met his father, and his mother had spent most of his life waiting, praying for Odysseus to return. He supposed the strength she carried was love, in its own way. But he had never seen it in action.

And the years had only made it harder. The suitors had grown more desperate, more dangerous, stripping away every ounce of his attention and confidence.

But then—after twenty long, agonizing years—his father came home.

Everything changed.

In the first few weeks, Telemachus watched his parents reunite. He saw the way they cherished each other, how they barely left each other's side. He saw love in the way they looked at one another, in the way his father reached for his mother's hand without thinking, in the way she smiled as if she had been holding her breath for two decades and could finally exhale.

And that's when he knew.

That's what he wanted.

He wanted to hold your hand, wanted to make you smile—not that he didn't already manage to do that. He wanted to wake up by your side, to trace soft, chaste kisses along your face. He wanted to look into your eyes and, without a single word, know that you both felt the same, that you loved each other.

The only problem was... he didn't know how.

And, gods, he was scared.

──────💗──────

Odysseus made his rounds through town, as he had made a habit of doing ever since returning home. He liked watching the people go about their day, seeing the town buzz with life. He took in every sound, every movement, every face. After spending so many years without proper human interaction, he had learned to appreciate the small things.

That, of course, didn't mean he didn't make time for his family. If anything, he dreaded the moments he had to spend away from them to tend to his duties. That was why, when his son volunteered to accompany him to the docks, he was ecstatic. His mind raced with possible conversation topics, excited at the rare opportunity to bond with Telemachus outside the walls of the palace.

But as they walked, it became increasingly clear that the conversation was more one-sided than he would have liked. Telemachus seemed distracted, his gaze scanning the crowd as if searching for something. Or someone.

Normally, Odysseus might have felt a twinge of disappointment at his son's lack of attention. But then he spotted you, helping your father unload the fishing boat. And then he noticed his son—staring directly at you, his hands fidgeting at his sides before he wiped them on his tunic, as if trying to get rid of sudden clamminess.

Oh. That explained it.

Odysseus' observation skills might have been rusty, but he wasn't stupid.

"Do you want to go talk to them?"

Telemachus nearly jumped out of his skin, his head snapping toward his father. "I— I already do talk to them! We're friends."

Odysseus raised an eyebrow with skepticism. "Friends?"

"Yes!" Telemachus insisted, a little too quickly. His cheeks, however, betrayed him as they flushed red.

"Then you wouldn't mind if I introduced myself?"

Telemachus gave him an incredulous look. "You're the king. They already know who you are!"

"Yes, well, I never personally introduced myself," Odysseus replied smoothly. "And any friend of my son's is a friend of mine."

And with that, he began walking toward you without waiting for a response.

"Father!" Telemachus whisper-shouted, but Odysseus—despite clearly hearing him—kept going, a determined pep in his step.

Panic surged through Telemachus. His father was about to make it so much worse. Desperately, he glanced around, looking for an escape. And then, without thinking, he ducked behind a stack of barrels, pressing himself against the wall in mortified defeat.

He wanted the earth to swallow him right there and then.

"Hello." Odysseus' voice snapped both you and your father to attention.

"Oh—hello, my king, what brings you to us?" your father said, immediately dropping what he was doing to give the king of Ithaca a respectful bow of his head. You quickly followed suit, though your own bow was a little sloppier in your haste.

Odysseus acknowledged both of you with a nod in return—once to your father, then once to you.

"I just wanted to meet my son's friend," he said casually. "Make up for lost time."

At the mention of Telemachus, your ears perked, and your gaze instinctively swept the area, searching for him. It was an unconscious reaction—but not one that went unnoticed by Odysseus.

"Is... is he here?" you asked, smoothing down some stray hairs without realizing it.

Odysseus' lips curled slightly in amusement, though his sharp eyes held something more calculating. He looked behind him, to where his son once stood. "He was. But he seems to have disappeared." His tone was light, but the glint in his eyes told you he knew exactly where his son had gone.

You huffed out a quiet laugh, shaking your head. "Sounds like him."

"Mm." Odysseus crossed his arms, glancing at you with a thoughtful expression. Then, after a brief pause, he gestured toward the town. "Care for a walk?"

You hesitated, glancing toward your father for guidance. He met your uncertain gaze with an encouraging nod.

"Of course," you answered, finally releasing your grip on your work.

Odysseus extended a hand to help you out of the boat. His grip was firm but not overbearing, a steady reminder of the strength he carried. You accepted his help with a small word of thanks, and he nodded in acknowledgment.

As you stepped onto solid ground, Odysseus and your father exchanged brief goodbyes, a silent understanding passing between them. Then, without further delay, you and the king of Ithaca set off down the worn path.

"Tell me—how did you and my son meet?"

"Oh, uh—he ran into me," you said, remembering the day vividly. "Literally."

Odysseus chuckled, nodding as if that sounded exactly like something Telemachus would do. "And you've been friends ever since?"

You smiled. "More or less. He's easy to talk to."

That earned a raised brow from the king. "Is he?"

You tilted your head, sensing a hidden layer to his question. "Once he warms up to you, yes. He's thoughtful, kind. He listens—really listens. Not just to respond, but because he cares about what you're saying."

Odysseus hummed, rubbing his beard in thought. "And what do you think of him?"

You blinked, caught off guard by the directness of the question. "I—well, I think highly of him, of course. He's my friend."

"Just a friend?" Odysseus asked, watching you closely.

You felt warmth creeping up your neck. "I—yes?"

He chuckled at your hesitation, clearly enjoying this far too much. "Well, I suppose time will tell." Then, as if switching subjects entirely, he gestured toward the boat growing smaller behind you. "You work hard."

"I have to," you said, welcoming the shift in topic. "It's not easy work, but it keeps me moving."

Odysseus nodded approvingly. "A strong back and a strong mind—both good things to have." He studied you for a moment longer before adding, "Loyalty is important too. My son, he has to be careful about who he trusts." You could sense something else in his words, more than a father concerned for his son, something personal.

You met his gaze steadily. "I understand. And I'd never betray his trust."

The weight behind your words must have satisfied him because, for the first time, Odysseus' sharp scrutiny softened into something resembling approval. "Good."

Then, without another word, he turned his head slightly and called out, far too casually.

"You can come out now, son."

A muffled curse sounded from behind some abandoned barrels.

Your face lit up with laughter as Telemachus sheepishly emerged from his not so secret hiding spot, his face redder than a pomegranate.

Odysseus clapped a hand on his son's shoulder, grinning. "A prince shouldn't cower behind barrels, Telemachus. Stand tall."

Telemachus muttered something under his breath that you couldn't quite catch. You, however, were too busy giggling to care.

Odysseus gave you one last, knowing glance before stepping back. "I'll leave you two to it, then."

And just like that, he strode off, leaving Telemachus staring at you, utterly mortified.

──────💗──────

"He embarrassed me!"

"You embarrassed yourself."

Telemachus stared at his father in disbelief, then turned toward his mother, silently pleading for help.

Penelope and Odysseus sat side by side on a wooden bench, a stack of parchment spread across the table before them. Penelope had been signing documents, her focus divided between the ink stained sheets and the arms wrapped securely around her waist. Odysseus, ever at ease, rested his chin in the crook of her neck, perfectly content to hold her as she worked.

Penelope glanced up at her son, amusement flickering in her gaze. "Your father just wanted to help."

Telemachus groaned. Of course, he knew that, but did his father really have to do it like that? "I didn't need any help."

At that, Penelope and Odysseus exchanged a look—one of those unspoken conversations only long-married couples could have. A smirk tugged at Odysseus' lips, and Penelope barely suppressed a laugh.

Telemachus narrowed his eyes. "I mean it!"

"I already told you, sweetheart," Penelope said, her voice warm with patience. "You just need to ask them."

Telemachus hesitated. "But what if...?"

"The worst that can happen is them saying no." Odysseus chimed in, casual as ever.

Telemachus huffed. "No, the worst thing that can happen is my friendship with my best friend being destroyed because of my stupid heart!" He dramatically pounded his chest before flopping onto his parents' bed, face first, as if trying to bury his shame into the linens.

Odysseus exhaled through his nose. "You just need to go over there, stand your ground, and be confident."

Telemachus lifted his head just enough to shoot his father a deadpan look. "Be confident? Me?"

Odysseus shrugged. "It worked with your mother."

"No, it didn't."

The response came in stereo. Penelope's tone was amused and firm, while Telemachus' carried all the exasperation of someone who had grown up hearing his father's exaggerated tales one too many times.

Odysseus blinked. "What? Of course it did!"

Penelope gave him a knowing look. "No, I fell in love with you because of your intelligence and because you were so unapologetically you."

Odysseus crossed his arms. "...And my confidence and persistence too."

Penelope hummed, tilting her head. "Ehhh... the good looks did help."

"Hey!" Odysseus gasped in mock offense before playfully patting her waist and pressing a soft kiss to her neck.

Telemachus rolled his eyes. Of course, he loved his parents. Of course, he admired their relationship. But gods, was it frustrating to witness when he felt so incapable of achieving the same thing.

How was he supposed to be confident when confidence had never come naturally to him?

How was he supposed to just ask you when the very thought of it made his stomach twist itself into knots?

