#jack only has one setting and its being a jerk

[hotheadedhero]

Like 'em Big

AN: I have so many stories to write but I had to do this. Blaming being sick, m'kay? Fever has got me bad and these meds got me loopy. Thinking we need some good, silly fun in our lives, right? Plus, now that I've watched Rise, I'm hungry for some big Raph appreciation. I know I ain't the only one

Part 2

All characters are aged up

Raphael x Reader

Warnings: near peril, easily smitten, possible errors due to fever (what kind of fever is up for deliberation🥴)

Cutting right to the chase. You like big dudes. That doesn't necessarily mean muscles, either. You just love you a big man - someone with a bit of something-something to them. More to love, you know? Given your track record with the greater world, it shouldn't be all that much of a mystery. Cats? Get yourself a tiger that you can cuddle into. Jumpers? Comfort central, baby. Beds? If you can't spread eagle then you see no point. The old-age saying does declare that the bigger the better, so who are you to disagree? How true that is may be up for debate but it’s merely as simple as understanding what your preferences are.

However, this makes dating a difficult ballpark to play in. No matter how tall, jacked, or voluptuous someone is, it never feels like enough. Human biology and genetics can only go so far in the conceivably possible sense. You just want to be absolutely engulfed when you get a hug. Is that such a crime? Apparently, it is. Unfortunately, you also seem to come across the worst jerks when you attempt to date within this set of criteria. One might argue it's your karmic justice for being so superficial and picky but a woman has needs. Not those kinds of needs, either. Get your head out of the gutter.

All hope seems lost and after yet again, another failed date, you decide to call it in for the evening and make your way home. A fresh failure and another wonderful outfit gone to waste. By no means is it anything flashy but you put a lot of work into it: pencil skirt, turtle neck sweater, and a nice pair of boots to compliment the look. The whole shebang! All of that effort for nothing. This is the last time you spend three hours doing your hair and makeup. Block after block, your feet grow heavier with every step. What you would give to come across a mountain-like man you can climb who is also a kindred spirit. Perhaps this dream guy will forever be that - a dream. Men like that don't just fall out of the sky.

"Look out!!"

The sudden shout almost scares you into tripping over and you look behind yourself, wishing you hadn’t. Two very large, very dangerous-looking figures entangled in battle, those of which are approaching your helpless little self. You quickly duck as the giants hurdle over you. One falls on its side whilst the other claws and skids against the ground, regaining its balance. It shakes its head and locks onto you, a guttural snarl rumbling past its jowls. Such a creature is surely from the stuff of nightmares. An indescribable nightmare whose sights are set on you. The smart option would be running away but it's as though your shoes have melted into the pavement. Pawing into the tarmac, the beastly thing growls and lunges for you. Great. This is how you die: torn limb from limb by a demon dog. Well, assuming your clothes join you, at least you’ll look like a total babe in the afterlife.

"Oh no ya’ don't," the other one yells from behind the predator, grabbing it by its tail. “Pretty ladies are not food!”

With a mighty tug, he pulls it back and swings it as far away from you as possible. You release a shaky breath, legs trembling beneath you. That was far too close for comfort. The fight isn’t quite over, however. Just as it approaches him, the green goliath swivels on his feet, full 180, and whacks the creature's jaw with a closed fist. His speed alone has you in awe but the force is astounding, practically earth-shattering. It completely knocks the air around you and pushes you onto your backside.

When the dust clears, the first thing you see is your saviour panting, his spiky shell(?) pointed towards you. Just past him in the distance, you notice three more figures in blue, purple, and orange taking a closer look at the unconscious tyrant. You swear one of them pokes at it with a stick. Witnessing strange beings such as this isn't entirely new. Anyone who's watched Chateau Pretenche knows about the celebrity chef turning into a grotesque pigman. To describe it in one word? Horrifying. It's just whether people choose to believe it genuinely happened or if these bizarre entities exist. Being up close and personally observing it now puts your scepticism in check.

As the humanoid turtle calms, he turns to face you, recapturing your attention. A red mask sits over his eyes and there’s a noticeable snaggle tooth poking past his upper lip. Typically, the prerogative is keeping out of sight but it’s much too late for that. He gradually advances towards you. You watch him warily and he keeps his movements slow for that very reason. It wouldn’t be a shock if you were to try and make an escape. He wouldn’t blame you. Currently, all he wants to do is make sure you weren’t hurt during that fiasco provided you don’t suddenly come out of your bewilderment and run off. You have good reason to but he just saved you. Either that or he’s as ravenous as that beast and wants you all to himself. The irrational conclusion remains as such - irrational - when he descends to one knee and outstretches a hand. There’s an irrefutable kindness in his eyes; a caring nature that can’t be replicated in the face of savage brutes.

"You okay?" he asks.

You continue to gawk without a word but, bit by bit, you reach out for his offer. Your fingers lightly trace the centre of his palm before comfortably trusting the proposal. His hand engulfs yours completely and Raph hopes to mercy that you don’t realise how sweaty he’s getting. He can feel his heart beating like crazy. He wonders how much of that is the adrenaline from the fight and how much of it is being in the presence of such a beautiful gal. As he helps you to your feet, he rises to his own. Someone of his stature shouldn’t be capable of being this delicate but he is. It has you running through a loop and you unintentionally stare at the remarkable behemoth.

Quite pathetically, you nod, unable to verbally respond to his question. How can you? You are effectively starstruck. Once you gloss over the turtle-y features, all you see is the sheer size of him as he towers over you. Height, width, the magnitude of those arms! All of it is glorious. You can hear the universe asking, “You want a big man, huh? How about one who isn’t human?” to which you answer, “Who gives a damn?”. If the only way a man can be this big is not to be human, so be it.

Amidst a whisper, your mouth moves on its own, "You're beautiful."

"What?"

"Huh?" Blinking out of your trance, you realise what you’ve said and giggle sheepishly, "I mean, you're be... ba... booming! Totally awesome with the whole- uh... saving thing." Nailed it. 

He blinks right back down at you. This is certainly a first. He can feel his face heating up and he withdraws his hand lest you endure the wrath of his bashfulness, opting to hold the back of his head. At this moment, he seems to look anywhere but you.

"Heh. Gee, thanks." His humility is adorable and you’re glad he doesn’t question your initial statement. He turns to you once more, regaining some composure. "You sure you're okay, though? That thing was pretty scary looking."

It’s clear that you haven’t sustained any physical injuries but even bearing witness to something so unsightly can have lasting effects on one's mind. His brows furrow gently in concern down at you and it occurs to you that there’s a soft heart under all of that shell and muscle. Bonus points. This makes you smile for the first time in front of him and Raphael is sure that the streetlights got brighter.

You laugh fondly, “Yeah, I’m okay. Thank you.” Twiddling your fingers, your lips purse up in his direction.  “Is there any way I can repay you?”

He places his hands on his hips and chuckles cutely, “Just doing my duty, ma’am.”

He may be indulging in his alter ego - the Red Angel of Preventing Harm - but it’s not every day he gets paid thanks when he saves someone. It’s also not every day he gets to save such a pretty woman, either. You, however, can’t just leave it at that. There must be some way in which you can properly thank him. Ulterior motives include getting to know this already loveable lug better but shh. It feels like the odds are finally turning in your favour and you won’t let this slip away from your grasp. That’s when it hits you.

Muttering under your breath, you erratically search through the confines of your little handbag. You are certain that you had one in here somewhere. In the spare pocket maybe? Ah! Found it. Fumbling to take the lid off of your pen, you hold out your hand, gesturing for his. He slowly complies, to which you jot down a series of digits on his palm accompanied by your name and a tiny 'x'. 

"Gimme a text sometime," is the last thing he hears before you disappear around a corner.

