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strang3lov3 · 6 months

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Chevelle

Summary- (joel miller x virgin!reader) Joel figures out that you’re the one who hit his baby, his precious 1964 Chevrolet Chevelle. He needs you to make it right, but he doesn’t want your money ❤️‍🔥🍆 (5k words)

Tags- MDNI hot girls can’t drive, implied age gap, virgin!reader, we're calling him tender dark!joel, soft!dom joel, tender dubcon (power imbalance, joel solicits sex from reader, no explicit consent but reader is into it) reader has a luscious bush, Joel walks you through handjobs, blowjobs, fingering, oral, unprotected piv, creampie, come eating, loss of virginity. Joel is clothed and reader is not.

A/N- Writing this is how I spent my spring break. Hope you love it 🩵 Thank you @noxturnalpascal for all of your help editing and your encouragement.

Based on mine and @beefrobeefcal shared prompt where we asked, "What would happen if reader damaged Joel’s vehicle?” Her fic is here and it’s one of my favorite things I’ve read!! Kiki has such a beautiful voice in her writing and I love all the details she adds to her fics.

Pawn shop by @toxicanonymity came to mind when I wrote this story and was a source of inspiration. Also worth a read, I have nothing but love for Tox’s writing 🩷

It’s late when you get off your shift at Tony’s, the shitty Italian restaurant you’ve been working at for far too long. It doesn’t pay much and you’ve considered working a new job to save up and move out of your brother’s house, but you’ve been putting that idea off for a variety of reasons. One of them being Joel.

Joel’s your neighbor, a sexy, older man you’ve got a certain fondness for. His hair used to be more brown but it’s grayer now, same with the scruff on his face. He’s got sparkling, chocolatey eyes and a sharp nose set above a thick, downturned mustache. He always looks a little dirty when you see him, with dirt caked into his forehead wrinkles and grease smeared along his temple or his jaw. He’s always either fresh off a contracting job or working on his car. He’s got this cute little Chevy he spends his nights and weekends with, a 1964 Chevrolet Chevelle, baby blue.

Joel was one of the first people to welcome you to the neighborhood and even helped you move your stuff into your brother’s house, though helping you implies he let you do any work. Joel offered you a pop from his fridge and then took over entirely, putting both himself and your brother to work moving all of your stuff in. You didn’t lift a finger that day.

You can’t seem to pull your eyes from the little green glowing letters on your dash, watching letters and numbers on the screen roll on by. 12:37 A.M. 101.9. Paper Bag - Fiona Apple. You’re so out of it. You yawn and blink a couple of times, focusing back on the narrow roads of your neighborhood. It’s so poorly lit over here, and it doesn’t help that one of your headlights is out. Joel’s been bugging you to let him fix that, he says it’ll only take five minutes.

You turn onto your street and bam. You’re wide awake now. You just hit something.

You hit Joel’s car. Joel’s fucking car. What the fuck is it doing on the street? He always has it safely kept in his garage. Oh dear god, the panic is setting in. This is Joel’s baby. You just hit his baby, his pride and joy.

You can’t even bring yourself to assess the damage you’ve inflicted upon his dear Chevy. Probably dented to shit, but you don’t really wanna know. Instead, you just pull your foot off the brake, press your remote control garage door opener, then pull into your garage as you press your lips together tightly. You’re surprised and relieved to find that there’s hardly a scratch on your own car. Joel won’t know. He won’t.

The next morning, you’re sipping on your coffee as you check your mailbox. Joel’s outside his house, loading up his work truck with some tools and supplies. He waves to you and you wave back, a small stack of mail in your hand.

“Whose mail you got today, sweetheart?” he calls to you.

You check the names on some of the letters. “Davidsons’ and Pierces’,” you answer through a chuckle. Joel rolls his eyes and laughs. The incompetent mailman is a running joke amongst yourself, Joel, and your other neighbors. He never seems to deliver anything to the right address, so you and your neighbors are often hand delivering each other your misplaced mail.

You laugh with Joel until you notice his smile disappear. He’s narrowing his eyes on his Chevy. Your heart drops as he steps closer to the vehicle, then pinches his nose in frustration. Fuck. Joel stomps back to his work truck, haphazardly tosses something in the bed and then slams the tailgate. Yeah, he’s fucking pissed. Your neck and your face heat in shame as you quickly run back inside.

In the two weeks since Joel’s car was hit, he’s been working to repair it tirelessly. He’s ordered a new tail light, since whoever hit his car shattered it and he’s spent a pretty penny ordering the exact shade of baby blue paint to touch up all of the scratches. Joel only trusts himself to touch his car, but the situation necessitates that he’ll have to take it in to a local repair shop to get the dents out. Fucking fantastic.

When Joel gets off work tonight, he notices he’s got some packages on his doorstep, hoping it’s the shit he ordered for his car. He’ll open them shortly, but he first notices that one of the packages is addressed to you. Go figure, he thinks, chuckling to himself. He walks the package over to your house, noticing your car is parked outside of the driveway. And it’s backed in too, which is odd. Joel assumes your car must’ve been blocking your brother’s, so he probably played musical chairs with your cars to get his out and then backed yours up onto the driveway. You never back your own car in the driveway, and Joel’s pretty sure it’s because you don’t know how. You probably can’t parallel park, either. He’ll have to show you how to do that sometime.

What’s also new is a bit of baby blue paint on your red Honda Civic’s exterior, right by your headlight, the same headlight he’s been nagging you to let him fix. Joel bites the inside of his cheek. Interesting. He knocks on your door, package in hand, but he’s met with no answer. No biggie. He leaves the package on your porch and goes back to your car, inspecting the paint once more. He scoffs in astonishment and walks home. Unbelievable.

The next evening, you check your mailbox after forgetting to do so earlier. As always, you never have just your own mail. This time you’ve got Joel’s. You walk it over to Joel’s house with the intention of dropping it off on his porch and going back home, not wanting to bother him as he works on his Chevy but his whistle startles you. “Hey you,” he says. “C’mere.”

“O-oh,” you stutter. “I’m just dropping off your–”

“Yeah, I know. Just c’mere a minute,” Joel says. “Got a fuckin’ bone t’pick with you.”

Your palms are beginning to sweat. He doesn’t know anything. Maybe he just wants some company while he works on his car, it wouldn’t be the first time. But still, there’s something about his tone. You step off of his porch and cut through his lawn to get to his garage. Once inside, you help yourself to a root beer from his refrigerator. Something cold and fizzy and sweet to help you calm your nerves.“Oh, sure, help yourself,” Joel mumbles. He notices your fingers slipping off the tab of the pop can and pulls it from your hands, then opens it for you. He’s wearing a stained Prince and the Revolution t-shirt and a slightly too tight pair of jeans that squeeze his ass just so. His garage is decorated with old license plates, posters, other odds and ends.

“Thank you,” you whisper.

Joel says nothing as he walks to his work bench. He pulls a lightbulb out of a cardboard box and waves it in your direction, he’s only a couple of feet from you. “Ordered the wrong bulb,” he tells you.

You can only nod. You think about maybe making a joke about the mailman screwing it up somehow, but you bite your tongue. You don’t trust yourself not to stutter right now.

“M’sure you saw, my baby here’s all banged up,” Joel puts the bulb back in the box and leans against his work bench, facing you. “Happened a couple weeks ago.”

“Mm,” you hum.

“Hit and run, can you believe that?”

“No, I can’t. That-that’s terrible.”

“I know it is. And here I thought we had a nice neighborhood…” he trails off before speaking again, “You think you know someone, huh.”

Someone. So he has someone in mind? “Yeah, it’s terrible…what happened to your car. Can’t believe someone would uh…would do that, knowing how you, your car…yeah. Terrible.”

Joel stares at you for a minute before speaking again, taking note of how you can’t seem to hold eye contact with him. He steps closer to you.

“You wouldn’t know a thing about it, right?”

“Yes,” you answer, quickly realizing your word mishap when Joel raises his eyebrows. “No, yeah. I don’t know–yeah, nothing,” you sip your root beer before fidgeting with the pop tab and shifting your weight from one foot to the other.

Joel notices. “Squirmin’ an awful lot over there, sweetheart. You got something you wanna tell me?” You shake your head, still playing with the tab on the pop can. Joel removes it from your hand, his fingers gracing over yours before placing it on the workbench. He’s moving closer to you now, matching your pace as you walk backward until the back of your legs hit his car. You gasp, he stands so tall and imposing in front of you. “Easy,” he warns. “You be careful with her.”

“Yeah, I know. Always,” you reply. Your voice is beginning to shake.

Joel hums at your response. “Not always, though, sweetheart. Think you were pretty careless with my baby a couple weeks ago.”

The familiar pressure behind your eyes is beginning to build as tears are pricking your waterline, “I don’t know what–”

“Awh, don’t do that. Don’t lie t’me.”

The tears spill over. You’re caught. You don’t know how Joel figured out what you did, but he did. “You’ve got a guilty conscience, dontcha?”

You nod before you can speak. “I’m so sorry,” you cry. Sobs begin to wrack your body, your tears now flowing freely. You’re so guilty. You should’ve told Joel what happened that night. It was an accident, and he might’ve been mad, but you’ve probably made it worse for yourself with your dishonesty. “I’m so sorry, Joel, it was late and I was so tired–”

Joel pulls you in a tight embrace, stroking your back with his fingertips. “Shhh, I know. I know,” he whispers in your ear, “S’okay, sweet girl.”

“It was so…” you try to explain, choking on your sobs and your sniffles. “So late and d-dark and I wasn’t paying attention.”

“I know. Quit your cryin’, s’gonna be fine,” Joel whispers. He pulls away from you, looking at you with those deep brown eyes of his as he wipes the tears from your face with his thumbs. Know you’ll make it up to me.”

“I will,” you agree quickly. “I’ll pick up some more shifts, Joel, and I’ll save and–”

“Oh, no. Not that. Save your money,” he tells you earnestly. “Somethin’ else,” Your eyes follow Joel when he leaves you for a moment to flip a switch on the wall of his garage. Something in the air changes then, a thick, heavy feeling between you both when he makes his way back to you. “Use your head, sweetheart. How are we gonna make it right?”

Your mouth is dry, your tongue swollen as you pick up what Joel’s putting down. “Let me give ya a hint,” Joel grunts, sucking in his gut slightly as he unbuttons his jeans. He wears no underwear, a thatch of coarse hair littering his skin is what you see when he pulls down his zipper. He grips your wrist and shoves your hand beneath the denim where you feel his package, already half hard. It’s warmer, thicker than you would expect. He feels heavy in your palm, his pubic hair wiry and scratchy against your knuckles.

He doesn’t tilt his head in confusion at your hesitancy. “Don’t know what to do with all this, do ya?”

You shake your head no. “I’ve never…with anyone, before.”

“S’alright. I’ll walk ya through it all,” Joel says, seemingly unsurprised at the revelation. With your hand still on his cock, Joel pulls himself out of his jeans entirely. He’s harder now. “Like this,” he instructs, bringing your hand to his mouth and spitting in it. A pang of arousal fills your gut at the action. He pushes your hand lower and guides you to wrap your hand around his cock. It feels heavy, warm to the touch, sticky with his sweat and his saliva. Rock hard, but smooth like satin. You admire him, his blushed tip, the prominent veins on his shaft.

Your breath hitches as Joel takes control, using his strong, weathered hand to guide your own to massage his cock. “You got it,” he encourages, sensing your rigidity. “Tighter,” he instructs, squeezing his hand around yours. You’re slow to gain confidence but he’s patient, doing the work himself for now. “You move your hand all the way up, all the way down my cock,” he tells you.

You nod in understanding. Joel drops his hand but yours stays stroking his member. He sighs and tilts his head backward as you focus on the task at hand. Without the pressure of intense eye contact, you take the opportunity to admire him, the way his Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows, the small drops of sweat rolling down his throat. You’re shy when he smiles at you, quickly averting your attention from him and to his cock, watching the way it twitches beneath your hand, where a little bead of precum forms. Experimentally, you swipe your thumb over the tip. “That’s it,” he whispers, stroking your cheek with the back of his hand. He ruts his hips into your hips, “Doin’ just fine.”

You stroke his cock like this for a while, gaining confidence in yourself until he stops you suddenly.

“Is that it?”

“Is that it,” Joel mocks with a feigned pout. “No, hon. You banged up my baby pretty good. We ain’t quite square yet.”

His leaking cock bounces against his tummy as he approaches his work bench. Your heart pounds as you can’t quite see what he’s reaching for. “Know it’s new to ya,” he says. “Just listen to me, s’all you gotta do.”

Joel returns to you with a dirty rag in his hand and lays it on the concrete ground, then reaches for your face. He pulls your bottom lip down and lets it go to watch it bounce back up. “Knees,” he whispers, gently pushing you by your shoulders to the ground. The rag he laid on the concrete for your knees is a sweet touch, all things considered. His cock is inches away from your face as he holds it between his thumb, middle, and forefingers. He presses himself to your lips, encouraging you to open your mouth. “Give it a taste,” he instructs you. “An’ you can kiss it too, if you’re feelin’ amorous.”

You part your lips and tentatively lick the weeping slit of his thick head just once. After a moment, taking in the saltiness of his precome, you lick him a couple more times, gaining confidence quicker than you did using just your spit soaked hand on him. Bigger stripes now, using more pressure. Like Joel advised, you kiss his cock a couple times, each kiss sloppier than the last before swirling your tongue around the tip. You’re learning it all, the softness of his skin, his musky, heady taste.

“Give me your hand,” Joel says. “Goes right here,” He wraps your hand around the base of his cock, same as before. He places one of his hands on your head, guiding you closer to him, encouraging you to take him deeper now. You do as such, sputtering and choking when you get overzealous and take him too quickly.

Joel chuckles, “Not all at once, sweetheart. Go slow. Try it again.” This time, Joel controls the pace at which you take him. He pushes himself into your mouth and senses when it becomes too much, pauses for you. He pulls his hips back, then rocks back into your mouth, building a slow, shallow pace for you to get used to.

He’s pushing his cock deeper into your mouth. His tip teases the back of your throat as he whispers, “Little more. Be brave,” You gaze up at him, searching his eyes for some sort of approval. He nods with his brows furrowed. “Do it for me, hon.”

You allow him to fuck himself deeper in your mouth now, your eyes pricking with tears as you gag and sputter on his cock. This time, Joel doesn’t stop himself. He’s grunting, groaning, savoring the warmth of your wet, soft mouth. “So good,” he tells you before tapping your hand, reminding you to put it to use.

What you can’t reach with your mouth, you massage with your hand as you cup his balls with your other. You and Joel work in tandem, him drawing in and out of your mouth as you bob your head and flick your tongue against his shaft. Your jaw is sore with the newness of it all, and just as you’re becoming used to the thickness of his cock between your lips and on your tongue, he pauses. “M’gonna stop you now,” Joel mumbles as he pulls out of your mouth, his eyes focused on your swollen lips and how the string of saliva connected from them to his cock breaks. “S’your turn.”

“My turn?”

“Mhm. It’s etiquette, hon,” Joel says with a grunt, lifting you to your feet. He reaches between your bodies and unbuttons your pants, pushing both them and your underwear down your legs. “Always return the favor.” Joel lifts you slightly, sitting your bare ass on the hood of his car, then pulls your pants off your legs the rest of the way. “Arms up,” he tells you. He lifts your shirt off of your body, unhooks your bra and lets it fall to your lap. You’ve never been so vulnerable, so exposed in front of someone before. Instinctively, you cover your chest with your arms and cross your legs.

“You’re shy,” he whispers. Joel drapes your clothing over his shoulder before reaching for your arms, removing them from your chest and placing them on either side of your body. “Stay like this,” He holds your knees next, uncrossing your legs and spreading them wide for his view.

Joel takes in your body and admires your wet cunt, how your thick curls frame it beautifully. A shiver goes down your spine as his eyes scan the rest of your body before he holds intense eye contact with you as he folds your clothes, placing them in a neat pile next to you on his car. You watch his chest rise and fall with steady breaths as he drops to his knees, situating himself between your thighs.

He presses a sloppy kiss against your inner knee, then another on your other leg. He kisses his way up your inner thigh, nipping at your flesh and soothing the marks with his tongue. He holds your legs firmly apart, knowing your instinct is to shut them when he reaches your cunt, his hot breath fanning over your center. “Wider,” he whispers, “I gotcha.”

The once cool metal of Joel’s car is now hot and slick under your sweaty, trembling palms. Your pulse beats as you look up at the garage ceiling, lacking the courage to look at Joel between your thighs. “Relax for me,” he tells you. You try.

You gasp when he finally begins exploring you, first his thumb parting open your folds. Adding a couple more digits, he hums in satisfaction as he finds you’re already wet, your slick glistening on his fingers. He dips one of those fingers inside of you slowly, watching how you react to his touch. You twitch and fight to keep yourself still and silent as he adds a second finger, curling it rhythmically and stroking that sweet spot inside you.

“Oh, god,” you moan as he dives into your cunt, the soft and warm, private place between your thighs, his mouth now joining where his fingers touch. His tongue is hot and wet as he drags it through your sex, circling your clit with it. “Joel, please.”

Joel’s satisfied as he hears sounds of pleasure fall from your lips, feeling your hips bucking and grinding gently against his mouth. He sucks one fold, nips at the other as he curls his fingers inside you rhythmically. With the hand that’s not teasing your pussy, he digs his fingers into the soft flesh of your thigh. “Quit squirmin’ on my car,” he warns with a firm squeeze to your thigh, hard enough to bruise you. “Ya tryin’ to scratch her again?”

His wiry stubble drags across your skin, scratching gently against the inside of your thighs. You can feel it building up quickly, that hot, sparkling feeling deep in your core as he works you, sucks your clit between his lips.

“Please,” you cry, the only word you can form at the moment.

“I know, hon,” he murmurs, escalating his efforts on your pussy. Sucking, licking, curling his fingers harder. He works you through your orgasm, feeling you gush against his mouth, your arousal dripping down his fingers and pooling into the palm of his hand. Your hands fly to his scalp, twitching and jerking from the sensitivity with your fingers tugging on his curls when he licks a stripe up the seam of your cunt.

Joel pulls away from your center with a satisfied grin, lips shiny, his facial hair damp. He rises, standing above you, and sloppily kisses your lips. You’ve never tasted your own arousal before. His strong hands find your ass cheeks, pulling you closer to where he wants you.

From there, you gasp when he slides his cock through your slick folds, rubbing thick head against your sensitive clit and watches how you react to his touch. “What do you think I’m doin’ to ya next?”

“Joel,” you whimper, your hips chasing his movements, following where his cock teases your cunt.

“Yeah, you know what I’m doin,” he purrs. “Crossin’ it all off your list tonight.”

You tense when he notches just the head of his cock in your pussy, reaching for his arm, his shoulder, any part of him you can hold.

“Know you’re nervous,” he says softly, rubbing circles into your thighs. “But s’just me an’ you here. Wider, hon. Spread your legs for me.”

You nod quickly, following suit and spreading your legs to accommodate him. “Like this?”

“Yeah, like that. S’perfect, hon, that’s all I need from you. C’mere,” Joel adjusts his hold on you before inching his cock into you a bit more. You’re so tight, squeezing him hard and whining through the stretch as he pushes into you further, the gradual slide inside your body causing him to grunt quietly. “Relax for me,” he groans through a strained breath, parting your insides as he’s sheathed himself inside you fully now. “Bite me f’ya need to, sweetheart. It’ll be okay. You’ll get used to it.”

It aches, but the pain dulls as Joel lets you get used to the feeling, the newness of his cock inside you. He holds you close and you take advantage of his suggestion, biting softly into the flesh of his neck, tasting the saltiness of his skin as you whimper quietly. Joel groans, his eyebrows furrowing together. “Shh,” he hushes, “You’re okay, hon. You’re doin’ alright.”

Joel slowly pulls out of you and fills you up again. “That’s it, sweetheart,” he praises as you tilt your hips, opening yourself to accept more of him. You’re humming into his neck as his cock recedes and then pushes in once more. “Eyes on me now. There it is, easy. Easy.”

You do as instructed, pulling your face away from him to meet his gaze. His sparkling brown eyes stay on yours as he pulls out of you, pushing into you slowly, deliberately. You hold onto his neck, his broad shoulders, clutching the fabric of his sweat dampened shirt as he builds a steady pace now. He holds you close to his body, one of his hands traveling up your body and groping your bouncing breasts, teasing your sensitive nipples.

“You just follow my lead,” Joel says, fucking you faster now. His fingers are pressed firmly into your waist now as he rolls his hips against yours. The pain is gone now, dissipated with his continued languid thrusts into you. You feel so full, so satisfied with his thick cock inside you, massaging your insides.

He fucks you steadily but gently, maintaining a quick rhythm. You didn’t know sex could make you feel this way, so much pleasure. You’re moaning freely, overwhelmed with emotion, tears flowing freely down your cheeks. God, you love it, and it’s nothing but pure pleasure.

Joel’s not oblivious to your enjoyment. He’s watching you, your face contorting, he’s listening to your moans and your cries, feeling you shiver and twitch beneath his touch and how it’s all because of him, all of your pleasure at the hands of Joel and only ever Joel. He feels a sort of carnal sense of power over this, the effect his touch has on you. You’re soft, so soft and all for him, your flesh for his hands and his teeth alone to squeeze, dig into, to bite on.

You reach for his arm and guide his hand to your center, pressing his fingers against your clit as that familiar tightness in your gut begins to build once more. “Please,” you beg.

“Thought this was supposed to be a deal for me. Didn’t need to hit my car f’ya needed me like this,” he taunts, laughing breathlessly. But Joel obliges, of course he obliges you. He moves his calloused fingertips in circles over your clit, coaxing out your release. “Takin’ me so good, sweetheart. Look at you, m’gonna make you come again. Makin’ out like a fuckin’ bandit, aren’t you?”

Indeed you are. It’s not long before you’re coming for him. With his ministrations on your clit, his thrusts now faster, harder, deeper, you’re coming undone for him as his name pours from your lips, long and slow like honey. With your lips parted open, you’re twitching and shuddering against him as you watch his face, letting yourself go. You whimper and moan, and your release is volcanic in the way it washes over your body so fiercely. Heavy, vivid waves of pleasure washing over you the way lava rolls down the earth. Slow, fiery, intense.

Your pulsing cunt milks Joel’s own climax, his orgasm crashing through him in such a way that he loses focus on you. His eyes screwed shut, the noises he’s making louder than he intended–what starts as a grunt turns into a moan, long and libertine as he fucks you harder than he probably should as you whimper in overstimulation. His thrusts turn harder and frenzied as he milks himself with your cunt, spurting hot ropes of his come inside you. You take everything he gives you, feeling so warm and full of his spend.

His movements then begin to ease, slowing down some more until he eventually stills inside of you. He takes the quiet moment to check on you, holding your face in his hands as he makes sure you’re okay. Your chest heaves as he wipes your tears, but you silently nod, reassuring him that you’re alright.

With a soft grunt, he pulls out of you. He watches how your combined arousal spills on the baby blue paint of his Chevelle, then uses his thumb to push a bit of his escaped come back inside you. Such a lewd action from the man.

Joel helps you to your feet, steadying you as you stand on shaky legs. He reaches for your clothes from the hood of his car, helping you dress yourself. “Didn’t want ‘em to get dirty,” he explains. “Everything’s covered in fuckin’ dirt and grease in here.”

“Thank you,” you smile shyly. Joel opens the garage door, the once peachy and blue sky now inky black. You didn’t realize how much time had passed. You take off back to your house, but Joel grips your bicep before you can step any further.

“Nuh uh,” he tuts. “Ya already hit my car, hon, you don’t wanna leave your mess on the hood now too, do ya?” Joel gestures to your combined arousal on the hood of his Chevelle, swipes his pointer finger through the mess and pushes it between your lips. Your brows furrow at the taste, that salty, heady flavor you’ve never tasted before now. “Use your tongue, sweetheart.”

“You want me…”

“Lick it up,” he instructs in a quiet voice. Joel figured he might’ve let you off too easy, seeing as how you came twice–once on his tongue and once on his cock when this was all supposed to be for him. He bends you over the hood of his car, groping your ass as he leans over your shoulder to inspect your work, making sure it’s a job well done. “Good girl,” he praises, watching you lick his car clean. When you’re done, he kisses you softly.

He walks you home, dropping you off on your doorstep. You’re not quite sure what to say, whether you should apologize again, thank him, say goodnight. Joel fills the silence for you. “Gonna teach you how to drive right one of these days. Keep you out of another mess like this one, hm?” he smirks as he kisses your cheek. “Goodnight, hon.”

If you enjoyed, please reblog, leave me a comment, and/or send an ask 🩷 your words mean the world to me and your interaction keeps me motivated to write. Love you all <3

From now on I’ll be sharing cat pics at the end of my fics. Hope you don’t mind 🐈‍⬛😻

#strang3lov3 #joel miller x reader #joel miller smut #joel miller x you #pedro pascal #joel miller #the last of us #the last of us hbo #joel miller fic #joel tlou #pedro pascal x you #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal smut #pedro pascal characters #joel miller x virgin reader

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ridingthatd · 9 months

Text

○o｡ MASTER TOJI

○o｡ tojixfem!reader, nsfw, heavy smut, master toji, toji is kinky, possessive toji, old days toji, filthy toji

toji fushiguro. toji fushiguro was a known master, a master who's job was to go after wanted man-woman whether they're bad or not, his mission was to kill them brutally and get their head to whoever paid him to kill them- their head as a proof, a proof of what he's capable of doing.

toji is known for his cold and calculating personality, which makes him intimidating- he does not hesitate to use his immense strength and powerful cursed techniques to defeat his enemies.

but then there's you- you who has him in your gentle little hands, your soft hands that always try to release the knots on his back- but always fail because of how small they are, compared to his muscular board back.

toji adored you- adored everything about you, from your long crazy curls, to your plumpy thick thighs that he always love to leave his marks on. you drived him to break a line he never thought he would break, he was a jealous- possessive man with you, he wants to be the air you breath everyday, he wants to be the only reason why you smile, the only person who can see it, who can hear your sweet giggles- your hideous laugh that he would die for,

he was such a jealous man, he wants you all for himself, he doesn't want anyone to be part of why you're happy other then him- toji knows and he's aware of how mentally deranged that is but it was very much how he truly felt.

he such a possessive man, that he wouldn't let you pleasure yourself- he doesn't want the sweet honey that comes out of your cunt go to waste, he only wants you to cum on his huge cock or his tongue, squirt on his face as you stroke your wet cunt on his nose- ridding it as he licks-coat your pinkish asshole with his spit.

it even got to the point where he made you a dildo to the exact shape of his cock, so you can pleasure yourself with it while he's gone to a long mission- he would always use it to stretch your ass to, while he pounds inside of your cunt, making you pass out from being to stuffed in both of your holes by his cock.

it's been a whole two weeks since toji last saw you, and it got him into a bad temper- a really bad one- he only could receive letters from you, telling him how much you missed him and your sweet cunt needed your master.

today was the worst day so far for him- and it's like you knew that, because as soon as he made to the cabin he was staying in, he received a letter from you, and it was heavier then usual like it contains something- toji frowns confused on what would his sweet angel send him.

his cock harden poking out his kimono, eyes dark as he clenchs your red wet panties, he looked at what you wrote in the letter and he shudders, wave of pleasure hitting his body, making his thighs shake and his balls to release his seeds, cumming- cumming untouched.

~ dear master.

I know that you have been having a really hard time so I decided maybe I should send a little gift of mine, sorry for the mess on the panties, I couldn't help but squirt on them as I imagine you being here with me while I fuck my ass with the huge dildo of yours.

from your dear y/n. ~

"little fucking slut" he groans out as he grabs the wet panties to his tongue and suck-lick on your sweet cum as he free his leaking cock stroking it hard- tugging on it fast.

his cabin was filled with his pathetic moans- his mind is blank, drugged on the taste and smell of your panties- he was filthy for you, so filthy that he places your panties on top of his cock- stroking his cock with it, using your left wetness as a lube, he can't help but jerk his hips up- to lost in pleasure as he spills his hot seeds in your panties, moaning out your name.

he lays on his bed- this was the best orgasm he had in those last two weeks, he looks at your ruined panties and slowly smirk at the idea he had in mind.

you stare at tojis letter and the suprise he left you- eyes widen as you take a look at the red panties you sent him- not even red anymore it was filled with his cum, clearly showing you a sign that he very much enjoyed your gift.