His whole life, he had watched his father's legendary feats unfold in the stories of others. Odysseus, the clever hero. Odysseus, the king of Ithaca. Odysseus, who could talk his way out of anything. He was larger than life, a master of words, a warrior, a man who could fight off monsters and trick the gods themselves.

And Telemachus?

Telemachus could barely keep his voice steady when he so much as thought about telling you how he felt.

It wasn't just rejection he feared—it was the aftermath. What if things changed? What if it became awkward between you? What if you started avoiding him? What if he lost you entirely?

He couldn't risk that.

But at the same time...

He wanted what his parents had. The quiet affection, the easy laughter, the deep-rooted love that had endured twenty years of separation.

He wanted you.

And yet—he felt stuck.

"That's why you should be yourself," Penelope's voice pulled him from his spiraling thoughts. "You've been friends for a while. They'll understand."

Telemachus sighed, rolling onto his back to stare at the ceiling. "I can't be myself. Nobody wants that."

Odysseus snorted. "That's dramatic."

Penelope stood up and made her way to her son, gently touched his arm, her voice softer now. "Just try."

Telemachus swallowed, his heart hammering against his ribs.

Just try.

If only it were that easy.

──────💗──────

Telemachus couldn't get the interaction he had with you earlier that day out of his head. He had tried—tried so hard—to keep both his parents' advice in mind. He had finally gathered the confidence to tell you, rehearsing his words over and over, from the moment he woke up to the moment he finally said it.

Well... kind of said it.

You hadn't even heard him. And in that tiny, fleeting moment, all the courage he had painstakingly built crumbled into dust. When you looked at him with those oh so beautiful eyes and that perfect, heart melting smile, he panicked. The words he had prepared vanished like smoke, and before he knew it, he was scrambling to change the topic as fast as possible.

Now, as he replayed the disaster in his mind for what felt like the hundredth time, he decided it was both the smartest and most idiotic thing he had ever done. Smart—because he hadn't ruined your friendship. Stupid—because now he had to go through the agony of doing it all over again.

"You're distracted."

The sharp voice cut through his thoughts, making him flinch. His mentor, Athena, stood a few paces away, arms crossed, her piercing gaze locked onto him like a bird of prey. She had been watching his form as he attacked the training dummy, analyzing every movement, every hesitation.

Heat rushed to his face—not just from embarrassment, but because his mind had been so hopelessly wrapped around you. He swallowed thickly. "... It's [Name]," he admitted.

Athena let out a slow breath, attempting to mask both her amusement and her growing exasperation. She had seen this before—too many times, in fact. First with Odysseus, who had been equally lovesick, and now with his son, who spoke of you so fondly it was becoming predictable.

"Not again." She pinched the bridge of her nose. "I am not Aphrodite. I can't help you."

But her words only sparked something in Telemachus. His eyes widened, a flicker of realization lighting them up, and then—

A grin.

"But you're Athena! Goddess of strategy!" He straightened, excitement practically radiating from him. "We can strategize this!"

Athena stared at him, expression flat.

"Please!" In a dramatic flourish, he dropped to his knees, hands clasped together in a desperate plea. "Every time I even think of them, my heart feels like it's going to burst through my ribs! Every time I look at them, I can barely think! I love them. I can't take it anymore!"

Athena sighed, looking up at the sky as if seeking divine patience. This was going to be a long conversation.

──────💗──────

The plan was simple. Or at least, Athena had made it sound simple.

Step one: Get you alone. Step two: Lead the conversation toward something sentimental. Step three: Casually, effortlessly, drop the confession like it was nothing.

Easy.

Except, now that Telemachus was actually there—walking beside you through the sun-dappled forest, the scent of pine and earth filling the air—his entire brain had turned to mush.

You walked ahead slightly, arms brushing away stray branches, sunlight catching in your hair just perfectly. You looked so at peace, humming softly to yourself, completely unaware of the internal war raging within him.

He needed to start the plan. Say something smooth. Something clever.

"So... uh." His voice cracked. He cleared his throat violently. "D-Do you like trees?"

You stopped mid step, turning to blink at him. "What?"

"Trees," he repeated, voice slightly strangled. "Do you... like them?"

A pause. Then, you burst into laughter. "Telemachus, we are literally in a forest."

He groaned internally. That was not part of the plan.

Desperate to recover, he tried again. "What I meant to say was... um, people... people are like trees!"

You raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. "Oh? And how's that?"

"Uh..." He hadn't actually thought that far ahead. "Well, some are really tall! And, uh, strong! Like... my father." He winced. Gods, this was a disaster.

You bit your lip, holding back another laugh. "Right. So, are you a tree too?"

"I—" He blushed slightly at the idea you might see him as someone strong. He was spiraling. "I think I might be a bush."

That was it. You doubled over, laughter spilling freely from your lips, and despite his humiliation, Telemachus felt his heart swell at the sound. He loved your laugh. He loved—

Wait. He was supposed to be confessing, not making an absolute fool of himself.

"Why are you so nervous?"

"Umm, it's just—" Telemachus' eyes darted rapidly, searching for something—anything—that could save him. His gaze landed on Athena, perched in the form of a huge white owl on a nearby branch, watching intently. He gave her a desperate, pleading look. She only responded with a subtle nod forward, directing his attention back to you.

"Are you alright?" you asked, concern laced in your voice. You reached out, gently taking his hand in yours, forcing him to meet your eyes. Gods, you loved his eyes—the way they turned into molten honey when the sunlight hit them just right. At that moment, you cursed your father in your mind. He had hyped you up to finally tell Telemachus how you felt, only for the day to end with him having some allergic reaction or whatever was happening to him.

Telemachus stared at you, momentarily forgetting how to breathe. The way the light bathed your features, making you seem almost ethereal—it was unfair. Before he could stop himself, the words slipped out.

"By the gods, you are beautiful."

"What?"

"What?" His eyes widened slightly as if he could pretend he hadn't just spoken.

You raised an eyebrow. "I heard you. I just wanted to know if I heard right."

"Oh."

A thick silence settled between you. The air felt heavy, charged with something unspoken.

You swallowed hard, deciding to bite the bullet. "...I think you're beautiful too." The words tumbled out before you could second-guess yourself. Your heart hammered in your chest, but you forced yourself to push forward. "I like you. I like you a lot, and it's totally fine if you don't feel the same, I just can't hold it in anymo—"

"I do too."

The response came without hesitation, so natural it almost startled you. He took a deep breath, scanning your face for a reaction—some sign that he wasn't making a mistake. He found it.

His fingers tightened slightly around yours. "You are the first thing I think about in the morning and the last thing I think about at night." His voice was steadier now, more certain. "I try to find excuses to talk to you, to be around you, to hear you laugh—even if it's just for a moment. And I know I should have said something sooner, but I was terrified that if I did, I'd lose you."

The world around you blurred. The whispering leaves, the distant crash of waves against the shore, the rustling of Athena's wings—it all faded into the background.

"You won't lose me." you promised, squeezing his hand.

Telemachus let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. His free hand hesitantly reached up, brushing against your cheek as if testing whether this moment was real.

"Then, can I—" He stopped himself, but the question lingered in the air.

You smiled. "You can."

And with that, he closed the distance, pressing his lips softly against yours.

BONUS:

"Would you be mad if I let go of your hand?" "Why? What's wrong?" "It's really sweaty"

#epic the musical x reader #epic x reader #greek mythology x reader #telemachus x reader

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thequeenofcurses · 3 months ago

Text

Wounds Without a Name

True form Sukuna x f!Reader

summary: local villagers beg heian era sukuna to help them in a war. he refuses, so you decide to help them yourself (angst) words: 3.6k

context: so I was listening to music at work and this song came on and it really reminded me of sukuna's story. I def recommend checking it out! Also wanted to shout out this art piece by @xxnghtclls because it also gave me some inspiration for this.

tw: blood, war, death, angst, true form sukuna, heian era, established relationship. it's my first time ever writing TF kuna so plz don't be mean 😭

masterlist | jjk masterlist

The battlefield was littered with bodies. Left. Right. Forward. Anywhere one could look, their eyes would feast upon a massacre. Broken bloodied weapons on the ground. The faint echoes of groans from wounded survivors. With heavy losses on both sides, it was nearly impossible to tell which side won. Most bodies were unrecognizable from either the missing limbs or the burnt to crisp corpses.

The battle had drawn out into the night, the sun just starting to peak through the sky. The red-orange light forcing a calmness over the unpleasant sight.

He urged you not to go.

“Let them fight their war, woman,” Sukuna once grumbled, sitting on his throne. His head was lazily rested atop one of his four hands, yet his lower set of eyes never left yours. You stood right by his side, as you always had the past few months. “Their matters don’t concern us.”

“I cannot stand idly by while they massacre children,” you chided back to him. “If you won’t help them–”

“I said no!” he shouted. You didn’t flinch, even though everyone else on this planet would have. Sukuna may have never said those cursed magical three words, but you knew how he felt about you. Knew he would never truly harm you. Knew he treated you differently. Knew he let you get away with too much. “We’re not going.” He rose, then gave you an annoyed side-eye, before his stomach grumbled. “Uraume!”

“Lord Sukuna?” they immediately appeared to his side, bowing.