Oh? Oh. Ohhh. Wow. Getting your number is the last thing he expected. Did he get hit on the head during that scuffle or something? Was everything from the last few minutes a dream? He bores holes into the writing on his skin, scanning it over and over, scared that it’ll disappear if he so much as blinks. A dumb, wobbly smile not so gracefully decorates his lips as he trudges back to the turtle tank. He takes his seat but it’s obvious that he isn’t all there. Being so caught up in his rose-tinted bubble, he doesn’t register his brothers' voices. In an effort to gain his attention, Michelangelo jumps onto his shoulder, partly intrigued by what their leader is so absorbed by.

"Oh me gosh!” the young brother screams in shrill excitement, “Raph's in love!"

Careful not to smudge the neat ink, he’s quick to hide his hand against his chest. "That's crazy talk!”

Donatello sniffs the air and mockingly covers his nose. "The overwhelming manifestation of your nervous stink indicates otherwise, dear brother."

"I got a girl’s number!” he continues to defend, feeling his face go all kinds of red. “'Course, I'm nervous but that don’t mean I’m in love."

Lies and slander. It was practically love at first sight. He just doesn’t like the idea of his brothers knowing that. It’s easy pickings to be made fun of.

"Don't worry, Big Red. Lucky for you, you got a guy who knows all about the charm." Leonardo points both thumbs at himself as he falls back into his seat and props his legs up on the dashboard. "First, you just need to..."

The "helpful" advice drowns out as the large snapper opens and gazes at his palm again. He just can't comprehend how a gorgeous individual such as yourself could take one look at him and give him your number. It's puzzling but he supposes there’s a first for everything? That also doesn't mean he won't text you. The only thing getting in the way of that is fear. Raphael thinks he’d rather go toe-to-toe with that mutant dog again than have to face the risk of embarrassing himself. To anyone who knows him, it’s no surprise that he caves under pressure. No. He will do it! A chance like this is one in a million.

Oh boy. What could possibly go wrong?

[virginreprise]

J U N K Y ' P R I D E

joel miller x reader

" I KNOW I CAUGHT YOU AT A NOT SO HAPPY TIME OF YOUR LIFE " ✧ ⁺ ⁺ 　°

WARNINGS: age difference (big one), pervy joel, trailer park joel, joel miller has a vintage porn collection, joel's a sad old man, video game joel was in mind when writing, joel is six foot because i say so, multi-part, smut in the next chapter because i can't write anything if it isn't slowburn

WORD COUNT: 7.7k

AO3 LINK

CHAPTER ONE—BAD DISEASE

Static from the television set tucked in a corner, a beaten leather armchair parked in front of it and a stack of vintage, VHS porn tapes on the unit. One half of “Agent 69” stuck in the VCR, balancing on its side due to the lack of care from its owner who’d jacked off in the very chair that towered over it—cum stained fist and a name on his lips, slipped out between plush flesh. Hand frantic, jerking in tandem with the buck of his hips as he flit his eyes between the TV and the wood-panelled ceiling, profanities spilling from his filthy mouth. Muttering to himself as pornstar moans graced his ears, words whispered into the night, stolen by the archangels and flown up to God: conspiring, scheming, uttering under their breath that he should not be allowed through the holy gates on judgement day. That the defiled Bible on his bookshelf and the cross that had been left for him by the previous owners, pinned to the trailer wall, was not enough for them to ignore the strained sentences that he spewed in a desperate bid for the Trailer Park Princess on her knees—red nails and red lips wrapped around his cock. A ring of colour staining the base. 

Utter filth. And Joel knew it. 

The perversions he didn’t keep to himself, laughed about bending over the pretty thing next door whilst nursing a beer on Pete’s porch—puffing away on the cheap cigars he’d stolen from the liquor store. They tasted like shit, smelt like shit and Joel would’ve been better without it, but it added to the image: kept Susan from asking him stupid questions like why he didn’t have a woman. It was her way of flirting, bikini top displaying her sagging tits, bending over the kitchen counter whilst his buddies watched baseball. 

“You got your eye on anyone, Joel?” 

“Not really, Susan.” 

Then Pete interjecting. 

“Come off it, Susan. Just cause he ain’t committed don’t mean that he ain’t got women.”

That kept her quiet, made her slink away into the hallway, slipping into their bedroom and pulling a cover-up on—suddenly insecure. 

Joel wasn’t a pervert. He didn’t have some strange penchant for young women. They were just…nice to look at. Pretty and sun-kissed in the Texan heat, ass hanging out their shorts, bikini top doing much more to entice than Susan’s did. There was no harm in looking—they never knew. He prided himself on being discreet, nursing a beer in the late afternoon whilst Kenny Rogers lulled from the radio, flicking ash from his cigarette onto the porch floor—eyes trained on your open window, cracked just a tad to let the air through. Drapes open. 

At times, he thinks you do it on purpose, a gentle taunt, a silent jeer: “You can only look, perv.” 

If the invitation was there, he’d take you up on it. Because out of all the women he’d fucked, headboard bashing against the wall, a chip in the wood of the trailer evidence of his trysts, you were the only one who’d worked him up to the point of no return. The only one who’d grabbed him completely by the collar and forced him to lick your boots. 

Like Joel said, he wasn’t a pervert. You were just a fucking whore who needed to be put in her place. 

So he’d sit there, in the white garden chair he’d snatched up from the pile of scrap that accumulated just east of his trailer, and watch. Most days, you’d be doing nothing in particular, unfortunately already dressed, dirty clothes in hand and wet hair dripping down your back. Other days, the days where Joel thought he was really lucky, where he’d stumble inside with a hard-on, sit on his recliner and hastily shove whatever he got his hands on, into the VCR, skipping over the poorly acted introductions, and pretend that the moans reverberating the trailer, were yours. Images of you slipping your shorts over your hips, swaying slightly to whatever tune you were listening to, peeling your shirt off your body. No bra. Slyly stepping towards your window, catching his eye once, a look so slight that he wouldn’t be surprised if he imagined it, and pulled your drapes shut. 

He’d spilt all over his hand, white on his knuckles and a smile on his lips. 

Joel would never feel guilty for wanting you, not when he had already made peace with the fact he was a deadbeat, bound to the white trash lifestyle, unemployed and living off the pills he paid for and sold for a ridiculously high price, still grieving his losses and wondering what the fuck he could’ve done differently. If he would’ve done anything differently given the chance. 

No, Joel was not a bad person. He just looked for her in every person, desperately seeking a will. And so far, you had succeeded in helping him remove the gun from his mouth—evenings spent in different, dangerous ways. 

Texan summers were unlike anything you’d experienced before, the heat so incredibly stifling that your love for the sun disappeared completely. Mornings spent on the porch, soaking in the last bits of breeze before cycling your ass to work, sweating and heaving by the time you got there, in the same condition when you rode back home and locked yourself away with every window flung open before nightfall fell and you felt you could breathe again. 

The cicadas were loud, the snakes huddled up in the shade, waiting for you to trample on them, and the beast next door, Joel Miller: terrifying, gorgeous and a fucking pervert. 

The day you’d moved into the trailer, despairing the loss of stability, ruminating upon your desperate escape from a home now dead and lost to the prairies of your mind, he’d been there. Wifebeater stretched across his wide torso, a cigarette placed on his lips, unused as it hung there, smoking away, the grey wisps begging with each dissipation into the atmosphere: breathe me in. He’d stared. Unable to be subtle no matter how slick he thinks he is, eyes flitting between your tits and your ass. Tits. Ass. Tits. Ass. A calculated dance that left a funny feeling brewing in the pit of your stomach, a lurch in your bowels that made nausea claw its way up your throat. 

Tits. Ass. Then, he suddenly looked at your face, standing there on his porch, the sunrise building its way up the horizon, too early for anybody to see him looking you over like you were a dead deer he’d just shot, smirking at the notion of sawing your head off and displaying it on the wall above his mantle. Heaving boxes into the empty trailer, lot number seventeen, whilst the owner of lot eighteen wouldn’t take his fucking eyes off you, was a terrible feat. 

Once you’d shoved the last box into your bedroom, you’d shut the door, locked it tight and peeked through the window to see that he had gone back inside, retreating to the haven of steel and veneer. 