~ dear y/n.

my love, I was very pleased with your little gift, I expect you to be spread wide open as I make my way to our house tomorrows afternoon, don't forget to plug your sweet ass with the dildo. enjoy my suprise.

from master toji fushiguro. ~

toji came as he promised, as he makes his way toward the door of the bedroom, hands placed inside of his kimono- while his cock was raging hard more than ready to breed his little filthy slut.

and here he finds you- on the bed spread wide open, your poor little cunt was wet and drenched with your sweet honey, twitching- clenching around nothing craving the cock of her master-

you clearly came from having his cock dildo shoved fully up your little hole as he told you. such a good girl.

"my poor little baby did you cum from having this pathetic of a dildo up your little ass?" he coo at you as he strokes your curls out of your face- your fucked out face, you had been waiting for him for awhile now.

and his cock has also been aching for you for awhile now.

₊˚ʚ ᗢ₊˚✧ end ₊˚ʚ ᗢ₊˚✧ ﾟ

4K notes · View notes

blkkizzat · 8 months

Note

please write nerd geto ! i’m sure you’ll write something amazinggg

Of course doll! Sorry this took a while I was sick most of December and January whooped my ass with classes starting again but I love love the idea of Nerd!Geto especially a Nerd!Geto with glasses so had to write a whole fic. Hope you like it :3 ♡

Lessons in Anatomy

“Shall I give you a lesson, Y/N? Do you want me to teach you how to squirt?”

summary: thanks to some bad choices and party girl ways you're on academic probation and can't afford to fail another test. fortunately your longtime friend nerd!geto is there to give you lessons in both economics and anatomy.

cw: college AU. fingering, squirting, dirty talk, edging, mentions of satosugu, rich party kid shit, incestuous friendships, mentions of reader x other jjk men, mentions of casual sex/hookups, mentions of drinking/drug use, reader is a dumb (and I mean dumb) bimbo, a little bit of a brat too, slight coercion, slight dubcon, virgin!suguru, soft dom!sugu, sex ed!sugu, roleplay as sugu is pre med major, some minor fluff, pet names: slut, bunny etc. a bit of a crack fic too haha. slightly black fem coded, no descriptors. a/n: LOL how this became an 8.2k fic about squirting idk chile... but special shout out to @littlemochabunni who talked me off a ledge when I was being emo and I wanted to scrap the entire thing and start over. w/c: 8.2k

“I can’t believe I’m here and missing the biggest party of the year!”

You groaned as you scrolled through your stories to see all the pics and vids of your friends living their best drunken lives and happily binge drinking on frat row to celebrate your school’s football league championship win.

Toru just did unassisted keg stand pushups and you missed it!

You, on the other hand, were stuck studying with Suguru in his dorm room.

100% sober and being forced to learn 5 weeks of econ, that you never took a single note for, in one weekend.

Well not forced exactly.

You and Satoru had practically begged Suguru to help you study this weekend. If you failed this class you would flunk out as you were already on academic probation.

“Well I for one can’t believe you’re dumb enough to attempt to cheat off Toji and Sukuna of all people.”

Suguru quipped back while pushing up his glasses. He snatched your phone away from you and placed it on the other side of his desk, away from you.

Not that he took offense to the remark, but he too had better things to do on a Friday night than tutoring you. Keggers definitely weren't his scene though and Suguru wouldn’t be caught dead at a party celebrating with those frat monkeys. Even if said monkeys included his childhood friends.

However, as a pre-med student he’d much rather stay in to write his essay for the clinical research internship he was trying to get.

“Hey! I didn’t cheat off them for the record! Toji and Sukuna said they had the hookup for the answers!”

You pouted grumbling as you tried to reach for your phone on the other side of the table only for Suguru to take it again. This time he slid it into his pockets, keeping it away from you for good.

“Urgh, it’s not my fault they got the test for ECON 230A and 230B mixed up. I didn’t even know there was a second section!”

Suguru had to resist the urge to roll his eyes at you again. The pilfered test definitely had ‘ECON 230B’ printed in big bold letters at the top.

You all were idiots.

Unfortunately for you, you were just a cheerleader idiot.

The other idiots, Toji and Sukuna, dubbed the ‘The Boom Bros’, were the reason your team even won the championships in the first place. The best defensive backs your college or any college in your division have seen, ever. Not letting an opposing team score more than 10 points the entire season, there was no way in hell they were going down for that right before the championships.

That left you as the scapegoat, which was something Suguru noted that you happily took the fall for. Although there is a very good possibility of you being a soon-to-be college dropout, your social clout was skyrocketing.

Word spread among the popular social circles fast on how you ‘saved the big game’.

Suguru couldn’t care less about football, though he was getting annoyed at all the texts, DMs and messages you received asking where you were. They were making you completely lose the little focus you were capable of, which is what made him confiscate your phone in the first place.

Sighing, Suguru was pretty sure you would be competent enough to pass if you just applied yourself more to anything other than drinking and parties.

“Y/N, just try to focus on studying, please.”

You pouted, turning back to the textbook in front of you.

How did Suguru’s nerdy ass enjoy studying so much?

Studying, especially anything to do with math, gives you an ick. In fact, you were sure the only reason you graduated from high school and even got into this university was because you played 7-minutes-in-heaven with Choso at the start of senior year.

It had been a secret double dare from Gojo but you sucked the soul out of that boy in Gojo’s closet that night. From then on, Choso pretty much did anything you wanted that year, including all your homework. Hell, he even wrote your college admissions essays and in turn you gave him some sloppy toppy here and there.

Choso was always eager to feel your soft lips on his cock, so you’re sure he could have thought of a better way for you to cheat so you didn't have to study at all and could be out partying right now. It’s just your bad luck that he was studying abroad this semester with his little brother Yuuji.

Although, even if you did flunk out you weren’t that worried. Worst case scenario if you couldn’t find a career or a husband you could always be one of Gojo’s three mistresses he said he would keep once he was older, married and had taken over his family’s company.

He had pinky-pie-promised he would take care of you if you needed it and as one of your best friends you knew he was good for that promise. Even if he did make it while you both were partying, tripping balls off acid so hard that Satoru convinced himself your cunt could produce cotton candy. He chewed on your pussy for 2 hours straight one wild night on your group’s graduation trip where he then asked if you would be his future mistress.

But that didn’t necessarily mean you wanted that life for yourself. You liked your independence and Satoru would be alot to deal with, even with 2 other mistresses and a wife.

Therefore, unless you wanted to resign yourself to that fate, you were stuck with Suguru as your tutor.

It’s not like you didn’t get along with Suguru, he’d been one of your closest friends since you were young along with Satoru. But as you got older your interests kind of drifted apart and you saw him less and less, especially as you got to college.

You wanted to party and Suguru prioritized studying.

You had missed him. You wanted to have fun with him again.

And this was definitely not fun.

Reading the same paragraph for the fifth time and retaining shit all of whatever the passage had said about ‘demand curve fluctuations’, you were ready to climb up the walls.

You began to fidget, still in your cheer uniform from the game earlier. The material of your skirt rode up to your upper thighs when you splayed your knees out and leaned forward to lay your head on the desk face down with an exasperated yawn.

Suguru shared in your exasperation but directed his towards you with another sigh, looking you over. His weariness at you from your inability to study causes his eyes to linger on your form longer than they should.

Resting against his desk, your back had molded into a nice natural little arch as your tits pushed forward . Adjusting his glasses Suguru found it difficult to pull his eyes away once they landed on your thighs. Practically leering, Suguru is transfixed by the way the fabric bunched at your hips digs into your soft skin.

He curses your university’s school colors as the next thing that caught his eye was the bright yellow cheer panties you wore that were tight enough to show the full shape of your cunt. Your panties are so skinforming that they don’t fail to give you camel toe. The indent of the slit between your fat pussy lips is on full display.

You’ve always been attractive, Suguru muses as he feels his pants slightly tighten. But it’s no mystery why you were such a slut now if these were the positions you found yourself in when alone with guys.

“Seeing something you like, Sugu baby?”

Suguru snaps his head up at your teasing to see you looking straight at him, your head still resting on his desk but has since turned to face him. The wink along with the lazy yet knowing smile forming on your cherry stained lips lets him know you know he was staring at your cunt.

Caught red handed, Suguru rolls his eyes and scoffs as he returns back to the textbooks in front of him while you laugh. Dismissing your question entirely he changes the subject back to studying but can’t resist throwing in a little dig to take the heat off himself.

“Y/N, can’t you just focus? You’ve barely made any progress… Or is it that you want to flunk out and be reduced to Toru’s mistress or something?”

Fuck, you forgot Suguru knew about that too. (Duh, of course he did. He was the sober one who found you both, taking care of you once your come downs had hit).

Not letting him get away with that shade, the brat in you clapped back as you returned his sarcasm back at him.

“Okay, well high school was one thing but do you want to go through college without getting any play too? Or are you satisfied just from peeking up a skirt?”

Annoyance flashes in Suguru’s eyes. He thought you had some audacity seeing as you were the one who was casually flaunting your pussy for him in the first place. Nevertheless, you continued, using Suguru as a punching bag for your current academic frustrations.

“Your pocket pussy and getting head from Toru behind the bleachers at prom doesn’t count by the way!”

Suguru pinched the bridge of his nose as his tolerance of the situation had officially bubbled over. He was tired of everyone thinking he was missing out on something just because he didn’t want to kill off brain cells partying every weekend or play STD Roulette with casual hookups.

You bringing up prom was a low blow. It was the first time he’d ever had a drink and Toru had practically begged him. Satoru wanted to know if his head was just as good for guys as it was for girls (spoiler alert: it was).

Also, what you thought just because you fucked around alot it was actually any good?

“Yeah and getting railed by a bunch of banana brained monkey jocks, that counts Y/N? They wouldn’t know what to do with your clit even if it was an actual football.”

Suguru retorted and he watched as your eyes widened with shock then seethed with anger as you finally sat upright in the seat.

Ding Ding! He had hit a nerve.

“Oh and you would know what to do, cherry boy?”

Suguru knows he probably shouldn’t push it further. But like Satoru, you always knew what buttons to push to get under his skin. Suguru can’t help but to want to get under your skin as well, especially since he was never one of the ones getting under your clothes.

“Well I can actually spell clitoris, so that already puts me at an advantage over those ball chasing monkeys. Have you ever even had a real orgasm before, Y/N?”

You started to speak but Suguru cut you off before you could.

“—and I mean one that didn’t come from tripping with Satoru or a toy? I bet you’ve never even squirted before.”

Damn.

You resisted the urge to chew on your lip, not wanting him to know just how right he was but your immediate silence was telling. Racking your brain, you tried to find a way to get your lick back but found yourself at a loss.

It was mostly true to be honest.

A hot and heavy make-out session at a party would typically lead to mostly underwhelming sex and you would have to return to your dorm or wait for them to leave to finish yourself off with your rose or dildo… or both.

Okay and sure, maybe the one and only time you did really have an intense body orgasm was the time you dropped acid with Satoru but… fuck –Wait…squirting?! Wasn’t that just pee? Gross!

Satisfied with your small ammunition, after a pause you bit back again.

“Alright, so frat boys aren’t sex gods, tell me something I don’t know. It’s still sex Suguru—”

You flipped your hair and crossed your legs arrogantly as you continued.

“— sex that you aren’t having, which, duh, is obvious if you think squirting is an actual thing. Because Eww nasty, I’m so not into piss-play, Sugu!”

You waited for his reply, assuring your win but Suguru just blinked at you, dumbfounded.

The thought of you having won shatters when Suguru erupts into a fit of laughter. Hitting the table for emphasis Suguru was near howling as the glasses fell off his face and he had to clutch his sides for support, keeling over in his chair.

Suguru couldn’t actually believe that you believed squirting was the same as urinating!

On second thought, knowing you, this kind of checked out…

Watching Suguru in a fit of hysterics had your face burning with embarrassment as waves of self-consciousness came over you.

To be honest, you weren’t even sure why you were feeling insecure as this was supposed to be your victory! This was not the reaction you expected from him at all to say the least!

Just what made this so funny!? Because you didn’t want to piss yourself during sex?!

“Sugu…”

“Hey, Suguru!!!”

Frustrated with him ignoring you and still laughing after failing to get his attention, you jumped up from your seat and marched directly in front of Suguru. Angrily you yanked his head up by his man bun.

You were so ready to tell Suguru to go to hell for laughing at you. Even if you weren’t too sure exactly what he was laughing at you for, he was still being a jerk right now.

However the words caught in your throat as soon as you saw his face.

Suguru’s wide grin easily illuminated the dimly lit dorm room. Tears gathered in the crinkle around his eyes and pulled into an expression of such warmth that you were reminded of all the fun times you had together goofing off over the years. You nearly forgot what it was like to see him laugh like this.

So nostalgic you almost forgot he was still laughing at your expense — almost.

“Don’t be an asshole Sugu…”

Your voice was low, lacking any real bite as all your fire fizzled and was replaced by a pout.

Defeated, you let go of your stiff grip on his silky bun causing it to unravel and frame his face with thick black strands that flowed down past his shoulders. Although it wasn’t the first time you had seen Suguru with his hair down and no glasses, you couldn’t help but stare at him now.

He had grown much more into his features since high school.

College Suguru had sharper eyes, a slimmer face with a strong jawline and hair that flowed down to his chest. Not to mention his lanky boyish frame had filled out. The muscles underneath were prominent now even if he was wearing a baggy band tee and sweats. Suguru didn’t go to parties but from the looks of him he certainly didn’t miss going to the gym.

He didn’t look much like the nerd you knew him to be right now at all.

Granted, you were still a bit salty with Suguru but didn’t want to fight with him anymore. Especially given the way his dark eyes sparkled as he gazed up at you, your heart nearly skipping a beat as if you were really only noticing him now for the first time.

Sniffling, a cocktail of emotions swirls in you. Moisture pricks in the corners of your eyes despite yourself.

Suguru, who was also staring at you, took notice right away.

“Hey Bunny, I’m sorry...”

You relaxed a bit hearing the old nickname he and Satoru gave to you back in middle school, you couldn’t remember the last time he called you that.

Grabbing your hand in his much larger one, Suguru gave your palm a gentle rub with his thumb. His hand was surprisingly soft.

Despite his sweet gesture, your brow twitched slightly at Suguru’s soft chuckles, still continuing albeit less frequently, at your expense.

“It’s just that… I dunno, I guess I would have expected you to have experienced it at least once before Y/N, it’s definitely not pee.”

You huffed. You still weren’t convinced it wasn’t pee but now you were more curious than anything.

“And how do you know that Suguru? You’ve made a girl squirt before?”

There was no sarcasm in your tone this time, just doubt since he would have told Toru and Toru definitely would have told you if Suguru was getting play from someone.

Suguru to his credit wasn't discouraged though.

If anything, he seemed to gain confidence on the matter now that you weren’t fighting him, rather looking to him for knowledge, for the first time tonight.

“Well, no, but I did get a 4.0 out of Anatomy last semester and unlike you I actually paid attention in Sex Ed. Also, just because I’m a virgin, doesn’t mean I’m completely clueless. There is a little thing called the internet, Y/N.”

You mouthed an ‘O’— a bit ashamed that you actually thought because he was a virgin who didn’t party he was merely just sitting around clueless to everything about sex.

But what could just reading textbooks and the internet teach him over actual experience?

Then again, Suguru was practically a genius, if he was saying something was possible you could be sure it was. Still you couldn’t stop your mind racing as you considered his previous words.

You were the one with all the experience so you should have experienced it before, right?

Maybe the guys you hooked up with weren’t the problem then? Maybe you were.

“What if– w-what if I’m the problem Suguru? What if I just can’t?”

Tugging you closer, his fingers now interlacing with yours, Suguru’s other hand settled on your hip giving you a warm squeeze. You were so close to him now that his chin almost rested on your belly and Suguru was craning his head up to you with a small sly grin still on his face.

“It’s not a matter of can or can’t Bunny, you just don’t know how. Shall I give you a lesson, Y/N?”

“Do you want me to teach you how to squirt?”

You felt a bit lightheaded as you considered the words that just came out of Suguru’s mouth. You weren’t shy at all when it came to matters of sex and you had the reputation to prove it. Yet your stomach still did a little flip at Suguru propositioning you.

Sure you were a bit of a slut and had at least made out with almost every guy in your group of friends, but not Suguru. Not for lack of attraction though, you had teased Suguru in the past but he had always been the responsible one, like an older brother or protector.

Besides, Satoru was always so needy for his attention. There weren’t often times you were with Suguru alone and he never seemed all too interested in sex either, at least when directly compared to a horn dog like Satoru.

You didn’t actually know if he was serious though so you decided to make light of it, giggling.

“If you wanted me to pop your cherry Sugu, all ya had to do was ask.”

Suguru smiled back at you, he shook his head chuckling.

“I’ll only need to use my fingers, Y/N. Besides, this is about you. What I really want is for you to not flunk out, I would miss you, ya know?”

You try to keep a poker face but you couldn’t help feeling giddy at the fact you were extremely happy to hear Suguru would miss you. You had already missed him and combined with the inkling of new feelings stirring in your chest from seeing your old friend in a new light you feel adrenaline begin to pump through you as you brim with nervous energy.

“Let’s think of this as a study break from Economics. You had to miss the party but we can still have some fun. You might even learn something for once, eh?”

His hand left your hip in order to push the books and papers on his desk aside and patted the wooden surface. The hand still intertwined with yours guided you over.

“Hop on up, Bunny. It’s time for your anatomy lesson.”

You look at the desk and pause as if you are unsure, biting your lip.

Thoughts of finally hooking up with Suguru excited and the fact you were nervous whether you would disappoint him if you couldn’t actually squirt flood your mind at once. However when you meet Suguru’s eyes and feel gentle reassuring pressure on your hand your body is already moving towards the desk, making the decision for you.

Your heart is already thudding in your eardrums by the time you settle on top of Suguru’s study desk. Suguru immediately shifts into instructor mode, picking his glasses up off the floor and adjusting them back on his face.

He directs you to lean back and relax and soon your shoulders are against the wall behind the desk as you are propped up on your elbows.

You yelp as Suguru startles you by grabbing your hips with a firm squeeze and scooches you flush to his pelvis. Feet propped up to the edge as well all you needed were the stirrups and you could have been at the gyno's office, giggling now at the thought.

“Sugu, you can’t be serious. I feel like you’re about to give me a pap, not an orgasm.”

Suguru’s mouth twitches up into a smirk.

“There’s a reason they have you lie in this position, makes for easier access. If you’re going to squirt I’m going to need to find that slutty lil’ gland of yours and I don’t mean your clit, Bunny.”

You huffed but you were otherwise agreeable.

You couldn’t deny you were a slut especially not now with your legs spread open wide exposing your bright yellow cheer-panty clad cunt to Suguru. Laid out like this, the thin layer of spandex is stretched to its absolute limits causing your chubby pussy lips to poke out of the sides. This does not go unnoticed by Suguru who hadn’t taken his eyes off your lower half since you initially spread your legs.

His Adam's apple bobbed heavily as he swallowed and breathed deeply at the sight of you.

Suguru can barely believe he’s really about to do this.

If anything he is overconfident in his abilities, despite his lack of actual on-the-job experience so to speak. From all his studying as a pre-med student, books, health articles and yes even porn, Suguru could say he had an in-depth understanding of human anatomy and bodily functions.

But that didn’t mean he didn’t need to calm himself enough to stop his balmy palms from sweating further at the reality of finally being allowed to actually touch you.

“I’ll be in your care then, Doctor Geto.”

You make a lighthearted joke with a nervous laugh to ease your own anticipation. However the joke has the opposite effect for Suguru and he snaps his head up as if you had activated something in him.

Suguru’s fiery expression sends shivers down your back. Although as quickly as it appeared it was gone again, replaced by his trademark comforting grin. Even so your fingers pressed a bit deeper into the wood beneath you, steadying your frazzling nerves.

“Well aren’t you a lucky one then, being my first patient ever. You’ll be a good little pussy and listen to me, won't you?”

Suguru is looking down again, speaking directly to your cunt who is tingling in response to his voice. It’s fucking lewd. But then again so is the studious scrutiny of Suguru’s eyes so single-mindedly transfixed to your cunt you wonder if his leer alone could dissolve the cheer panties right off of you.

You let go of the breath you didn’t realize you were holding once Suguru finally starts touching you.

But not your pussy just yet.

His long thick fingers are surprisingly cool on your skin as they press into your warmth, ghosting just above your knee on both sides.

Gentle strokes travel down along your inner thighs and up again to lightly tickle the backs of your legs. You tense and squirm beneath him when your eyes meet Suguru’s own.

“Sugu–”

“Patience, Bunny. It’s no wonder you never cum if you’re so used to diving right in. You need to relax first. This won’t happen if you aren’t relaxed, can you try to do that for me?”

You nodded back at him, yet the goosebumps left in the wake of Suguru’s soft caresses had you trembling. So used to rushed thrusts and hurried grasps, you don’t know how to just take it in the moment.

You had never been touched this delicately before.

Already oversensitive, if anything you felt like the one who was the virgin in this situation.

If Suguru notices, he says nothing. His touches are progressively firmer, the light pets morphing into soft squeezes and circular strokes of the hand once he traverses closer to your core.

“You know Bunny, the inner thigh area is an erogenous zone? Can you say that, Y/N? Ero-gen-ous?

Suguru pronounces the word out for you as his heavy muscular hands make their way to the crease of your inner thighs, his hands once more perilously close to your pussy as he pauses looking up at you again expectantly.

“Say it, Y/N.”

Your cunt clenches at his command and it leaves you stuttering. Heat blossoms across your cheeks from how needy you sound choking out the word.

“Er-Ero-gennn-ous.”

Suguru rewards you by moving his hands again but to your dismay they pass your core to dig into your hips, his thumbs swirling over your hip bones. He leans his body in closer to you and you break eye contact to turn your head away lest you really start falling apart in his hands.

“Good girl. Ya know, you’re quite bright with the right motivation, Bunny.”

Puffs of moist heat glide over the tip of your ear as his lips are only millimeters away from your skin. His words stimulate a deep in your gut reaching all the way down to your toes, trying to resist how much he’s affecting you.

Suguru chuckles at your bashfulness.

“Are you always this shy, Bunny? Or does that honor just belong to me?”

You whimpered. You aren’t sure how you got here.

How was Suguru, a nerdy virgin, making you come undone like this? You didn’t know where the darkness that crept up on the edges of his eyes was coming from either, yet you squirm in anticipation despite yourself.

You loved it.

Always a know-it-all, so you would hate to admit it outloud, but Suguru was already making you feel more excitement than any frat boy you had been with. Lack of hands-on experience be damned. You’re losing it as his lips sensually flutter against your collarbone.

“Y-you s-said only fingers, S-Sugu!”

Your voice lacks any real reprimand as you are arching up into his touches and quivering for more. Suguru obliges as he alternates between delicate nips and open mouth kisses sinfully marking you. Groaning into the crook of your neck Suguru savors the lingering taste of your perfume and the natural saltiness of your skin.

Returning his attention back to your ear Suguru’s breath trails over your skin until your lobe is once again trapped between his moist lips. He lightly tugs it between his teeth before giving it a sharp bite.

“AHH!”

The sting sends a jolt of electricity shooting straight into your cunt and a strangled noise escapes your lips. Your knees are starting to buckle but Suguru’s quick reflexes stopped your legs from clamping together all the way, bracing you.

Taking your hands and leading them to the backs of your thighs, Suguru is making you steady yourself back into a spread position for him and gives you strict instructions not to move.

“Good girl… This should be more than obvious now Bunny, but there are erogenous zones all over your body that connect to the pleasure nerve endings here.”

Suguru’s voice is silky as his index finger tows long strokes over the slit of your clothed cunt and applies pressure on your clit for emphasis. Whines fumble out of you when Suguru switches from steady swipes to idle flicks with pads of his fingers and your legs twitch again once more.

“It's important to simulate multiple areas simultaneously and I only have two hands, don’t I? You don’t mind Y/N do you?”

You still can’t bear to look Suguru in the eyes, much less respond vocally so you just shake your head.

“Feeling good, Bunny? Which do you like better, the strokes or the flicks?”

Your eyes squeeze shut from Suguru demonstrating both over your covered cunt. You try not to tear up but the amount of autonomy you had in this situation was new to you. Embarrassed and vulnerable you’re realizing that in spite of all your sexual experiences you still don’t feel comfortable expressing your needs.

“Hey, Y/N–”

Suguru clutches your face in his massive grip, squishing both your cheeks with a single hand and forcing your glassy eyes back on him. It was hard to focus on what he was saying anyway while you cooed from the feather-like circles he had been drawing on your clit.

“–you have to talk to me. This and sex in general, is just another form of communication. It won't work well and you definitely won’t squirt unless you can express to your partner what feels good and what doesn’t.”

You are sure he can feel the heat gathering in your cheeks radiating off your skin.

“Stop t-teasing S-Sugu… I-I know you can tell it’s good.”

Suguru eases his hold on you, his smirk deepening at your complaint.

“Oh I can, tell Bunny. Believe me. Your pussy, she’s so sensitive no matter how much you try to hide it from me. But I still need to hear it from your mouth regardless.”

The hand playing with your cunt splays out and Suguru fully cups you in his hands. The pulsing of your clit vibrates against his palm even through your panties.

“If you’re going to be a slut Bunny, at least be a vocal one. Be a slut for your own pleasure...this fat n’pretty cunt of yours deserves it.”

Suguru’s mouth is mere millimeters above yours, floating suspended both your lips are parted as you’re sharing the same air. The dizzying effect of breathing him in only intensifies with his words.

“Or perhaps you just get off on the idea of being free use?”

Suguru chuckles but doesn’t make you answer that question in favor of pulling back from you to inspect the large wet spot you soaked through your cheer panties from all of his taunting.

Pleased he gives your clothed pussy a smack, the moisture underneath the flimsy fabric evident in the soft squelchy sound that fills the room.

Smack, another moist sound echoes from your cunt.

“Oh, looks like she’s ready. This mouth down here is so much more talkative, Bunny.”

Hooking his fingers in the fabric Suguru peels your soaked cheer panties to the side, whistling at the thick strings of your essence that lingered between your cunt and your panties.

“So fucking wet, the prettiest most obedient lil’ pussy, aren’t you?”

A fleeting thought of sassing Suguru since yours is the first real pussy he has actually even seen up close dissipates as soon as your entrance flutters against his two thick fingers that rub over your uncovered opening.

Involuntary bucking your hips, the burning urge to feel him inside you is all you care about now, pride be damned.

You want him.

“Sugu–”

“–Shhh!”

Suguru cuts your pleas short.

“Don’t interrupt Doctor Geto when he’s speaking with his favorite patient, Bunny… Your nasty lil’ cunt is really begging for her treatment, isn’t she?”

You pout at him, quieting down while Suguru rewards your submission by slipping into your folds once more, entering fully past your entrance and into your gummy walls. It’s only a single digit inside you but your pussy is hungrily sucking him in deeper, trying to devour his middle finger whole.

Suguru murmurs intelligible obscenities from how warm and tight you are. He needs to find that spot.

Your hands struggle to keep your legs from quaking when you feel his finger, longer, thicker and far more pointed than your own, bottom out before languidly dragging delicious pressure back through you, exploring your walls in search of–

“Found her.”

Your ass jerks up and nearly off the desk entirely when his finger roughly prods into the firm spongy spot within your cunt you didn’t even know existed until now.

“FAH-FAH-FUHHCKKKKKKKKK–”

Your voice cracks and your vision blurs with tears that finally are cascading down your face smudging your mascara. Your reaction has you missing the wide-eyed look of amazement Suguru gives you utterly entranced by the way your entire body quivered from just a solid tap to the gland.