“Prepare our dinner.”

“Yes, Lord Sukuna.” The white-haired monk vanished, as quickly as they had appeared.

The royal kitchen bustled with servants searching for the ingredients Uraume requested to prepare dinner. Their instructions were quite specific as you had been feeling quite ill this last week. Or was it two weeks? Going on three? As skilled as Uraume was with reverse cursed technique, even they couldn’t pinpoint what was constantly making you feel so unwell.

Your stomach ached, craving a snack in the meantime before dinner is prepared. Unfortunately, your heart also ached while you thought about the people who were just in the throne room, weeks ago, begging Sukuna for his help.

“We will offer you anything, please–” the elder couple were bowing, heads touching the floor, as they begged for salvation. “Our enemy village is attacking us. They’re killing our men. Taking our women, our children.”

This was typical. Commoners from all over the land often came with offerings for Sukuna for something in return. If their offering wasn’t good enough, they’d often leave severely injured, if they were lucky to survive a cleave attack. That was what you were used to. But never had anyone yet, begged to save their children.

You couldn’t tell what it was, but something about this elderly couple’s begging tugged at your heartstrings. Children, the children.

To your knowledge, Sukuna did not want any offspring, yet you were too afraid to ever ask him that question. You may be his favorite, but that doesn’t necessarily mean he will change for you.

Week after week, different people from the elderly couple’s village came begging for deliverance. Each update was worse than the last. At first the enemy were only taking the children, now they’re killing them and everyone they get their hands on.

Regardless of how bad it got, Sukuna still refused to aid them.

The children.

The children!

Your heart ached day after day until you finally imploded.

“Uraume!” Sukuna shouted. “Prepare our dinner.”

Sukuna soundlessly started the walk to his private chambers, disrobing on the way there. He paused, turning his head to make sure you were following.

“I’ll be right there,” you called out.

He grunts, then continues his venture towards his room.

Although you've been sleeping in Sukuna’s chambers for quite some time, you still had your own room, where your clothing and personal items were kept. You quickly make your way to your boudoir.

The rain pattered softly against the window, but the storm inside your chest raged far louder. You sat on the edge of the bed, staring at your hands; hands that had done nothing but remain idle, sheltered under Sukuna’s protection, while others suffered. The weight of your inaction pressed heavy on your ribs. How many lives had been lost while you stayed here? How many more would die if you did nothing?

But leaving… it wasn’t just about sneaking past Uraume and the other servants or enduring Sukuna’s wrath. It was about what you would be throwing away. The safety. The stability. The certainty that, no matter what happened, you would always be protected under his reign. Sukuna doesn’t make promises, but you knew, with an unshakable certainty, that as long as you remained his, no harm would ever come to you.

And yet, you couldn’t stay.

You pressed a trembling hand against your stomach. A strange nausea had plagued you lately, but you’ve chalked it up to anxiety, to sleepless nights spent debating this very decision. If you left now, there would be no turning back. If you stayed… you might just drown in regret, knowing you had chosen yourself over the helpless.

A memory surfaced, unbidden. Sukuna, standing over a battlefield, blood splattered across his face, grinning. The bodies of men, women, even children, crumpled in his wake. And yet, that same bloodstained hand had once brushed your hair from your face with an almost unbearable gentleness.

He was a monster. But he had never been a monster to you.

Would that change when he found out what you had done?

With a deep breath, you rose to your feet. Back and forth, you pace your room. Thoughts of innocent children being slaughtered fill your mind. Death was something anyone close to Sukuna was forced to get used to. But Sukuna often killed people whom (for the most part) he had a reason to kill – if annoying him counts. Innocent children though? You’re not sure if you can let that go.

You had learned a thing or two about your technique from Sukuna and you often watched him and Uraume train together. With that knowledge and your little secret practice sessions with Uraume, you for sure could help those people.

You made your decision. You had to do something.

Sukuna usually bathes right before or after dinner and considering he was walking around naked when he left you, there's a good chance he's in there right now.

You decide to change clothing, putting on a thicker, but looser kimono and closed toed footwear, then head for the kitchen.

You peek in through the door, seeing Uraume slice up different meats. No doubt some of it was fresh “offerings,” from those village people. Aside from them, the kitchen was empty.

You noiselessly push open the door to slide into the kitchen. If all goes according to plan, you’ll be able to help the village.

You walk in, feigning extreme hunger.

“Y/n?,” Uraume questions, eyes narrowing. “Has something happened?”

“No–” you respond a little too quickly. “Uh, Sukuna just wanted me to check on dinner. He was growing rather impatient.”

Uraume frowns, but speeds up their chopping. “Supper will be ready soon. Though, he often doesn’t send you, as his messenger.”

“I too, was growing rather hungry…” you rub your belly, hoping Uraume believes you.

“Well it won’t be much longer,” they nod their head back towards the door. “Now if you’ll excuse me.”

“Wait, please–” you start. You walk closer, slowly, so as not to alarm them. “Those villagers that have been coming in lately…”

A silent stare, urging you to continue.

“I want to help–”

“No.” They turn away from you, gathering more herbs.

“Uraume, you must understand,” you take another step closer. “They’re killing children. And if I recall correctly, Sukuna mentioned he found you as a child.”

Uraume sighs, adding the meat to a boiling pot of water.

“I have been practicing my technique like you’ve shown me. I can fight. I can help them.”

“Lord Sukuna would never allow it,” Uraume finally faces you again. “If he knew I permitted you to leave, he would be enraged. It’s too dangerous.”

“Hmph,” you scoff. “Well that’s why I’m not asking.” Uraume’s eyes open wide at your bold statement. For the first time ever, they were truly shocked and flabbergasted. “I just need a weapon. Please.”

The determined look in your eyes was unwavering. You stared Uraume down with the confidence you gained from continually standing by Sukuna’s side.

Another low sigh. “Fine,” they surrender. “But I will have no part in this. We never spoke tonight. You were never here.” If that’s what it takes. You nod and follow them toward the training area of the shrine. As inaudible and quick as a ninja, Uraume slips into the room, then seconds later, returns with exactly what you need.

A twin pair of sai. You’ve practiced them on tree trunks and crows, but never a living human before. First time for everything. You place the weapons in your belt and tighten it along your waist for security.

You turn to nod to Uruame, a sign of thanks, but they're already gone.

The village under attack was only nine to ten kilometers from the shrine. You could get there within a couple hours.

You left with a small smile on your face. You'll deal with Sukuna’s rage whenever you get back. You're just glad you finally can use your newfound abilities for something meaningful.

The night air was crisp as you stepped beyond the safety of the shrine’s walls. For months, you had lived under Sukuna’s rule; his protection, his dominance, his affection. But tonight, you walked forward with nothing but your own will guiding you.

You knew the risks. Sukuna did not tolerate disobedience, not even from you. He would be furious when he found out, and his wrath was not something to take lightly. But you would endure it, because you could no longer sit idly by while innocent children were slaughtered.

The path down the mountain was steep, but you moved quickly, your grip tightening around the twin sai at your waist. The weapons felt both foreign and familiar in your grasp. The deadly tools that you had trained with in secret, yet never wielded in true combat. But there was no room for hesitation now.

You would fight. You would protect. And when the time came to face Sukuna’s judgment, you would stand tall, knowing you had done what was right.

One minute. Five minutes. Ten minutes! Where the hell is this woman? His woman.

Although, Sukuna was much too arrogant to say that to your face.

He sat in the bath, eyes closed, relaxing. Or attempting to relax. It was very rare he wasn't in the same room as you for very long. Besides, what could you possibly want to do aside from being with him?

It was going on twenty minutes and you still had him waiting. How terribly annoying.

Within moments a servant came knocking on his door.

“Lord Sukuna, Uruame has finished your dinner. Shall you and Lady y/n be eating in the dining hall?”

“Just bring it here,” Sukuna mutters.

Sukuna stands, the water cascading down his naked muscled form.

The same servant returns with two hot plates of food. They place the plates down on the table near the bed, all the while never looking up.

As they go to make their exit, Sukuna stops them with a wave of his hand.

“You there,” he started. Not like he needs to know anyone's name aside from you and Uruame. The servant freezes, her body visibly shaking. “Where is y/n?"

“I- I-,” she stuttered out. Their teeth clattering together.

“Spit it out.”

“I do not know. Uruame instructed me to deliver your meal since they had business to attend to.”

“Tch,” he reaches for the nearest long cloth to dry himself off. “Get out.”

Maybe you were upset at him that he yelled at you today. It was rare he ever got vexed with you, annoyed – very often, but genuinely irate? No.

Sukuna lazily throws on his yukata. The aroma coming from both plates smelled divine. Uraume never seems to miss when it comes to cooking.

It felt odd… Having dinner without you. Sukuna took a bite out of his meat. Cooked to perfection. A slice of human male torso, with a female’s palm and breast. Some of his favorite parts to consume.

He chewed but the meat quickly started to turn sour– or was that just his mood affecting the food. Where the Hell is that woman? His curiosity quickly started to turn into anger.

“Uraume!” He didn’t know or care what “business” they had. Sukuna wanted answers now.

Within moments, the snowy haired servant appeared in the doorway.

“Sukuna-sama?”