Over time, Joel became easier to manage. After the initial, awkward introductions where he’d called you princess, babydoll, sugar (almost adding a “tits” to the end of the nickname before realising where he was) your stomach reeling at the monikers, time settled your unmistakable disgust for him, the universe replaced the sickness you felt when you spoke to him with another stomach-turning anxiety that you pushed down far into every crevasse and high onto every mountain. 

You grew to enjoy the nicknames, skipping a few paces up his porch steps and ask him ever so kindly if he could come and fix the cupboard door that was swinging off its hinges, change the lightbulb because you couldn’t reach the ceiling yourself, stop the leaky tap that seemed to start drip drip dripping every month—just to bully you. 

Although you knew that Joel was a dirtbag, hearing him talking about the filthiest things, laughing as Pete clapped him on the back in praise and acknowledgement, knowing that he wanted nothing more than to treat you like a whore, he gave you nothing except a sly smile, a sleazy nickname and the occasional help around the house. Fixing things. 

So, naturally, you began asking around about Joel. Susan liked to gossip. So did Lillian, a woman who had spent her entire life in the park and, at sixty-two, had no interest in leaving. 

“I remember when he moved here,” she’d told you one fine summer evening, when the heat wasn’t as menacing and you felt content being away from the air conditioning, sipping sweet tea in Lillian’s wooden garden chairs, feet placed on the seat—chin resting on your knees. “All stoic, wouldn’t speak ‘ta anyone. I could tell he’d gone through something bad, you know me and my sixth sense.” 

She’d paused for a moment, taking a drag, a sip, a sigh before looking at you solemnly. 

“He was a catch with the ladies,” she’d muttered. “They were all after him, even this one over here,” she’d pointed to Susan who’d smacked her arm, complaining about her disrespect. She was a married, loyal woman after all. “Well, it’s true. If I were twenty years younger, I would’ve gone for him too, but it wouldn’t have done much anyway cause he didn’t touch anyone. There ain’t many pretty young ladies round here, you know you’re the only one,” she’d said plainly, addressing you with a hint of affection. 

Waving her cigarette around as she relayed every single detail she knew about Joel’s love life, telling you how after a few years of moping, he’d bring back girls in the middle of the night, fuck them, and then throw them out the next day. 

“He’s not a romantic,” Lillian had prefaced, Susan interjecting with:

“Ya think so? I think he is…if he just found the right woman-”

“Oh don’t listen to her Darlin’, he’s a man who likes to play. He ain’t lookin’ to settle, I tell you that much.” 

Listening to them both, their anecdotes, their stories, and their opinions, you concluded one thing about Joel Miller. He was an asshole. A man who had done nothing to better his life since he stepped foot in the trailer park ten years ago, a sag in his shoulders and an anger in his eyes. 

You weren’t sure if he’d mellowed since then, or if he’d just managed to conceal it better. Joel hadn’t been angry around you, not when you knocked on his door at three in the morning, asking him if he could come get the spider out of your bedroom, not when you’d accidentally run into his truck with your bike or told him that he was an asshole when you’d caught him talking about you one day in springtime. 

“She’s as dumb as fucking rocks,” he’d chuckled. “Bet she gets cockdrunk so easy.” 

He’d grumbled out the last sentence, an afterthought that was more for him than the men he was talking to, but you, stumbling around, half-asleep after your shift, were not willing to take the degradation. You’d berated him in front of his peers, slammed the door behind you, and regretted it immediately. Because, even though it shouldn’t matter, even though you thought he was pervy and angry and wouldn’t treat you how you’d been told you deserved, the last thing you wanted was for him to hate you. 

Every time he praised you, told you that you looked good as you stepped out of your home, on your way to Lillian’s for a catch-up and the cigarettes she bought you every three weeks, just for being good and keeping her company, you felt that tingle, the synaptic transmissions running down your spine every time he stepped through your door, asking what the issue with your tap was. You should’ve been disgusted when he’d left and you’d gone to the bathroom only to find the panties you’d left on the floor were gone, but you’d felt that same spark instead. A deep, sliding ache that consumed every part of you. 

Luckily for you, your sink decided to start leaking again on a gorgeous Sunday afternoon. Perfect time to lure him into your trailer, grab him by the neck and ask him as nicely as you could if he could cease the pain. 

Sip of beer, drag of cigarette, click of the remote to change the channel, repeat. 

A usual Sunday afternoon pastime. 

Joel would’ve rifled through his VHS’s, find something he could jack off to whilst he deliberated whether today would be the day he’d say “fuck it” and saunter on over to next door, hoping to god he’d get his dick wet by someone other than a whore, but he couldn’t be bothered to move from his seat. It was effort enough trying to change the channel, arm aching as he pressed the button, rolling his eyes as the same boring drab illuminated his TV screen. 

It was another one of those days. Glancing at the watch on his wrist, the broken glass, the notion that he would never fix it no matter how easy it would’ve been to go over to Shane’s and ask him to get it working again, all for the low price of a few pills. 

She’d left him with it and he would die with it. 

A reminder of her every time he glanced at his watch, swallowing hard as he remembered the way he’d pressed cool metal to the side of his head, a tear slipping down his cheek before realising that he never could. Because Joel was an asshole, he knew that. He was selfish and cruel and spoke about people as if they could get any lower than he already was. But more so than anything, Joel was a sad old man.

Tommy, the damn bastard, who’d left Joel to fend for himself while he went off with his new-found “true love” to have kids and a decent life, had sent a few thousand dollars and a pitiful “I’m sorry, Joel,” over the phone after his big brother had fucked up and lost his job. When Joel had been left penniless and broken. Nothing to fight for. No one to hold him or tell him that he was loved. He’d spent all his money raiding gas stations for cases of beer, bottles of whisky, anything that could numb the pain—choosing the alcohol over food, over his mortgage. When he’d lost the house, he hadn’t taken anything of hers. Even after she’d died, he’d insisted that everything needed getting rid of. Her clothes, her posters, even her damn phone. He’d slammed Tommy against the wall after realising that he was taking everything with him, that he was not doing as he was told. After that, Joel had closed the door on her bedroom and never stepped foot in it again. 

All he had of her was a damn watch, a photo that his little brother had shoved into his hands, a harsh, “Take it, you damn bastard. You’ll regret it when you stop feeling so sorry for yourself,” on his lips, and the memory of her in his arms when he’d felt that huge heart of hers stop beating. 

There had been many low points in Joel’s life, wandering through his existence on a tightrope that was ready to snap with every step, but none had been lower than that. 

Not even when he’d called Tommy in the middle of the night, sobbing, struggling to breathe with a clean bottle of Jim Beam in his hands, begging him to help. He’d lost his house, he’d lost his job, he’d lost his daughter. Where to next? 

Tommy, all the way in Wyoming had scraped together some money, told Joel to get himself down to the mobile park and a steady job. Start from the bottom again. 

Sometimes, Joel resented his brother for not giving him that money for a flight to the West, smiling down the phone as he informed that they had a spare room for him, his nephew cooing in his bassinet and waiting for his old uncle. 

He understood though. When he wasn’t drunk it made more sense why he hadn’t invited him to his home. 

They hadn’t spoken in sixteen years. To his nephew whom he did not know the name of, he was just the deadbeat uncle who hadn’t made it out of Texas—still alive but lost. 

Tommy would’ve probably hated him more if he was sitting on Joel’s couch, staring at the porn and the beer, the cigarettes that his little brother knew he had only smoked when he was a rebellious teenager—the occasional pull never becoming a habit, especially when his daughter came along. 

Almost certainly would’ve despised him if he knew how he felt about the girl next door, the perverse catharsis he experienced when he took himself in hand and imagined taking care of her, shushing her whimpers, making her whine with the way he stretched her open. 

Oh, and he was a bad man. A bad fucking man and he was the last thing you needed. Some poor, young girl who was doing her best to make it. Pay the rent on time, make sure she was kept fed, all whilst juggling the inescapable feeling that once you were in the trailer park there was no getting out. 