Suguru had expected an intense reaction. He’d seen and read about how temporary control of muscles and spasms were common when abusing this spot in women. But the one thing textbooks, articles, nor porn could prepare him for was how fucking sexy you’d be while he was doing it.

The ache in his pants has him groaning as he has to lean nearly his entire weight into you in order to get your lower half to settle back down on the desk. Pausing his movements inside of you, Suguru allows you to catch your breath.

Still the heavy pad of his finger is weighing down on you with enough force you still need to suck in your breaths, barely able to squeak out words.

“W-Wh-What is th-that S-Suguuu?!”

Suguru tells you not to worry about the actual name. It’s not very sexy, so you won’t remember it and it’s important that you do, so eventually he tells you to just call it the g-spot.

You groan at the loss of pressure on your g-spot when Suguru removes himself from you entirely in order to bring the finger that had been inside you to his lips. Watching him savoring the essence of your sweet cunt on his tongue, you couldn’t take any longer, finding your voice.

“Su-Surugu, N-Need–N-need more. P—please!”

Suguru obliges, slapping the fat of your ass teetering off the desk and lifts you as his knee slides under your hip. Leaning into you further, Suguru throws one of your shapely legs over his shoulder.

“Oh, you found your voice Bunny? Then tell me what my patient wants. Where does Doctor Geto need to touch you?”

“M-my pussy– fuck– p-please Sugu, wanna feel good there. She’ll be so good for you!”

Suguru’s pleased smile is your only warning before two of his large fingers plunge-in and bottom out inside your cunt, knocking against your cervix. Your jaw completely slacks as you groan at the sudden intrusion, allowing Suguru the perfect invitation to your mouth.

Wasting no time, Suguru crashes his lips into yours. The kiss is sloppy, hot and needy as any cries that attempted to leave you were drowned out in the wet cavern of Suguru’s mouth.

Fuck, you’re greedy as hell.

The kiss makes Suguru’s head spin and he loses himself in your sinful hunger as you wrap your arms around his neck and begin to dominate the kiss, sucking on his tongue. Soon Suguru finds himself groaning against your lips and slowly rocking his cock into the back of your thigh. Fuck, your body was too responsive, too eager for him to slut you out on his fingers.

Suguru couldn’t lose sight of the goal though, you needed to squirt so he needed to take back control.

Catching you off guard, he bullies a third finger– his ring finger, into your cunt as well. Breathless you break the kiss, your eyes sinking back into your head as you meet the thrusts of his fingers with the roll of your hips.

You aren’t able to control the way your body convulses as you writhe against Suguru. His massive body weighed over you as his hair fell in front of his face, hiding his crazed expression from you.

Suguru is also panting as he vigorously pumps the appendages into you. In and out, swirling them Suguru’s fingers take special care to zigzag sweet torment over your g-spot.

You’ve only felt the slight ghostings of this feeling before, nothing so pointed and focused on attacking this spot, while stretching your pussy so well in the process. You want– no need, to feel Suguru’s cock inside you next.

You could tell he must be huge. Heat was radiating off his girthy bulge as it twitched up against your ass cheek even through Suguru’s joggers. The thought causes the hot iron coil in your stomach to tense to its breaking point, begging for release.

Suguru notices.

“A-Are you gonna squirt for me, Y/N?”

For the first time his own voice is ragged, set on keeping his promise to you.

“S-Sugu, I-I– I want to but I–”

Your words catch in your throat as tears that are salty to the taste freely flow past your lips down your chin. You are unsure of what exactly to beg Suguru for even if you could do more than unintelligible babbles at the moment.

It’s coming– you panic— this feeling!

“W-w-ait! Nooo, S–Su–Sugu… I’m g-gonna pee. S-stop, p-puhleaseee!

Your hands slip against Suguru’s shoulders as you try in vain to push him away. So fearful that Suguru was wrong and you may actually piss all over him and his desk.

Suguru isn’t having it though, backhanding your clit with a harsh smack, his knuckle bullying into your bud.

The slap was followed by two more in quick succession, his other hand never slowing inside of you. Disregarding your pleas Suguru ventures even deeper into your guts while pressing down on your lower belly.

“I told you it’s not pee, Bunny. You don’t listen very well, do you?”

Suguru hiss at you, the stress of holding himself back as you fall apart on his fingers was nearly too much, he needed you to lay back, be good for him and take it.

“I-I’m s-sowy, Dr. Geto but– I– wanna–.”

You sniffle back more tears, which has Suguru calming himself in order to soothe you again.

“Shh Bunny, it’s okay– now ask your doctor nicely for what you need. Go on.”

At this point cuming, squirting, whatever Suguru you requires of you in order to release the feral sensations building within you is an essential need to live as much as taking your next breath.

“Doctor Geto, please let me cum! Sugu please! G-gonna s-squirt, gonna squirt s-so g-good for you!!”

“That’s right baby you will… Now squirt on me Bunny, make a pretty mess all over my fucking fingers.”

Timing a particularly hard jolt to your g-spot with simultaneous pressure from over your belly, has you tipping over the edge. Back arching you feel the gratifying release as you squirt hard, fluids spurting all over Suguru’s fingers and spilling down his forearms. The saccharine pleasure of it all is buzzing throughout every cell in your body as your eyes flutter back into your skull.

Your entire body feels like an extension of your pussy, pulsing in tune with your cunt and you don’t realize you are even screaming until Suguru’s mouth is on top of yours once again.

Suguru is tongue fucking your wails all the way back into the depths of your throat until they are mere raspy gurgles.

Riding out your orgasm you protest with choked cries as Suguru's hand abruptly leaves your cunt. Yet before you can process what’s happening you’re mewling loudly again once you feel his lips attacking your cunt. Sucking your clit between his lips, his own groans vibrate into your core making you all the more sensitive.

Your hands fly to him again, tangling up in his long raven locks and trying to push his head away.

Too much! You were far too sensitive right now for him to be lapping at your over stimmed cunt like a mad man.

“Stawwp–”

Your slurs fall on deaf ears as Suguru continues, only pulling back briefly to shush you.

“Haven’t got it all out. This pretty pussy is so fucking nasty she can give a little more, can’t you baby? I know she can.”

Suguru is speaking to you but he sounds a million miles away, focused only on your cunt as he returns to suckling on your clit, his teeth scraping lightly. He knows your pussy will give him the answer he is looking for soon enough.

The iron grip his arms have around your thighs holds you down allowing Suguru unimpeded access to dribble globs of his spit into your folds. His tongue flattens over your clit and his eyes smolder into yours before diving back into your pussy.

So close to cumming yet again your thick thighs clench around him as you unintentionally smother his face deeper into your core. Suguru ignores any need to take breaths, your cunt being the only sustenance needed as he rams his tongue further into your convulsing hole.

Shaking his head around sloppily, Suguru is goading your cunt into giving him more and more. His tongue is a mere worshiper in the temple between your thighs, begging your leaking pussy to give him the last morsels of your squirt.

Not having the willpower to deny him, your pussy gushes out more onto his tongue and shamelessly he swallows all of it as you cum all over again.

By the time Suguru detaches himself from your cunt he looks almost as wrecked as you: hair is matting to the sides of his face, his glasses are clouded with slick and your juices are dripping down his chin.

Although, now that Suguru has had a taste of you he is left craving more. Not letting a single drop of your juices go to waste Suguru is ferally slurping the drippings off your thighs and lowering his head to even zamboni the overflow of your essence off the desk beneath you. Ravenous with thirst for you Suguru is even using his mouth to squeeze out any droplets he could retrieve from your soaked cheer panties.

You on the other hand could only heave as you gasped for breath. Your legs are still twitching in the after shock of your intense orgasm and squirt session. Dizzy and dazed you feel yourself fading out, unsure of how much time has passed or what Suguru was still doing between your legs until the familiar ring of your phone slowly guides you back into the present.

Wiping his face with the back of his hand Suguru stands up and pulls your phone out of his pocket.

The phone is still ringing as he looks down at it and snickers.

“It’s Toru, Y/N. Answer it.”

You give Suguru a frowny pout. You were barely conscious right now, you couldn't handle a drunkenly energetic Satoru.

Seeing you making no attempts to move, Suguru answers it for you and Satoru’s voice overflows through the speakerphone.

“Y/N! Y/N! Where are ya at!? We need the beer pong queen to make her appearance, I need a partner! Nanamin is too good to beat without you!”

Suguru held the phone out to you but you could respond in labored puffs.

“Y/N is taking a study break, a bit tired after her lesson.”

“–Oh it's you Suguru!”

You end up tuning Satoru out as he’s begging Suguru to come to the party with you which you already knew wasn’t going to happen even if he didn’t just make you squirt all over him.

Willing yourself to sit up, your body is immediately revitalized when your eye is drawn to how bricked Suguru currently is in his dark gray sweats.

Suguru arches his brow in amusement as you pull him forward by the band of his joggers. You hurriedly fumble to untie them, pushing them and his boxers down to reveal his hard cock.

The sight of it nearly has you squeeing.

You practically have hearts in your eyes as you gawk at Suguru’s cock, it’s the prettiest you’ve ever seen. The way his girth swayed in front of you as pre marbles on the tip has you openly salivating. To say his length and thickness is above average, was a massive understatement.

You can’t estimate a size but you know he is huge as you eye the a large vein on the underside of his cock that seemed to weigh him down even though fully erect. You squirmed at the thought of that vein scraping inside your pussy as Suguru pounded you.

You need to feel it. Now.

Nevertheless, it isn’t until Suguru snaps his fingers in front of your face did you realize Gojo was now addressing you again through the phone.

“Y/N! You there?! I failed with Sugu! He’s lame! But you’ll be here soon right???”

A sharp contrast to just 30 mins earlier but partying was the last thing on your mind now. You needed to get Satoru off the phone and Suguru’s cock inside you expeditiously.

“Mhm-nh, Toru sorry, I–I really need to get a good grade. I need Sugu to tutor me a bit more. C-Can’t afford to flunk out!”

Although you had teased Suguru earlier about popping his cherry, you didn’t care if he was a virgin now. He had more than proved himself despite his lack of hands-on sexual experience.

You weren’t really paying attention to Satoru any longer as Suguru motions for you to lay back again. Readily, you get in position returning your legs to a stirrup pose.

Suguru rewards your obedience with his cock slapping against your clit.

“Mmmm…FUHH-CK-AH!”

You don’t care that Satoru is still on the line as Suguru is slipping his cock under your cheer panties, rubbing his fat tip along your folds. His cock sandwiched between your messy cunt and the soaked fabric has Suguru groaning at the crazy sensation, he could bust like this for sure.

“Huh? Oh.. OHHHHHH! Haha, I see, I see! Suguru’s lessons are the best, aren’t they Y/N?”

You’re openly moaning now. Barely registering Toru’s words as Suguru grunts, increasing the pace he’s bullying his cockhead across your clit.

“Y-yeah, the besssst-ahhh!”

Satoru, feeling more than a bit left out, starts pouting over the phone.

“Hey, no fair playing with Bunny without me Sugu! Let me join ne–”

Suguru abruptly cuts Satoru’s complaints short, hanging up on him while still rutting his tip over your pussy. His pre leaking out in globs and mixing with your own cum still dripping from you.

He wanted you all to himself, for now at least.

Satoru could fuck off.

“Gawwd Sugu–just fuck m–”

You abruptly stop as your face falls in realization when you feel his warm cum pour over your mound and into your cheer panties.

Suguru is spilling so much of his thick load into you it's even coming out the sides of your cheer panties and running down into the crack of your ass. A few more jerks of his cock through your folds and he is quickly pulling back to tuck his softening length back into his sweats.

“N-no,no no no S-Sugu! Suguru! I-t’s okay you came fast but please— fuck me. I’ll even let you raw me and cum inside puhleaseeee Sugu– need to squirt again all over your cock!”

You don’t know the kind of willpower it takes Suguru to refuse you.

Probably one of the hardest things he’s done in his life, especially as fresh tears trickle from your eyes and he knows you’d be crying just as adorably on his cock. You were too sexy, too perfect and he wanted to fuck you just as badly as he knew you wanted him to.

BUT– more importantly he wanted to enjoy you more than for a quick fuck and if he indulged you now, he couldn’t promise he wouldn’t be relentlessly tearing up your sweet slutty pussy all night.

If you didn’t start studying for real you were definitely going to get kicked out of school and he can’t have that, especially not now after this.

Masking his own lust with a stern instructor voice Suguru chastises you as he ties his hair back onto a bun and begins to give his glasses a proper cleaning before adjusting the books and papers on his desks around you back into their correct piles.

“Absolutely out of the question. Now be a good girl and pull up your panties, Y/N. We have a lot of ground to cover tonight.”

Sticky with Suguru’s cum, frustrated and still horny you groaned loudly but obeyed. You knew Suguru meant business.

You hoped if you listened to him well enough you’d get what you wanted by the end of the night. It would suck for you to suffer through studying but it was the best motivation you had in literal years.

Unfortunately for you, Suguru, focused on the bigger picture, had a larger goal in mind.

“Only smart sluts get dick, Bunny. You’d better get an A on that exam Monday if you really want this cock.”

a/n: I would be willing to write a part 2 (some time in the future) of y/n popping Sugu cherry or even y/n getting double teamed by 'The Boom Bros' as a 'thank you' for taking the fall for them if there was interest. I'm kind of fond of this little college AU.

Reblog for an anatomy lesson from Nerd!Geto but likes and comments are also appreciated as always!

NEXT is back to my own ficcys! Upcoming: The Nursery - Yakuza!Toji x Y/N - teaser/taglist: ╰┈➤here. Delays cause I've been without my adhd meds and getting the first part of the fic beta'd for once but I FINALLY got them today and was able to finish this fic so hopefully I can get back on track! send me good vibes y'all!

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halcyone-of-the-sea · 11 months

Text

The Invisible String Theory

PAIRING: König x F!Reader

SYNOPSIS: You didn't expect the man who gave you his coat to be the same one to bust down the door where you and the other women slept - sniper hood scaring everyone within an inch of their life. You didn't expect him to become so important to you, either. (Based on König's in-game backstory).

WORDCOUNT: 9.2k

WARNINGS: Human trafficking, mentions of unwanted touching, trauma, blood, gore, guns, bullets, protective!König, soft!König, nightmares, mentions of bullying, etc.

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

'DATE: 25, NOVEMBER, 2021

LOCATION: BERLIN, GERMANY

TIME OF EVENT: 0230

MISSION REPORT: PENDING….'

You don’t remember much from the day that could be called out of the ordinary. Ever since you’d been moved here with the other girls, everything was predictable down to the time the men would come over, to the point where the screams had to be muffled by pillows.

Never in your life did you think you’d be part of the nearly fifty million people stuck in this situation, and neither did you think you’d be the one in one hundred who got out. But before you can think about November twenty-fifth and those pale gray eyes, you have to go back to the beginning. To Al-Qatala.

You hadn’t been with this cell initially—you’d been moved around and bartered off more times than you could count; the initial founder of your predicament was long gone at this point. North and South America, Europe, Africa, Asia, and Oceania…you’d been practically everywhere and on every continent barring the obvious last. In Europe, you couldn’t name the countries, but you knew this for a fact: you’d never been to Germany before.

They had you with five other women in a large SUV in the beginning, this international ring of human traffickers. You had watched from the window, face blank and eyes unblinking, at the men who met near the docks. They had brought you in through Hamburg, first—not only the largest seaport in Germany but the third largest in Europe; you think you read that on a flier at some point. One of those flimsy ones that you find in gas stations with bright lettering to attract the tourists with their interesting facts.

You wished you were only a tourist.

You’d watched the men shake hands, and that was when you knew your fate, as well as that of the five other women, was sealed. You were going to all be here for a long time.

This Al-Qatala cell was ruthless, but you supposed with being around terrorists, ruthlessness was better than being executed.

For days you’d be exploited with the false promises of moments of freedom, breaks, food, and water. For some of the women it was drugs or money, but when your stomach was empty and your eyes blurring from lack of sleep, even addictions seemed to pale for brief hours. But above it all was the threat of death at every corner. These men would kill you.

It was only a matter of time unless you could give them what they wanted.

You yourself had developed a system, and it was probably the only reason you were still alive. Pick one of the handlers, gain his favor, and pray that he treats you specially while you keep up the act of a mindless, weak, woman.

Ivon was the man’s name this time around. Born and raised here in Berlin before the clutches of his fanatical ideations brought him to Al-Qatala. You hated him.

Hated his touch—hated his scent and how he talked; every bit of him was corrupted like a black dog at a crossroads, always leading people down the wrong path. Your only saving grace was that he was stupid. The other girls called you Cat—said you managed to nuzzle up to someone and soon after got them to give you what you wanted. Everything you wanted except freedom, that was.

You didn’t deny that Ivon did give you privileges, but that was the point. About a week into your stay in Berlin, he allowed you to go into public with him. Arm-candy.

A doll.

The townhouse you’d been stuck in had disappeared into a spec behind the rearview mirror, the chilled air from outside making you shiver at the lack of heat and the thin shawl you’d been thrown. No jacket.

The care of your health only extended to how well you were able to work—at the moment you were relatively healthy despite the bulge of bruises and constantly shell-shocked look behind your eyes.

But the trip—the trip. You supposed that was when it had fully started, and you didn’t even realize it before you saw those gray eyes again.

“Come,” Ivon orders, holding tightly to your arm and dragging you along from the corner shop without making a scene. Your hands loosely brush the wrack of clothes, fabric soft under your fingertips as it sways.

Fixing your shawl, you try to burrow your neck into it, gaining what little heat is available to you. It was cold out—you were shivering. People send looks, eyes tight as they shift up and down your form, but no one ever says anything. To be this bold, this cell had to have been at this for a long, long time. The realization didn’t make you feel any better.

That was when you first saw him.

You were standing outside a coffee shop, quivering like a newly hatched butterfly, Ivon making a call only a few feet away with fast motions of his arms. It was hard not to make a run for it right then and there; hard not to take those few seconds of open air and dash away—start screaming and yelling until the authorities came.

It would save yourself, but what about the others? They wouldn’t be so fortunate, you’d be sentencing them to death. None of this was simple—it needed to be thought out. Two games of chess being played at the same time.

The irony of it was that König had been off-duty that day. It had been a shot in the dark.

“Are you alright?” A thick Austrian accent makes you flinch as it appears beside your right ear, grating.

Your eyes snap to the side, moving one foot back as you blink wildly up at the blue-gray orbs that would become a staple. You liked to call it as everyone else did—the invisible string theory. A theory that stated that the universe connected people who were destined to meet one day. Through thick or thin waters, it was inevitable. He was inevitable.

“Yes,” you say quickly, holding your hands tightly around you. The man ahead of you was tall, almost startlingly so, with muscles more bulky than a boulder and his buzz-cut head open to the chilled breeze. He wore a surgical mask over his lower visage, his hoodie under the thick material of a canvas jacket. “Yes,” you say again, hearing Ivon’s voice behind you still on the phone. “I’m fine, thank you.”

Gray eyes furrow slightly, gaze darting over your head.

“Are you…sure, Ma’am?”

“Thank you for your concern,” you fake laugh, eyes pained, backing up farther. That invisible string snaps into place, pulling tight at only those few simple words.

His stature made you slightly nervous—large, intimidating; those hands could do quite the damage if given the chance. Your eyes had hit and bounced off the identity discs at his chest with little thought, too preoccupied to notice the fact that he was in the Service.

König’s eyes had narrowed softly, dark brows minutely moving in.

Ivon hangs up his phone.

“Can I help you?” He asks, coming up and sliding a hand around your waist. The man had stared at him for a long minute, and you had felt Ivon tense slowly at the unblinking eye contact.

This stranger had commented in German a long string of frim words, hands going to his jacket and grabbing at the arms—he slips out of it while still uttering.

Before you can react, the large coat swallows you whole and you snatch at the heat that’s still inside instinctually, now only realizing how much you were shivering. Your body sags into the weight of the fabric, the scent of sweat and coffee.

You don’t even pay attention to the growing tones, shocked. People look over to the two fast words being tossed.

Yet it could only last so long.

Ivon’s hand latches onto the side of your arm, beginning to drag you back and away from this kind stranger like a lap dog while throwing curses behind him. Gray eyes meet yours as old shoes skid and stumble.

König had taken a firm step towards you that day, his body tense and his hands clenched at his side—ready to do anything on a moment's notice should you ask for it. But all you do is stare, jaw loose, and the given coat still on your shoulders. You just couldn’t understand why he would do that.

The stranger gets swallowed by the crowd, and just like that, he’s gone.

That was all it had been; a moment—a few mere seconds in the large plot that was this almost impossible tale. You were glad it had been him, or else the events of the future could have been very different.

Of course, they hadn’t let you keep the jacket, but the memory was enough to warm you for days even as old pains faded and new ones took their place.

But those gray eyes would help you in the future, like a guardian; a protector in your dreams as you watched the snow fall from the sliver of outside light in your room with the others. Your mattress was on the floor like the rest, thin blankets and clouds of cold breath wafting up from sleeping forms.

This was the time it happened, and you’d just woken up to find the curtains shifting as one of the women near it moved in her sleep. Shadows slip past, the light interrupted as it shifts over your tired face with broken fractures.

You were always kept on the ground floor.

'CLEARANCE: APPROVED

TRANSLATING MISSION REPORT ‘RED FREEDOM’…

STAND BY…

Operation Red Freedom took place on November twenty-fifth, 2021, at approximately 0230 in the neighborhood of [REDACTED], at the residence of [REDACTED], Berlin, Germany. A squad of ten highly trained [REDACTED] personnel covertly entered the residence in two teams of five. Fireteam One advanced from the back entrance while Fireteam Two entered the residence from the balcony at the top floor, accessed via ladder.

Squad Leader [REDACTED], part of Fireteam One, set foot in the residence of [REDACTED] at approximately 0238 and began sweeping the ground floor as Fireteam Two cleared three of twelve known individuals belonging to the terrorist organization, Al-Qatala, on the top floor….'

You shift and shiver, your body trying to warm itself as the world blurs at the sides of your vision. Fingers twitch as your hand goes to wrap your waist, curled into the fetal position, creaking emanates from above you. Blinking softly, you frown and take a quivering breath, head nuzzling the thin mattress.

“Cold,” you say, the following low exhale of air out of your lips only making it all worse as everything seems to drop another degree. The darkness didn’t help either, only that one line of light trying desperately to fill the room like a bucket descending into a dry well.

You’re only clothed in the dirty and tattered remains of a large shirt, your legs feeling like they don’t hold any blood in them as they quiver without your knowledge—shaking the blanket above you. A few of the girls had said it would be okay to share, but everyone was afraid of the lock on the door clicking open and the men coming back in and seeing them. In the end, you could only look after yourself.

A thump makes you startle, drooping eyes snapping back open as you gasp.

Head shifting, you blink rapidly upward to the ceiling, confused as to whether that had been a part of a failing mind or if you’d really just heard a muffled bump upstairs. Brows furrowing, you lightly sit up, hands still around yourself and legs limply outward; spine hunched.

Your fingers had lost feeling, just as your nose had gone numb, but moving helped a little. Your hands dig into your flesh and your ears twitch at every creak in the wood—every pass of silent feet that suddenly becomes all the clearer as the sheen of fatigue slowly leaves your brain.

Walking? Small pains move along your body like needles, poking and prodding, but you ignore them as easily as you do the vile hands that had touched you. Survival had forced you into a constant state of self-preservation—pain couldn’t bother you, because if you stopped, you wouldn’t get back going again.

Your head tilts so you can side-eye the door to the room, sleeping forms all around shifting, singular groaning of tired lungs. But there’s something inside of you that stiffens like a prey animal, and you don’t know why. Inside of your sockets, your eyes hone in, bones stiff and your chest stilling as the grain becomes the most interesting thing to you beyond breathing.

There was someone….out there.

Watching, the sides of your vision shadow over to focus harder, your muscles tight. Your mind goes to the thumps from upstairs, the moving feet that sounded far more careful and deliberate than the ones your jailors took care to walk with.

Inside your ribs, your heart patters a bit faster, adrenal glands sending a certain flight or flight through the few veins you hold that aren’t chilled over.

Something was happening. Something wasn’t right.

Only when you move to shake the shoulder of one of the women sleeping beside you does it happen.

A yell.

A scream.

The girls in the room all startle awake, sounds of concern and shock entering the air that you mirror; faces snapping to the ceiling and the door. The townhouse erupts into gunfire and the sound of slamming wood—a warzone that only is separated from all of you by the thin material of the four walls.

You feel yourself being grabbed and held in fear in the dark, as your open face holds the expression of a rabbit in an open field, looking along the long, hidden grass.

The sounds persist, loud German shouts going up over the house and echoing with heated fever. This continues for minutes, added in with the sound of doors breaking off hinges, bouncing off the ground, and shaking the foundation so hard that you can feel it reverberate. The women go silent. Stone-still.

But the gunfire—so much gunfire. The constant pop of assault weapons and a pound of multiple booted feet.

What was going on? You can't make sense of it, so you only freeze and listen; trying to understand the longer the fight goes on, heart hammering; mouth slack-jawed. And then it’s like it never happened.

Silence.

You share quick looks with the others, all gripping one another and heads angled to the door. The heavy feet start back up again, coming closer. Your mind slashes to the window across the room, but it’s hard to think beyond the sudden body that shakes the door that leads directly to you all—the women scream, some standing up and racing to the glass with the same idea as you.

'…Squad Leader [REDACTED], and both Fireteams successfully eliminated all targets inside of the [REDACTED] residence, leaving the room occupied by known hostages last to prevent casualties and/or the usage of bargaining chips. Squad Leader [REDACTED] made contact with hostages at approximately 0244 after the final sweep of the townhouse had been completed and all personnel accounted for.

Local authorities had been contacted by neighbors due to noise but were dismissed.'

The door busts off its hinges and the room devolves into panicked yells and hurled bits of mattress material. Loud pleas and curses stuck like gums to teeth as they were forced out in fear and bone-crushing terror. You remember pushing back into the wall, many others doing the same, as a beast of a man enters the room with his face covered with a loose fabric hood of some sort.

Large—brutish. Like a demon walking with the color of black printed over his entire body; gear hangs from a combat vest, hands holding an assault rifle as a sidearm is strapped to his bulging thigh. Forearms the side of your head stays near his chest, and in order to not hit his head on the doorframe, the individual has to bend slightly. Over that hood, the lenses and head-gear of a night-vision rig sit heavily before it’s moved back with a firm hand that is nearly double the size of yours.

A monster.

Your entire being is tight with quivering tension, eyes blinking away tears at the smell of blood that rolls in from the hallway. The women at the window duck down, hands to their heads as if expecting a bullet to carve its way between their skulls.

“Cat,” one of the ladies behind you mutters, voice quivering. You shush her on bitten lips and move her farther behind you.

“Don’t speak,” you mutter. “Don’t move.”

You don’t know what you expect, but nothing about this is correct.

The man raises his hands, the rifle slapping his chest as it hangs from a strap. He speaks in German, and the heavy and fast noise of it makes your already addled head spin. No one answers beyond the slide of their own feet over the hardwood floors.

“Ich heiße König,” his head swivels from one to another, “Sprichst du Deutsch? Irgendjemand?”

You stare blankly, panting.

After a moment, and a slow step forward from the stranger, he speaks again, though this time, it’s in English.

“My name is König.” His voice is familiar to you, and you blink in confusion quickly, hidden near the back of the shaking bodies. “I am with the German Military, yes? We have conducted a raid on this residence.”

Military? Raid?

“...I am not here to hurt you.” He nears one of the women, beginning to bend down slowly. She squeaks, balking back—making him tense and halt. It didn't matter what he said, König was the epitome of a man who was intimidating on body alone; the gear wasn’t helping. Neither was the hood.

A soldier appears in the doorway, calling out to him in his native language as you flinch at the noise.

König calls back calmly, trying to keep an air of gentle strength around him.

The second soldier comes inside, dressed similarly despite the lack of fabric over his visage which instantly puts many at ease again. He clears his throat as König steps back, gargantuan hands coming up to rest at his vest collar as his legs shift. He seems a bit put off at the fearful stares from everyone, rolling his shoulders for a moment as he turns his head to look out of the doorway.