“Where is she?” He tried to chew, tried to savor the flavor, the smell, but every bite slowly started to turn bitter.

The shattered remnants of a ceramic plate lay at his feet, Uraume kneeling beside him in quiet apprehension. The silence in the room was suffocating, stretched taut with an unspoken fury that crackled like a brewing storm.

“She’s gone,” Uraume said evenly. “The servants—”

“I don’t give a damn about the servants.” Sukuna’s voice was low, almost calm. But Uraume flinched, recognizing the telltale signs of an imminent explosion.

A muscle in his jaw twitched. His fingers curled into fists, nails biting into his palms. He had known—known—you were reckless, that you let emotions dictate your actions. But this? Running headfirst into battle? It was the single most idiotic thing you could have done. Especially with your condition.

His lower hands twitched toward his stomach, a rare, almost unconscious gesture. Stupid girl. You didn’t even know. Didn’t know about the life you carried. His life.

And now you were out there, in the middle of a blood-soaked battlefield, fragile and unaware.

A slow, seething rage curled through his chest, suffocating in its intensity. He had half a mind to tear through every single soldier in that war-torn wasteland himself, not out of any sense of justice, he didn’t care for the politics of it, but simply to prove a point. To drag you back, trembling and bloodied, and make you understand that you do not get to leave him.

He inhaled sharply. “Where?”

Uraume hesitated. “Lord Sukuna—”

“Where.”

A beat. Then, reluctantly, Uraume murmured the name of the battlefield. Sukuna turned, striding toward the door. He would bring you back. He had to.

Ten kilometers. It wasn’t extremely far, but far enough he couldn’t sense you anymore. Far enough he couldn’t protect you. Damn it. Damn you.

He hasn’t felt like this in a long time. Not since her. That damn woman. He considers her more of a monster than himself.

“Stay here,” she whispered.

Sukuna had been too young to understand what those words truly meant. Too young to recognize the way his mother’s voice trembled, how her fingers lingered just a little too long on his face, tracing the sharp edges of his cheekbones as if she were memorizing them.

"I’ll be right back."

She had kissed him then, something she rarely did. Her lips were cold. He remembers that. Cold, and wet with the tears she tried to hide.

Then she turned and walked away.

And she never came back.

Sukuna learned to lie that day. Learned to smother the ache in his chest, to twist his words, his thoughts, his very being into something untouchable. Because if love only led to loss, then what was the point? If people always left, then why should he ever believe in their promises?

So he didn’t.

Not until you.

Yet here you are, trying to leave him too.

You should have stayed behind. That thought claws at Sukuna’s mind like a relentless beast, gnawing and tearing through his usual ironclad logic. Why didn’t you just listen to him!? He’s never been one to hesitate, never one to question the necessity of a fight—but this time, something festers in his chest, heavy and unnatural. It’s you.

He’s always known you were reckless, too willing to throw yourself into danger for the sake of others, before he saved you. It’s one of the things that made you so damn frustrating. But this time, it’s different. This time, it’s not just your life on the line.

Sukuna’s fingers twitch at his side. No one else knows. Not even you. He had sensed it before you started feeling sick, something faint but unmistakable; a new life, fragile and barely formed, nestled within you. His child. His heir.

And you’re running straight into a warzone.

The knowledge should have made him stop you. It should have made him tell you the truth, force you to stay behind, do something to keep you safe. But he didn’t. He let his pride, his cold logic, his damned belief that you were strong enough to handle anything—just like always—get in the way.

Now, as he prepares for battle, unease coils around his ribs like a vice. Sukuna isn’t a man ruled by fear, but right now, he’s afraid. Not for himself. For you.

And for the life you don’t even know you’re carrying.

The journey to the village is a quiet one, with Uraume silently following behind. There was no need to plan or think any further. Sukuna knew exactly what he was going to do once he reached that battlefield.

The battlefield is a storm of blood and screams, but none of it matters. Not to him.

Sukuna scans the chaos with razor-sharp precision, his instincts screaming that something is off. He should have found you by now. You should be here, tearing through enemies with that reckless determination of yours, throwing yourself into the fray as if you were invincible.

But you’re not here.

His heart, if he even has one, lurches violently against his ribs. His body moves before his mind catches up, cutting through bodies, ignoring the spray of blood and the desperate cries around him. The only thing he cares about right now is finding you.

Cleave. Dismantle. Cleave. Dismantle.

He slices and dices everything in sight, not caring whose side they were on.

Until he finally sees it.

A familiar figure, crumpled on the ground. Still. Far too still.

Sukuna doesn’t remember crossing the distance. One moment, he’s fighting. The next, he’s on his knees beside you, hands grasping at your body as if he can shake you back to life.

But you’re cold.

Too cold.

Something inside him snaps.

Heal. Heal.

He presses one then two, then four hands to your body, all infused with his overflowing cursed energy. He spills his life essence into you (again), yet you remain still.

Heal. Heal.

He looks toward Uraume who just finished freezing their attackers. Maybe if they both try reverse cursed technique, it may work.

Heal. Heal. Heal. Heal. Heal.

One of Sukuna’s hands grazes your lips. Cold and wet. Just like his mother’s that day.

You’re leaving him too. Just like her.

A sound rips from Sukuna’s throat; something raw, something primal, something wrong. He’s not the type to grieve, not the type to break, but as he cradles your lifeless body, he feels something inside him shatter beyond repair.

This isn’t supposed to happen.

You were supposed to live. To survive. To stay by his side, infuriating, annoying, and stubborn and alive.

His grip tightens around you, claws digging into your flesh, as if holding you close will somehow fix this, somehow reverse the unthinkable. But it won’t. He knows it won’t.

And then, it hits him.

The child.

His jaw clenches so hard it might break. His breath comes in ragged, uneven gasps, his entire body trembling–not with grief, but with unfiltered, world-ending rage.

They didn’t just take you from him.

They took everything.

A furious roar tears through the battlefield, drowning out the clashing of swords and the screams of the dying. The ground quakes beneath him as his cursed energy surges, turning the air thick with malice. His vision is drenched in red, his mind consumed by a singular, all-consuming need:

Vengeance.

He will burn this world to the ground. And he will make them all pay.

The battlefield is silent now. The stench of blood clings to the air, thick and suffocating, but Sukuna no longer tastes it. His blade is still warm in his grip, his hands stained with the lives he has taken. Corpses litter the ground, the remnants of his wrath, yet none of it matters. Not anymore.

You are gone. So is the child you never even knew you carried.

Sukuna stands amidst the ruin, but the rage that once burned inside him has been smothered, leaving behind something far worse: a hollow, endless void. He thought vengeance would bring him something. Closure, maybe. Peace. But there is no peace in this. No satisfaction. Only silence.

A familiar voice calls his name. Uraume. He barely registers them as they step closer, hesitant yet unwavering, the only presence left in the wake of his destruction.

“It's over,” they say, as if that means anything.

Over.

Sukuna lets his weapon fall from his grasp. It lands with a dull thud, swallowed by the lifeless ground beneath him. He does not move when Uraume reaches for him, does not resist when they pull him away from this graveyard of his own making. He feels nothing.

You were supposed to be by his side. You were supposed to live.

But now, there is only emptiness. A vast, aching nothingness that no amount of bloodshed can ever fill.

A/N MAN I WAS SO NERVOUS WRITING THIS 😭 It was my first time ever writing true form kuna and I'm not sure if I even did good (he's so hard to write!) 😭 I'm lowkey shaking, because I'm so in love with him and don't want to ruin his character or write him OOC. Welp. (I hope I made you cry, bc that was my goal) Also shout out to Ayron Jones, who's such an underrated artist. I hope you guys listen and enjoy the song! 🖤

ryomen sukuna

#sukuna #ryomen sukuna #sukuna x reader #true form sukuna #sukuna smut #sukuna x you #sukuna x y/n #jjk x reader #jjk #jujutsu kaisen #heian sukuna #heian era #uraume #angst #jjk x y/n #ryoumen sukuna #sukuna ryomen #im lowkey crying #divider by omi-resource

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highdramas · 2 months ago

Text

soft descent | dr. jack abbot

pairing: jack abbot x f!reader

warnings: language, age gap (reader is 30, abbot is 48), SMUT! (MDNI!), character death (off page prior to fic beginning), zombie apocalypse typical gore and violence

word count: 5588

summary: (zombie apocalypse au) the emergency team did everything you could to save PTMC when a new virus brought on the undead, but it simply wasn't enough. so, you set out for where you may be useful-- fort knox. you find something to live for as you do in the first month of the apocalypse.

notes: if you are under 18 do not interact with my work or this fic. you guysssss i am SO proud of this one! this is definitely the longest fic that i've ever written! it's romantic and sad and tender and sexyyyy! i'm heavily inspired by the first two seasons of the walking dead <3 this is really to give back story for some interconnected one shots in the soft descent series, so if you have requests, PLEASE i would love them <3

if there was anyone that you felt was capable of walking by your side through the end of the world, you think that dr. jack abbot is the one.