Joel didn’t see an end. He’d been here for over a decade; his drug money was not for a new house or a new life, it was for whores and booze, a carton of Marlboro reds that he got for cheap from Bill, and porn. He’d collected all the goddamn vices—became a person so unlike who he was, so far from the quietly loveable single dad he’d been hailed as years ago. 

As far as Joel now was concerned, that guy was a fucking pussy. 

That guy would think he needed professional help for the way he thought about you, would expel every single image of you naked and writhing, tits bouncing in time with his thrusts as you lay boneless and crying in his grasp. 

You were legal. What was the big fucking deal? 

Joel needed this. You were not just some throwaway material good that would leave him in debt for the next ten years—you were full and gorgeous, smart, quick-witted and made him harder than the oak tree that stood centuries-old just a little down the road from the old Palmer farmhouse. 

That day you’d heard him talking about you to his friends, the way he’d lied and said that you were dumb, when you’d come storming up his porch steps—all rage and heat—and cussed him out, he’d laughed. It didn’t matter about the taunts and the sniggers he got from his buddies who he would have no issue never speaking to again. They could go fuck themselves for all he cared because you hadn’t willingly thrown yourself at his feet and licked his boots. 

Whores were easy. No challenge with a whore, no longing, no desire, just a mutual understanding that this was transactional and she was going to moan as loud as you wanted her to whether it felt good or not. 

But you had given Joel something worth chasing. And fuck he was going to catch you, even if it meant he’d die in the chair he sat in, with nothing to show for his life except a case of Bud, an empty fridge, and a stain on his bedsheets where you’d reached for him—begging for everything he could not give.

Something about him had you checking your appearance before you walked out the door, making your hair presentable, touching up your lipgloss, blotting the oil from your face. All for a man who saw you as nothing but jailbait

You wanted to be wanted. To be looked at with a fire, an urge to grasp you and take you fully, pull you close when you cried and kiss you when you shook with the need to run far away. You wanted to be kept, to be reminded every day that you were needed, loved and desired.

You wanted Joel. 

Joel: the sad old man next door, the dangerously handsome figure in your life that stood six feet tall, jaw sharp and strong, muscles straining with his arms crossed—built big and firm. A chest you’d very much like to lay your head on. A bulge in his pants you’d very much like to see stripped bare. 

So when the opportunity came, you seized it, with an iron first, intent on capturing what had been yours since the day you’d moved to the free prison—since the day he’d stared at you, an unadulterated and irremovable, perverse desire that shook the very beings of your existence. That determined exactly who you are and how you would fall for the watchful eyes and glinting gaze that befell you every time you stepped down the rotten wood steps at the foot of the trailer entrance. 

You stepped onto them then, Chuck Taylors strapped to your feet, laces loose and lazily tied, skin smoothed from the razor you’d pressed against it in the shower that morning—all for him. The appearance every bit of expectation you had for his fantasies and ideals, hoping that the attire would thrust him further into abandoning a morality he did not have. 

The sun set rapidly behind you, the grass long and dry around your ankles, unmowed—as you nor Joel had ever discussed who would get mowing duty—and a clear head. A set destination, unstifled by a long day at work, the sweat curling along your back too harsh to be ignored and the sometimes discourteous demeanour of Joel’s so powerful that you often wondered why you liked him. Why you gave so much attention to a man years ahead of you, unable to look at you without laughing at the prospect you thought you were more to him than a pretty thing to look at whilst he wallowed in his castle of self-pity he’d built for himself all these years spent trapped and lonely. 

It all seemed insignificant that day you’d crossed the boundary between lot seventeen and lot eighteen. When you’d shakily advanced up his steps, onto the porch you grew so fond of, and knocked once, twice, thrice on the white door—stepping back to await his welcome. Hoping to god that he’d see you and take you there. 

The shuffling on the other side of the door raised your heart rate, a sweat forming on the back of your neck which you brushed away with a hasty hand, intimidated by what awaited you when the white disappeared and transformed into bulking arms and a firm chest—a tall body that you gazed up at with ardour. 

When the sight appeared, you gulped away the desire to run away, to pretend that you’d just come here for the leaky tap and that there was no other reason you had bothered him on his peaceful Sunday afternoon. No ulterior motive. Not that you just wanted to see him because he had hardly been around the past couple of days and in truth you were worried about him; you wanted to make him feel better. 

“Hi.” He struggled to conceal the surprise in his voice, seemingly struggling further to keep the thickness in his throat at bay, the redness of his eyes that displayed days of restlessness and insomnia. “You alright?” 

“Yeah,” you murmured impassively, licking your lips, swallowing away the dryness in your throat at the state of him: burning cigarette in hand, flannel shirt unbuttoned and displaying the white wifebeater that lay underneath. The shape of his belly was visible underneath it, his belt purposefully unbuckled and hanging from the loops of his jeans. “I’m alright.” 

There was a twitch of his lips as he stared down at you, eyes flitting from head to toe—shameless in the way he always was. In the way you liked. 

“You sure?” 

It seemed stupid suddenly: the entire situation. The call you felt towards him, the want you had to curl up against his chest, let him hold you and tell you he was proud of you for opening up to him—telling him how fucking much you wanted him, despite knowing exactly how it would end if you were to venture further into a relationship that surpassed just neighbours. 

So instead of inviting yourself in, seducing him until he fell to his knees, tugged you by the waist and begged you for just the smallest piece of yourself, you succumbed to your insecurity, and retreated from the palace walls. 

“Yeah…yeah, it’s just that my taps leaking again.” For a split second, he almost looked irritated, eyes honing in on you, narrowing with a look of aggravation—confirmed by the clench of his jaw. You appeased him, saying, “You don’t have to come over now. I just thought I’d tell you,” and the expression slowly slipped away into something much more sinister: mirth. 

“Sure thing, pretty girl,” he said as he slinked away from the doorframe, inviting you into his home, coaxing you past the threshold as he fumbled about in the fridge and pulled out two beers. 

Contemplating, you stared at him, the flex of his muscles as he uncapped each bottle, the stature and size of him as he hunched over the counters, turning around to hold out a drink to you. An invitation. One that you had expected you’d have to give yourself—that you’d have to kick and cry before he ever let himself find you. 

“Just have a drink,” he soothed in that southern lull of his, the words rolling from his tongue with ease. As if he had practised the scenario before he knew it would befall him. “No point in worrying over your tap, I can’t do anything until I buy new washers. I’m out 'cause of you.” 

The irritation he’d shown earlier seemed palpable now—as if he was inviting you into his home simply to make you as uncomfortable as possible, hold you down by the hips until you promised to leave him alone. A taunt, a ploy to make sure you would never get what you wanted. 

However, you had never stepped foot in his trailer, had only ever been on his porch and ran your hand over the chair he frequented, wondering what it looked like beyond the four walls, and curiosity prevailed as it always did. 

Uncertainly, you stepped onto the carpet, gently closing the door behind you, and mumbled a thank you as you took the beer from his hand. 

Almost immediately, you felt like apologising for his irrational emotions. 

“I’m sorry,” you muttered. “I didn’t mean to put you out. I’ll pay for whatever you need-”

“You pay in ways you don’t know. I don’t need your money.” 

The cryptic way in which he spoke, the casualness as he gave you a look that hinted at something you couldn’t decipher and the slow saunter to his armchair left you in a state of uncertainty. Standing there, with a beer wetting your hand, a frown on your face and a furrowed brow, you had no idea where to go next. What would await you if you questioned him—the things you would discover that were best left in the hands of God and no one else. 

Again, curiosity thrust its violent hand into your stomach and forced your feet to start moving towards him, hoping that he’d appreciate your bravery—your denial of your urges to run far away. It was noted, however, that Joel Miller could care less about bravery. That the quality itself was right down at the bottom of the ladder and that he could and would not give a shit if you welcomed his advances in spite of your lack of courage. 

Hesitantly, you planted yourself on his couch, the furniture built into the wall, curving into an L shape where you imagined he’d kick his feet up after a long day, palm the bulge in his jeans and pick from the litany of porn that you took one glance at and thought better than to stare at it too long in case he felt offended by your interest. 