Your eyes don’t move from him, though. A nagging feeling in the back of your skull.

“We have to leave this place,” the second soldier tells you all, kneeling and resting a hand over his knee. “We’ll get you medical attention. Food. Water. There’s no need to suffer here any longer, hm? We can see to it that all of you will get the best care that can be provided.” A pause. “We can get you back home.”

That certainly got the attention that was needed.

Meek questions started falling out, then louder ones before pandemonium was roused in that tiny room pushed to the very back of the townhouse. Home. It was a word that had almost lost all meaning but was still that constant shining light in the back of everyone’s mind.

Home.

Did you even have one of those left?

As the rest of your fellows all got to their feet, taking you with them, you had to think over that fact as the soldier guided them gently out of the room to join the others waiting—trying to answer their questions and get them away from the gore before they saw it.

You stayed behind, feet shifting over the floor and your lips thin. As the silence settles in, you hold yourself a bit tighter and glance at the mattress all mashed together and stained—those thin blankets as you shiver.

“Are you alright?” Your head snaps over.

You’d forgotten about König.

He still stands there, still and with his hands at his collar; he clears his throat softly, speaking up from his low utterance. “Please…do not be afraid.”

“I’m not afraid,” you say tinily, your voice cracking in the lie.

You can’t see his eyes—not with the shadow from his hood or his head rig, but you can see the way his skull lightly tilts to the side, trying to see you better in the low light.

“That is good,” he answers, not convinced. “I’m glad. I did not wish to scare anyone.” He moves back and motions with a hand to the door from where they hang. “Please. It is best not to linger, yes?”

“Do I…” you hesitate, shivering. “Do I know you from somewhere?”

König’s face isn’t visible, but you can still sense the feeling of confusion leaking out of him. The man takes a small step closer, and you gaze up at him until his eyes are visible.

Blue-gray.

You stare, mouth parting in shock.

König blinks twice, quickly making a noise in the back of his throat at the sight of your eyes gazing into his—the same woman outside of the coffee shop from days ago.

That little invisible string pulls you closer, small millimeter by small millimeter.

“You?” You both say it at the same time, laced with surprise and shock.

It’s a long moment of gazing into each other, a battered body and another more strong than an ox. All fear of the man dissipates.

“You gave me your jacket,” you whisper, still torn up about it.

König’s hood shifts as he glances back to the door, German speech over the radio strapped to his chest which he takes in and processes in the back of his skull. But he always looks back at you, eyes crinkled with concern and perhaps even a bit of misplaced guilt.

A protective knife sides into his side.

“Come.” The man reaches out a hand, hovering it over your arm. You stare at the gloved limb for a moment before softly moving towards it with your breath caught in your throat, hesitant. König’s fingers delicately slide over the flesh, not closing around it until he feels your muscles loosen. “...Let’s get you warmer, Schatz, yes?”

You blink.

“It’s cold here,” you mutter, letting him guide you along, his gray orbs always keeping you in the side of his vision.

“Yes,” he agrees, nodding. “Very cold. Have you been to Germany during the winter before?”

Your head slightly shakes, bare feet padding along next to the pair of great boots—you lean closer unconsciously to the promise of warmth. König guides you away from the seeping blood on the floor and protects your eyes from the view of the bodies across the room with his own as a guard dog would.

“No.” He notices your leaning and brings you nearer to him, letting you use him as a brace. The man knows the effects of shock, and you wear it as plainly as any other. “I’ve never been here before.”

König hums and his free hand goes up to press into the radio, muttering in his native tongue. He releases the connection and asks as he blinks at you, “Do you require any immediate medical attention?”

Again, you shake your head.

“Where are the others?” You sink further into him, being guided to the front door, open to the soft snowfall and a chilled wind as your shoulder hunch.

“Just outside,” König glances at the bodies across the room—the ones he’d riddled with bullets that still twitch even as the minutes draw longer. Gray eyes going from one to another, the house is heavy with the weight of dead men. Twelve in total and all getting colder just like the temperature outside. König didn’t feel bad about it, and when he’d finally busted open that door to find you and the women, he was satisfied with the blood on his hands. If hell were to be his home, he would walk there with a golden-fanged smile.

But now wasn’t the time for that.

“I will bring you to them,” the soldier speaks, snow blowing in from the entrance. “Slowly, now, Schatz, watch the steps. Allow me to help.”

You stop at the doorway, bringing a hand to your mouth to cover a haggard cough as König makes his way down the first concrete step ahead of you—large armored vehicles had pulled up from a ways away. The women huddle around one another, the rest of the soldiers sticking by them and opening the doors to the vehicles as the night gets only more cold and stormy.

Gray eyes flicker for a moment down to your lack of proper protection, fingers twitching and tapping at his thigh as König remembers your expression the day he’d first met you.

“Do you want me to carry you?” He says slowly, cautious in his approach. The man wasn’t stupid—he wouldn’t touch you unless you explicitly stated it was alright for him to do so. “I will be gentle, I promise. I do not wish for your feet to freeze, I...” He pauses as you blink, staring into his soul. “I…will not touch you if you do not tell me to do it. You have my word.”

You continue to stand there for a moment, face unreadable before your head slowly turns to the vehicles in the street.

The neighborhood was so normal it still caused you to wonder how no one had spoken up and seen something. Rows of connected houses now with their lights on—faces peeking from the windows like little children on Christmas morning; trying to get glimpses of Santa and the man’s reindeer.

Finally, your gaze moves back to the hooded visage of König, able to see it better under the moonlight and the glare of falling snowflakes—a few of those frozen pieces sitting in the folds of the fabric.

“The hood scared them,” you utter about the others. König stiffens a bit, blinking at you but not looking away. “They’re used to people trying to hide their faces, but yours…with how large you are…”

“I understand.” König doesn't tear away his eyes. “...Did I scare you, Schatz?”

You don’t know why, but for what seems like the first time in years, the question makes you giggle. The beast of a man goes still with his feet on the ground, usually jittery and moving body captivated by the sound as it echoes over the night’s air—the puff of your breath as it moves around his hood; rustling it like leaves on a tree.

Eyes widening only a sliver more, König’s breath is in his throat.

It was like listening to a bird’s song.

“Maybe only a little,” you whisper to him. “But it’s okay. I’m scared of most things.”

He licks his lips, but you’re unable to see the slight quirk of them afterward.

“Then I will make it up to you, yes?” He holds out a hand. “Let me? The car is warm and your friends are waiting for you. My men say they ask about your health.”

You softly nod, the shadow of the house trying to drag you back into it—its blackened arms reaching and latching onto old scars. When your hand connects with König's, the man takes his time putting one foot back to a step and scooping you up from behind your knees. With a tiny grunt, you settle at his chest, calming your heartbeat with the fact that you know he won’t hurt you.

“I’ve got you,” he says.

In his arms, your bare legs hang in the air, hand wrapping his neck, and with a slightly nervous look to you as your body hovers. König watches for a moment, hesitating before he begins walking to the same vehicle the other woman had been moved into out of the snowfall.

“Can you tell me your name,” he asks to distract you from his hold, to get you more comfortable with him as his boots crunch through the packed powder on the ground—making sure to watch his step so as to not jostle you.

“Everyone calls me Cat.” Gray eyes blink your way, visible skin painted black. König’s head tilts. You can’t help but find it endearing.

“Katze?” He hums, and you can imagine his lips moving slightly upwards from the innocent tone of his voice as if taken by the strange moniker. “That is…interesting.”

You huff tinily, shivering again as your body moves to curl a little more.

The soldier quickly reassures you. “Nearly there.”

The vehicle is in front of you, and a nearby man opens the door for König as he carries you over. Nodding in thanks, the large individual eases you into one of the seats as the blast of warm air makes you sag—the other woman in there mulls closer, grabbing onto you and laughing through tears.

Looking back at them, you smile and feel yourself get a bit teary-eyed as everything starts to slowly come into focus.

Glancing outward, you stare at the snow that hits the dark hood of König, sticking and hanging off until the tiny white dots melt from the heat of his body. With his legs shifting he moves back a step and nods to you, eyes moving to stare at the ground for a moment.

“We will take you to base. From there you will all be given dorms and fresh apparel to—”

“Thank you, König,” you interrupted him. He stares, lips parted with the half-tones of cut-off speech. “And please extend my thanks to your men as well.”

“...Of course, Katze.” König stands straighter, always twitching fingers moving to the car door as engines start with a grinding roar. He nods again, the loose fabric swaying as the lenses of his rig stay firm at the movement. “There is no need to thank us. Relax. Sleep, if you wish to do it. The ride will be long.” The man’s gray eyes linger for a moment on your own, studying the bumps and small marks on your face. His hand tightens over the door as your gaze is stuck with his own; warmth blooming in his chest. He was glad he had found you.

König slips out a soft, “There are blankets under the seats,” before he closes the door with a firm thump of metal.

You can’t help but smile.

'…Hostages were taken back to [REDACTED] and received minor medical attention on site. Housed in [REDACTED] and were admitted for needed treatments/medications - all details/names listed in File 3 Section 6 for future reference. DNA was placed into databases.

Next of kin were informed of their family members’ position and/or state of being via phone call to the corresponding government official that then traveled through the appropriate channels once identified.'

You sit as a nurse hands you heating pads for your hands, which you take with a small thanks and clenched tightly, sucking every ounce of warmth from them to stop the shaking. Your body was heavy with the weight of new clothes and heated blankets, the room utterly normal in a way you’d not known for years. A corner table with books and a chess board—a connected bathroom stocked with amenities you may need; even a rug on the tile floor. You don’t know why that was shocking to you, but even the simplest thing was awe-inspiring. Your eyes had even slipped over a tiny nightlight near the door.

It nearly made you cry.

Your nurse moves back a bit, smiling down at you kindly.

“Is there anything else you might need, Dear?” Her accent is prominent, though not as much as König’s had been. She waits for your answer diligently as the pitcher of water and a similar glass sit on your nightstand.

“No,” you say, shaking your head. Your socked feet rub together like a grasshopper. “I think that’s all.” Your eyelids blink. “But…” you stop.

“What is it?” The lady asks gently, hands slack at her sides.

“The man—König,” you pause. “Is he here?”

Blinking at you, the nurse tilts her head to the side in curiosity. “Not currently, no. At least, not in this specific building. He and his men are being debriefed across base. They will be there for a long while.” At your blank look, her brows slightly move up in accommodating comfort. “Would…you like me to tell him something for you?”

Playing with the heating pads in your hands, your face gains a slightly embarrassed sheen. You liked the thought of being near König, truthfully. No one had made you feel safe like he did—him and his selfless action of a large coat given with no intention of getting anything in return.

“Just,” you breathe softly. “Just that I’m sorry for losing his coat, and that I hope it wasn’t expensive.”

The nurse stares, very much confused but not about to question you. Her feet shift over the floor, and a light nod is sent your way.

“Of course. I’ll tell him.” She motions to the bed with a hand and explains that whenever you wished to sleep, you were free to use the bed—and the TV was open to you as well, though you might not be able to understand the local stations. With that, she exited the room.

Left alone, your head moves around the room slowly, taking it all in once more as the small bandages under your clothes pull at your flesh. The tears start slipping down your cheeks with no warning.

Wrist coming up to your eyes, the limb presses in tightly, water staining the flesh as it dribbles down, and your lip quivers like a worm below it. You don’t know why you’re crying now and not when König had gotten you out of that townhouse. Why now, when there wasn’t anything prompting you to do so?

But something was prompting you—the knowledge that you would never be going back to anyone who would mistreat you again. You had your own room. Good food. All the water that your stomach could drink down. A nightlight that pushes back the darkness even if you’re so used to living in it.

Through your soft sniffles, chuckles move out, filling the space with a warm echo. You pull the blankets closer to you and collapse backward onto the mattress, smiling widely at the ceiling.

That little invisible string dances as your heart pulls at it.

—

König’s leg lightly jumps from under his table, signing off his name at the bottom of a report before he stands and rubs a hand over the top of his un-hooded head. He grabs the paper and slips it into a manila folder, hands pale with deep scars running the length of them like fissures in the earth. Deftly taking the item, he walks out of his office and begins moving down the length of the building, fingers tapping over the yellowish material with a small connection of flesh and thick envelope.

Tap-tap, tappity-tap.

His fingers were always fidgeting—moving, tensing, twitching. It was one of the reasons they never let him become a recon sniper; the more obvious being the blatant size of his body. Both of which had been the cause of much teasing throughout his childhood.

But König’s mind was on something other than the report in his hands, and it was starting to become a very strong distraction. You. The women. Al-Qatala.

He was angry he hadn’t acted outside of that coffee shop—angry he hadn't noticed the signs right in front of him even if he had been powerless to stop it then. The soldier’s jaw clenched, the strong muscles of his jaw roving.

“Verdammt,” he hisses under his breath, glaring at the tile. “Should have done something.”

König gets to his commanding officer’s office and knocks, only staying long enough to hand him the folder with his finished report and leave once more. His mind wouldn’t stay silent tonight. There’s no doubt that he won’t be able to sleep unless he reassures himself that you and the others are okay.

The man’s head shifts back to the email he had gotten from your assigned nurse, whom he’d taken it upon himself to know the name of when he carried you into the base’s hospital—Eva.

‘...She says she wants to apologize for losing your coat…”

König’s heart had twisted at that—that was what you were concerned about? He had to tell you that it was alright, or else he would never know peace. Perhaps even ask how you’ve been treated so far, just to make sure that everything was comfortable for you.

The man’s eyelids move slightly downward in thought, a pull at his heart to walk outside. He passes a few other soldiers in the hallway, nodding to them with a tiny greeting but unwilling to stop and talk. In only fatigues, König exits the main doors quickly, lightly moving into a jog as his body shivers at the sudden chill touching his arms under the black compression shirt. Under him the snow has grown deeper, the large lights illuminating the almost greenish reflections of the winter landscape of open roads and large buildings.

Curfew was long past—this had to be quick.

Just a check-in, König tells himself as he nears the hospital, his breath puffing in the air. Then I can wipe my hands of it.

He slows as he nears the doors, huffing a breath as he pushes on the barrier, opening it with a squawk of hinges and metal. Entering, the front desk staff looked up at him in surprise, muttering his name in question.

“Katze?” He responds, pushing a hand over his head and feeling the melting snowflakes. His cheeks are a light shade of exposure-red, and inquisitive eyes shift over the two individuals slowly. “What room?”

The pair share a glance and tell him in the same breath. Room ten.

It’s no sooner after that König finds himself there, hand hovering over the handle as the hallway clock ticks beside his right ear. His gray eyes blink at the door, feet shuffling from under him before he clears his throat under his breath, glancing away for a second in hesitation.

Was this appropriate?

König didn’t have an answer, but the pull in his chest was tight and firm—he just needed to see you. A glimpse, nothing more. He raises his fist and raps his knuckles over the wood delicately, three tiny knocks that hit his ears like bullets from a gun; the bullets he’s put into pathetic Al-Qatala bodies and watched burst like sacks of fluid.

He waits, hands going to grasp at his shirt collar, pushing out a low breath to calm himself.

After a long moment, his foot taps the floor, blinking. Again he knocks—a bit louder.

“She is sleeping, you evolutionsbremse,” he utters, accent low and grating. “Leave her alone.” But even if you are, his nerves peek their head over the brimstone wall of his brain.

With his fingers caressing the handle, slowly moved to clutch it fully, swallowing the metal in his grip. König takes a deep breath into his lungs, letting it fill them up. Again, he tells himself, just a check-in.

He twists the doorknob and sets his forearm on the wood, pushing the barrier open.

König moves so that his body makes no noise, even with how large it is as he angles the side of his head through the opening. He finds a large mound of blankets atop the bed—stacked and layered so heavily that he has to blink in surprise at how you can breathe under them; because you were under them.

Gray eyes make out the small sliver of skin peaking out from the side of the bed—fingers—and the top of your forehead near the pillows formed around your skull. Unconsciously, a soft smile works its way over König’s lips until he finds himself chuckling.

“Niedlich,” he mutters, scars over his face shifting as he speaks.

Sighing lowly, König pulls back his head, beginning to close the door once more.

“König…?” Your tiny voice makes him halt like he had in the townhouse.

Eyes wide and lips parted at being caught, the door remains open, only a sliver visible to your vision as your furrowed brows are stuck at the barrier. A red sheen moves across the soldier’s face in a slow sweep of embarrassment that goes bone deep.

With a lick of his lips, König re-opens the door slightly.

“I did not mean to wake you, Katze.” He finds your eyes and nods to you. “I apologize. Go back to sleep—you must be tired.”

“Wait,” you utter, moving your head fully out from under the blankets. König pauses, eyes staring as his other hand comes up to itch at the back of his neck.

“What is it,” the man asks, opening the door fully and moving inside. “Do you need anything?”

The question had hit you in your thin slumber, interrupted only partially by the opening of your door to the familiar pull of gray eyes and a strong build. A buzz-cut head. You take a slow breath to wake yourself up more, watching him from your bed. “...Did you know that I would be in that house?”

König tilts his head at the question, sighing slightly and glancing at the clock inside of the room on your nightstand. He frowns.

“No,” he explains gently, coming closer. “No, I did not. I do not get told such things—only where to shoot and where not to.” The man tries a small smile, kneeling on one leg down by the bed and staring into your sleepy eyes. “But I am glad I found you again, yes? You had me worried.”

“You were worried?” You can’t quite grasp it.

“Ja,” he nods. “Your eyes—they have stuck with me, Schatz, you understand?”

Your eyebrows pull up your face, blinking in shock.

“...Yours, too,” you confess. König’s heart flutters, listening until your lips have fallen still. “They’re very nice, König.”

He goes sheepish, lips flicking up into a smile and his eyes daring away for a moment. “You can thank my mother for them, then.” He chuckles. “I have stolen the family's eyes, I was told.”

You chuckle with him, hand coming to rub at your cheek. A silence falls between the two of you.

“I don’t sleep well,” you tell him in the relative darkness, light from the hallway and your night light illuminating the dips and bone structure of his face. “I was awake when you opened the door.”

He nods after a moment. “Ja.” A pause. “I don’t either…Nightmares?”

You watch him before nodding tinily.

“Ah,” he mutters. “They are not pleasant, I’m sorry that they have been plaguing you. Do you…” König wonders if he should leave—this was far more than he had anticipated. “Do you wish for me to stay?”

Why had he said that?

The string between the two of you tightens evermore, gaining another thread just as it would for the years to come until it became as unbreakable as steel.

“I don’t want to be a nuisance,” you begin but are quickly interrupted with a shake of a square head and a huff of a sharp nose.

“You are not. Do not call yourself such.” His accent deepens with emotion, eyes narrowing as the dark brows on his face pull in. “If you want me to stay, I will stay. Wake you if you become shaky, yes? Keep the bad dreams at bay.”

“But what about you?” Your voice moves around the room as König stands and goes to the table in the back, shifting one of the chairs so that it’s angled your way. You shift so you can watch him sit back, grunting as his legs move out in front of him, opening so he can be more comfortable. He needed a bigger chair, but he wasn’t going to complain about it.

“I’m not tired, Schatz.” A lie. His muscles are heavy, and he longs for his bed in the barracks. He pushes out, “Please, go back to sleep. I’ll watch over you.”

You stare for a long while, studying him and how he fidgets in his seat of choice. A small laugh meets the man’s ears as he crosses his arms over his chest. König pauses, blinking over in confusion. His lips move upwards slowly.

“What are you laughing at, then, hm?”

“You look like you’re about to break it,” you mutter, head nuzzling the pillow under you as fatigue claws its way under your skin.

König huffs, fingers twitching over the meat of his biceps as he slouches. He nods jokingly. “Perhaps,” he shrugs, the window behind him letting a slight tinge of cold air in from outside. “It would not be the first, I’m afraid, though it would be quite the embarrassment to do it in front of you, Katze.” He smirks. “But I’ll say, hitting my head on door frames hurts more than letting my arsch kiss the ground.”

You laugh under your heap, your body jerking to the movement of your lungs.

“I bet,” you say, fingers grasping one of your blankets and pulling it closer. “It’s a funny image.”

“You can laugh all you want,” König jokes, eyes soft as they gaze at you. “It does not bother me.”

Your sweet sounds of amusement waft out from under the crack in the door, where a small group of curious nurses mull and listen with glances to one another. A doctor moves past the hallway where they stand, and all scatter on quick feet.

'…Signed,

[REDACTED]

SUBMITTED: 0517, 25, November 2021

END OF MISSION REPORT ‘RED FREEDOM’

RETURNING TO SELECTION MENU…

STAND BY…'

It’s only after most of the other women leave—sent home to awaiting families or loved ones—that you know your time is coming to a close here in Berlin, Germany. While you’re excited to put this behind you, you can’t help but feel a bit…lost.

There’s something that keeps you here, on this base, until you’re the last out of all of them, waiting. And then you’re given the green light to go—go home—and suddenly you have a backpack full of necessities and you’re closing the door to your room with the little nightlight’s plastic body pushing against your spine. Yet, you stand in the hallway for a long minute, fingers interlocked.

You take a long, deep, breath.

Over the weeks of recovery, König had been a constant companion when he wasn’t needed. He had eased you back into a comfortable state, letting you somewhat lose the black-and-white view you had gained of the world. But there was only so much he could do, even if his soft eyes were still stuck in your dreams—the good ones, of course.

You needed to go home, and, today, the C-17 was whirring on the tarmac, waiting for you to be transported to a military base far from here where you would be processed and, ultimately, let go.

Let go. It was jarring to think about, all of that freedom. What would you do with it? Right now, you don’t have the faintest clue. It was the best feeling you can remember having.

Smiling, you take one last look at the room behind you and walk on.

At the entrance, you say a heartfelt ‘thank you’ to the nurses and doctors in broken German, shaking their hands as Eva kisses your forehead and whispers how happy she is to have had you here for such little time—you know what she means and you chuckle with her at the double-edged sword.

König waits by the door, holding it open with…you blink at the item in his hands as well as his sudden appearance. Canvas fabric. A coat.

The coat.

“I had to have it processed,” he says, smiling as you gape at him. “Very long process. It was found in the closet in the townhouse.”

“Then why are you handing it to me,” you ask, tilting your head and walking closer.

“I gave it to you, did I not?” The man hums, head tilting as he motions with it again. “It’s a good coat, Katze. Winters get cold.” Gray eyes crinkle gently. “I would hate for you to shiver, wherever it is that you end up, yes?”

You shake your head, cheeks hot. But your hands don’t hesitate to grasp the item, König’s hold on it remains fast, though, and you blink at him as you both keep it gently clasped like it’s worth its weight in gold.

König stares at you, the door still kept open behind him. He opens and closes his mouth for a moment as you tilt your head.

“Keep it safe for me,” is what he ends with, but his expression tells you he’s not talking about the coat.

It makes your arms tingle—your heart skips a beat.

“I’ll be sure it never gets lost,” you smile warmly, eyes malleable as the make of their color glints. There is a connection to this man that transcends words, and it is tied to you just as heavily as it is to him; unexplainable, incomprehensible, non-describable.

Enigmatic.

König’s reverential face is soft with care.

“Good,” he mutters, unable to look away. “Very good.”

Clearing his throat, his grays dart to the floor, shifting his feet to move backward. He pushes open the door wider for you, and you hold your backpack in one hand as you shift past him and slip into his coat.

It was exactly how you remembered it, and you sank into the fabric with a thankful sigh and a fluttering of your lashes. You shift the bag back over your shoulders, letting the straps fall into the bulk of the extra material.

The snow wasn’t falling today, and the ground was shoveled of any white powder too. On the air, you can hear the whir of the C-17.

König comes up beside you, a hand hovering over the small of your back as he guides you along. For the most part, the walk to the tarmac is silent with the weight of the future. You had no phone. No socials. You didn’t even know if you wanted any, to be honest. Your mind had convinced you that a good bout of soul-searching was exactly what you needed. And you had to do that alone.

Your lips are thin as your legs take you closer to the plane, König’s scent stuck into the stitches of the coat and covered your senses.

At the ramp, he stops as your feet take you onto the metal. Closing your eyes for a moment, you turn and lock gazes with him—gray hiding away what other, more human, emotions to be found. It was a slate of carefully crafted acceptance, and your own followed soon after.

It had to be this. The string wouldn’t break, no, but it had to be stretched to such a point to come back stronger.

“Thank—”

“Don’t,” he says, not blinking, looking up at you.

You smile. “What do you want me to say, then?”

“You don’t have to say anything to me.” You hadn't known it then, but the both of you had truly thought that this would be the last of your meetings. It produced a pulse in both of your hearts that would never be told aloud. “....Live well,” König utters. “Heal, Mein Schatz.”

The soldier wasn't one to give his chances to hope.

Your eyes follow as he backs up, moving away as you stare. In his head, König pleads with you to stop and give him a reprieve from the hypnosis of your gaze, the addictive movement of your head as it tilts to the side.

Live well.

You send him a smile, a delicate thing, and then you back up a step and turn, disappearing into the darkness.

The string follows, and it continues to do so even as your hands slip into your pockets hours later, bumping into the small form of a black flip phone. The note hidden inside of it.

‘For whenever you find what you’re looking for.’

'REQUEST FOR ADMINISTRATIVE DISCHARGE

REQUESTED BY: [REDACTED]

ENTERED: DECEMBER 15, 2021

TIME: 1422

OPEN FILE?...

REQUEST CANCELED….

RETURNING TO FILE SELECT MENU…

FILE SELECTED….

TRANSLATING…

STAND BY…

REQUEST OF HONORABLE ADMINISTRATIVE DISCHARGE OF [REDACTED] APPROVED ON JANUARY 2, 2022

OPEN FILE?...

REQUEST CANCELED…

SYSTEM SHUTTING DOWN'

You sit in a coffee shop in Berlin, Germany, by the window. It wasn’t just any coffee shop, but you try not to think about all of that. It was all in the past—three years, now. You like to think you’d learned something in that time.

“Danke schön,” you say to the woman who brings you your drink, nodding kindly. You take a small sip, humming and winking at her teasingly. “Perfekt.”

She chuckles, wiping her hands on her apron. “Möchten Sie noch etwas anderes dazu?”

“Nein, nein,” you shake your head, waving a hand that soft bumps the flip phone on the table. “Danke.”

The lady walks away, and you take another sip of the hot beverage, never put off by the heat.

It was winter again, and your eyes followed the flakes as they fell from a cloudy sky, finding the beauty in it easily as you sat inside. The scarf around your neck is loose—your gifted coat open. You smile to yourself and hum, watching people walk past outside, thinking about their lives and how they live them.

A large form travels out from a shop across the street, a plastic bag in his loose grip. He was not small, no, this man was a beast of height and strength alike. The loping, canid-like, walk was accented by the twitch of his fingers over his quarry.

Your wide eyes stay stuck to him for a long moment as he moves to the crosswalk, people shifting out of his way as he ignores them. Familiarity strikes like lighting—a buzz down your spine that leaves you straightening.

After a long moment, a breathless laugh sneaks out of you.

There were just some things that people were never meant to understand.

Your hand places your cup back on the table, picking up the old flip phone and pushing it open. Your thumb runs the keypad, moving to the only contact that had ever been entered into the device.

Pressing, you move it to your ear as you watch with a soft expression, heart pattering.

Across the way, the man tenses, hand patting his leg before the other hand moves inside his pocket and shifts the item out. People walk away, moving to the other side of the crosswalk as he stares at the contact.

A minute passes, and all the while you hold your breath.

He presses and moves the phone to his ear, staying as still as stone. As still as a man afraid his hood might scare a group of terrified women.

His voice graces your ear.

“...Katze?” You beam, trapped in the warmth of the coat around your shoulders.

“How do you feel about coffee, König?”

Blue-gray eyes had never been more beautiful than when they snapped up to meet yours.

TAGS:

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gutsby · 5 months

Text

Just Peachy

Pairing: Joel Miller x Reader

Summary: Joel’s got a jealous streak and a bold idea.

Warnings: 18+. Unprotected p-in-a. Loss of anal virginity. Possessiveness. Semi-public sex. Cumplay. Spit as lube.