it’s not just that he’s capable– it’s more than that. you think that he’s built for this new life, in a way that you aren’t. he thinks with more practicality than you’ve ever been able to muster. you’d worked with him for years and barely knew him. you knew that he was intense. you knew that he could pin you down with a look that you would think about for weeks. you knew that his praise meant the world to you and that when you could feel the weight of his disappointment, you wanted to shuck it off instantly. you knew that he was a veteran and that it colored every part of his life and his work. you knew that he felt deeply for every person that he could not save. well, you didn’t know that. but you felt it.

and jack, as good as he is, could not save the pittsburgh trauma medical center.

it started with one or two sick patients. it ended three days later with the majority of the staff dead in the span of one shift.

and when it was becoming clear that there was no way out, no way to save everyone, no way to heal those who had been scratched or bitten… you all should’ve heeded the warning that had gone out days prior. leave the city. but he hadn’t. none of you had, because you felt the obligation to this city and this work and saving as many lives as possible.

it was a ragtag group of you that left PTMC that night. the roads were full of abandoned cars, so there was no choice but to go by foot. you. robby and abbot. dana. collins. langdon. samira. about six nurses. but there was so many you couldn’t save– their faces flash behind your eyes when you lay down to sleep at night. mel. whitaker. javadi. mckay. you’re still not over mckay. you don’t know if you ever will be.

you packed up all of the medical supplies that you could under the circumstances and began towards fort knox. having spent three days by foot, aiming for 25 miles each day, but at the same time stopping and gathering supplies wherever and whenever you can… you feel a level of exhaustion that beats out even a double in the pitt.

you’ve never known jack to be… sympathetic. he became your fearless leader in these first days, and you noted that being inspiring wasn’t exactly his strong suit. if he needed someone to give a speech, he oftentime left that to robby. but he said something that stuck with you, just as you left city limits, narrowly escaping with your lives. “we’re going to be needed now more than ever. most healthcare workers across this country have likely died. we have a purpose. that’s the only thing that’s keeping me going through this hell hole.”

you repeated that in your head, day over day– when you wanted to find a creek and lay in it and let the water wash over you. get to fort knox. save lives. make this all matter. but today was hard. it was your birthday.

it was so stupid. who cares about birthdays, anymore? you don’t know where your family is. you don’t know where your friends are. cell service went down before you even left PTMC. you don’t know if any of them are even alive anymore. you have no home, no place in this world– your apartment a forgotten relic to your past. your feet burn and your hands are dry. your stomach growls at you more often than not.

but you loved your birthday, back then. you even had tickets this year to see your favorite band. you remember thinking it as fate that they were going to be in town on your actual birthday.

the tears prick at your eyes. you set up camp for the night, the hot sun finally setting into the curve of the earth. you’re right by the water, allowing you to stick your feet in the river and feel peace, if only for a moment. you had been figuring out that the majority of walkers were still in cities. the disease had hardly touched the more rural areas, which made west virginia safer than most other places. “fuck,” you whisper to yourself, hanging your head, finally letting the tears fall.

you feel him beside you before you hear him. you start, your heart nearly jumping out of your mouth. his face doesn’t move a muscle. “sorry.” he groans as he sits beside you. he doesn’t say anything, but he looks at you. he notes the tears on your face, and for a moment, you think he might berate you for them. you feel like you should be berated. you’re so lucky to be alive– aren’t you? or are the dead the lucky ones? you’re not sure if you know anymore, but you feel like you should be fortunate for… something. “please. don’t let me stop you.”

face screwed up in disbelief, you look back out to the water. “i shouldn’t be crying.”

“and why not?”

“because i’m not even crying for that good of a reason.” you bring your legs up to your chest, resting your chin on your knees.

“let me be the judge of that.”

you look over at him with skeptical eyes. before and after everything that had happened, you hadn’t been precisely vulnerable with jack before. he must sense your hesitation, because he leans back. “you know, despite my reputation…” he stares at you with that same intensity. “i’m not as emotionless as everyone seems to believe.”

“i don’t think you’re emotionless,” you say instantly. “the opposite. you’re full of it.”

“oh yeah?”

“yeah,” you say, chuckling. “you’re… intense.”

jack hums at your examination of him, but doesn’t say anything else, leaving the floor open for you. looking back out at the water, you say, “i turned 30 today.” you press your lips into a thin line. “and i had all these plans– some friends and i got a hotel room for the night. we got a reservation at that nice new thai food place. my favorite band was going to be playing. it all was set up to be so… perfect. and then it wasn’t. and i just–” you blow a breath out, willing yourself to keep your emotions under control. “i’m fucking angry.”

your face goes slightly red, and something flashes behind jack’s eyes at that. “i’m so angry of what was taken from all of us. i’m angry that mckay died on my watch. i’m angry that we had to–” you wince. “that we had to kill patients. i know they weren’t there anymore, but–” you suck in a gasp of air. “i think i’ve been pushing it down, you know? focusing on what needed to be done. who we could save. getting somewhere that we can be useful. but what’s the point of being useful anymore? why save people when there’s hardly a world worth coming back to?”

“be angry,” jack says, resolutely. “i’m angry. and i don’t know if i’ve got anything encouraging to say to you other than that. that i know. and i feel it too.” a piece of hair has fallen into your face, and you flinch when jack moves to push it back behind your ear. this amuses him; the corner of his mouth turns up. “am i that bad?”

“no,” you say immediately, shaking your head. you use the back of your hand to brush away your tears, sending him an inquisitive look. “i just appreciate you checking on me.”

“don’t like seeing you upset,” he says. “you look like someone just stepped on a puppy in front of you.”

you gape at him and you again get that hint of a smile on his face. you don’t know if you’ll ever get him to grin, but you think you could live with what he gives you. you think a half smile from jack abbot is worth more than a belly laugh from anyone else. “wow.”

“i’m kiddin’,” he leans into you, brushing your shoulder with his. you settle into comfortable silence, staring out into the water. the sound of it comforts you, as does the chirping of crickets nestled in the brush. for as horrific as this all is– it’s beautiful here. as much as your back hurts from carrying your pack day over day, when you lay down and stare up at a sky full of stars… maybe there is something to hope for.

“does this remind you of being out on the field?” you ask. the question had been rattling around in your head for awhile– you’d heard some of the stories of jack’s days in the military. he was unstoppable. the intensity that he carries with him is well earned, if all the stories are true. you’d probably be intense and stoic, too.

sighing, he hangs his head. “yeah.” he swings his head over towards you. “it does. being stretched thin. never knowing what you’re going to see next. not knowing if you’re going to wake up and everyone you’ve gotten close to is dead.” he pauses. “or undead.”

you can’t help it. you laugh. “i’m sorry, i’m not laughing at you, i just–” he furrows his brows as you grab your stomach, falling back into the grass. “it’s crazy. this is all so fucking crazy. undead. fucking undead.” you wipe a tear from the corner of your eye. “oh my god, my stomach hurts.”

you continue to giggle, eyes shut, and jack hovers slightly over you. when you open your eyes, it’s not a half smile that you’re greeted with. he’s smiling at you full on, no holds barred. “you’re gonna be alright, kid.” he touches your chin. “you’re gonna be alright if you keep laughing.”

with nothing more, he pushes himself up, groaning as his knees creak, and walks back to camp.

rolling over onto your stomach, you watch as he walks off, resting your chin in the palm of your hand. and when he looks back over his shoulder at you, you watch him chuckle to himself.

–

there’s not a big shift that comes for you and dr. abbot. not yet, anyway– that doesn’t happen until he finds you with the walkers a week later.

you did run into other survivors on the road. since so many were fleeing pittsburgh, it was inevitable. you provided medical services as you went. there was this thought always in the back of your mind– what happens when you run across someone not so nice? that’s how these things always go isn’t it? you’d read enough books to know that typically, the biggest monster was humanity.

jack must’ve had the same thought when he diverted your group onto a path that he hoped would be less traveled, if slightly longer to get to the base. “no lives to save if we all die on the way there,” he smartly observed.

you loved to walk. the others often scolded you for going out by yourself, but it was not easy to deter you. the wind against your face and the sun on your arms was sometimes the only thing that reminded you that you were alive, that there were still simple pleasures in this world. you told robby, not asked for his permission, that you were going on an evening walk. he looked skeptically, but nodded. and you didn’t go too far– but it didn’t matter. there was a figure just off in the distance. at first, you think it’s a survivor. being this far out of the city, you didn’t run into walkers much. if you did, jack or collins typically took care of it with the guns they had looted days ago.

selfishly, you were thankful to not be tasked with defending anyone. you weren’t fighters. you’re healthcare workers. you were a resident doctor. your responsibility was to heal, not to harm. and you had witnessed enough of that harm in pittsburgh. you had your fill when you screwed your eyes up tight and screamed while you drove a knife into mckay’s chest while she, entirely gone, her eyes vacant and her mouth gaping, trying to gnash at your neck. that was still the thing that kept you up at night. you didn’t want to add to the list.

but when the head perked up, and you shielded your eyes from the burning sun, you realized how wrong you were. your heart sank and you took a stumbling step backwards. you piqued the intrigued of the walker, or it caught your scent, because it began a steady walk towards you. and then another one appeared behind it, cresting the hill. and a third. all ready to plummet down this hill towards you.

they’re fast. and with the downwards slope, they can only gain momentum. you begin to run back towards camp, but then you wonder if it’s better to lead them away from camp– what if there are others? but if you lead them away, they may not hear you… “help!” your cry is full of desperation as you begin to veer left from camp, trying to stay close enough.

the three walkers have gained on you. but for as fast as they are, jack is faster– he runs up and captures you in his arms, a pistol in his hand– three shots rings out, right next to your ear, and you lower yourself to try and escape the jarring noise. “they didn’t get you? no bites, no scratches?” you shake your head no, and the silence that follows is heavy. you continue to cover your ears with your hands. you can feel your blood pumping through you, the adrenaline of near death. every limb trembles and you sink even lower, until your hands are splayed on the still warm asphalt.

the others must have approached, because you hear jack say, “go on. we’re good.” he lowers himself to your level like a true doctor, his hand rubbing, up and down, on your back. “we’re good.”

the others heed his words and tentatively walk off, leaving you two alone. “you’re good,” he repeats. he gathers your hair off of your neck to relieve some of the heat, holding it up with one big hand. “what were you doing walking by yourself?”