The discovery admittedly took away a little of his allure. 

“Make yourself at home,” he insisted, taking a sip of his beer and urging you to do the same with a single nod of his head. The slight twitch of his lips when you did so caused your body to go squirming, shifting uncomfortably in your seat as the fire raged within you—unable to be sated with the way he looked at you then. 

Just a scoff, a sip, and a glance at your lips before he turned away completely and focused his attention on the blank TV screen— his reflection the only entertainment. 

Silence grew uncomfortable, the bitter taste of alcohol coating the back of your throat, dripping down your oesophagus and choking any words that you wished to say. The heat emanating from him was overpowering even from the distance you sat apart, the scent of cigarettes overwhelming, so much so that you needed a distraction, anything to dull the rest of your senses from shutting down—all because of his powerful presence; the effect he had on you even when he sat still and awaited your call. 

“What did you mean?” The words came tumbling from your mouth, driven by an insatiable desire and lacklustre confidence you had somewhere deep in the pits of your stomach, bubbling with the acid that nestled there until it rose to the surface—bile transforming into questions that could leave you in a shell of humiliation. At his furrowed brow, you expanded. “About me paying in ways I don’t know.” 

He leaned forward in his seat, elbows resting on his knees. Sombre, all of a sudden. Staring into the barrel of his bottle, the brown glass reflecting like constellations on his face—accentuating the sharp angle of his jawline, the sunken hollows of his cheekbones. 

When his eyes nestled on yours, burrowing right into your skull, you couldn’t move. Couldn’t even fathom the thought of taking a lungful of air, waiting with your breath held tight inside, for his answer. 

“You shouldn’t go asking questions like that.” He sipped quietly, wetting his lips by flicking his tongue in and out, averting his gaze back to the shadow of himself in the television. “You’ll get yourself in trouble.” 

It was not the answer you wished for, eyes downcast, focused on your shaking knee as you tried to gauge some form of clarity beneath the mystery that clouded the gates to his head—what lay beneath his skull; what you wished to find. 

Against your better judgment, you pressed further, keeping the beer bottle clutched between your hands and hoping it would stay cold forever. 

“I can handle myself.” It came out more confident than you had expected, your bobbing knee ceasing its movement, your dry throat provided with moisture. A break from the anxious sweat you had broken out in. “If you don’t tell me I’ll just leave a hundred dollars on your doorstep and leave you alone.” 

You hoped quietly, in that stifling room, that he would make sure it didn’t come to that. That he would let you pay in any way he saw fit. You hoped that the sad hulk of a man sitting in the lone chair with porn in every drawer and money set aside for whores, would let you have him—bring back a semblance of light to his eyes. Find out what kept the despondency trapped so tight around him, the crown of thorns on his head expanding until it reached his feet and kept him locked in nature's prison—skin scratched, bloody and unable to be healed unless he found someone willing to cut through the overgrowth. 

He seemed to bristle at your words, shoulders tightening, jaw clenching in the manner he did when he was irritated. You’d seen it before when Dale had been drunk and had followed you home. When you’d stumbled uncomfortably to your trailer and pleaded Joel who sat on his porch, almost looking like he was waiting for you, to get him off your back. That tick, the downturn of his brow, the twitch of his lip, the look so intimidating you had rushed inside and watched through the window as Joel clapped a hand on Dale’s back and ushered him away from you.

You had no idea what he’d done after they’d left your sight but Dale barely looked at you after. The last interaction you’d had with him was the morning after when he’d knocked on your door, timid for a fifty-year-old man, and apologised. Joel had been there, like he almost always was—always dancing in your peripheral, waiting for you, taunting you—with a cup of coffee clasped between two hands and a smug look on his face when he watched the interaction. 

“You ain’t as smart as you think you are,” he uttered, slipping you away from the vignette and shattering the memory with his simple words. 

They stung. More than you cared to admit. 

Men were never this difficult, never this hard to get through to, never this confusing. He had given you every possible sign, every protection, every knowing look that confessed: you are everything I wish to have. 

It seemed every day he was further from you, every day he looked at you and thought that he was blinded by loneliness and that you were the last thing he needed to dote on. 

With the rejection, came vexation, a rumbling little thing that forced its way into your mouth—lips parting to let it out. 

“You’re not as discreet as you think you are.” As soon as they fell, the rest came following like a herd of bulls, a huge red flag flying through the air, right where Joel sat. They came for him, and you didn’t care enough to stop them. “I’m not stupid, no matter what you say.” 

The tick, tick, tick of his jaw. That subtle way his eyes narrowed, honing in on everything but the thing causing his problems, trying desperately to stop the truths from betraying his conceptions. 

“I see you, Joel. I see you through my bedroom window, using me as your personal stripper because you’re too fucking cheap to go down to the strip club and give a tip.” The push and pull was becoming apparent, the sympathy and disgust you held for him all at once growing and growing until all that prevailed was rage. That after everything, he still refused. That he was still a fucking coward no matter how many faces he pulled at anyone who looked at him wrong. You would not be deterred by the look he gave you then: one that should’ve made you shrink away in fear he would do something rash. “I see the way you looked at me from day fucking one. Just a pair of tits to stare at, a new young girl that you can prey on-”

“Stop.” 

“I’m not stupid.” Your voice was rising rapidly, your lips downturned in a scowl, unable to see the danger that befell you if you continued. “I know how you talk about me to your friends, I know that you make a show of being this immovable thing that no one can ever get to because you’re so wrapped up in your own self-pity that you can’t even admit to yourself that the only thing you are is a fucking pervert. And an asshole.” 

“You are crossing a line, little girl.” 

His words fell on deaf ears, a scoff coming from the back of your throat—so many things that you wanted to say but couldn’t voice. You settled for a final, blow. One that might kick him off his feet. 

“I know you stole my panties.” Jaw ticking, teeth grinding so hard they were liable to turn to dust in his mouth. “Took them right off my bathroom floor. Could you not help yourself? Are you that sad, Joel? Are you that much of a fucking perve-” 

Silenced by the way he towered, standing upright, bottle discarded by the leg of his chair and fury dancing in his eyes—so apparent and profound you finally stopped and cowered. 

“You don’t know a thing about me.” 

You were stunned into submission, finally on the end of his intimidation—a feat that was sure to happen sooner rather than later. You were just another Dale, just another one of his victims that he shot down with narrowed eyes and a nasty tone of voice that forced you to swallow down the confidence—sending it right back to your stomach, and burning the false assurance away. 

“I have been cordial with you for as long as possible.” There was danger in the way he spoke so calmly, a tremor in your hands as he stepped forward, facing you completely, and kneeled before you—eyes boring into yours, forcing you to look at him with the hand he placed on the couch beside you. “I’ve tried my hardest to be respectable but you make it so damn difficult.” 

“I’m sorry,” you began, wishing you could take it all back, wishing that you could’ve used your boldness for better: crawled into his lap and let him hold you, sank to your knees like he and worshipped him with every bit of yourself you had.

“Sh, sh, sh,” he shook his head, the hand on the couch, moving, the weight of it resting there dissipating and falling even heavier on the side of your face. “You can’t take it back now.” 

Nerves slipped like rapids through your stomach, the damn thing churning so much you began to feel sick with the anticipation and fear you felt being closer to him than you ever had been before. Your mouth opened as if to speak, then closed again when you realised that your throat had closed, the inside of your mouth dry and unable to lubricate your words with credibility as they fell from your lips.

“You think I’m a pervert?” he asked, eyes expecting an answer, eyebrows raising to help you find a response. “Hm?” 

“Yes.” The monosyllable fell shakily, unable to lie when he was looking at you so harshly, all whilst stroking your cheekbone with his thumb and engulfing the right side of your face with one, big, warm hand. 

He nodded with knowing, his other hand falling to your bare knee. You were crowded by him, completely consumed by his presence and with a harsh swallow, you hoped that he would slip away and allow you to breathe—if only for a moment. 