Word count: 3.2k

Joel was too old to get jealous.

Long before he ever reached fifty-one, the man had known who he was and what was his—and you were it.

He got a refresher each time he split you open and watched your soft, pliant hole form an even wider ‘o’ around his shaft, moans as profuse as the moisture leaking out of you. He took comfort in that. It wasn’t often he required a reminder with such immediacy as he’d needed it tonight: thrusting you headfirst into the bathroom at the Tipsy Bison with your hands pinned clumsily behind your back. You’d laughed when he did it.

“What’s up with you?” you’d murmured, eyes alight with amusement as you watched Joel yank his belt in two.

You would’ve liked to admire the shelf of hefty, salt-and-pepper speckled belly that was left on display by the loosening of the leather, the tugging of fabric away from his heated lower parts, but the moment was so fleeting. Joel hadn’t even bothered to respond before he was smoothing your dress over your hips, drawing in, and—

“Shit!”

You seized either side of the sink and let out a yelp loud enough to stir half the bar. Joel just grunted. Approving.

“‘Atta girl,” he said, burying himself inside your cunt.

Quick fucks were never Joel Miller’s métier, it was true. He much preferred the drawn-out bouts of lovemaking that had your knees and brains in a puddle of mush by the end of it. But now there was a will behind the weight of his thrusts, a calm and calculated fervor that sent each snap of his hips moving faster against your own. You knew there had to be a reason for such an outburst, feeling his hands singe your hips in a bruising grip, so you weren’t surprised in the slightest when you heard:

“That loser ever fuck you like this?”

You made an effort to meet Joel’s gaze in the mirror, but it was hard to keep it straight when his cock was sawing back and forth between your walls at a breakneck pace.

“W-W— Who?” you stammered, teeth gritting at the last.

“Dipshit in the Sigma Chi polo,” Joel returned gruffly.

You were in awe the man had seen you two at all, much less read the Greek letters and knew what they meant. You’d spent all of five minutes chatting it up with an ex whilst deliberating which Creed song to queue up on TouchTunes. There was no way he could’ve known.

Unless, of course…

“Tommy tell ya?” you said in a breath, grimace slowly morphing to a smirk as you clenched and held the sink.

Joel groaned but didn’t slow. He didn’t like that look. Perhaps by chance—but more likely on purpose—he drove his hips all the way in until the head of his cock kissed your cervix. Your nose almost hit the mirror.

“Fucker!” you hissed.

“Right?” Joel said, pretending to commiserate. Then, fighting back a grin as your own smile began to give way to a whimper, “Dude looked like a real fucker, for sure. Just hoped he never got the chance to do it to you.”

So that’s what this was all about—stated plain as day.

Joel was surprised he’d said it himself, but with the way your wet, messy cunt was pulling him in, he had to know.

It drove him insane to think one drop of that nectar had been meant for anyone else but him. He was, of course, too old to be concerned with anything resembling jealousy, but then again, you were you. And you were his. And, mature as your Joel tried to be, the thought of that shit-brained chump ramming his dick in and out of the softest, sweetest depths of your body had him contemplating violent crimes of every flavor.

“Did he?” Joel pressed again, a bit more stern this time.

You felt a hand thread through your hair to hold your face upright in front of the mirror. You stared and saw your mouth hanging slightly ajar, saliva pooling at the sides and threatening to spill with every stab of Joel’s cock.

You were surprised you could even speak at all when that cockdrunk pout made a low, slurred, ‘Di-id he what?’

“Did he fuck you here?”

Here? Like in the bar bathroom?

As if reading your mind and seeing you start to shake your head no, Joel stilled your motions with his hand and used the other for more leverage as he continued to drill.

“No, no, darlin’. I mean— he ever fuck this pretty hole?” And, as if to punctuate his question, Joel plunged his dick so far inside you that your face did tap the mirror; nowhere near hard enough to hurt, but enough to get your attention. And smear your lipgloss on the glass.

You reeled back and moaned. Felt a pit in your tummy.

Why drag it out? By the look in his eye, he already knew. You wouldn’t be sharing any earth-shattering secret now.

“Yes. Yes, I—” You sucked in a breath when you felt that pit become a pinch and in turn, cause your toes to curl, “—he fucked me.”

“Once? Twice?”

“Three t-times.”

To your surprise, you saw the corners of his lips twitch into a smile. Like he was pleased by what he’d heard.

“Oh yeah?” Joel hummed.

You whimpered in the affirmative and tried to nod, but it was hard to do with his fingers still tangled in your hair. Your walls involuntarily clenched around his cock, and you could’ve sworn you felt an influx of warmth follow after. If ‘apologetic cumslut’ had been the goal, you weren’t quite sure you were succeeding at anything but being the latter part. Joel seemed to notice as much.

“Did he cum inside and make a mess’a her, too?” he asked, teasing now as he took his thumb and started rubbing the slick flesh that was being stretched and stuffed full of his fat cock. His pace was slowing by turns.

Normally you could not stand the thought of a man policing your sexual history, but with Joel, it felt different. Like he wasn’t really making fun at all but simply poking and prodding around for the truth so he could get to someplace else. Still thumbing, gently.

“You let him fuck this cunt and stuff her full, pretty girl?”

You had no choice but to nod. His hips had lost nearly all their speed and were now making slow, shallow thrusts.

“Yes,” you whimpered, “I— I—”

—didn’t even know you then. Didn’t like the guy at all. Didn’t enjoy having him cum inside a fraction of the—

“I know, baby,” Joel interrupted you, still rubbing the rim of your cunt with feather-light touches, “‘S’okay, I know.”

You wanted to keen at how affectionate, warm, and soft he could be—amazed by the way he’d made that switch—when the force of Joel’s thrusts halted altogether. He leaned over your body to press a kiss to the side of your head, holding your gaze in the mirror. Grey stubble licked at your temple as his cock nestled deeper inside you, and the weight of his soft and muscled stomach pressed in.

His thumb moved too.

Sliding up to the taut ring of muscles above your full, aching pussy, Joel drew a slow ‘o’ and kissed you again.

“He ever fuck you here?” he asked.

Something fluttered in your stomach, and it sure as fuck wasn’t just butterflies. You stared at the man in disbelief.

You’d just begun to shake your head no when the tip of his thumb grazed the rim of your hole and sank inward. You choked on a gasp when you felt your ass pucker, and shit did Joel Miller look smug as he’d ever been when those too-tight-for-you muscles gave in and sucked in.

“What the— ah,” you hissed, slamming your palm flat on the mirror. You couldn’t see a thing besides Joel’s elbow jutting out, tanned bicep flexing with his ministrations, but you could feel his thumb swirl gently again. Inside.

“Anybody touch you here before, honey?” Joel said.

“Nuh-uh.”

Admittedly, you were a little unnerved, on the verge of being opposed to what this man was doing, when you felt the muscles snap back—Joel retracted his thumb—and two other digits hovered along the vulnerable spot. Just by chance, you caught a glimpse of what looked like Joel about to blow a kiss or whistle, and suddenly you sensed a wet glob of warmth on the small of your back.

Then sliding, gliding down to your crack and between your two cheeks with an obscene heat you would’ve never thought possible: Joel’s spit ran down to his hand, and his index and middle fingers started rubbing it in. Circling the hole and smearing it more for good measure, Joel grinned and placed a kiss atop your shoulder blade.

“Tell me it’s mine to fuck,” he mumbled.

“Joel—” you started.

A trail of kisses led up to the nape of your neck as the fingers pushed deeper. Joel’s touch was soft both ways.

“Only mine,” he tried again, and the request was implicit.

You clenched around his fingers and his cock, feeling the former slide back and forth with near-astonishing ease. You would be lying if you said the sensation, paired with the blunt, wily lilt to his words didn’t make your legs much weaker than they were before. No, it wasn’t just the matter of it being a first for you but a first and only for you both—Joel claiming a space where no man had ever fucked you and making it his own, filling you whole.

Joel spit again, and you hated that you’d come to crave the sound, but the obscene squelch of his saliva mixing in with your arousal as he worked his fingers in and out of your ass was like music to your ears. You whimpered and found yourself nodding quickly, half-embarrassed, saying it’s yours Joel, all of this is yours to fuck and fill.

You never had been one to tell the man no. Whether it was his head between your legs at the most inopportune of times, a blowjob behind the bar, or a lightning-fast quickie in the drive thru line, you were always down. And Joel was wholly enamored with the idea he could have you anywhere he liked—now in any hole he wanted, too. You could see the fuckdrunk look in his eyes as his digits pushed in and his cock dragged out of your cunt, leaving you empty in one and getting spread for him in the other.

Joel’s lips were glistening with spit and the world’s biggest grin as he caught your eye in the mirror. Then he leaned in closer, pressed a kiss to your temple again, and kept his mouth beside your ear as he whispered:

“I’ll be gentle, honey, I promise.”

You were each a trembling mess of hormones, lust, and bottom-shelf spirits, and you definitely shouldn’t have been trying anal for the very first time in Tommy’s bar. But your pussy and ass were drenched, Joel’s fingers had pulled out and made way for just the tip of his cock to notch into that space between your cheeks, and both your minds were delirious with the idea of doing a thing so taboo and new. Full primal desire took over, and before you could think twice about what it was you were doing, Joel was squeezing your hips and pushing in.

What felt like a full fucking thrust of him was really just an inch. Your hand clawed at the towel rack on the wall and seized the bar tight as a burn shortly, swiftly took root between your legs and forced a whimper from your throat. Joel swallowed a groan and kissed your neck.

“Need it slower?” he said as soon as he saw you wince.

Stinging and stretched as you were with just the tip, the filthy urge to have him further inside was too great. Against your body’s best interest and the ache in your core, you wiggled your hips and nudged more of him in.

Joel’s kiss turned to teeth in your skin, and he cursed.

“Fuck that’s so tight,” he said, words more like a growl, “Suckin’ me in so good, baby.”

You beamed with the most sick and lascivious sense of pride and pushed your ass back again. You heard the squelch, felt the reflexive pulse of your muscles struggle to take more in, but the burn that followed this time was eclipsed by the pleasure you felt in seeing Joel’s face.

Feeling him grip you tighter, watching that expression move from bliss to guilt to ‘Sweet pea, you sure it’s OK?’ to bliss once again when you braced your weight against the sink and started moving your ass gently in time with your breaths. Then that tender brown gaze fell to the space between your body and his, and Joel just watched you fuck him, groaning each time your hole stretched.

There wasn’t a thought in his mind that wasn’t obscene. Practically monopolized by primal need, Joel Miller saw his cock glide back and forth inside you and seemed to be capable of conjuring no other thought than ‘mine.’

‘This sweet little peach is all for me, ain’t it, baby?’ Words as soft as velvet came tumbling off his lips, and he scarcely even knew he was talking, or grinning, or doing much of anything but fucking you and loving every second. The fingers of his left hand kneaded your hip while the ones on his right moved over your front. Thick, callused, and quickly soaked in your arousal, his middle finger made an easy trail to your clit and started rubbing.

You clamped your teeth tight in an effort to contain a cry. You whined into Joel’s touch, throat humming with that pathetic little sound as his groin sank deep to find the backs of your thighs and—finally—was inside you fully.

Words barely registered in your brain above the whir of your pulse in your ears, the pleasure unfurling from this strange new place, but Joel made sure you heard it when he leaned back in and murmured, ‘C’mon, baby, who’s this hole belong to, huh?’ as he tilted his hips up, body blanketing yours completely from behind. When you couldn’t contain the cry this time and your mouth fell open in a moan, he took that as his chance to slide his tongue inside and start to thrust, pinning you to the sink.

“You,” you whimpered feebly into his mouth. His tongue and the sounds of wet, sticky skin colliding over and over again all but drowned out what you were trying to say.

“What’s’at?” Joel returned, equally muffled but in far greater control of his words, it seemed, “This for him?”

“N-N-No, Joel.”

“Whose is it, then?”

You tried to answer ‘You’ again, but a shockwave of pleasure stole the air from your lungs, and you just whined in Joel’s mouth once more, head tilted limply to him as he shook your whole body with thrusts. You reached back to find a forearm, a hand, anything of his to anchor yourself, and you felt his fingers grip yours. Then he brought your hand and his up to the mirror, and he placed them flat on the glass—his big one overtop, dwarfing your own—and his hips picked up their speed.

Your lips parted just long enough to tilt your gaze ahead—Joel’s face and yours resting side-by-side in the mirror while he fucked you faster and deeper and grit his teeth.

“Use those words,” he seethed. Groaning when you clenched around him, nipping the cusp of your cheek.

If there was any doubt of what primal urges could do to a man like Joel, you were seeing it now. Feeling him stuff you full, pull back, and crash his hips into yours again and again while those sharp incisors took the tiniest, teasing, feral bites, it was like watching him come undone before he’d even cum inside you. His irises reduced to two minuscule rings around black, dilated pools; torso caging you in; breaths and groans and helpless moans commingled in a hot, plaintive medley.

Joel was too old to get jealous, and yet, he had never in his life wanted to hear the words that you were his and his alone more than he did right now, fucking you raw in a hole that had never been breached by anyone but him.

Your gaze remained on his in a sweet, near-innocent look—a staggering feat for someone getting their ass fucked bare in a dirty bar bathroom—and beneath his hand, he felt you squeeze his fingers. Your cunt fluttered too.

“It’s yours, Joel.”

The head of Joel’s cock took a nosedive to the furthest depths of you, as far as he could manage it, and he kept fucking you there, like he couldn’t bear to leave it.

“Say it again,” he said, voice hoarse. Pleading.

With what little strength you had, you laced your fingers with his on the mirror so he was holding your hand in a fist. Then you pressed your knuckles to the glass, squeezed as hard as your muscles would allow, and met his thrusts gently, keeping your eyes on him all the while.

“I’m all yours,” you returned—and when the hulking man with his grey, sweat-dampened hair and dark eyes and arms locked tight around your frame let out a whimper, you knew you’d said exactly what Joel needed to hear.

His hips canted wildly, quietly into your own, those tough and stubbled lips releasing sounds like you’d never heard before; never even thought possible for a man his size and stature with such a replete desire for dominance. This Joel was needy, panting in your ear while nudging his nose to the shell of it, ‘Baby, please keep fucking me, please, just, fuck—’ and seizing your hand, your waist, whatever flesh he could find while his cock pummeled a desperate and frenzied pace inside you. And, as much as you wished that glimpse of him would last, it was also what sent you both over the edge in the seconds right after. Your toes curled into cool checkered tile, Joel’s hand made an even tighter fist, and together, you trembled and cursed and groaned through your highs like it was the first you’d ever felt. In a way, it was.

As new to you as it was to him, that feeling pulsed and throbbed between your bodies in a shockwave of pure satiety. It left you breathless. Boneless. Slumping inward and into each other, at length, until your full weight was pressed onto that porcelain sink, and you were sure the force would tear the fixture off the wall at any second.

Fortunately, it didn’t budge.

Joel leaned even further into you and exhaled.

Evidently, the sink beneath you was the furthest thing from his mind, and all he could do was keep fucking his cum deeper while the spray of his spend was still fresh on your walls. Gently, but with intent, he drove his cock back and forth. He felt a drop or two trickle out of your wet, stretched hole and groaned, then kissed your neck.

Still in awe of what had just happened. What you’d said. Trying hard not to grin too big when he felt your walls clench around him, and you let out a low, shaky sigh.

“Feelin’ okay, baby?”

You smiled back.

“Just peachy.”

#EVERY DAY I SAY ‘MORNING’ INSTEAD OF ‘GOOD MORNING’ BECAUSE IF IT WAS A GOOD MORNING I WOULD’VE WOKEN UP WITH JOEL’S **** IN MY ***#joel miller #joel miller tlou #joel miller smut #joel miller imagine #joel miller one shot #joel miller x reader #joel miller fanfiction #the last of us #tlou #the last of us fic #joel miller x you

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aduh0308 · 12 days

Text

its giving stalker yj lowkey...

warnings: non!idol au, perv!stalker!yj, jerking off, he takes pictures of you changing, soft!dom yj, consensual sex, breeding kink, calls her 'good girl' and 'doll', not proofread

note: PLEASE don't read if you're not comfortable with this!

yeonjun who's so obsessed with you that he follows you on a new instagram account, _jjun, liking all your pictures, especially the ones from your beach vacation with your friends, pretty bikini that leaves just enough to the imagination to get him hard in his pants... such a pretty body, it's only human, isn't it? stroking his cock once, twice, eyes locked on the way yours meet the camera. if only you looked at him like that, especially if you were between his legs, tits pushing against your shirt... he's cumming all over his sweatshirt immediately, not even embarrassed that it only took that long, it's just the effect you have on him, isn't it, pretty?

yeonjun who finds out your address from mutual friends, and it's his lucky day, isn't it, the fact that the house just a few doors down is for rent, and he's paying for it immediately, it's a perfect opportunity. and you're so unaware of his reasons, bringing him fresh baked brownies when he first moves in, what a nice girl, aren't you? so oblivious to the way he's staring at you with such lust in his eyes, pure, unabsolved predatory hunger, and you're taken aback when he hugs you goodbye 😳 doesn't matter, he's cute, and hes not a bad hugger, but when he's laying in bed, the feeling of how you pressed against him so perfectly makes him a lil dizzy, remembering the feeling of every curve of your body...

yeonjun who takes late night walks once the sun sets, can see in through the windows of your house, loves just watching you... the way you walk around your house, sitting down at the table to do your work, going into your room to change into your pajamas, he's hard again just watching. going home night after night and trying to remember exactly how you looked taking your shirt off, but memory isn't enough sometimes, is it? so he buys himself a new film camera, takes it upon himself to snap pictures of you on his walk each night, ducking behind a parked car when your head snaps up to look out the window. each and every time you don't catch him, and soon enough, he's got tens of pictures in a box under his bed, chooses a different one to get off to each night, good thing they're all easy to clean because his cum paints your face in each one

yeonjun who starts leaving you single roses on your doorstep every night as well, theyre a little wilted by the morning but the sentiment is still romantic from his perspective, pretty girl should be happy that she has a secret admirer, but he notes the way you walk extra quickly to your car in the morning after spotting them, and he realizes he must be doing something wrong :((

so instead he connects himself to your wireless printer and sends what he thinks is a sweet note "you'll be mine someday, won't you, doll? i just know it -- J" signing it off with the first letter of the username he followed you with is a good touch, he thinks, and watches from the window as you head to your printer with an utterly confused expression, looking at the note and dropping it with a horrified look on your face, and you run out the door, into the pouring rain, and yeonjun walks down his driveway to see you with his eyebrows furrowed in worry.

youre so scared you're shaking, teeth chattering from the rain, and yeonjun plays the savior as well as the villain, taking such good care of you, comforting you and ushering you inside with a small smile, hands you a towel and some clothes of his to get changed into, hand him your wet clothes when you're done, won't you? he'll get them nice and dry for you later <3

yeonjun who helps you get cozy in his bed, laying behind you and wrapping his arms around your waist, let me warm you up.. and you only nod, feeling his grip on you change, hiking down the sweatpants of his you're wearing and fucking you so soft in missionary, holding your hand, eyes locked on yours, you whine in weak protest but you don't not want this, and he smiles down at you with the excuse shush doll, let me make you feel better, alright? don't worry, gon' take good care of you, nothing bad can happen while i'm here, promise ill make all your worries go away <3

loves when you whimper pathetically underneath him, pretty fucked out brain doesn't know any better, all it knows is feels so good, jjun, can't-- can't breath right, feels t' good... and oh, how the way you called him jjun so innocently, your brain not comprehending what's coming out of your mouth gets yeonjun fucking you a little harder, still soft, because after all, that's what he's here for !! humming in your ear that his cum will warm you up so well, make you feel better, won't you take it like a good girl? loves the way your eyes glaze over just a lil when he fucks his load into you, pulling out moments later once you both recover from your highs, and hes stumbling to find you a wash cloth to clean you up with, accidentally kicking a box out from under his bed...

a box that you can only see the very corner of, but you can see enough that you know what's in there, and all of a sudden everything comes together in your mind, and yeonjun comes back with a smirk, you've figured out his little secret now, haven't you? c'mon doll, you're a smart girl, don't tell me you haven't figured it out?

kisses your neck with a smile and whispers, told you you'd be all mine, didn't i?

#adas hard hours #my jjun 🦊👑 ⋆⭒˚.⋆#txt smut #txt hard hours #txt hard thoughts #txt yeonjun #yeonjun smut #yeonjun hard thoughts #yeonjun hard hours

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miserycanary · 6 months

Text

MY HELL FOR YOUR LOVE ᡣ𐭩

♡⃛ ‘A Fixed Heart in Your Hand' alternative ending

pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley & fem!reader

synopsis: alternative ending because I feel bad for hurting y'all

tags: hurt/COMFORT, fluff

"Sir? Sir!”

Ghost flinches as he realizes he’s been spacing out, the florist now looking at him with furrowed eyebrows. “Are you going to buy something or not?” she snaps, motioning at the display of bouquets. “Uh, yeah. Give me something with hyacinth and baby breaths,” he mutters, handing her a 100 bill. “Hyacinth? Never thought I’d see a day where a man knows a different flower aside from roses, tulips, and sunflowers,” the vendor chuckles, arranging the flowers neatly and covering them with a brown printed paper tied with a twine. “Ah,… if I know something, it’s about her.” The florist smiles, handing Ghost the bouquet and his change while saying, “Well, I can see that you love her dearly.” With a soft smirk, he replies, “That I do.”

You’ve always had a love for flowers. Going as far as to even beg him to make you a flower bed. Ghost didn’t like doing physical labor with him already getting beat from training at the base, yet when you flashed him that smile (and gave a toe-curling blowjob), how could he refuse? Since then, flowers as gifts have been rare between you two. Instances where he’d give you one are when you’re on a terrible period day or during milestones (the flowers coming from the patch he secretly planted months before).

It’s been two days since you’ve left the apartment, staying at your friend’s house, but Ghost insists on having you keep some of your stuff in the unit because, “well, you technically have ownership of the place since we shared the payment for this month.” It was a poor excuse, really, but it worked. Ghost knows you well enough to know that you haven’t broken up with him despite what you said. Leaving and staying somewhere else is something you do when you’re hurt and need space, and he knows that deep inside, you’re waiting for him.

Don’t get him wrong. He doesn’t think you’re “easy to get” and he did really regret everything. The last 2 nights without you knocked some sense into him. The night felt colder, somber, and… lonely. Something he thought he would never complain about. I mean, this man has been through worse situations and he prefers solitude, but not if it’s solitude without you. You’re the one thing he can’t live without.

He has sent you multiple voicemails, messages, and even money as an apology. He’d always drop off by your friend’s place with some poorly attempted home-cooked meal of your favorite dishes. Sometimes he’d be able to steal a glance at you when he saw you coming up to the unit right before he arrived, sending flutters to his heart and butterflies in his stomach like a high school boy with a crush.

Now he stands by the door, hoping he’d leave the place with you in his arms, and him in your heart again. Three knocks (you always say less or more than that are for psychopaths) and a call of your name. Simon couldn’t help but chuckle when he heard your familiar cry, probably from rushing and stumbling. The wooden door cracked open, and the adrenaline that rushed through his nerves just from seeing you again could knock the man dead. He couldn’t even say anything except literally melt and give you the warmest smile. “Hi,” he softly greets, pulling the bouquet out of the paperbag and handing it to you with another gift. It was a charm... a tree bark with your initials engraved. You chuckle, pulling out the letter sticking out.

One thing you learned about your Simon was that he’s not entirely good at conveying his feelings. I mean, that’s literally the reason for this fight. Yet he got out of his comfort zone, wrote you a fucking letter.

You look at him, tears in your eyes before jumping into his arms.

“I fucking missed you, pretty girl,” he mutters, holding you up by your ass and pressing a deep kiss on your lips. God, you taste like heaven; you taste like salvation. He tangles his fingers in your hair and pushes you closer, afraid you’ll slip from his fingers again.

From that day on, Simon learned one thing. That he would rather go through the depths of hell (talk about his feelings) than go through a day without your love.

| The letter:

‘To my darling flower, I’m sorry for even hurting you. I’m sorry I was a shit-ass about how I processed my emotions and got you involved. You’ve always told me that you’re there for me but I didn’t want to burden you. I always want you to be happy but my actions just did the opposite. I’m sorry that I didn’t say anything that day. That I didn’t even ask you to stay. I’m sorry for being a coward. I’m sorry that I let you go.

With this letter, I ask for your forgiveness and for you to have me back. I will be better because I cannot afford to lose you for you have my heart and soul. You are my whole life. You are the thing that makes surviving each day worth it.’

꒰ა ☆ ໒: Now you guys know why Ghost calls Y/N ‘flower’. This the comfort alternative ending because it was also requested. 📩

dividers by @cafekitsune

Please reblog!! Ask is open!

⟢ taglist: @softestqueeen

check out my other works in the masterlist: ୭!

#simon ghost x you #simon riley fluff #simon riley cod #simon riley call of duty #simon ghost x reader #ghost x you #ghost x reader #simon riley x you #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley #ghost mw2 #ghost cod #cod modern warfare #cod x reader #ghost riley #simon riley #canary’s symphonies #canary’s melodies

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xxsabitoxx · 7 months

Text

Tutoring Session

College Math Tutor Sanemi x Female College Student Reader

Warnings: raw sex, edging, praising, hair pulling, creampies

A/N: hit me like a freight train, I’ve been dying to write this idea for literal months and I just couldn’t figure out who to write it about… obviously Sanemi was the clear choice. I blame @peachdues tbh

WORD COUNT: 2.5k | NOT MY ART!! Credit to the artist!! if anyone knows them please let me know so I can properly credit them!

"There you go, that's right." Sanemi smiled as you solved the equation correctly, watching your hands tremble as you wrote the numbers. "Took you long enough, sweetheart." He added as you whined, the grip he had on your hair was the only thing really keeping your head from falling forward in frustration. "Let's try the next one."

All the while, the dull head of cock was gliding between slick folds. This was his idea of tutoring you, tormenting you with the promise of shoving his cock inside of you, but only after you finished your work. Sanemi had you stuck, literally and figuratively at this point.

Your knees were aching from where they were digging into the hardwood flooring of his apartment, and your body bent over his coffee table with all your math equations spread out before you. Nothing was on either of you from the waist down, Sanemi's knees keeping your legs from squeezing shut in protest."How would you solve this equation, sweetheart. Show me."

You let out a shrill whine as he caught on your entrance for what felt like the thousandth time that evening. You were soaking wet and he hadn't so much as pressed into you. Your hands trembled as you lifted your pencil again, reading over the numbers and letters with blurry vision as you tried to recall the first step.

One squeeze from his hand on your waist and you were focusing again, pushing the pencil to the paper as you wrote out your first line. Sanemi hummed in approval, pumping his cock slowly before sliding his leaking tip between your drenched folds.

If you got this one right, he'd get inside of you, you'd have to work through the rest as his hips slowly rocked in and out of you. It was his favorite part of tutoring you, he could edge you for hours on end but it didn’t compare to the warmth your cunt enveloped him in once he pushed inside. It was addicting, he’d never stop tutoring you just for this reason.

“You have to carry that one over, remember?” he hummed as he looked over your shoulder, watching your handwriting get increasingly sloppier as you erased your first mistake. Sanemi’s eyes glanced over the other sheets of paper, you had started off so strong, then you could see exactly when he got you into this position, the shakiness of your hand was present.

“You better hurry, it's getting harder to not push right in.” He grinned, tugging your hair just a little harder as you whimpered. The head of his cock had caught on your entrance again, but this time he kept it in place. He could feel you constricting, clenching around nothing at all and begging to suck him into the wet warmth of your sex. “S-Sanemi… sir please…”

Your voice came out in a broken hiccup, making his cock twitch in interest as you moved down the line of your equation. “You know the rules, sweetheart. You don’t get my cock until I’m satisfied with the amount of work you successfully completed.” His knees were aching too, but he could withstand it just to see you struggle. Your hair was soft in his grasp, but the mewls you made were even softer when he tugged on the strands.