“i told robby,” you say around a gasping breath. “i– i didn’t–” you look over at the bodies. one of them is a woman, certainly not much older or younger than you. “i saw her, but she was still far off. i didn’t know she was…”

from a career of working with people at their most vulnerable, jack must sense what is about to break within you. it was close at the river, but then you were mourning the loss of what your life could be. this felt bigger than that. this was coming to terms with what your life now was.

and you swiftly fall apart.

you don’t expect him to hold you, at first. you begin to sink into yourself, the tears and the cries coming like the flood. but jack swoops in, his hand to the back of your head and his other arm circling your waist. you sit on the dirty road and he holds you, despite the humidity and the heat and everything else. you should’ve known that this side of abbot existed. the side that could be steady as a rock, unyielding and ready to protect.

you’re there for so long the sun begins to sink. you look up from where you’d hidden your face in his chest. a technicolor sunset is in front of you. your red rimmed eyes take it in, and jack pulls away enough to watch your face, gauge your reaction. when he sees the wonder in your eyes, he cranes his neck to follow your line of vision. he says, softly, “think mother nature knew you needed some cheering up.”

with a wet laugh, you lean back, but jack doesn’t release you from his hold that easily. “i guess so.” you look at him through your lashes, feeling embarrassed and grateful and reckless and warmed. “thank you. i won’t– i won’t go out walking.”

he scoffs. “nah. you will. we just need to go in pairs.” he looks like he might leave it at that, but then he says, “and i’ll go wherever you want.”

–

two more weeks go by and now it’s august and the days burn orange and you’re in the heart of west virginia.

from that sunset on the road on, where you go, he’s often not too far behind. the others are not oblivious to his trained eye watching you. they’re not stupid– they notice when he is the first one to pair with you for scavenging.

seeing walkers doesn’t have the same jarring affect that it did, even days ago. it’s still not regular, but you certainly see them more than when you first got into west virginia. you still don’t carry a gun, but jack, collins, robby, and dana now do. wherever you all go, one of them goes with you. and for you… that’s jack. if not by choice, by default. everyone seems to have their pair, natural duos from your time in the emergency room. you didn’t have that then, and jack didn’t, either. he has robby, of course, and that hasn’t change– but you think something in his mindset changed when you fell apart before him.

you don’t call him dr. abbot anymore. none of you use such formalities now. what’s the use?

the group moves through west virginia terrain towards fort knox. over time, you’d gotten more and more in the way of supplies. you found an abandoned RV in good shape with the keys still in the ignition. you all held a thought for the owner before you took it. dana was driving a pick up that she spotted back near weston. it made all of you laugh when you saw her behind the wheel. most of the places out here weren’t so looted– sometimes, you hit a goldmine still. jack’s clever thinking to take the road less traveled was proving useful, indeed. that felt like good enough reason to take your time. but winter was going to be coming sooner rather than later. your slowness wasn’t going to last forever. a thought lingers in the back of your mind, and you’re sure everyone else’s, too– this world needs doctors. and maybe you’re all being selfish. maybe you’re all okay with that, for the time being. you don’t know. you’re only human.

you liked to walk to clear your head. sometimes you missed it being a solitary activity, but jack was often quiet enough that you really didn’t have much of a change. honestly, you never minded when it was jack. sometimes dana would offer to walk with you, and for as much as you love her, she has the ability to talk your ear off– but jack picked up on your cues. when he thought there might be something on your mind, he would nudge your arm. when you shook your head, he dropped it. when you would begin to talk through whatever it was that you were thinking about, he would listen, rapt.

and, you think you provide him support, too. there was so much that you’ve learned about him– you know how he takes his coffee. well, in this world, at least. he likes it black but with two of those sugar packets that you got from a starbucks. not the artificial stuff, either. he wakes before you, but you always make his second cup. you’ll approach him in his seat– he always sits in the RV in the morning, working on one of the crossword books you’d taken from the hospital. you come up to him and take his empty cup. most mornings, he says, “you don’t gotta do that.”

you reply each time with, “but i wanna.”

and, over time, you get more and more of those small smiles.

for what it’s worth, the two of you get by for awhile pretending that whatever is happening simply isn’t. you roll your eyes when langdon calls you mrs. abbot. you simply nod when robby mentions jack looking for you.

it was a long day, and a storm was brewing. you had been camped in the same spot for nearly a week, spending time scavenging the area, which was largely untouched by other survivors. you take what you need, leave what you don’t– making sure that there’s enough for anyone else who might need it in the future. your body is sore from so many night of sleeping on the ground, but that’s everyone. “alright– we need to reduce the amount of tents so that we can get everyone out of the rainfall and under the trees.” dana says, hands on her hips. she starts rattling off sleeping arrangements, pointing at you and finishing with, “you’ll be in jack’s tent.”

you look at each other from across the circle, and you have to make a true effort to keep your face neutral. jack doesn’t even flinch. “yes, ma’am.”

your stomach twists in knots as you begin tearing down your tent. jack comes up from behind you and helps, making quick work of it. you glance over at him and murmur, “sorry you’re stuck with me. i’ll keep to my side of the sleeping bag.”

there’s a glint in his eye. “i don’t know. princess has told me you hog the blankets.”

“i do not!”

he smirks to himself, satisfied with getting a small rise out of you. “guess i’ll just have to be the judge of that, kid.”

–

it’s been a long time since you laid beside a man and it meant something.

you’d been single for the better part of five years– your ex was the kind of piece of work that would make anyone swear off dating for half of a decade. you had meaningless hookups and endless first dates, but nothing that stuck. nothing that gave you butterflies.

now, there’s a swarm of them in your stomach, threatening to dislodge. you brush your teeth and your eyes trail over towards jack, smirking at something that robby said. you glance away and finish up, proceeding to change in the RV. you’re not sure how you’re supposed to dress– sweats is most appropriate, right? you run warm, but you don’t want to make him uncomfortable. big shirt? little shirt?

zombies could come up and kill you at any point, and your concern is how much or how little you should wear while lying next to jack. the ridiculousness is not lost on you. but, there’s a shred of you that’s thankful for a feeling that’s normal amidst everything else. feelings-induced trepidation is something that you can handle.

you opt for the little shirt– a gas station t shirt you had cropped haphazardly with a knife– and sweatpants. when you come back out from the RV, jack is no where to be seen, but there is a light on in his tent.

unzipping slowly, you’re greeted by his face looking at you. you watch his eyes zero in on the strip of exposed skin on your stomach. you watch his adam’s apple rise and fall as he swallows.

the tent is generous when it says that two people can fit. you can see that jack prepped your side of the bed– two pillows, and your water bottle. “you left it outside.”

“thank you.” you kick your shoes off and climb under the blanket. jack huffs a laugh. “what’s so funny?”

“you wear pants to bed?”

your face heats. “not typically.”

“don’t do it for my comfort.” he reaches at the back of his shirt, tugging it over his head. “i will be sleeping comfortably. and cool.” he halts before he says, “and a gentleman.”

you roll your eyes, but you lift your hips and shimmy the sweats off, tossing them towards your feet. settling back into the pillow, you watch jack as he does the same, eventually rolling over to face you. he has the fly trap off of the tent, so you stare up at the stars. he never looks away from you.

“dana did this on purpose,” you whisper, and it’s the closest you’ve gotten to pure admission. “you realize that, right?”

“yeah,” he puts one hand behind his head, following the line of your sight to the stars, too. “she’s been on my case since we set up camp here.”

curious, you peer over at him. “how so?”

jack shrugs one shoulder. “telling me not to fuck around with your feelings.” his neck turns towards you. “told her i’m doing my best.”

you screw your face up. “you’re not fucking around with my feelings.”

“good.” there’s such a practicality to his words. he’s not barred by fear or by unease; he’s confident. “but, for the record…” he sinks his teeth into his lower lip. “yeah, i’m not trying to fuck around with your feelings. i’ve been trying to…”

“trying to what?”

“will you let me spit it out?” jack asks with a smirk. “patience is not always your strong suit.”

you turn your chin down, indignant. “you didn’t mind when we were in the emergency room.”

“i wouldn’t go that far,” jack counters. “i think i told you to slow down on multiple occasions.”