“I know,” he said with finality, your cheek whacked with cold air as he removed his hand, quickly providing you with warmth again as he pressed his thumb to your chin, holding it delicately. Making sure you couldn’t look away from him. “But you like it, don’t you?” he brushed the bottom of your lip with his nail, an uncontrollable shiver running through you that he revelled in.

He’d called your bluff entirely. He’d locked you up in his cage, gave you the upper hand for just a second, made you believe that you could get away from him if you kicked and screamed enough, only to leave you hopeless as he twisted the key to the right, and threw the metal that granted you freedom, into the fire. 

“If you had an issue with me looking, you’d close the drapes. You’re a smart girl, I’m sure it ain’t too hard for you.” 

His patronisation, his demeanour that consisted of arousal and determination, had a small breath puffing from your lungs, a sudden and overwhelming heat crawling from each of his hands and into your head—breaking your rationale and leaving you pliable and willing in his grasp. He’d got you. Right there. And if he wanted you, you would let him have you. 

“And if you didn’t want me to steal your panties, then you shouldn’t have left them there.” 

It was unbelievable, the way he twisted the blame onto you, the way he made you believe in everything he was saying with a simple swipe of his thumb over your bottom lip and a look in his eyes that stopped you from questioning him. 

“Yes, Joel, I’m sorry, Joel,” were the only words swimming through your head: words that you would’ve spoken aloud had he not stunned you into silence, the hand on your knee sliding along your skin, up towards the hem of your shorts where he slipped his fingers under and skimmed the skin concealed by the denim. 

“You understand me, little girl?” 

“I’m not a little girl,” you managed, voice shaky as the warmth of him engulfed you entirely, wrapped up in the scent of him, the feel of the callouses along your smooth skin and the eyes piercing you. If looks could kill…if those pretty eyes could rip you apart with the viciousness of their stare. 

“No you ain’t,” he murmured, gripping your chin, thumb rubbing along the flesh of your bottom lip, the skin bouncing as he peeled it back and let go. “I know you ain’t.” 

There seemed a flood came over his being, a white wave of purity dowsing him, ridding him of every adulteration and forcing sense back into his head as the hand fell from your face, the one on your inner thigh taking longer to slip away before the cloud of insensibility faded and he arrived to a semblance of morality. 

You watched as he stumbled over to the kitchen, hand working over the scruff he called a beard and forced his eyes away from you. 

“Joel,” you called softly, finally gaining back a little strength now he wasn’t crowding you; forcing you to look at him and make the first move so his conscience could be clean. 

“Just go.” The words were uttered much softer than before, the delicacy of his voice surprising you but the strain that coated his throat a reminder that this was still Joel Miller. Dangerously beautiful Joel Miller with a lifetime of terror stashed somewhere in the backrooms of his mind, a darkness in the depths of his eyes you couldn’t help but be frightened by, and a story you wished he would tell. A story that stretched years back to the life before he crept past the opening gates of Shady Springs Mobile Park and left a life that you had no clue wether  had been better or worse than his life now. “I’ll come over tomorrow afternoon and have a look at that tap. You might have to get maintenance round soon though if it keeps up.” 

“I don’t like strangers…in my house.” Your words trailed off at the end of your sentence, caught up in the possibilities of your words and how he would reply. If he would see right through you and clock how you’d only spoken because the tap was one of the biggest ties you had to Joel. If he would realise that you’d thought about getting maintenance months ago when it first started dripping but didn’t want a permanent fix, no matter how annoying. All because of Joel Miller and the way he’d perversely captured you in the plot of some barely legal porno that you would’ve turned your nose up at if it was anyone but him and you. 

You and Joel. 

The thought sounded nice—the reality a little less nicer. 

“Yeah, well…” he leant back on the countertops, arms crossed over his chest, eyes bloodshot and bordered by black—an undeniable piece of evidence that Joel perhaps wasn’t doing as well as he made everyone believe; that there was something deeper tugging at his mind and causing such aggravation. 

After a moments silence, when he looked at you and you looked right back at him, your head clear and working properly again, you diverted the conversation elsewhere—a ploy to hack deeper at his head and find what lay underneath his skull. 

“Are you okay?” Simple, easy. Not difficult to ascertain the concern laced deep in your tone because you were concerned for him. The moment he’d opened the door after days of barely seeing him, time spent cursing the fact he could peer through your windows but you could not peer through his, you knew something was wrong. That there was something happening to him. Something dangerous. Your sympathy began to overtake everything else, memory shed of all the times he had wronged you and replaced with the very little he had done right. “You look…tired. Exhausted, really.” 

“I’m fine,” he said with finality, the rage in his eyes returning but with less power this time. The fatigue was setting in, the constant running from himself finally catching up to him. 

“Are you sure?”

“I said I’m fine.” It shut you up well enough, so much so that you began to lose the commiserations. You could always say you tried. “Now get out of my house.” 

It was the final thing he said to you before he slipped away, striding down the hallway, footsteps echoing until he reached the bedroom; the click of the door resounding throughout the trailer. 

You stared at the spot where he’d kneeled, a finger brushing softly over your lip before shaking away the self-pity and gently placing the beer bottle on the table that sat next to his chair. 

Looking one last time at the door at the end of the hallway, shadowed and guarded by snapping dogs, you opened the door, the damn thing creaking as if to shout to everyone within a mile radius that you had made no progress with the man you desperately wanted, and stepped out. Leaving your pride on the doorstep. 

© virginreprise

thanks for reading !

[stellaaarree]

thinking of jacking miguel o’hara off while he tries to keep his pride 😇.

handjob, degrading, sub!miguel. G/N!reader

sat on his lap, lips attached to his already abused neck as you whisper shameless things to him. being greeted with a look or grunt full of disdain. as you continue your tactics of breaking him down the lightest sigh departs from his plush lips.his cheeks instantly turning pink as he forcefully scrunches his eyes and lips shut, gauging the endless teasing from his slip up.

“what was that, baby?” your voice coos, thumb coming up to put pleasurable pressure on his throbbing neck. getting him to speak. “d…don’t call me that.” he groans, unexpectedly getting the blissful feeling of miguel’s hips jerking up into yours by instinct. his lips drop open into an ‘o’ full of shame and need. you’d successfully broken him. not like he was gonna still fully submit though.

your thumb leaves the throbbing mark on his neck to the crotch of his suit. the digital hologram faltering as his fully erect cock and all of its girth goes straight against his stomach. so he does go commando, lyla had mentioned that once or twice. as miguel hears your snicker his hand comes to grip your hip. “don’t.” he warns sternly, a part of his pride joining him again. completely disintegrating as your thumb circles his pink mushroomy tip. “fuckkkkk..” his words strained. you had barely touched the man and he was already trying to push himself through an inexistent hole in your hand.

your hand ever so slowly sinks down, feeling every hard inch of him. finger pads feeling through the neediest veins. “don’t fuck around.” he chides replied with a snarky, “thought you didn’t want this? you’re waayy too proud for some pleasure. got a multiverse to save, right?” your words shameless. as soon as he composes himself to gather some words your hand jerks him fully. balls to tip. trying to purse his lips, fangs sinking in drawing a trickle of blood he has to moan. pushing his hips up for more friction he’s met with a grip around his tip that can only get him to melt backwards and let you continue.

“fuckin’ needy. you know that? what would people think if they saw you like this. getting your needy cock stroked by your assistant. bet you do this with everyone who gives you the chance huh?” your degrading words just getting him to moan and attempt to buck further. he had a thing for that to i guess. your other hand comes up to his abdomen, circling around his base and balls. “you like this?” you ask rhetorically, being greeted with no answer just more moans your hands both wrap around him. one stroking him harshly upwards while the other circled and pressed on his leaking tip. “sí, sí joder me gusta.” he pleas in spanish. poor little head not being able to comprehend english while he was being pleasured so good :(

“i’ve barely even touched you.” you scold. “gonna cum ,you slut?” this was the one time you had control of him. it was being used to the advantage clearly with all the degrading words. not knowing if it was your words or your actions, maybe both he comes. the substance dripping onto your fingers as you jack him through his high. while his mouth was temporarily open in bliss your cum-coated fingers stuff his mouth full. without thinking miguel’s tongue instantly slipping around and sucking your fingers. collecting his own pleasure as he swallowed harshly. a sour taste throughout him. it was nasty. nobody would have expected this from their set on professional boss.