You felt tears burning your eyes, frustration towards math mixing with the frustration of not being able to alleviate the ache between your sticky thighs. Within an hour of his tutoring, Sanemi had rendered you to an embarrassing, sticky mess. Your slick was covering his thighs as well as his pubic bone, and of course his cock. “Carry that one.”

Shakily, you erased, whining as you corrected your mistake. “Don’t move your hips or I’ll return to grinding my cock against you.” You stilled, you hadn’t even realized you were trying to force your hips back on his length. “I’m…mmm I’m s-sorry sir.” You hiccupped, you could feel your heartbeat in your clit at this point, and it was driving you insane. “Don’t apologize, solve the problem.”

You focused to the best of your abilities again, tears leaking down your cheeks and spotting the paper below you as the pressure built. Between the ache between your legs and the pressure of his dull cock head pressing into your awaiting entrance, you were certain you would crack under his gaze. You could feel it burning just over your shoulder, certain it was accompanied by rosy cheeks and fucked out eyes, making even swollen lips from where he chewed them.

Your entire body jerked forward, head nearly falling forward along with it before Sanemi tugged again. “Keep your mind out of the gutter, sweetheart.” Your face was burning, he was one to talk considering the position he had you in right now.

“You are two lines away from getting my cock shoved in you, I’d smarten up and focus.” Your heart lurched, the promise in his tone was undeniable. Solve this equation and you’d get what you wanted.

You scribbled the next line, earning a hum of approval from Sanemi as you moved to piece everything together and solve the equation. You waited with bated breath, looking everything over to confirm you were correct before shakily writing your answer.

After a beat of silence, Sanemi thrusted his hips forward, plunging his cock deep into your cunt. A loud cry of his name left your lips followed by a string of curses. The sting of being stretched so suddenly had you shivering, your pencil dropping from your hand as you tried to ground yourself.

“Atta girl, you take me so–ha–so good.” Your cunt was fluttering around him, your hips trying to pull away just enough to ease the pressure on your cervix. The room was filled with your breathing before Sanemi finally panted “next”. You wanted to cry, frustrated and in need of relief and yet you were being forced to start your next round equations. “S-sanemi please…”

“You heard me, sweetheart. Start the next problem.” He had regained a little bit of composure, pressing his hips flush against your own as he maneuvered his body lower. You could feel the heat radiating off of him as his front met your back, and yet again you were trying to run away from the one thing you had been begging for. “Turn the page over, we have four more to do.” His breath was hot against your ear, causing your body to involuntary shudder in response.

You did as you were told, inhaling deeply as he returned to his original position. Once the paper was flipped and your pencil was back in your hand, Sanemi let go of the grip he had on your hair so both hands could hold your waist. He didn’t care if you struggled now, if anything he wanted to see you visibly falling apart.

You started slowly, moaning softly as Sanemi pulled out half way before slamming into you again. This paper would be a damn mess by the time you were done. That was Sanemi’s intention, after all, he liked to keep your ruined sheets of math as a reward once he was done. Your body shook with the force of his hips slamming into your own, the pencil dragging across the paper in sloppy mess as you began solving the next equation.

“Oh fuck… fuck… fuck fuck…” You cried, pencil nearly ripping the paper as Sanemi’s hips rolled perfectly into you. The bulbous head of his cock grazed that one particular spot perfectly, making your back arch in response to the sensation. “Focus.” But his tone was hoarse, weak even as your slick arousal began to collect around the base of his cock. It's not like he could even focus on the math, eyes zeroing in on where your cunt sucked him in.

“Solve this one right and I’ll fill you up, you’d love that wouldn’t ya?” You nodded, blabbering out a yes as your hand shakily wrote two more numbers in the first line of the problem. You weren’t going to get that far, but you’d damn near try your hardest. Sanemi’s hips were picking up their pace, falling into a brutal rhythm that was making it hard for you to properly see the numbers on your paper. The coffee table was creaking in protest with each snap of his hips.

It was dizzying, feeling him split you open over and over as your velvety walls tried to clamp down and slow his speed. You were soaking wet, a warm gush of your arousal causing slick squelching noises to fill the small living room. “Finish the first line, sweetheart.” He could feel the sweat beading down his temple, as much as he loved to tease you, your cunt was almost too overwhelming for him.

He could fight off his inevitable release for a little while, but at the pace in which you were writing the problem out, he was certain he’d lose the battle. You were shaking as you finished the first line, eyes blurry as you tried to move the equation through your mind. You were too far gone already, cheeks burning hot as drool slipped past your parted lips. You could feel the embarrassment pushing you down, head falling forward now that Sanemi didn’t have a fistful of your hair to keep you upright.

“C’mon, Sweet–ha–heart fucking finish the problem.'' The last half came out in a low and desperate tone, you could feel Sanemi’s cock twitching violently as it embedded itself in your velvety heat. “I-I’m trying…” you pleaded softly, tears flowing freely as you lifted your head. “I.. you’re too rough… oh fuck sir, don't stop.” you mewled, back arching as your hips shot back to meet his thrusts. Sanemi couldn’t say no to that, not when you were suffocating him.

“Finish.” he restated, nails digging into the plush skin of your hips as his brows creased. He would have to pound some fucking sense into you… or maybe himself. Your pencil was scraping against the paper again as you worked through the equation, at this point Sanemi didn’t even care if you fucked it up and got the answer wrong, he just wanted to see a final result.

Though, that suddenly wasn’t enough for him anymore.

A spike of arousal had one hand leaving your hips just to sneak around your front and find your clit. A sharp gasp tore from your mouth as white hot pleasure blurred your vision once more. Your neglected clit was far too sensitive for the immediate fast and rough circles Sanemi’s fingers were giving you. That and the fact that his hands were calloused, rougher than your own and creating more friction than you ever could.

“Oh fuck… I’m gonna…” you choked on your own words, the pencil led snapping as the heat in your abdomen grew hotter. Your release was sneaking up on you thanks to the addition of his fingers. “You’re already gonna cum?” Sanemi’s tone was mocking, as if his own cock wasn’t swelling with his own impending release. You let out a garbled response that sounded somewhat similar to a “yes”, no longer able to write now that your pencil had broken.

Sanemi noticed, of course, his ego inflating like a balloon as he looked at the ruined paper and the ruined pencil. “You’re lucky that didn’t…” he inhaled, jaw clenching as he tried to stave off his release for a little longer. “You’re lucky you didn’t snap the whole pencil.” You just shook your head, cheek turning to press against the paper covered table. Your hands twitched as they found the edge, grabbing on tightly to try and ground yourself once more.

“Don’t hold out on me, sweetheart… you’ll still get my cum for trying.” A loud whimper followed his promise, no longer able to control the noises you made as Sanemi’s hips continued to piston into your sopping cunt. It hit you then, your orgasm just barely teetering over the edge as you babbled out a jumble of curses and pleas to stop. Not that you actually wanted him too, Sanemi had learned that your cries only meant you were getting overwhelmed in the best way possible.

“Come for me, sweetheart. Ruin me.”

You could feel the cord snap, your orgasm washing over you as his hips and fingers never faltered. You were positive you moaned his name a little louder than you wanted to, unable to help it as your ears rang from the intensity. Sanemi’s teeth sunk into his lower lip hard enough to nearly draw blood. Your cunt was quivering around him, suffocatingly tight as a warm gush of your arousal dripped down your thighs. The sight was unbearably hot, and just enough to push him over the edge with you.

You shivered as he came, spraying your walls with his sticky release. “Oh fuck.” It was just barely audible over the sound of your heart pounding in your ears. Sanemi was tense, too tense to acknowledge the marks he was leaving on your hips as his nails dug into your skin. It wasn’t until his hips came to a stuttering halt, burying deep inside your cunt that he was able to suck air into his lungs again and loosen his grip. “Y-you okay?”

You hummed, too tired to lift yourself off of the table. “Words, sweetheart.” Sanemi was never content with your little noises after the fact. He needed the verbal affirmation that you were okay and he wasn’t too rough. “...’m good.” You heard him exhale through his nose, something similar to a humorless laugh. “C’mon, let me clean you up.” the feeling of his softening cock slipping out of you made you both shiver, his sticky release following.

He watched your hips squirm, you were never fond of the feeling. “Sorry, sweetheart.” but again, you mumbled out an “...’s okay”. He had worn you out, there was no way he would be able to finish your lesson tonight. “How about a shower instead of a rag?” His fingers were running along your slick thighs as he spoke, carefully dragging your mixing arousal back up to your entrance and using two fingers to shove it back inside.

“You’ll have tah carry me.” you mumbled, pushing yourself up halfheartedly, your cheeks stained with drying tears. “Fine by me, it’s the least I can do.” Sanemi smiled, carefully moving to pull you into a sitting position and get your weight off of your bruising knees. “You wouldn’t mind if I stayed the night, would ya?” You nearly collapsed into him, turning weakly into his embrace so he could get you both off the ground.

“You’re always welcome, Sanemi. I still have some of your clothes in my dresser.” He chuckled at that, hauling you up bridal style as he made his way towards your bathroom “I might as well move in at this point, hmm?” this time you were the one starting to laugh. “You practically live here already, Sanemi. Why don’t we make it official?” If he knew it would have been that easy, he would have made the comment weeks ago. “I’d like that.”

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emmyrosee · 1 year

Text

Kita shinsuke gets confused after you start dating.

It’s not like it’s been a long time, far from it, but you felt so comfortable in his everyday life that he stops thinking too hard about your interactions.

You reach for his hand, he takes it. You shiver, he gives you his jacket. You’re hungry, he shares his snacks.

He gives you a compliment, you… hate him?

You must. There it is, in capital letters under his own blue text: OFBEOD KITAAAA I HATE YOU FRRR😭😭

His heart races as he rereads the text over and over again, unsure of what he could’ve possibly said to have you say ‘I hate you.’

Whatever it is, he needs to find a way to apologize.

The idea of upsetting you in a way he barely understands is concerning, it makes him extremely saddened, and he picks up his pace to get to practice.

He’s sure there’s someone there that can help him decipher your distress.

Leave it to the two twins, tying their shoes in sync, to be the first ones to notice his stress.

“Kita-San?” Osamu asks, brows furrowing. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” atsumu continues. “You’re late- you’re NEVER late.”

“And you look like you’re about to upchuck.”

Lovely.

“Osamu, Atsumu,” he says, breath shaky as the twins turn to look up at him. “You’re… familiar with relationships, yes?”

“Well he’s been single since birth-“

“HEY!”

“-but I’ve got a little bit of knowledge. What’s up?”

Kita gnaws on his lip before he passes the phone to the grey haired twin, showing him your sudden outburst of hatred towards him. Osamu quirks a confused brow as his eyes glaze over the text, the blonde twin quickly popping on his feet to peer over Osamu’s shoulder to read along.

Osamu flicks his eyes from his phone up to Kita, “what am I looking at?”

“She hates me,” he says, a frightened lilt in his tone. “And I don’t know what I do. I don’t know what I did,or said, or how I can fix this. And I…” he takes a breath in to calm down, “I need your help.”

Osamu stays silent for a bit, and atsumu cracks a cheesy smile, “cap… you didn’t do anything.”

“Huh?”

“You didn’t do anything- this is just… how some girls act,” osamu explains, and kita feels his cheeks warm up from the sudden crowd that’s gathered.

“Are we teaching Kita-San something now?” Suna teases, peering over Osamu’s shoulder to read the message. “Teaching him about giiiiiirls.”

And shinsuke wants to say something back, about how he knows girls and he doesn’t need to be taught anything…

But maybe he does.

Osamu takes a small breath in before passing his captain’s phone back to him, “sometimes, girls are just… uhm….”

“Aggressive?” He asks, and Akagi chuckles behind him.

“No,” Osamu hums thoughtfully. “I would probably say more… excited than guys, and it makes them kinda wanna… be… ferocious?”

“Feral?” Suna chimes in.

“Buck wild?”

“How about all of the above,” Aran says easily.

Kita quirks a brow, “so she doesn’t actually hate me?”

“No! She’s just excited that you complimented her, I think.”

“Yeah Kita-San,” Atsumu chuckles. “Girls only say they hate you when they love you; that’s like. A thing.”

“They also bite,” Akagi cuts in. “For… some reason.”

“They BITE?”

“I’ve been smacked so many times,” Aran playfully laments, and Shinsuke’s head whips towards him, only to make the ace shrug, “what? She’ll get excited to see you, or something good happens, and she just. Smacks your arms. It doesn’t always hurt.”

“What do you mean ALWAYS!” Shinsuke is suddenly extremely nervous about whether he received a girlfriend… or a pitbull.

“Or she’ll bite you,” Suna hums.

“Or says she hates you,” the twins circle back. At seeing their captains new nerves, they rise to their feet to clap him on the back.

“You’ll be fine, cap,” the blonde assures. “It’ll catch you by surprise, sure.”

“May be a little painful,” osamu snorts.

Atsumu snickers, “but you’ve liked her for a long time. And if it’s too much, you tell her to stop.” He nods before turning on his heel and mumbling a soft ‘hell knows you’re good at that,’ under his breath.

The conversation makes Shinsuke… convinced. He’s sure that there’s minimal that you can do to upset him, even if these methods of love lean far into the unconventional. He gnaws at his lip as the crowd disperses, golden eyes glazing over the contents once more.

He cracks a small smile, taking a soft breath in and letting his fingers take over typing and saying everything he could want to say in just a few words.

SENT I love you, too :)

You reply with an absolute jumble of words and praises, capitals and random emojis. He smiles before planting his phone in his bag and heading out to practice, feeling it buzz more than a few times in his pocket.

Maybe a few well intentioned bite marks wouldn’t be the worst thing to happen to him.

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kusakiguzen · 2 months

Text

Yandere One Piece x Neglected Reader

A/N: This is a Yandere Red Hair crew x Reader. No there is no romance with the crew since this is a platonic yandere story.The Theory of Shanks being a villain was in my head when i wrote this. Annd WATCH ONE PIECE FILM: RED, before readind this.

Enjoyyy!!!

Imagine you are Shanks' biological daughter/child and is also a Mage, but he favors Uta more and isn't afraid to show it. Uta was top priority no matter what, from getting gifts to your fathers love, you only got the leftovers. You can sing? Uta can do much better, You dance? Uta dances like a pro. You can play instruments? Ha... Uta can do it with her eyes closed. That's how your life has been, secondary to Uta. You gave up anything related to music even though you love it with your whole heart. You started studying medicine under Benn. But you forgot you were a special child......... A Mage.

You lost control once, destroying almost a whole town. What did Shanks do? Nothing... At the age of 7, you had a bounty on your head. But when Uta destroyed a town at 6, He took the blame so she can have a normal life... Why can't you have the same treatment? You confronted him and what did he do, he dismissed you like always. After she left you finally thought they no He would acknowledge you. But how wrong you were. You had enough and that was the last time you called Shanks "Dad". You saw Benn as more of a father figure than your own father, everyone still doted on Uta. Having pics and videos of he but none of you....

You grew up just fine. But one day everything changed, Portegus D Ace, or Fire fist Ace had came to the island where you and Shanks's crew were staying. Why? To thank Shanks for saving his little brother Luffy. You and Ace instantly clicked for some reason even though you both have nothing in common, but Ace was funny and made you feel safe and mattered. You made your decision to leave with him, you packed a few essentials and wrote a letter to everyone instead of saying it to their face that you were leaving. In your small bag you kept you medicinal journals, first aid kit, few pairs of cloths and underwears. Your sword on your waist with the staff that you brought and modified to your liking.

Your adventures with Ace were amazing, you both fell for each other, confessed in the stary night. About 2 months later he proposed, you obviously said yes. You met Whitebeard and his crew, they accepted you as their own. You wedding was held on the ship where Whitebeard literally held you like thumblina due to the size difference. After your wedding, Thatch was hurt badly but with your help, he was able to make a full recovory. Ace was adament on going after Teach, and you wanted to accompany him. He refused saying it was too dangerous, but you were firm so he didn't exactly have a choice.

You guys left together, and even met his little brother Luffy in Alabasta. The fight with Teach caused both of you to be captured, and in line for the execution. Ace was worried, not about him, but about you. How could he have put you in danger when he was supposed to protect you? He should have knocked you out before leaving. Now you suffer with him..

Luffy and others came to help, but...... Ace died..... You tried to heal him but due to the malnourishment and lack of mana, you couldn't. You held him close crying, begging the God above, just once, just this once allow you to defy reality. But your begging was left unanswered..... You didn't move from the spot and awaited your death by the hand of the Admiral but Koby steped in front of you, your soft voice telling him its okay and he could move but he didn't, he couldn't.

Shanks arrived to your utter surprise, saved Koby and you. He looked at you expecting a reaction but you were too busy mourning the death of your husband. Benn was the one who was finally able to calm you down, and make you stop hugging Ace since they need to Burry him. You let go.... You had to. The Red Hair pirates took you to their ship, Red Force, and in your old room. They laid you there since you had gone numb, they closed the door on their way out, telling you to call them if you need anything.

The only thing that was going through your mind was, to burn that goddamn place down, the place that took away your Husband, Love, and Your Will to Live. After Luffy's anouncement, you did exactly that, Burned that shit to the ground. The Red Hair crew were finally treating you better and soon enough you let your guard down. But all good things come to an end don't they?

Shanks had brought a girl, who looked like she was about 16-17 years old, and severely malnourished. He told everyone how this girl, who introduced herself as Rina, was sold at a brothel and he had to do some thing, so he bought her and decided to adopt her as his daughter. You thought nothing would change, but she stared showing her true colours (atleast Uta didn't try to take something which was yours, so she was tolerable). She started making comments about your stuff and how she would love to have things like that, in front of everyone, so they (the crew) would ask you to give it to her. If you refused, she would play the victim until you gave in.

She crossed a line one day by asking you to give her your ring.... Your WEDDING RING. You bluntly refused, she played the victim again, but this time you Refused to the whole crew. Saying she won't be getting this ring. When guilt tripping didn't work, they tried to coax you. You told them to cut the bullshit and this ring will stay with you forever. Shanks got mad and told you to give the ring to Rina since its just a ring and he can buy you another one. You shouted at him telling him to by Rina the new ring, instead of you. This turned into a shouting match and Shanks tried to intimidate you by using his conqueror's haki, but he forgot you also learnt it and from him.

Finally you said that if He could answer 3 of the questions you ask him, correctly, Rina can have your ring. The 3 questions were "When was your birthday?" " What your age was?" and last " What was your marital status?" He repiled, "1st October" , " 18 years old" and "Single". He was so confident that he asked for the rings. But you started laughing hysterically to the point tears were forming in your eyes, this caused everyone to be confused. Why are you laughing? You told him that all 3 questions were wrong and You weren't Uta, since it her information he gave you. He was about to argue but you told him Your birthday was on (your birthdate), you were 20 years old and now a widow. Your eyes were cold and numb, without a spark. A broken 'What' came out of thew whole crews mouth. You gave them the fakest smile and then went to your room, leaving everyone to process the information. Okay they may have gotten your birthdate and age wrong, but you were a Widow?

When they finally processed everything and wanted answers they saw you, with a bag on your shoulder and going to get a small boat. They asked you where you were going. And you replied, "where I won't see your face." Just as you wee about to get in the boat you heard gunshots. Yassop had shot the boat.....Bitch . You looked unfazed and just used a levitating spell, over the year, you had goten good at controling your mana, so it wasn't a problem for you to cast precise spells anymore. Just as you wee about to take off, Shanks grabbed your wrist and threw you on the floor ( having no choice) and asked you, who your husband was. Looking directly in his Eyes, you said a name that made their blood run cold... Portgas D. Ace. The man who died in your arms.... was your Husband. It made sense, it made so much sense about why you weren't letting go of him when they wanted to burry his body.

You Suffered So much ALONE.

Just as Rina opened her mouth again, about the ring. Benn shot her while Shanks beheaded her. The blood splattered everywhere, even on you face. The cold look in Shanks eyes when he looked at the dead body, TERRIFIED you. You screamed causing shanks to look at you. He cooed at you while wiping the blood from your face and picking you up, like a baby. Whispering and cooing about how sorry he was to have done this to you. And how he will make it better. He was looking at you like you were 5. You on the other hand were frozen in fear.

Your flight or fright reflex activated and you kicked him and in the split second of surprise, where he loosened his grip. You flew, faster then ever before. You had to get away. What if you were next who would die by his hands. When you were high enough, You scremed telling him not to look for you. And then Teleported, you forgot you could do that due to the overwhelming fear because YOU KNEW what he was capable of...

But Shanks couldn't do that. You were His Daughter, His little girl. You would be in danger out there in the New World without him. You Said you Joined Luffy, didn't you?

I guess Shanks will have to pay him a visit.

Soon....

Stay Safe, Healthy and Hydrated ☆*: .｡. o(≧▽≦)o .｡.:*☆

#akineedshelp #x reader #yandere x reader #anime x reader #one piece x y/n #one piece x you #one piece x reader #one piece #shanks #neglected reader #neglect #tw yandere #yandere one piece #platonic yandere #angst #light angst #oneshot #drabble #one piece angst

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love-bitesx · 1 year

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I loveeeedd the last story Tysm ❤️❤️❤️ Keep up the amazing work 🌈

I have another request

Hobie x fem spider reader

Reader has a weird stalker ex-bf, and the reader tries to keep it a secret from Hobie but he finds out and deals with the ex.

: ̗̀➛ STALKER. hobie brown x fem!reader

any criminal minds fans out there … i hope u see the parallels of my baby spencer also i'm so sorry, i didn't see until after i wrote this entire thing that you said 'fem spider reader' so it's a fem normal reader, so sorry! i hope it's still okay, tho!! thank u sm for ur support angel !! summary: hobie & y/n have been doing long distance for months, but she never told him exactly why. words: 2.8k (the words just kept coming, sorry its so long lmao) warnings: fem!reader, pronouns not really used but "my girl", "lady", etc. are, read at your own risk! weird stalker bf, creepy fella, hobie n y/n are long distance, very very soft hobie

“when can i call you next, darlin’?” hobie’s voice was laced with longing, bass distorted by static at the other end of the phone.

“if you’re quick, we can call tomorrow after 5,” you smiled, and if you were in an 80’s romcom, you’d be twisting the phone cord between your fingers.

“5pm it is, don’t be late,” you can hear his smirk, and a bolt of guilt strikes your chest.

“look, i need to ask something, and i think i already know the answer,” hobie speaks, and you bite your lip in anticipation, “the band and i are playing at a new venue tomorrow, it’s the biggest we’ve played, we’re all dead excited, and…”

a sigh.

“well, it won’t feel the same without you there, pretty.”

if the first bolt wasn’t enough, then the second one lived up to it, striking you into the dead center of your heart. it had been well over 6 months since you met hobie. well, “met”. you’d accidentally called the wrong number one day, meaning to contact a friend of a friend, but typing the last number wrong. picking up at the other end was a deep, almost mesmerising voice, telling you; “no bother, darlin’. it happens, just make sure not to lose this number, wanna hear more from ya.”

“hobie, you know i can’t,” your voice is brimming with remorse and you look to the ground.

“i know, shit with your parents, i get it," he tried hard to hide the disappointment, but his heart twanged with neglect and it creeped through into his words.

parents. strict, all-demanding 'parents'. that's what you told hobie when you first started dating, that the reason you aren't able to see him was because your mother was overbearing and extremely protective – it was a lie. a lie that was eating you up from the inside out. the truth was slightly more grim, however.

years ago, you got involved with a guy at work. a couple brief conversations turned into dates, and dates turned into anniversaries, anniversaries turned into toxic, violent arguments and after a long time of dating, you broke up with him. to say he took it badly, was a criminal understatement. threatening phone calls, showing up at your work, sending you gifts and menacing letters – his signature move was scaring off, and even once harming, any man or potential love interest that you interacted with. it was exhausting, and terrifying.

and hobie was different. he was sweet and kind, but rough around the edges, and his voice dripped in passion no matter the topic of conversation. his promises were never empty, and most importantly – he loved you. and you loved him. the last thing you wanted, was your ex to pop up and scare him off, so you kept it from him. limiting your relationship to phone calls at arranged times incase your ex was keeping tabs.

“i’m sorry, hobie,” is all you could muster, not even scratching the tip of the catastrophic iceberg that wedged the back of your throat.

“it’s okay, darlin’, don’t worry that pretty little head over it,” and just like every phone call, you melted into his words, “i love you, yeah? i’ll call you tomorrow at 5.”

“i’ll be waiting,” you smiled, cheeks flushed at his gentle affirmations, “i love you.”

with a ruckus of movement, and what sounded like a kiss, the call ended, and you stared at the screen silently for a moment. not much longer could you avoid it, and the malten bubble of dread spilled into your gut.

sending him a quick text:

‘good luck tomorrow, handsome. what’s the venue called again? you’ll do amazing x’

you turned off your phone, discarding it on the bed as you climbed into the hole of guilt you’d dug yourself.

“oi, you ready, blud?” hobie’s band mate yelled above the bustle and cheers from the crowd before them. large, bejewelled hands poised onto his guitar strings, he smirked.

“always.”

with a nod to the roadie, the lights went up, illuminating the stage and instruments, hobie's glowing with a harsh red tint. immediately, his sepia eyes digested the crowd. seeing the flushed, excitable faces staring back at him sent a shot of confidence to his bones, and they moved, strumming the guitar with such vigor that the stage floor shook beneath his feet. cheers erupted, and yet felt oddly empty. it was missing something, and he knew what it was immediately.

he'd truly give his all to have you there, front stage in his eyeline, screaming his songs like gospel. not that he'd ever seen you properly, only seeing teasing selfies you'd sent him over the months you'd been together. he didn't care, inherently, he'd fallen head over heels for your personality; a pretty face was only just a bonus.

however, he did yearn for your touch. to feel his hands in your hair, to kiss your cheek, your nose, your neck. he longed to have you with him, even just doing stupid little tasks, having you by his side through the domestic side of life.

his gall spurred him on, his passion surging through his fingertips, spilling out into the sound waves. the audience were lapping it up, screams and chants only barely audible under the booming power of their set. song, after song, after song his talented blood seeped out onto the strings, and his feet were almost numb from the vibration of the bass.

the final song arrived, and his chest was burning, vision blurry, heart pounding against his chest – and he loved it. it was their biggest crowd, their most excitable achievement so far, and his blood pumped with adrenaline as he finished off the set, falling to his knees as he strum his guitar with one final chord. lights falling, his chest was heaving and his eyes scanned the audience one final time – you weren’t there. he had to accept that.

“that was fuckin’ sick, blud!” his bassist yelled as they exited the stage, palm slapping hobie’s shoulder blade and elicited a wide, ecstatic grin.

“you smashed it, mate,” hobie shouted back over the booming stereo that took their place.

“nah, man, you stole the show,” his bassist shook his head, patting him again in appreciation, “good that your lady’s here to see it, too, she must be proud.”

“i wish, mate,” he sighed.

“did you not see her?” his ears perked up, and at his confused expression, his bandmate continued, “over at the back, by the bar, i didn’t know what she looked like, but she was asking after you. ‘er story adds up.”

"shit," he mutters, feet solid on the ground. his heart pounds, skeptical of your presence, but chest bursting with hope that it just might be you, "look, bro, i need to–"

"go! go, man, go see her," his bandmate pushes him in the direction of the bar, and he almost stumbles over his own feet to push the stage door open, met with the chaos of the crowded bar.

dark eyes scanning the aimless faces, he searched for anyone who could look like you; his stature brought him above everyone else, only by a little, but gave him an advantage to seek you out.

"sorry, i need to get past," he repeated, over and over to unassuming bodies, setting through the chaos to find his peace. pushing out at the back, a wave of light met him, shining through empty pint glasses and illuminating the bar.

there you were.

standing quietly, head nodding along to the blasting instrumentals, drink in hand; you were heart-stopping. and he was pretty sure his did. even if he’d never seen you face-to-face, he’d memorised the soft plump of your lips, alluring light in your eyes, even the way your hair fell against your skin from the photos he'd seen. there was no doubt it was you, and my god, you were beautiful. he couldn’t even stop his legs if he tried, as they carried him over to you.