“now you’re just deflecting.”

a clap of lightning and thunder rings out in the open air. the rain begins just after.

“i think you just proved my point.”

disgruntled now, you move to simply roll over and go to bed and pretend the entire conversation never happened. but jack laughs again and he gently wraps his hand around your arm, pulling you back. not controlling. guiding. “don’t do that,” he says. “not when i’m trying to tell you i care about you. at least give me the opportunity to say it before you shoot me down and go to bed.”

brows furrowing, you roll over to face him. “i don’t understand.”

over the course of the month or so that you’ve gotten to learn jack intimately, know the corners of his mind and the stories that weren’t often shared, you’d resolutely pushed away the notion of you not being anything but in over your head. a woman with a crush on your authority figure. broken by circumstance and clinging to the one person who moves you feel unequivocally safe.

there wasn’t a part of you the stopped to think that maybe jack was doing the same. but that he was, perhaps, more brave than you.

“i’m not good at any of this,” he says quietly. “but if we’re going to die before the new year, i want to be selfish. and if i’ve– misread, tell me, and i’ll never bring this up again.”

silence fills the tent. your mouth forms a slight o, trying to wrap your head around the string of words that he just confessed to you. “you said before, that the only thing keeping you going was the fact that the world needs us. needs doctors.” your eyes flicker down then back up. “is that still true? is that the only reason?”

“if that was the only reason, i’d be in fort knox right now.” his hand flexes where it rests on his pillow. he’s holding back– you feel the tension pulled taut within him.

“tell me,” you say with absolution.

“tell you what?”

“tell me you want me. not just because of circumstance. but because of… me.” you are growing smaller before him. “i don’t want to just be a body to keep your bed warm until we die gruesomely.”

he laughs like it’s the craziest thing he’s ever heard. your name falls off his lips and he extends that hand to you. you take it. he tugs you closer. you push him, he pushes you. he makes you patient, you make him articulate. “i remember, once, walking by the family room. you were sitting with a little girl who had just lost her mom in a car accident. she… i couldn’t save her. and i was dreading sitting that little girl down, looking her in the eye, and telling her. but you stayed with me.” he swallows, thinking. “i’ve watched you work on the fly and save lives without thinking twice. you’re a horrible singer, but a great dancer. you love crosswords.” he pauses. “this didn’t start last week. not even last month.” last month, when you were still a resident and he was still your attending.

“wow.”

“yeah,” jack nods his head. “wow.”

you don’t know what to say. you feel shy under his gaze, and you think he knows it. he eyes you with that cocky smirk, like he knows that you want him, but that something still holds you back. “you don’t gotta say anything right now,” he shrugs. “we’ve got time. that is, long as i’m still alive.”

you gasp and hit his chest and he keeps your hand in his and then you’re looking at each other and slowly, surely, patiently– you begin to lean in. you don’t kiss him yet. you know that he’ll leave that ball in your court. but there’s something fun about your nose bumping his and feeling his breath on your cheek and feeling the way that his hand tightens around yours. “you’re not being very patient,” you murmur, and he all but growls, and you feel it all the way down to your belly. you laugh and your hand slides to the back of his head.

his hand lands on your waist. he begins pulling you closer. “say you want me,” he asks.

“i want you.”

a shuddering breath leaves him, and it settles into your brain how affected he is. he’s drunk on you, and you on him, and your leg drags up his. you finally decide to stop your cruelty, and you close the distance. your mouth rolls against his and his tongue opens you up, and you feel like something has just split your heart, and your fondness for him is spilling out of you.

you didn’t suspect jack to be a tender lover. you and mckay used to joke that he probably fucked like a jackhammer. but you should’ve known that his patience, his sheer determination, extends here, too.

he rolls you until he’s hovering above you, hand sliding to the back of your neck and squeezes the sides, just barely. you gasp into his mouth and his knee parts your legs and every part of you feels like warm honey, sliding between his fingers. there’s a restraint when he pulls back and looks at you. “you’re trouble.”

“i thought you knew that.”

“i did,” his hand runs from the valley of your breasts, down to your stomach. it travels further to the waistband of your underwear. “now, trouble,” you flush at the way that nickname makes you press your thighs together. “do you know how to be quiet?”

“yes, i know how to be quiet, you ass–” you’re cut off with a gasping sound leaving your throat as his fingers dip into your underwear. he leans in closer and chuckles in your ear and your hips roll to meet his hand.

“do you?” he asks as his hand begins to work its magic.

“yes.”

lowering until his mouth finds the juncture of your neck and shoulder, he kisses, sucks a mark into the skin. your hand finds a fistful of his hair and you want to let go, you want to moan so loud you bring every walker in a three mile radius to find you. it would be worth it to release, to feel freely and let the world know it. your hips keep moving on their own, chasing pleasure, and jack sits up to use his free hand to grip your hip and presses you down. “i’ll take care of you, doc. don’t worry.” he leans in and kisses beneath your ear. “and you can be as loud as you want when there’s thunder.”

your eyes roll back into your head and within moments, everything is shooting stars.

–

when the morning comes, you’re smug, and glowing. jack wakes you slowly. the mourning doves are just beginning to sing their song and he pulls you closer, hungry. “think the plan is to leave soon,” he says into the back of your neck, pressing a kiss there. “but not too soon.”

it takes another thirty minutes for you to leave the tent. jack helps you back into your clothes with pride, looking you up and down. you scoff and push his face away, but then come back for a kiss. it’s easy to settle into familiarity when you spend so much time wondering where your life is going, what the point is of any of it– this. maybe this is the point. maybe this has to be the point.

holding the flap of his tent open for you, you clamber out, and the two of you are faced with… well, everyone. everyone smirking.

and without a word from either of you, dana looks at collins and says. “i told you that’s all it would take.”

#jack abbot x reader #jack abbot imagine #jack abbott x reader #jack abbott imagine #jack abbot fanfic #jack abbot au #the pitt fanfiction #my writing #soft descent #i'm sooo proud wow

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bluebellles · 21 days ago

Text

“I’ve been looking at you so long, now I only see me”

little habits you and the LADS boys pick up from each other as a couple

genre: sfw, fluff, brain empty little bite sized moments

cw: rafmc emotionally abusing thomas, grandpa behavior from sylus, whatever tf caleb has going on (par for the course), zayne’s a mealprepper i think that’s canon, i wrote sylus’s first and it actually inspired the series but it ended up being shorter than the others, idk i was satisfied with it so i dont wanna add anything though, threw in a tiny bit of angst in caleb’s (tiny) what can i say i learned from infold

Gossip

You had turned your boyfriend into an absolute menace.

It wasn’t on purpose, really. It had started innocently enough when the two of you had gone out for your usual Thursday night hotpot (much different from your Saturday night hotpot and Tuesday night hotpot if anyone cared to ask).

The couple two tables down from you began arguing over the man’s Instagram likes and you had, like anyone in your situation would, instantly stopped speaking to overhear their conversation.

Xavier noticed your change in demeanor immediately, swallowing his bite of meat and leaning closer to you in concern.

“Why are you so quiet?” he frowned, glancing down at your bowl, “Are the mushrooms overcooked? I followed the instructions on the sheet…”

He had reluctantly stopped experimenting with the cooking times at your vehement, repeated request.

The silver haired man blinked in surprise when you simply pressed a finger to his lips but made no move to stop you. You tilted your head to the couple who was now scrolling through the man’s entire feed while he shook a ladle at her animatedly.

His eyes tracked your movement and landed on the couple in confusion. Why were you so concerned? Were they bothering you? Did you need him to get them to leave so you could go back to eating hotpot in peace?

As if sensing his intentions, you shook your head and pointed to your ear. He took the cue to listen in, growing more and more interested as the argument escalated. Why did he care? He wasn’t sure, but suddenly listening in on the man’s insistence that he was just supporting young women was even more interesting than his sliced pork.

The pair of you stayed quiet until the couple stormed out of the restaurant after slamming down a stack of bills on the table as if they were in a K-Drama.

“...She should dump him,” he speaks simply, picking his spoon back up without further ado.

“I’m saying,” you agreed, sipping your drink, “She is way too pretty for him anyways.”

You hadn’t thought much of the moment at the time, but apparently you had sparked a new interest for your normally docile boyfriend. Suddenly he was a man on a mission and he had become very dutiful in his reports to you during your evening debriefs (cuddling on the couch).

The woman who lived in the apartment below you was illegally subletting to her grandson, as witnessed during a trip to the P.O. boxes in the lobby.

That’s not really news. I hear him screaming at his PC at three a.m. every day.

The teenage boy who had sat next to him on the train was running an illegal essay-forgery ring and seemed to be making a decent profit, as overheard when he was pretending to be asleep.

In this economy? Good for him.

Tara and Jenna were holding hands under the table during the morning meeting.

This one actually made you gasp in excitement, and your boyfriend was smug with pride as you slapped your hands against his chest repeatedly and demanded more details.

For better or for worse, you had created a bit of a gossip monster out of your boyfriend. Thursday night hotpot (slightly less sacred than Saturday night hotpot and more populated than Tuesday night hotpot) was now dedicated to eavesdropping on the surrounding tables. You could only be grateful he was no longer focused on experimenting with the broth.