“good boy.” you praise for the first time. other hand working through his still hard cock as you took him through his second orgasm, hips bucking as his thighs shook. if this was what he was like over a simple handjob, blowjobs and cowgirl would certainly fry his now needy brain as he panted for more.

a/n, omd sorry i dipped for like a week haha, i really jus wasn’t feeling it. but i’m back and horny as ever😚😚!!

[shinjisdone]

More Female MC brain rot thoughts pls?🤲🥺

I take it for TWST? Ngl my brainrot is running low...mostly because imo being female in twst is just a little "difference" for characters and Settings where these differences are valued/seen and therefore treated differently. No one would outwardly be different or not in character just because you or MC is female.

MUST PROTECC GIRL BCUZ THEY GIRL:

Ace (ur his best friend and the school is filllled with jerks who'd see u being a girl in NRC is a reason to bother u for. Course he gotta protect you! Would not treat u differently)

Deuce (is aware how vicious bullies can become when they see an "anomaly" around to feel powerful of. He was one himself. Also tends to think that Girls just need protection in general. Gets real serious and panicky real quick when u are in trouble. Will beat ppl up for you)

Riddle (confused on why ppl are/would be bothering you??? Do they not have manners??? Will not treat you differently, let alone not follow the rules, but is aware that you might have a hard time as the only female. Will make sure you aren't bothered and follow the rules but expects you to give your best just like any other student)

Trey (very chill. Knows you might have a hard time and rather indirectly lends a shoulder. Is emotional Support unlike Riddle who would cuff anyone who is mean to you)

Jack (a good boy who hates the injustice in this school in general. Just looks out for you but wouldn't be in your face like ADeuce)

Azul (once he takes a liking to you of course. Will Trick ppl and condemn them to a 'poor unfortunate soul' by having them work in Monstro Logue and give you free Drinks served by the bullies (once ☝️ the next one u will pay))

Malleus (he would protect u regardless but end up believing that women need to be protected ALL the time just cuz u got in trouble ONE TIME (and then another...and another...) and will kinda hover over ur shoulder as ur??? Protector???)

Sam (looks out for you and is ready to lend and ear but it'll cost ya)

Vargas (No STUDENT SHALL FEEL UNWELCOMED, HE WILL DO EVERYTHING TO HAVE U FIT IN)

YOURE A GIRL? HAW-HAW:

Leona (While he does respect women, he likes to make fun of you SO MUCH. Its too tempting, too funny, too entertaining. He won't disrespect you and will talk more normaly with you than others but when he sees an opportunity to make fun of you? He seizes it, be prepared.)

Ruggie somewhat (Like, he's not scared of you. Will always put up a front of being strong and in a group and if he needs you to fear him or not take him too lightly and targeting you based on your gender will help him get there, he will use the opportunity to be mean.)

Floyd (not in a mean-spirited way but more like a 'OMG a girl in an all-boys-academy! Thats so funny! Hey, hanging out with you must be interesting, right?' Just teases you to get you riled up, nothing personal.)

Jade (also just to rile you up but less mean and direct than Floyd. Just wants to have fun with you.)

Crowley (would sometimes make jokes and think theyre funny - they are not and Ace tells him off)

MAY DAY MAY DAY, A GIRL HAS ENTERED THE CHAT:

Idia (first goes HUUHH??? what are YOU doing here???? But will calm down. Girls aren't super scary but he is sure to keep his distance just like he does with everyone else.)

Rook (more fascinated than anything. You being here must be fate! Ah, he shall watch you very closely to see what your destiny has in store.)

I literally do not care:

Jamil (he has so much on his plate that meeting you for the first time will just have him raise a brow before returning to his food umbothered. He already has to deal with Kalim dont become a Problem child too.)

Kalim (Will go 'Oh!' Before promptly bot caring that you are a girl. So what? Friends are friends and he wants to be yours!)

Vil (just...dont care. Hes got his business to take care of and not enough time to take a look at you 💅)

Epel (is kinda surprised but then just is not and wont care but will protect you when you need him. It makes him feel STRONK and MANLY.)

Ortho

Silver (would notice it and promptly fall asleep after)

Lilia

Sebek (*grabs by the neck, shaking u* HUMAN IS HUMAN AND A NUISANCE TO WAKA-SAMA)

Cater I think wouldnt????

Crewel (puppy is puppy and puppy must O B E Y)

Grim (henchwoman is henchwoman and must give T U N A)

Trein

[the-s1lly-corner]

Hi admin! May I request Proxies, Ben and Ej with a S/O that has albinism?

Also MERRY CHRISTMAS TO YOU(◍•ᴗ•◍)✧*。

Proxies + Ben + EJ x reader w/ albinism!

did a similar request for a few other characters; of which contained ej and toby so theyre going to be linked to that post in place of their part! obviously as per admins boundaries toby and ben are written as strictly platonic, the other characters can be read however you wish think i might answer this request and maybe another and then go stretch my legs!

MASKY:

can and will drag you back inside if you decide to go out with zero protection on a particularly sunny/bright/hot day, likely draws the attention of at least one passerby. can you imagine? a jogger or something seeing you stepping out of your home only for a masked man to drag you right back inside, then you re-emerge later with a sun hat and sunglasses. the most strictest(?) with you in regards to self care and making sure you're in the best health, definitely the sternest by far. but he doesnt mean anything malicious by it, promise! hes just very... protective of you and by god if it means going up against you then so be it.. extra quiet when you get migraines but honestly its not much of a difference, he already doesnt make much noise as it and he probably has jumpscared you on accident by unintentionally sneaking up on you... i was going to say he wouldnt offer his jacket but i feel that would contradict the whole "putting your safety first and being protective" thing he has going on... shrugs

HOODIE:

the most chill and accommodating out of them all outside of ej, i think. makes sure you pack your sunhats and stuff if its sunny out, helps you apply sunblock to any harder to reach spots to protect your skin.. also offers to wear his hoodie if you've forgotten something or there isnt any shade available nearby. though this is rare, since its not often that hoodie is just. out and about, unless you guys are in a remote area. offers massages if you feel a little more overworked than usual/have a migraine... might have to work on him having to warn you before just getting into it.. has probably startled you at least once when he just put his hands on your temples and started rubbing circles into them when you so much as slightly expressed some level of discomfort. very blunt and straightforward about it, you know?

BEN:

very likely knows about albinism but i dont think he would know everything about it. all he really knows is the whole "oh you have no/little pigment in your skin/hair/eyes", but anything else? nope, no clue. honestly i can kind of see him being an uninformed jerk in the beginning if you express any problems that you go through (be it medical or societal) but thats more so the dynamic between you two not being.. fully fleshed out/you two not being too close. bens a perpetual teen thats been stuck in a game for who knows how long.. though i do think if given enough time he might try to learn more about albinism, either through you or through his own means.. somehow.. dont look at your search history he totally didnt use your phone. very similar to how i wrote jeff in the linked post, but jeff strictly only learns how to help you cope by paying attention to your routines and mannerisms. he would be die than be caught putting any effort or care into someone else. ben on the other hand isnt as obsessed with his image imo. probably edits your alarms and sets reminders for you to pack your essentials if youre going out

EJ AND TOBY:

[aerodaltonimperial]

that spooky lighthouse au epilogue

(idk man i re-read this fic and was like oh, i love that universe still, that was so much fun to write, maybe i should write a little ending? so here you go.)

Darby wakes before the sun.

At this point of the season, not that much before, but enough that the glow coming in through the blinds is still a muted, reddish hue. It’s learned behavior, really; he was always woken up when something went wrong, or when the lighthouse turned itself on, and now, the instincts are slow to fade. Except that now he wakes up and stares up at the textured ceiling tiles of a just off campus apartment that’s far too small for the amount of people currently living in it.