"y/n?" his voice barely travelled through the sound waves, but it hit your ear like a familiar embrace.

turning to him, eyes wide and bright in the twinkling of the bar lights. you drunk him in, warm eyes swallowing every part of him. you'd seen pictures, again, but it could never compare to him. dark brown skin, soft to its complexion, hugged his bones in every perfect way; folding at the creases of his handsome face. he was tall, very tall, and the detail of the curves and indents of his muscles, altered by the shadows of the dim bar light, made your head fuzzy. god, he was beautiful – nothing that a digital screen could ever portray with justice.

"hobie," your voice was crisper than he was used to, and he would bottle it if he could, "hey, handsome, you got a–"

"come 'ere," he interrupted, essentially scooping you into his tense embrace, melting into your scent, the feel of you in his arms. his heart was pounding against his chest. you wrapped yourself around him, running your hands along his leather jacket, ghosting the skin below it.

"you interrupted my introduction," you pouted against his shoulder, "had a whole little joke planned and everything, you know."

"go on, hit me, love," he pulled back a tiny bit, his arms still glued around your waist, looking down through his lashes. you faltered under his intense gaze, giddy smile bursting onto your face and you buried your head in his chest.

"nuh uh, not anymore," you shook your head against him, "you ruined it."

his hand came up to touch your face whilst you spoke, following the edge of your hairline and tucking your hair around your shoulder. he was in awe, having you here, having you with him. tightening his embrace, he didn't want to let you go – ever.

"mhmm," his voice vibrated his chest, and you pulled away, "i'm sure it was hilarious, love."

"it really was," you chuckled, giddy in his presence.

the air grew thicker, your laughter dying out and left with just his strong gaze, his dark brown eyes following yours. you could barely comprehend him being here, in front of you, around you, and he was so much more than you had imagined. feeling his calloused hand caress your cheek, you leaned into his touch, inviting him into your world. cupping your face, hobie bought himself to you, leaning down until his pierced lips were ghosting your own. months he'd dreamed of this, imagined how it would feel to kiss his girl, to taste your lips and feel your love. he could feel your breath, and you were about to give in, until you pulled away.

"wait, i–" you swallowed thickly, pulling your touch from him.

"what's up, darlin'?" his eyes scanned your face for any sign of reason, "did i do somethin'?"

"no! no, you," you sighed, "you're perfect, it's not you."

he'd be lying through his teeth if he denied the pit of anxiety building deep in his stomach, bubbling up his throat.

"what is it?"

"i–" you stuttered again, and fought to get your words out of your brain and into the thick air of the bar, "i haven't been telling you the truth."

silence. just for a second. hobie's brain working over time.

"look, if you've got another fella, or somethin', just get it over with–"

"no! no, hobie, i'm yours, i promise," your words settled him for a second.

"my parents don't care about us, they aren't strict, in fact, they were happy when i told them about you," you begun, opening the dam.

"they know about me?" his voice was smaller than you were used to, and if your brain had a spare synapse to process it, you'd probably have melted.

"yes, and i'm sorry i haven't told you," you avoided his eyes, "it's my ex."

"oh, fuckin' 'ell," he sighed, dropping his arms to his side, and he's about to speak, until you interrupt.

"we broke up years ago, but he's never left me alone," you ring your wrists with your hands nervously, and hobie notices – you looked terrified, "i've tried everything; i've tried the police, i've moved countless times, i've changed jobs, made new friends, met new people – he won't leave me be."

tears welled up now, and his heart reached for you, but his arms stayed stuck by his side.

"every guy that i meet, he's, i don't know, calling them telling them i'm someone i'm not, or following them home and slashing tires, or roughing them up outside pubs," paranoia enveloped you, and your eyes darting around the crowd, "i was so scared, because you're the best i've ever had, and probably will ever have, and i don't want him to scare you off."

"y/n–"

"and i understand if this has done exactly what i'm scared of, because i get that keeping it from you was awful, but i was only trying to protect you and–"

his lips cut you off, warm against your own, capturing your words and pushing them back down your throat. hands on your cheeks, body flush against your own, you melted into him completely. it felt like heaven, like months of tension and longing unravelling like ribbon into the wind. it was safe, gentle, like a promise – a promise that it didn't scare him, and that he was yours.

"is he here?" his voice was low, lips hovering yours.

"i-i don't know," you were flustered, your brain trying to make sense of it all, but his hand on the small of your back stopped any cognitive thoughts, "i haven't seen him."

watching him, hobie's dark eyes floated around the crowd, before falling back onto you. smirk on his lips, he placed a quick peck onto your cheek.

"hmm, i hope he enjoyed the show," he chuckled lowly, and you couldn't help but mimic it, relief flooding off your shoulders, "how about we go somewhere a bit safer?"

"like where?" you questioned, intrigued by the coaxing tone of his voice.

"well, i only live around the corner," he shrugged, before offering his hand. blushing, you slipped your hand into his, the soft skin of his fingers pulling you towards him, until he threw his arm around your shoulder.

"nothing could scare me off, you know," he whispered, placing a kiss to your hair, "i'm 'ard as nails."

"oh yeah?" you giggled.

"mhmm."

clothed eyes glued to the suspicious figure, hobie stood on a rooftop, footsteps silent as he follows the man below. tailing him through the cobbled back lanes of london, hobie's back tingled with apprehension – he'd been following him for at least a mile, waiting for a perfect opportunity.

and he'd finally found it.

pausing his heavy stroll, the man dug into his pockets and pulled out a slightly crushed pack of cigarettes, fumbling further for a lighter. a small orange glow lit up the air around him as he puffed away, smoke fluttering to meet hobie's nose.

silently, hobie swung to a platform below, pulling his guitar tighter against his back and dropped to the hard ground. the sound of his leather boots colliding with the cobble made the man turn in his direction, eyes wide at the sight.

"spiderman?" the man breathed between puffs, voice hoarse, "can i help you?"

"you know what, i think you can," hobie strutted, hands stuffed into his leather jacket, lanky stance towering him, "are you y/n's ex fella?"

"who's asking?" he questioned stupidly, and hobie let out a laugh.

"bruv, who's– are you stupid or somethin'?" hobie punched him lightly in the shoulder, "do you not see the whole get up?"

"the fuck have you got to do with y/n?" he spat, defensive stance taking over his body.

"none of your business," hobie knew that would sting, "but you're gonna leave her alone, fella."

"you don't know what you're talking about."

"i'm not askin', mate," hobie stepped closer, "and i'm not givin' you a choice."

before he could even utter a response, hobie had swung his spike-studded arm in his direction, knuckles colliding against the pathetic man's jaw, knocking him to the ground below.

"tha's my girl you're messin' with now."

#hobie brown #hobie brown fanfiction #hobie brown imagine #hobie brown x you #hobie brown x reader #spiderpunk #spider punk x you #spider punk x reader #spider punk #hobie #hobie my beloved #atsv hobie #hobie spiderverse #hobie x reader #across the spiderverse #hobie x you #across the spider verse spoilers

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wilchur · 1 year

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I've seen a lot of people talk about how the game doesn't give you any leeway when you play The Dark Urge, how it makes it very clear that Durge was A Bad Person, but I haven't seen it pointed out that Sceleritas seems VERY well versed in gaslighting the hell out of them and steering Durge away from any doubt or guilt in regards to their actions. Makes me think that they've probably had those types of conversations before because Durge actually always had a soft spot, only it got smaller and smaller in time. I have not had the opportunity to see the Heal cutscene yet, but I've got the butler in my camp now and he had some interesting things to say, like

[Durge: Can you tell me the worst thing I ever did?

Sceleritas Fel: There was one time you gave a beggar some coin while we were en route to the Devil's Fee.

Sceleritas Fel: You didn't kick him or spot on him or anything! I was so shocked I almost fainted!

Sceleritas Fel: I still have nightmares about it to this day. But I'm sure you only did so to lower the suspicions of the Flaming Fist. Surely?]

and it struck me because tossing a coin to a beggar is a bit of a thoughtless act isn't it? You don't put much thought into it, you just see someone in need and you do it. Out of empathy, generosity, something The Murder Incarnate should not be capable of. Sceleritas' uncertainty of Durge's reasoning for it totally convinces me it was NOT intentional. A simple act of kindness that slipped out.

ALSO

[Sceleritas Fel: The only way for a Butler to die is if we are not of use to our Master. But you have always needed abundant assistance.]

They always needed abundant assistance. Why? Because they kept slipping out of Bhaal's grasp? We know they did at least once, with Gortash. Maybe it was not the first time, maybe there are more "Letters of Forgiveness" tucked away somewhere.

To me pre-tadpole Durge is just terribly mindbroken and indoctrinated person hooked onto the sense of safety, purpose and acceptance of their dark side that the cultists and their father give them. Yeah they enjoy murder, gore and all that. That's the curse of their blood, but I don't think they were ever entirely consumed by it. Morality, guilt and empathy have always been there on the edge of their mind. Losing their memories (depending on player choices I know, but bear with me) was what they needed for them to be finally brought forward.

#i am very normal about this #its 3 am #i just hate the “inherently bad baddie character” trope sorry #durge is my little meow meow #imagine everyone treating you like a monster all your life because there's something Wrong with you #and then these wackos come along and are like “actually its all good we love you please do more of that”#unconditional acceptance is one hell of a drug lemme tell you #that's exactly how all those repugnant online communities get created #the dark urge #bg3 spoilers #bg3 #durge spoilers

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motherofagony · 10 months

Text

FIRE WALK - one shot

joel miller x f!reader

pairing: au, no outbreak!joel x f!reader rating: explicit, 18+, minors dni word count: 6.5k summary: a chance encounter at a motel has you crossing paths with a stranger in a blue t-shirt. content warnings + tags: age gap (we'll say 15-20 years), very brief references to past non-con encounters (not with joel, no details just shitty men in general), soft!joel, alcohol, mentions of family trauma and ab*se, unprotected piv, fingering, oral (f + m receiving), A Scene With a Belt™, slight mentions of reader's clothing but no physical descriptions otherwise, love as consumption and women as fruit a/n: this was a brain-worm of a one shot, so i had to press pause on AHFE and get it out. consider it a dirty love letter to strangers with stories in shitty motels. and i have to give the biggest thank-you to @iamskyereads for stepping in and offering to be my beta reader in the final hour. she was so unbelievably thorough and thoughtful and kind. i owe you big.

New-age boogeymen hang two-way mirrors and jiggle motel door handles with broken hangers.

That’s what the news says.

August licks an unforgiving line of heat up your back, and cutoff denim and halter tops do nothing but give the sun more skin to burn.

It’s sweltering, brutal as an Arizona summer is, and The Palms Motel promises a pool and a mini bar on their dirty marquee. You’ll take what you can get, can’t really afford to be picky with fifty dollars in your pocket, but at least maybe you’ll live like royalty tonight.

Some guy you met — Tom, Tim, Jim, whoever — pulls his convertible up to the front office. Your knees knock together over the speed bump, cartilage kissing bone.

It’s the closest you’ve ever come close to a chauffeur, but the chauffeur you see in movies doesn’t usually take liberties with trying to work his grease-speckled mechanic hand up the passenger’s shirt.

You met him at a gas station in Tucson, thumbing your way from northern Texas to put as much distance between you and your whiskey-breathed dad as you could. He’d torn your clothes apart at the seams with his eyes when he spotted you in the parking lot, swimming in blood-infested waters with sharp, sharp teeth.

There was no plan, no directions penned and cities circled on a folded map, just glass in your hair and a final straw.

He asked if you could buy him some booze — revoked license, baby, y’know how that goes — and you shouldn’t have, but when he flashed a leather wallet thick with cash, you knew you’d be stupid not to.

You hid behind a shelf inside the gas station while he idled in the parking lot and plucked a fifty from the wad, stuffing it deep in your bag. You grabbed some shitty malt-something from a fridge along with a 6-pack, flashing the slack-jawed cashier a wink.

He didn’t try to hide the eye contact with your tits, but neither do most men. Sometimes you milk it in your favor, sometimes it just makes your lunch rise to the back of your throat.

And when you’re by yourself, it’s hot iron, ready to strike. A doe in their headlights, a buck with a nice rack. Skipping through the center of their bullseye.

You bought a little palm-sized bottle for yourself and tucked it safely next to the stolen cash in the abyss of your purse. These tiny cons got you by, made power surge deep in your belly. It made loneliness feel worth it, knowing you had an upper hand to lean on if you were ever in a bind.

He bitched about inflation when you came out with less than was reasonable for the amount you spent, and you just shrugged. Not your cash, not your problem.

You bartered for a ride to the nearest motel, and now Tom-Tim-Jim is asking you over the purr of the engine if you need company for the night.

If you were feeling a little more you, you might’ve taken him up on it. Maybe he would’ve even paid for the room, maybe he wouldn’t get angry like your dad does. Maybe he’d be able to fuck you without hitting you.

You’re good at diffusing the temper in most men, can touch them in ways that make them grit their teeth, can be a good girl and go fetch.

But you’re not in the mood to bend, to give someone’s son — someone’s husband with a tan line around their ring finger — a place to wipe their shoes on. You don’t feel like wiping their dirt, your mascara from your eyes and saying thank you while they zip up their pants.

And you sure as fuck don’t fancy being on a milk carton.

“I’m alright, sugar. Thanks for the ride,” you say, dipping your chin to peer over your sunglasses. “I know where to find you, don’t worry.”

Yeah fuckin’ right.

He doesn’t try to conceal his disappointment, just sucks his teeth and squeezes at the exposed skin of your thigh. His way of saying goodbye to something he could’ve dripped sweat on, came in too early. You think your flesh might rot off in chunks.

You open the door and swing your legs out in a way that’s a little too eager.

Tom-Tim-Jim waves solemnly with two fingers up and two bent, and then he’s gone in an aggressive rev.

The motel might’ve been a kitschy dream in its heyday. It’s not a total dump; more of a vintage skeleton of washed-out pink and umbrellas that’ve been ripped by weather and overuse. There are a million faded emblems of cartoonish palm trees. It’s almost endearing how tragic it is.

You can tell that it was popular and swarming with tourists at one time — there are dusty, water-stained pamphlets lining the wall next to the front desk that brag Named one of Arizona’s top destinations in 1996!

A mounted fan whirs and oscillates, but it might as well be someone blowing hot breath down your neck.

There’s a tired woman holding down the fort at the desk with a name tag that claims Brenda, and she looks surprised to see you. You figure most customers are stopping in for a night’s rest on the way to somewhere more important, their final destination. But you don’t look like you have anywhere better to be.

“Hey, honey,” Brenda trickles, laced with an accent that’s more New Orleans than Arizona. “Need a room?”

“Yeah, just for the night,” you say, fishing out your wallet with confidence that doesn’t meet your eyes. “How much?”

“Forty-five a night, ‘less you wanna upgrade to the honeymoon suite.” She looks somewhere over your shoulder.

That’s nearly everything you have, but it sounds a lot like tomorrow’s problem. At least you’ll be safe tonight from the prowling stares of nighttime predators, and the leftover change will give you a decent vending machine dinner.

“Just a normal room’s fine,” you smile, sliding over the crumpled, stolen fifty.

Brenda types busily on the keyboard, asking for your name but nothing else. And when she hands you a plastic keycard, you finally relax your shoulders. Untangle the nerves in your lower back that are choking one another.

Room 17, it reads. Your oasis awaits!

You thank her, spin on your heel, and immediately bump chest to chest with something hard.

You’re eye level with a worn, cornflower blue t-shirt, ringed with a light stain of sweat at the collar. They’re grasping both of your arms to steady you, and you’re snagging the gaze of a tousled man with a bag slung over his shoulder.

“Watch where you’re goin’,” he murmurs, but it isn’t reprimanding or mean like you’re used to, just sickly sweet and Texan. Syrupy in a way that drips right down between your legs.

You don’t remember seeing anyone else in the lot when you’d pulled up. And the stealth of him entering soundlessly behind you sends a jolt of electricity up your spine, the clench of something that would be fear if it were any other stranger.

But he doesn’t look at you with intent to devour or to claim. Just eyes you like you’re anyone else. An equal. The bare minimum, but rare and shiny nonetheless.

“Sorry,” you breathe, and he’s releasing you a little too quickly for your liking. Leaving brands on the creases of where your forearms meet upper and elbow.

“Don’t worry ‘bout it.”

So you don’t.

You brush past him on the way out, a polite nod. And that’s that.

The heat is the kind that feels hotter, unbearable when paired with the shrill sing of cicadas. An endless buzzing that you think might be the sun sizzling on the concrete. If you stood in one place for too long, your flip flops might very well melt you in place.

Your room key clicks to unlock Room 17, and you push the door open to a heavy, humid space that smells vaguely of mold. You’re so grateful for the privacy that you can’t even bring yourself to wrinkle your nose.

Flip flops discarded, your toes sink into shag carpet — a dirty luxury that makes you moan. It’s only been two days since you left home, fled home, but it beats sleeping with one eye open on a bus stop bench.

You up-end your leather bag, dumping all of its contents onto the bed. Cigarettes, some loose film canisters, your toothbrush, a lighter. There wasn’t much time to pack, nothing worth bringing, and the less, the better. Nothing to weigh you down if you had to dip at a moment’s notice.

It takes you only a couple minutes and a light sheen of sweat to realize that the A/C is busted. Smothered, you try to crack open a window in the bathroom, but it’s no cooler than the hell you’re standing in.

When you let Brenda know, she just shrugs with an apologetic kind of half-smile.

“Most of ‘em are out these days, honey,” she says, and you decide then that it’s a small price to pay. “We got someone comin’ to look at it next week.”

You shoot her a smile, figure that she’s had enough rotten backtalk in her day. You scoop a set of flamingo-themed matches from the bowl on the counter and turn around, only to see a familiar blue shirt waiting his turn.

His eyes try not to roam, but he’s giving you a nod and stepping up without hesitation, asking Brenda for extra towels.

The way that she titters and blushes, you’d think he’d asked if he could spit in her mouth.

It irritates you, and you can’t say why.

The door chimes behind you as it closes, and you linger, striking a match and lighting a cigarette. When he emerges, a stack of towels so high it’s hitting his chin, you step in stride on the walk back. Tracing his footsteps, catching up with his shadow.

“You followin’ me?” you quip, a cigarette dangling from your mouth. The cherry ignites on every breath, smoke erupting in tendrils that hug each word.

He answers with a laugh, turns and squints back at you with one eye. Almost as if he was expecting you to ask.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you, sweetheart? Could say the same to you.”

You stop in front of 17, hand over your brow to shield from the sun that’s winding its way down, getting ready to tuck itself in for the night. There’s nothing that touches your tongue that doesn’t sound exactly like a fuck yes. So you don’t say anything.

“Enjoy your sauna,” he chuckles over his shoulder, passing you with his towels on the way to Room 20.

—

Led Zeppelin filters out through the radio, half-static, half-electric. Your legs are crossed in the air behind you, and you’re posted up face down on the bed, kicking along to the beat while you flip through whatever Cosmopolitan someone left behind in a drawer.

Someone raps a few times on the door, and if it’s a repairman, they’re getting their fucking dick sucked.

You army-roll off the flowery duvet, abandoning a how-to on finding your g-spot, and you peer through the peephole.

Your breath hitches on a soft swear.

When you open the door, you see Blue T-Shirt standing there, skin creasing around his eyes slyly. An unopened beer hangs and swings from his restless fingers. He offers it up wordlessly, the butt of it pointed at you.

It’s ice-cold and slippery to the touch, erupting goosebumps on your forearm. Saliva coats your tongue, and you don’t think it’s the thirst for alcohol, but maybe the tall drink of water.

“Um… thanks?”

“Figured you’d either be dead by now or parched,” he says smugly, and it’s velvet to your ears.

“Oh. Yeah, thanks. I got the fan to work at least,” you mutter, jerking your thumb vaguely behind you.

“Listen, uh —”

He’s rubbing the nape of his neck, and you catch the way the network of muscles flex from his elbow to the seam of his armpit. He looks like he’s in pain, struggling with the fit of a puzzle piece into something rough and jagged.

Something he shouldn’t be trying but has to see it through, exhaust it until it’s definite one way or the other.

You just squint, sucking in the corner of your lip between your teeth. You nearly grin, but it’s much more fun to watch than to connect the dots for him.

“A/C works in my room, so ‘f you wanted to… y’know,” he trails off, not even sure in his own offer. “No pressure. It’s hot as hell outside, don’t want you t’get heat stroke ‘f I can help it.”

This kind of approval you like. This kind that sizzles girl-honey between your legs, winning it from a man that’s playing to earn, not to cheat.

“I try not to make a habit out of going into motel rooms of guys I don’t know the names of,” you harp sweetly. But it might as well be a done-deal.

“D’you make a habit outta accepting beers from ‘em?”

You smile. Typically, yes.

“Joel.”

His hand shoots out, strong and suggestive. Fingers like alligator teeth that’ll grip you, hold you under until you thrash.

And you pluck your cigarettes and gifted liquor bottle from the bed, arms full when you carry them down to Joel’s room.

—

You’re sprawled on the full-size bed next to his, head propped up on hand propped up on elbow.

You’ve been trading your little fist of bourbon back and forth, swapping stories in the same way. Somehow, you fall into it easy like old friends, and it’s nice to follow someone’s lead instead of keeping one step, three, seven steps ahead. Arm outstretched to the door knob, feet ready to break into a run at the change in tone, blackening of pupils.

Without meaning to, you’ve wordlessly agreed that the person in possession of the bottle has the proverbial mic, and they swig to help with details and theatrics. It’s counter-productive in flow, but it makes you laugh when Joel exaggerates the story he’s telling on purpose, reaching out to pass it back and suddenly yanking it back, remembering a shade of gray or a funny expression.

Your knuckles keep zapping each other, brushing a little longer than the time before. There’s no numbness to consensual touch.

Joel’s mid-40s. From Texas, like you. He came to visit his daughter Sarah at college, says she’s growin’ up too fast, doesn’t need her old man anymore. It’s a thrill to see someone talk about their own flesh with love, admiration for who she is and who she’s becoming. You find yourself leaning in, enraptured that there are no IOUs or fine-print that you know to come with a parent’s love.

Mentions of his stubborn brother Tommy who he works with and who just can’t stop getting into trouble. The unspoken guilt that maybe he could be the one to keep him out of jail if he tried harder. It doesn’t work that way, and you tell him so.

You tell him about your dad when he asks about your life, your story, and you don’t know why you do but maybe you know exactly why. No one ever gets close enough to ask, so it comes leaking out of the corners of your mouth.

You’ve never told anyone, not even your diary, not even the guidance counselor who slipped a note to your fifth grade teacher and pulled you out of class. Shaky fingers, shaky limbs when they asked if they could roll up your sleeves just to see and you said no.

Crying because you knew your dad wouldn’t let you go back. Not to school, not to your friends.

You omit the nitty-gritty details, but Joel gets the gist. Swigs his share of the liquor a little too angrily with tight lips. Not like your dad does, but you don’t miss the irony of it all.

He holds anger for you, on behalf of you. It simmers as he listens to you in patient silence, coming to a boil at the bad parts when he gets up and starts walking lines in the shitty carpet. Pretending to look outside in interest at his truck parked at the end of the lot, but gripping the curtains until you can see every expanse of bone in his hand.

You don’t need this from him. It’s a hurt you’ve wedged between the pages of a book and doused in flames of acceptance long ago. But it spreads from your toes to your ears, the burn of someone feeling like this. For someone like you.

He finally settles down in an armchair by the window, a funny corduroy thing that would probably light up under a blacklight on one of those crime shows. Legs parted, a warm stare on the way you take up space on the bed. Facing him comfortably, your vision buzzing around the edges. A loose smile shared as if this room was meant for the two of you all along.

“So, what’s your plan?” Joel’s humming, his words getting lost in an echo of the bottle neck.

You don’t have one. Can’t have one when you have nowhere to go but gone.

It stretches on and on between you — a mouth opened and closed too many times on possibilities. If you admit to it, you end up with pity or an upper hand dealt to a stranger. You can’t afford to owe anyone a favor, nor can you front the cost of needing one.

But you’re so tired.

“Dunno. I’ll figure it out.”

“You got enough time for that?”

And you know what he means. Enough time in the motel, enough time before you’re a thief at wit’s end, doing anything for survival. He doesn’t need to ask to know you don’t have a destination, some relative waiting for you in a California dream.

You’ve excused yourself to the bathroom, soft radio bleeding in under the door, arms braced on the sink, all glossy eyes.

You want him, bad. But he won’t make the first move, won’t take advantage of what isn’t his and what others before him took without asking. You’re a pawn, entitled to the first move. The rejection would kill you, but not knowing would be worse.

He could hold you soft, give you something to think about when tomorrow rips you both in opposite directions.

When you pull open the door, Joel’s frozen in mid-stride towards you, like he’s just made up his mind about something.

He straightens but he’s still. Afraid of moving too fast, saying too much, scaring you into flight. Out of the unlocked cage of his room — something he did on purpose, because he doesn’t expect anything from you and wants you to know he doesn’t.

You meet him in his dusty shag quicksand. You take his wrist in your hand, kiss the thrum of life in the dip where veins meet palm. An offering.

Joel looks like he’s in pain, like what you’re doing is excruciating and thorny. The front of his jeans strains. He’s searching you for any hesitation, any obligation because he did something kind. He knows what currency you feel the need to pay in, and this isn’t that.

“Please,” you whisper simply. And he nods, accepting, succumbing.

There’s a careful meeting of lips, wanting to do it the right way, in the right order. When you push your tongue in, used to the pace of animals, he just holds your face and slows you down. It’s languid, his mouth showing you what sweet and gentle can taste like. Your tongues take their time, and your hands slip beneath the hem of his shirt, all ribbed muscle with a sprinkling of hair.

He shudders against the lightness of your feather-fingers.

Joel’s hands are peeling your shirt off, his thumbs resting to press against pillowy hips. He’s not letting your lips go, something like impatience stirring in you.

Doesn’t he want to fuck you hard? Fuck you fast and selfish?

Isn’t there a catch?

He’s taking his shirt off now, up and over. Carved by Michaelangelo, thrown up on a ceiling in a library book you read once. You’re touching him in reverence, but not letting yourself learn too much of him.

His eyes are molten. Joel walks you back to the edge of the bed, scratchy quilt tickling your thighs when you fall back on it. You start to pose yourself, angles that make you look more desirable, pliable. But he’s not paying attention to that, just unbuttoning your shorts, kissing the jut of every curve and permeating down to the bone, punching out a soft groan when he slides the denim off and sees the shining ambrosia that’s waiting.

He’s kneeling, tugging you down to meet his waiting mouth. And you’re just breathless, flinching when he pulls you apart, guiding your legs over his shoulders and wasting no time devouring you. Your legs, his bib.

Joel’s tongue flicks through the shell of you, teasing you in alternates of quick and slow, starving and full. It feels like a slice of heaven.

You pitch out a tangled gasp, hands instinctively moving to knot in his hair. Anything to hold onto, a different kind of grounding.

“So wet f’me,” he vibrates lowly into you, all husk. “Taste so fuckin’ sweet.”

He sinks a middle finger into you, and you’re keening, hips canting and unable to stay glued to the mattress. You feel him smile against your cunt, just pressing his forearm across your lower half to keep you still.

Joel’s twisting and working into you, onto you, and you’re so fucking close from just this — a tiptoeing to the edge that grows longer, more erratic in stride. He sucks your clit — pulsing sensitive, so swollen — into his mouth and grazes it with the tip of his tongue just so. Baring his incisors and closing around you in a delicious scrape like a Venus flytrap taking its meal.

You think you see God behind the flutter of your eyes.

You’re close enough to warn him, to rasp it out in the symphony of moans. His free hand reaches up to roll your peaked nipple between his forefinger and thumb, and he stretches you with an added ring finger. You’re writhing. Possessed.

He’s watching you through thick lashes. Letting your heels dig into his shoulders as the drenched sounds of you fill the room.

“Joel, please — I’m gonna —”

“C’mon, pretty girl,” he just murmurs.

You feel that little pull at your navel.

And you’re tipping in a freefall, seeing stars. You clench down around his fingers, fingers that are still pumping against that spongy spot deep inside you. Your arousal gushes, wet and sticky against the scrape of his beard. He laps you up, the sight making heat creep up your chest and wrap around your neck.