Vocal Stims

Your boyfriend lets out a deep sigh, lackadaisically kicking his feet up onto the coffee table in Thomas’s office as he mindlessly twirls a pen between his fingers. You sit beside him, steadfastly ignoring his antics as you focus on completing a report from your last mission. As usual, Rafayel had dragged you along to a meeting with his art manager to ‘protect him from potential threats’, the most prevalent of which was boredom.

You usually tried your best to be polite and well behaved to supplement your other half’s determination to make a general nuisance of himself in the unfounded hopes of getting Thomas to agree to meet less frequently.

“Is this guy seriously so inept that he needs someone to hold his hand through the process of buying an art piece?” Rafayel scoffed at his manager’s attempts to get him to meet with a potential client personally, “Either he likes the piece or he doesn’t. What’s so difficult to comprehend? Is he stupid? I don’t want stupid people buying my artwork Thomas.”

“He’s the sole founder of a multibillion dollar tech company,” Thomas lets out a long-suffering sigh.

“Do they specialize in making technology for idiots?” He looks over at you expectantly. You solemnly shake your head. He’s in rare form today, crabby from his interrupted bathtub time (two hours instead of four). That wasn’t even worth a fake chuckle. He pouts, looking away from you again.

“Some clients just like to know what kind of artist they're supporting before giving them their money,” Thomas explained as if this was a new concept, “I mean, some people love the whole flighty, elusive artist thing you have going on but to be honest, Rafayel, you can be a tough nut to swallow.”

The room immediately falls into complete silence. You pause your rhythmic typing. The pen falls from Rafayel’s hand. Thomas’s face fills with dread.

Completely stone-faced, you and your boyfriend stare at each other before slowly turning your heads to face the panicking art manager. From his perspective you are no different from two sharks circling their prey.

“Thomas…,” Rafayel starts, with absolutely no emotion in his voice.

“...what?” you finish his sentence in the same tone.

“I meant- I got confused between ‘tough nut to crack’ and ‘bitter pill to swallow’,” he mumbles with no small amount of horror, “It was an honest mistake! Anyone could make it after talking in circles like this for hours!”

Your shoulders are now shaking as you fight to keep the sinister delight off your face.

“Please don’t,” Thomas turns to you in his desperation, already knowing his most problematic artist is a lost cause.

“Should I be worried, Thomas?” you offer him no reprieve.

Beside you, your boyfriend tilts his head back and cackles like some kind of ancient sea witch as his poor manager puts his head in his hands and groans.

After that day, you and Rafayel terrorize everyone you cross paths with for weeks with the phrase. Mainly Thomas, but also the poor old lady who runs your favorite fish market, the seagulls down by Rafayel’s preferred outcropping of rocks, whoever has the misfortune of sitting next to the two of you on the train into town. Nobody is safe from your tyranny.

Next month, it might be a random quote from a TikTok or a random tourist’s mispronunciation of the word ‘anemone’. Whatever the case may be, the world will always fall victim to your mutual vocal stims.

Trash TV Shows

“Two days off a week and you choose to spend one of them staring at a screen for hours on end,” your ever-logical boyfriend cannot resist making the comment as he sips from his mug superiorly.

“If you hate me and wish I was dead just say that,” you brush him off as you point the remote at his giant flat-screen and try to pick something to watch.

“Oh, is that what I said?” he hums noncommittally, reaching over to steady your bowl of popcorn as it teeters dangerously on the couch next to you.

“It basically is, in summation,” you insist, nodding your head emphatically, “God forbid women have hobbies! Why do you even have this giant TV if you never use it anyways?”

“Knitting is a hobby. Watching reality television is a surefire way to ensure early cognitive decline. And I use it to review past surgeries and study recordings of new techniques in the field.”

You groan dramatically, kicking a slipper-covered foot halfheartedly in his direction. He catches it with his usual barely-there grin that crinkles the corners of his hazel eyes softly.

“Fine then, I won’t watch reality TV,” you scroll to find Grey’s Anatomy and begin loading up your favorite episode, “This isn’t trash. This is art.”

“It’s medical malpractice and constant HIPAA violations, actually,” he counters, adjusting the cuff of your sweatpants from where they had rolled up on your right leg.

“Objectively that may be true but I don’t really want to hear about HIPAA violations from you.”

Zayne eventually relents with his teasing and leaves you to veg out after a grueling workweek. As much as he may pretend to protest, he would never genuinely diminish anything that helped you relax. Instead, he made himself busy meal-prepping his usual health-over-flavor lunches in the kitchen and contented himself to admire your blissed out form from the archway that separated him from the living room.

Against his will, however, his attention kept drifting to the dramatic antics taking place on the screen in front of you.

“That is an exorbitant dosage for the patient’s age and weight,” he couldn't help himself from interjecting with a displeased frown, “and why would so many doctors respond to the same distress call. Are they overstaffed?”

It’s his fourth comment this episode alone.

“Just come sit next to me if you’re already watching,” you giggle at his genuine offense over the inaccuracies.

“I’m not watching,” he insists, but abandons the rice cooker and sinks down next to you without taking his eyes off the screen.

You happily snuggle into his side, pleased to bask in the comfort of your boyfriend’s arms as they wrap around you with a gentle kiss placed to your forehead. The silence lasts for approximately three minutes and sixteen seconds.

“...Why would he sleep with her when he knows she is going through a hard time and then walk around like a kicked puppy? He should be more worried about his inadequate suturing technique, if anything.”

“Right???”

Selfies

You should never have taken a selfie with Sylus. And not just because he mogged you.

He had looked at you with his version of startled confusion (a slightly higher than usual raise of his right eyebrow) when you first brought out your phone and leaned in close with a cheesy smile on your face.

Even in the first few shots, where he looked stiff and awkward as he tried to deduce your intentions, he looked like a marble statue of an ancient god brought to life. Once he settled into himself and leaned a little closer into you with that barely-there smile and gentle eyes he only reserved for your moments together, it was completely over for you.

Which was fine. You could be humble enough to acknowledge that bad angles simply did not exist for Sylus. That and the pleased "send that to me" he had rumbled into your ear as you scrolled through the pictures for him made it worth it.

It wasn't until later you realized you had unleashed an absolute menace on the world. Not even in the usual hellfire and brimstone related way.

Pre night-out? Lean a little closer to the camera, sweetie. Post night-out? Smile first, then he'll pick you up and carry you home princess-style to protect your aching feet.

In the middle of scarfing down some pizza after a particularly grueling protocore hunt that left your hair in disarray and your eyeliner smudged almost completely off? Just look up for one second, kitten.

His camera roll had to be nearly completely full of the most random, innocuous moments of the two of you together. You once sarcastically commented that he'd have to get a new phone just for pictures soon. He genuinely considered it.

He could now often be found mid-illegal arms deal nonchalantly scrolling through his camera roll, letting out a small rich person chuckle at a photo of you yelling at him for whipping out his phone in the middle of a shoot-out while he made sure the camera got his good side.

It was a hoard he considered more precious than the stacks of gold bars overflowing from his cellar or the offshore bank accounts he kept his real estate funds in. For all the qualms he had about this new century, he could at least say he was grateful for this new way of collecting treasures.

Literally everything, if he had his way.

It wasn’t an anomalous occurrence for you and Caleb to subconsciously mimic each other’s habits. An entire lifetime together and your boyfriend’s inclination to fuse himself to you any time he has the opportunity practically ensured some overlap.

His high school basketball teammates thought he must be the only person in the world who used the term “hedgehogging” instead of “jogging” during practice before learning the story of how you misused the word when you were kids.

Your university roommate had a similar reaction to you referring to your mini fridge as “steelless stain” instead of “stainless steel”, an embarrassing blunder you had picked up from Caleb after he got his (first) concussion.

Perhaps the most humiliating had been when Caleb had been flipping through a manual in the pilot academy mess hall next to Gideon as his friend scarfed down a sandwich. He had made a noise of disgust after biting down on a wilted piece of lettuce and, without flinching or looking up, Caleb had stuck his hand underneath the other man’s chin as if to catch the food if he spit it out.

“...Force of habit,” he spoke gravely as he slowly pulled his hand away.

“Uh-huh.”

Over the years, much to his delight, it was often difficult for outside observers to discern where one of you ended and the other began. The problem only intensified when you actually started dating.

Shared inside jokes that no longer even required vocal cues for you both to start snickering in the middle of the grocery store when you see a ‘buy one get one free’ sign on the chicken wings. Your tendency to simply hold your arms above your head when you get sick of your sweater, knowing he’ll be there to tug it off for you. The automatic sorting of bags of candy into two piles: your favorite flavors and the flavors-you-don’t-like-as-much for your dedicated boyfriend.

Being around Caleb had always felt like creating your own unique language that only the two of you could comprehend.

You had never really known what being alone really meant until those long, grueling months when you were the only one left in the world who spoke it.

The thought settled uncomfortably in your chest, prompting you to stretch your hand out across the divider that separated you from your boyfriend who was currently driving you both to the pier for a casual Friday night date.

Without even looking, Caleb moved his free hand from your thigh to intertwine with your own. His thumb tapped a steady rhythm against you, spelling out the beat of your shared favorite song. It wasn’t even playing on the radio. Just another quiet little affirmation of the two of you.

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