When he lifts his head, he’s high on it. Pupils dilated like tiny, round moons. Your orgasm glistens on him, smeared over lips and chin. The fur of a peach peeled back far enough to sink teeth into.

It’s fucking filthy.

Joel places open-mouthed kisses from your hip up to the center of your breasts, a trail of your orgasm shiny on your skin in perfect, sloppy Os. His breath meets your throat where he nips at you, and you don’t have time to drag in a breath before you’re tasting the saltiness of yourself on his tongue.

Your fingers fumble on his belt, practiced with years of releasing the tension on the metal prongs, the slithering sound whooshing from the loops of pants. You’re good at it, like you used to be good at gymnastics until your mom stopped getting out of bed to drive you.

There was always a little gold for contorting your body.

He detaches from you unwillingly, putting all of his weight on his knees and shins as he straddles the space of your thighs.

You’re pulling yourself up in a sitting position, pushing denim and boxers down past his hips. Letting his cock spring free, the head a dark pink and beaded with precum. You swipe the flat of your tongue against it, peeking up at him while you soak up the taste of it.

When you push the length of him into your mouth, ridged hard with veins, Joel tips his head back, chin to the ceiling. He groans something brutish yet helpless, cradling the back of your head. You’re seated in the driver’s seat, all control.

It’s new, different.

But then he’s moving his hips back, pulling himself from your mouth, wiping the saliva from your chin with a steady thumb.

“Don’t need t’do that,” Joel whispers hoarsely. “Not ‘f you don’t want to.”

Confused, you knit your brows. He laughs darkly, shaking his head.

“Didn’t mean it like that, it’s — it feels fuckin’ good,” he says, awestruck. “Would just rather make you feel good instead.”

Oh.

He doesn’t wait for an answer or a negotiation. The rest of his clothes pool on the floor in a pile, and he’s climbing back over you, an anchor or a buoy in a storm.

He lines himself up at the seam of you, puffy and so wet from before, nudging the tip of his cock at your warm center. A thumb coaxing the bud at the apex of you in lazy circles.

Joel’s sliding in slowly by each inch, filling you full until there’s nothing left and his patch of hair prickles the pearl of your clit. All you can do is whine and tense around him.

He’s resting tentative hands on either side of your face, indenting the weak mattress with handprints. He groans, but he doesn’t move. Doesn’t give in when you try to rock against him.

“This alright?”

You’ve forgotten how to do anything, hoping that digging your fingertips into his forearms is communication enough.

“I’m gonna need a yes, baby.”

You feel around in the dark for the tether back to your body, and it jerks you like a marionette, giving him a nod.

“Yes. Fuck.”

That’s enough. He’s rewarding you with a roll of his hips, and you feel like you’re on fire. It’s a stuttering, painfully slow pace at first, his mouth so close to your ear that every grunt is amplified. But it evolves into something eager, unsatiated, snapping up into you with a relentless sort of fucking.

He’s hitting that place so deep within you, letting you unravel and grow hoarse from the moans tearing their way up your throat. That pressure is roiling, the kind that you get only when you touch yourself but intensified by a million.

It just feels so right, because there’s nothing to prove.

You’re ships passing in the night, strangers making a pit-stop on the way to nowhere. There’s no backstory, no history to make mention of. No shame in the morning when he inevitably rolls over and pretends to be asleep, and you scrub off the smell of him with your provided travel-size shampoo.

It’s not love, but it might be the closest you ever get.

The glow of him above you, a deity with his face screwed in agony. Chasing after you when he feels the tightening of your cunt, the easy glide of every thrust that tells him you’re close.

Then, you’re snapping like a rubber band. Gushing in a dripping mess that trickles to where your ass meets thigh. Crying without tears, overstimulated but blissful. Joel is quick to follow, like he’s been waiting his turn.

He’s trembling, emptying inside you in a warm flood. Groaning low and beautiful, gripping your hips to keep you flush to him.

When pulls out, tearing himself away, he’s slinging an arm over his eyes on the pillow beside yours. One hand on your leg to make sure you don’t go anywhere.

“So fuckin’ perfect,” you hear him mutter.

At some point you drift off, his arm draped over you. You open a bleary eye to a neon 2:49AM that casts a halo over the nightstand. Joel’s tucked you in, the thin duvet snug up to your shoulder. He’s not snoring but not not snoring, just breath getting caught in his throat in a satisfied, well-spent way.

It’s all too much, too pure to be real.

Before you let yourself change your mind, you slink out from under the warmth of your generous stranger. You step in your shorts one foot at a time, tugging them up gelatin legs too springy from coiling and uncoiling.

You promise yourself that you’ll take just one mental picture as a keepsake, and it’s this. A sleepy Joel who will be well on his way to a second cup of coffee on the way out of Arizona, maybe even nursing a little headache behind his right eye. And he’ll remember an apparition of some girl he fucked in a motel. The touristy thing to do, a sight to see.

He might even tell Tommy, say you were a crazy little thing with too much baggage, but it was fun to stay up past his bedtime.

You don’t mean to do it, really you don’t, but you flip through his wallet that lays innocently on top of the TV.

If you take a little something, that’ll turn this into another one of your stories that you tell your kids born from a loveless marriage somewhere in the crevices of a future from now. It won’t pull on the tendons of your heart.

And it won’t mean anything. You won’t let it.

—

The next morning, there’s a soft knock at the door, and it’s probably housekeeping kicking you out for overstaying your welcome. Time to turn down the bed for the next lost soul. You imagine Joel’s long gone, hopped in his truck and back to a reality you’ll never meet him in.

Your fingers are slow to gather up your purse, and you’re shoving your toothbrush in from its place on the sink.

“I’ll be out in a second!” you yell in a voice that reeks of years of diner-flavored customer service.

More persistent knocking that borders on pounding. It shakes the chain in the deadbolt.

You’re yanking open the door, and there’s Joel, white shirt and jeans. And it isn’t that cushion of admiration from last night, no greeting with a chaste kiss on the cheek.

Just a wolf coming to claim his continental breakfast.

Fuck.

You try to shut the door, suddenly too ashamed of what you’ve done, and to someone undeserving. Someone that showed you kindness, empathy.

But his boot catches the door before it can close, and he’s inside, slicing through the space between you. It’s not quite anger, but it’s shadowy. Sardonic.

Your shoulder blades kiss the cheap wallpaper.

“You’re real funny, y’know that?” he starts, and he’s smiling but not really.

Shrinking small, so small that maybe you’ll disappear.

There’s a tick of silence. His thumb skates to your collarbone and then to the hollow at the base of your throat. He wants to squeeze but he doesn’t, his fingers wrapping loosely around the column to fix you there. Heat creeps up the back of your neck into your hairline.

The instinct to flinch bubbles up against your joints, but you can’t bring yourself to.

“Y’think you can fuck me,” he muses, disgustingly deadpan, “‘n steal from me.”

Dread weighs heavy like lead in your stomach. You can’t stop yourself from shaking your head, still playing dumb.

He bristles at that, thunderous. You both know it’s a lie; you’re a hundred dollars richer than you were last night. His fingers briefly flex around you in a way that you’ve seen before, and horror hits a fever pitch in you.

Tears prick your eyes, and you’re putting your palms on his chest and shoving, but he doesn’t give. Unstoppable force meets immovable object, and all that.

It’s not so much the blaring punctuation in a sentence, the ticking of dynamite ready to blow. He’s confronting you with proximity, with your own dishonesty. Wanting to shake you and tell you that it doesn’t have to be this way.

Joel just leans in closer, almost grazing noses. You try to breathe around the lump of panic.

“The hell’s the matter with you?”

It’s disbelief, it’s hurt. In the same way, it’s understanding, incredulous. It’s him stepping back and loosening the hold around your neck like no one’s ever done; it’s softening and imploring.

He’s shoving his hands in his pockets, guilty and recoiling. Sorry he could even make himself look like one of them — a forced penance in the flesh.

There’s no answer that can justify what you did. Nothing simple about nothing personal. But truly… that’s all it was. A pie wafting steam on an open windowsill. Something to make you feel better about the void he’d leave.

“‘F you needed money, you coulda just asked.”

He’s disappointed, desperate. In a tone that really says, I would’ve done anything you wanted.

A dam inside you gives, crumbling deep at the foundation and knocking the walls down around you. Words don’t come, but you shove your hand in blind into your bag, pulling out the loose bill and extending it.

Joel sees the regretful offering and your heart with x-ray vision. That you think of yourself as a doll, less valuable without her box. Used without tags. Free to a good home.

He shakes his head, the softness of a keep it barely peeking out of his mouth.

You’re skinning yourself raw, wanting another way out but having none. With half a mind to say that the next night could come with fangs.

You feel the stab of relief, and shame. So much shame.

Like a soothsayer, he foresees the coldness of a bench, the shrinking of you into the safety of an alley.

You drop to your knees in exaltation, thinking you know what’ll fix this. You can’t see through the watercolor blur of your tears, but you touch his belt with fingers that are cold to the tips.

But Joel knows what you’re doing, shaking his head no no no.

He won’t let you do it like this. He drags you up gently by the elbows. Pulls you into his chest, says stop stop stop. Kisses your hair, then your lips. You cry until he can taste the tears, until the front of his shirt is damp.

“I’m sorry,” you rasp out roughly. “I’m so sorry.”

He tells you to never say sorry to him again.

—

Joel pays for a room for two more nights, but only one — his with the working A/C.

You move your toothbrush and your bag over to Room 20.

You go to the pool, swimming laps around him in a tank top and your cherry-embroidered underwear, squealing and splashing in a flail when he swims underneath your legs and stands up to hold you on his tan shoulders.

Sunscreen streaks greasy on your stomach when you lay out together on the loungers after. Joel likes a cat-nap with his face under a towel, grumpy and tired from the sun. But he never snaps at you, never gets impatient when you ask too many questions while he’s dozing off.

You learn the pinched expression he makes just before he comes. That his right palm has hundreds of lines you can see best by lamplight. He misses the noise of Sarah in his house, of sharing the coffee pot with someone. He doesn’t like the small piling of toast crumbs left only by him on the kitchen table.

He learns that you apologize for wet, clean hair on his pillowcase, for laughing too loud. Things that don’t need a sorry. A collection of oversaturated manners that might take time to unlearn, but he promises to teach you.

He learns that you approach an orgasm with tentative toes in cold water, almost unbelieving that sex can give, give, give instead of take, take, take. He learns that you like the meeting of eyes when he’s buried between your legs, pushing your thighs apart to keep from suffocating. That when he does let you get on your knees for him, you know just the spot to caress with your tongue on the underside of his cock.

Joel’s belt is snaked under your stomach, across your hips, fists intertwined in the leather as he pulls you back, slams himself forward. It bites and creates indents in your flesh, and you don’t care. He gives you marks to love, to admire in your reflection, never ones that are ugly. Never ones out of hate over spilled milk.

There’s a dirty slap of skin, growing louder, competing with your moans. Your nails are tearing into the cheap sheets, and Joel’s so close but won’t come until he coaxes another out of you. A grand total of at least four by now, but you’ve lost count.

At long last, you splinter around him. Pitching off the cliff in a cry. Joel’s leaning — his chest, your back — and spilling deep, holding onto you for dear life. You hear him whimper in a strangle. Big, tough game that’s been taken down with an arrow in his chest.

Hot tears are flowing out of you, stuttering sobs close to follow, and Joel pulls out slowly. Seems to know why. And he rolls you over, into him, hand careful in slow strokes against your hair.

You’ve never been good at goodbyes. Maybe that’s what this is.

Men like to say that women like you are insane, too analytical, too tear-streaked, too conscious of the way they look when they sleep. Because waking up with your mouth open, a drying corner of drool threatening your cheek is too human, not pretty.

Sometimes women like you are dead, rotting pomegranate flesh. Long forgotten in decay on the ground when the weight became too heavy to hold yourself up. And those men pick up your seeds and shove them squelching back into places where they don’t fit.

The winters come bitter and harsh, but you’re always reborn in the spring. And without fail, you grow back fiercely into a tree reminiscent of Eden, low-hanging apples plucked and bruised and bitten into once and spit out in tart disgust.

Women like you choke men like this with your pits, strangle them with vines, poison them with berries. They can consume, but so can you.

But then, in the ripe, cool shade of summer, you’ll have a visitor like Joel that will come with a basket and a blanket and they’ll stay and read books beneath you. They’ll enjoy your fruit, you’ll drip from their mouth and dry tacky like flypaper, and they won’t be able to imagine a day before you.

They’ll collect all the pieces of you on a Tuesday morning and give you change to get a Coke after checkout. They’ll tuck you into the front seat of their truck, let you put your feet up on the dash, hand protective and calm on your thigh while the other steers you both back to Texas. A new home without shouting and bottles thrown.

And they’ll stay through every season.

#joel miller fanfiction #joel miller smut #joel miller x reader #the last of us fanfiction #the last of us smut #the last of us au #joel miller x you #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller #tlou fanfiction #fire walk #my writing #joel miller one shot #motherofagony

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greenorangevioletgrass · 3 months

Text

the albatross, here to destroy you (a.d.)

Pairing: art donaldson x popstar!reader

Summary: three years, three encounters. First, a chance meeting between two rising stars seeking an escape leaves a handprint on their hearts.

Word Count: 2.8k

Warnings: smoking, language, greek mythology references, hella unresolved sexual tension(!!!), art is highkey a baby and lowkey a brat lol, did i mention unresolved sexual tension?, sooo much pining

Notes: this idea has consumed my waking days for weeks. I contemplated making it a really long fic, but after a long and careful consideration, I have decided to make it a trilogy! Two reasons; a) it’s gonna be really long, and b) I wanted to put Art’s look as a reference in each part lmao. Big up to @ysuftmikey and @tommysparker for being awesome and hearing out my incoherent rambles about this story. But anyway, please comment, reblog, talk to me and tell me what you think about it! Happy reading!

**i do not have a taglist. Follow @ficsbygreenorangevioletgrass andd turn on the notifications to be alerted for new fics and updates!**

Part One: London, July 2011.

It was quite an impressive feat. 23-year-old American rising star Art Donaldson had miraculously beat the defending champion-slash-legend Rafael Nadal at the Wimbledon final.

Or so they said.

You don’t know, nor do you care much, to be quite honest. You were basically ordered to attend by your publicist, outfits picked out, hair and makeup team on full throttle only to have you sit pretty on the side of the Centre Court. And now, after milling around and halfheartedly mingling at the afterparty, you decide to give yourself some respite and slip away to the balcony.

“Oh, shit—” the man quickly turns back and stubs his cigarette on the railing, waving away any trace of smoke.

(You say man in a very broad term. He looks more like a teenage boy with that messy blond mop and skittish way about him.)

You raise your hands, showing no threat. “Sorry. Didn’t realize this balcony was taken.”

“Wait, no. Please.” He stops. He sheepishly scratches the back of his neck. The only thing more embarrassing than getting caught smoking was getting caught smoking by a pretty girl. And pretty is… a fucking gross understatement, based on what he was seeing. “Don’t leave on my account.”

“You sure?”

You flash him that soft, understanding smile and he very nearly asks you not to leave, like ever. But fortunately, he’s got enough game to hold his tongue and smile back at you, “There’s more than enough room for both of us here, right?”

Technically, the balcony is big enough for the two of you to stand on opposite corners without even addressing each other. But his fingers are resting on a pack of Marlboro Green, and you bite the inside of your cheek thoughtfully. “And more than enough cigarettes, I hope?”

He’s not sure what he was hoping for, but he sure is surprised to hear you accept his invitation to stay. Gosh, he must’ve looked like an idiot right now. “Sure, of course.”

He slides a cigarette out of the pack as he offers it to you, readily leaning in with his zippo. For a split second, the two of you share a breath in the space that he encloses with one hand as he lights your cigarette. You would be lying if it didn’t make your heart stutter.

“So…” you inhale, taking the nicotine hit to calm your thoughts, “I thought smoking was bad for athletes.”

“I thought smoking was bad for singers too, but I guess it’s less frowned upon, huh?” He murmurs, trying to balance a fresh cigarette off of the side of his lips, smirking at you over the flicker of flame he started.

“Touché.” You lean your back against the railing. It’s an interesting game of chess you’re playing. Each of your reputations precede you and don’t at the same time. “But that still doesn’t explain why you’re out here smoking on your own, instead of in there…” Celebrating is left unsaid, although the implied word hangs in big and bold letters.

“Ah well, maybe this is my way of celebrating. We’re allowed one vice every now and again, right?”

You look at him like it’s a bullshit excuse—and it is.

“This is gonna sound insane, but…” he takes a drag, looking out at the landscape before him, “I don’t feel like I should be celebrating.”

You look at him like that bullshit excuse grew a new head.

“I mean, don’t get me wrong, I worked hard for it and I’m glad it paid off, but…” he flicks the ash on the end of his cigarette three times. “I could’ve been better. Quicker. Won more points earlier. Beat him faster. And until I can do that, I don’t think I deserve a celebration just yet.”

You hum softly. “Sounds like you’re making a Sisyphus out of yourself. That can’t be fun.”

His mouth tugs into a crooked smile, not expecting to be called out like this. “I mean, at least I’m not rolling a boulder up a hill. I’d take tennis over that any day.”

“Yeah, but it seems like tennis is your boulder up a hill.”

“Touché.” He smiles bashfully as he takes a long drag. And then, he offers his hand. “I’m Art Donaldson, by the way.”

It’s a formality at this point. He knows who you are, heard your songs on the radio and saw your face on billboards more times than he can count. Hell, he saw you on the stands in your little Dior sunglasses earlier—and you saw him looking, just for a moment, sweat dripping down his perfect nose and all. But out of courtesy, you tell him your name and accept his handshake.

You pull your hand away, and he almost groans in protest. But again, he holds his horses. “Alright, I’ll bite. If I’m Sisyphus, what does that make you?”

“Oh, definitely Dionysus. Living on wine and theater and good vibes.” You’ve got that shit locked and loaded. It’s obvious that you’ve thought of this before.

“Is that so?” He chuckles. “Well… as long as you don’t sacrifice me to the maenads, right?”

“Can’t promise you that,” you quip back, tapping the gray off of your remaining cigarette. Pleasantly surprised that he doesn’t make the obnoxious remark that Dionysus is also the god of sex, as boys would do. Even more so that he knows enough to know the difference between the sirens and the maenads.

There’s no fighting the raging flush in his cheeks anymore, but he just hopes you would spare him. “Will you at least promise to make it swift?”

It comes out faster than a trainwreck, but without even blinking, the one thing that comes out of your mouth is, “What if I wanna take my time with you?”

Fuck.

The party carries on inside, although Stevie Wonder’s ‘My Cherie Amour’ sounds a mile away. His cigarette smoke comes out in a stuttered huff, as he looks away, not knowing what to do with himself. Eventually, though, he recovers, taking another drag. “It wouldn’t be a terrible way to go, huh?”

“I suppose not.” You sigh into a smile, exuding a flume of smoke through your nose. Shit, he doesn’t know which one is hotter; that, or the lipstick mark on your filter. Or the pensive look as you watch the party through the window.

Oh, he’s down bad.

“So, Dionysus…” he leans out against the railing, flicking ash off his stub one, two, three. “What brings you out here? You a tennis fan?”

“Me? Oh, no. No, I… don’t even really understand how it worked until today,” you admit bashfully. Somehow the truth doesn’t feel so embarrassing, even though you spent the day lying through your teeth. “Not until I saw you play. Which… congrats, by the way.”

“Wow. Thanks.” He’s not sure whether it’s the earnestness in your congratulations, or the fact that the game finally makes sense because of him, but his heart grows three sizes.

“But, yeah, no, my publicist dragged me here kicking and screaming.”

“So you were forced into a party, huh? That’s not very Dionysian of you…” He muses playfully, and those lines on each side of his lips aching to break out into a full smile. And they do. And it warms your heart that those smile lines only emphasizes the way his face lights up. “Nah, I get what you mean. My agent had to drag me out of the locker room to make an ‘appearance.’”

“Yeah, she said something about… shifting into a classier, more grownup image?”

“By watching a couple of dudes hit a ball with a racket?”

“By sitting there and looking pretty. It’s the only reason I’m all decked out in this ridiculous fucking thing,” you look down at your outfit with a grumble. Of all the days you could’ve run into someone cute, you’re in a fucking pantsuit like some middle-aged politician.

“But you do look pretty,” he replies without even blinking.

“Thanks, it’s Ralph Lauren.” You smile faux sweetly. “I believe I’m contractually obligated to say that.”

“Still pretty,” and he means it, lackadaisical smile and all. The ivory cape-like blazer is an interesting cut that goes down to your knees, and it makes you look regal. The cut of the pants makes your legs go for miles. It certainly doesn’t hurt that your off-white shirt is unbuttoned halfway, showing a generous amount of cleavage.

(And hey, he’s still a guy. Can you blame him?)

He has this way of looking at you. Like he’s studying you. It would’ve been unsettling, if he weren’t so fucking beautiful to look at and you don’t mind an excuse to stare back and admire the angular lines on his face. Like Apollo in the moonlight. “What?”

Art taps his cigarette much more deliberately and inhales, exhales out of the side of his mouth, much more deliberately this time. “I think you’re more Aphrodite than Dionysus.”

You take another drag. “How so?”

“First of all, for a god of parties, you don’t like to party all that much,” he grins knowingly, smugly, like he’s proud to have figured you out. But his smile softens, and there’s intensity behind his eyes. “And because you’re beautiful. And dangerous.”

Your mouth twists, pausing for a long moment. To calm yourself. To gather yourself. “But it’s so cliched, though…”

“Well, who would you rather be? Medusa, maybe?” He turns his body, leaning on his side against the railing so he’s fully facing you, and you can’t help but mirror his position.

You raise a forefinger pointedly, French manicured nails on display. “Hey. I think Medusa gets a bad rep. Neptune fucked her over, but she was the one cursed.”

“And what, you think you’re as cursed as Medusa, too?”

You shrug, maybe.

Despite the weight of your answer, he can’t help the chuckle that escapes him. “There’s no way you’re cursed. A curse wouldn’t be so beautiful.”

“But a curse could be deceiving, no?”

“Or maybe it’s a matter of perspective. Maybe you think you’re cursed, even when you might not necessarily be.”

“Oh, just like you’re so inclined to keep pushing your boulder up a hill?”

Art blinks, and sucks his teeth bashfully. Just when he thought he’s got you figured out… Check and mate. “You know, if I didn’t know you any better, I would’ve thought you were some kind of an oracle. Like Cassandra.”

Your eyebrows raise in interest.

“You have this strange, unnerving ability to see right through me. I don’t know if it’s because I’ve had a few drinks, or you’re just very observant, but…” he trails off thoughtfully and then nods like he’s made up his mind. “Cassandra.”

“Cassandra,” you echo quietly. “I like that.”

“Mm-hm. I’d say it’s a very fitting title for you.”

That fond little glint in his eyes is becoming a staple in the way he looks at you. And you don’t ever wanna see it dim. So you speak up again, leaning in conspiratorially. “You wanna hear something funny?”

“What?”

“My parents almost named me Cassandra.”

His jaw drops, dumbstruck. “Shut the fuck up.” His grandmother would have smacked him on the back of his head, knowing the profanity he uses (to a girl he likes, no less). But out of all the things he tried to figure out about her, he never expected to get this one right.

“I shit you not.” You watch him double down laughing, grinning to yourself. “Freaky coincidence, right?”

“Or the Fates working overtime. I’m sure they’d be laughing at us right now.” He looks up at the deep blue sky with a shake of the head.

You wave at the stars, taking a mock bow to your invisible audience. “Thank you. Glad you’re enjoying the show, guys.” The laughter lingers on your lips, and you wonder if it tastes the same on his. “We really are just the court jesters, huh?”

He nods. “Although I wouldn’t mind playing the fool for you.” Maybe it’s the drinks or the cigarettes or the unlikeliest conversation with the most stunning creature he has ever laid eyes on, but at one point, his inhibitions are starting to leave him.

It’s now or never.

The dubious smile that comes out of you is involuntary. He can’t be serious, right? “You are so full of shit, aren’t you?”

“You don’t believe me?”

You look at him like, obviously.

“What are you gonna do, punish me for lying?” There’s that glint again, the bite against the inside of your cheek, and Art steps in.

Your heart catches. He doesn’t feel much like a boy now, inches away from you with a disarming look, his intentions crystal clear. And your head drops for a moment with a wry smile. “You can’t say that to me...”

“Why not?”

“Because!”

“Because? His grin widens, because for the first time this whole evening, he’s got the upper hand. And he likes it.

“I…” You blink at him, finding yourself cornered. Thankfully, though, your phone comes to the rescue, buzzing in your pocket and popping the tension between you and Art like a balloon. “I’m sorry, do you mind if I—”

“Yeah, sure.” he backs away a step, flashing an understanding smile. He watches you pick up the phone, looking out at the London sky. He would swear up and down that he didn’t mean to eavesdrop. He just loves to watch you gnaw at your lower lip in thought, study your moonbathed profile.

Listen to the sweet, sweet sound of your voice.

“Hi… no, I’m still at the— yeah. I’m not sure… are you still with…? Oh, good. Good, just checking. Say hi to everyone for me... Yeah, I’ll call you when I get back?” You catch Art’s gaze, and your stomach drops as you hear the dreaded words on the line. But again, you’re backed away into a corner. So you look away and say it back, “I love you, too. Bye.”

There it is.

Art really should’ve known this. He should’ve seen it coming. You were way too good to be true, but that doesn’t stop him from getting disappointed. No, his heart breaks on the spot, and he’s pretty sure you can hear it.

(You can’t. But you can see it in his face.)

The silence is awkward. It’s ugly. The steady sounds of cars passing by on the ground feels like it’s right in front of you. For the longest time, the two of you can only look out onto the horizon. Anxiously tracing the outlines of skyscrapers in sight.

He is reeling, like he’s been shaken awake from a dream. “So, I take it you’re taken, huh?”

The look you give him is apologetic, and it kills you as much as it destroys him. “Yeah.”

Art rubs at his jaw like he’s willing himself to say something, anything. “I see you’ve cursed me, then.”

“What?”

It takes him a moment to gather his words. Put together his thoughts in a way that you would understand. He didn’t mean it to sound so damning, but it’s the first thing that comes out. It feels like taking a boulder out of his throat. “By making me like you.”

Oh.

Your face falls. Of course. How cruel of you to play his game, knowing you’re setting him up to lose. “I’m sorry. I never meant to…”

“No, no. I’m not blaming you, I swear,” he quickly interjects. “It’s… not your fault one of us is a fool.” He smiles ruefully at nothing.

“It’s a shame,” you quietly admit.

And even then he can’t be mad at you. Not from the way he looks at you oh so tenderly. “It’s a real shame, love.”

There are no words, no more witty remarks. They’ve all been exhausted out of you. There’s nothing left to exchange but that soft look of resignation. Of defeat.

Of wishful thinking.

The cigarettes have long died out and forgotten, only the filters left between your fingers. Your ashes fall in a big chunk on the railing, while Art’s… have free-dived and dispersed in the muggy night air.

“I should go.” Your voice comes out in a whisper. “Let you go back to your party.”

Art can only nod. He keeps his mouth shut, not trusting himself enough to not beg you to stay.

You reach out, almost pulling back, but you can’t help it. Even if it’s just a nothing hand on his shoulder. “I’ll see you around, Art.”

He covers your hand in his, just for a second. His thumb caressing the back of your hand. His heart is in pieces, but at least he will have this. If nothing else, he will still know how your hand feels in his.

And just as quickly as it happens, it ends. Art doesn’t dare watch you leave. He misses your touch instantly, and the sound of your footsteps, and the door opening and closing follows. As Al Green’s ‘What Am I Gonna Do With Myself’ plays on in the party, Art looks out towards the London sky and lights another cigarette.

#im back on my bullshit loooool #art donaldson #art donaldson x reader #art donaldson imagine #art donaldson fic #mike faist #challengers fic #challengers imagine #art donaldson x popstar!reader #ava writes #mike faist imagine

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