There’d been a nightmare at some point last night, the kind that worms its way down into his bones. He runs a hand over his face and sighs. Then he rolls over to slide his arm across Jack’s waist. Jack is an indulgent sleeper—he never fails to curl around Darby’s hold, scooching back against him without waking up. He’s the sort of person who has never had to worry about his well-being while he slept, never had fear tickling the back of his neck even in his dreams.

Darby envies him, but more than that, he’s determined to make sure that stays true. He curves himself along Jack’s spine, slotting his knees behind the other’s. Presses a kiss to Jack’s shoulder, the little bit of skin peeking out from beneath his shirt collar. Sometimes, Darby can fall back asleep and catch another hour or two. This morning is not one of those times.

When it’s obvious he won’t be able to get any more rest, Darby slides out of Jack’s grasp and creeps quietly out of the room. There’s only one main room, separated into the living room and the kitchen; counter space is severely lacking, but neither Hook nor Jack seem to be much for cooking. The coffee maker holds a space of honor in the corner. The timer hasn’t switched on yet, so Darby flips it manually.

He’s sitting on one of the unpainted kitchen chairs, staring out the sliding glass door, when the door to the other bedroom opens. Hook makes it halfway out before he realizes Darby is there. Then he frowns, blinks, and sets his phone on the counter. “You’re up early.”

“So are you,” Darby returns.

Hook shrugs. He’s dressed in shorts and a tank. “Going to the gym. Can’t sleep?”

“Happens sometimes.”

Hook nods. He goes to the fridge and pulls out a bottle filled with an obnoxious green smoothie, one of those ridiculously expensive things both of them tend to buy without even thinking. He seems as though he’s getting ready to leave, but pauses before he hits the door.

“Hey,” he says, to get Darby’s attention. “I know you saved his life. So...thanks.”

“Thanks?”

“He’s annoying as fuck, and I swear he doesn’t have an ounce of sense in his head, but he’s my best friend,” Hook says. “I don’t know where I’d be without him. So. Yeah. Thanks.”

Darby nods once, slow. “You’re welcome.”

“You’re still an ass,” Hook tells him.

“Feelings mutual.” Darby jerks his head back towards the bedroom door. “He up yet?”

“Nah. He’s pretty lazy sometimes.” Hook doesn’t bother to wave when he leaves, just grabs his keys from the holder nailed to the wall. But the coffee is done, so Darby gets a cup. It’s some organic brand; the bag boasts that it was grown, like, beneath only blue lights that had been locally sourced in dirt flown in from a tiny island in the Pacific or some shit. Darby doesn’t know where the hell they buy this crap. Tastes good, though, so maybe he shouldn’t complain.

Halfway through the cup, Danhausen wanders out from the room. He squints blearily at Darby for a moment before waving a hand. “Ah. Good morning.”

“For an all-powerful entity, you sure would be easy to kill in the mornings,” Darby says.

Danhausen grumbles out something unintelligible when he goes to the counter to hunt down a clean coffee mug. “Yes, yes. Be sure to put a big neon light up when you invite things in. Danhausen will hardly be the most interesting specimen in the apartment.”

When Darby makes a face, Danhausen offers a wide smile. “Darby has been touched by an otherworldly. He is considered a delicacy in some realms now.”

“So has Jack.” Darby frowns.

“Huh,” Danhausen replies, with overly false surprise. “An added bonus.”

That makes Darby think a little. He takes another sip. “You keeping everything away?”

“Perhaps,” Danhausen says. “But it is not a full-time job. We are not very high on anyone’s lists. And right now, Danhausen will go shower, so that we remain that way: unnoticeable.”

Darby doesn’t really know what a shower has to do with not being noticed by dangerous entities from other worlds, but whatever. He finishes his coffee, pours another cup, and goes out onto the balcony. Dawn has broken, painting the sky red. Here, they are far enough from the coast that the smell of the sea is hard to pick up, but Darby lived his life by the brine, and he’d know it anywhere. It’s strange to be looking out over the morning and not hear the roar of the waves or the screams of the gulls.

Eventually, the door slides open behind him, and Jack pads out onto the metal. “Hey. When did you wake up?”

“Not that long ago,” Darby replies.

“I’ve only got Lit and Calc today, so I’ll be back early.” Jack leans over the railing, both elbows propped up against it. “Wanna hit somewhere near the beach for dinner?”

“Sure.”

Jack studies him, chewing on his bottom lip. “You okay?”

Darby turns, back hitting the rail. He loops an arm around Jack’s shoulders, mostly so he can pull the other in closer, press his face against Jack’s hair pulled back in a messy bun. The coconut scent of his shampoo is strangely grounding. His t-shirt covers none of his arm, the tattoo that’s still healing to hide the shadowy marks that will never go away: overlapping ocean waves against the rocks.

Against his better judgment, Darby misses those rocks.

But he’s here, standing on a balcony overlooking the sprawling student apartments that carry far too high a rent, drinking overpriced coffee that Hook will bitch about having to buy more often with more people drinking. Darby drops a kiss against Jack’s temple as Jack curls in closer, fingers sliding up beneath the hem of Darby’s shirt.

“Yeah,” Darby murmurs. “I’m okay.”

And for the first time in maybe forever, he really means it.

[zaungwrites]

I wrote a thing

Was trying to just stretch my writing muscles after months of not. Inspired by Nora dipping back into Exy, and poked at a fic I was trying to write set at Edgar Allen. It took me a couple goes, but I'm p happy with the tone and characterisation of Link.

On the way home to and from college, Link has to walk by Castle Evermore. He holds his breath for the time it takes to move past it and is ever so careful to keep his eyes averted. Every time, he wonders why his aunt chose to live so close to the exy court when they both know of her mostly ambivalence, sometimes hatred of the game and the place. Why she chooses to work for an institution that tried its best to bleed her dry. 

Then again, he supposes she probably wonders why he would choose to study in a place that reveres a game that had equally ruined his childhood. They are a little similar that way, like to pick at cuts and press on bruises. Reminders that they remain in one piece despite everything.

"Hey! Link!"

His head jerks up and for a moment his heart is racing. He is still unused to too loud noises and his name being yelled brings memories he would rather burn to ashes. His therapist tells him he might never be rid of his body's response which seems pretty pessimistic for a therapist but what does he know. 

His eyes register that it's only Jack, one of his few friends in college, but his heart takes a little longer to catch up. Breathing slow and deep like his therapist taught him, Link summons a smile. "Hey, didn't see you there." 

Jack jogs up to him and slings an arm around his shoulder with a wide grin. Link has trained his body's reaction to stop flinching to touches but it never fails to make his freeze or fawn response flair up. He makes his smile wider and makes his mouth say, "What's up? You're looking way too happy for first day of class." 

"We won the Kariya lottery, dude. Everyone's hyped."

"The what?"

Jack lets out a theatrical sigh. "One day I'll make an exy fan out of you. Benjamin Kariya, this generation's exy jesus chose Edgar Allen as his college of choice. There was literally thousands of money betting on where he'd go. Everyone thought he'd go to the Trojans or somewhere with, you know, a fucking chance. But for some fucking reason, and like I'm not gonna look a gift horse in the mouth, he's chosen here. Everyone's going nuts."

"Oh," says Link, unsure of what else to say.

Jack doesn't notice his reticence. He's a good friend, but not the most observant. Probably why Link likes him actually, it's nice to talk to someone who thinks his fucked up maladaptive responses to things is just him being quirky.

"The whole fucking summer that's all people were talking about. News literally came out last night. Shit, it's gonna be so fucking surreal to see him around campus."

Link makes a noise that he hopes conveys agreement. The name is familiar, he probably heard about the guy in passing back when he used to care about exy. Now all he can think is this probably means exy will become more of a fucking thing than it was before. And it was a pretty big thing even with Edgar Allen regularly placing last in the division for the past five years. 

"Well," Link says with a trace of irony, "Maybe the team might become known for more than possible mobster connections."

"Hey, that was never proven." 

"Yeah, okay," Link says with a shrug. Sure, never proven. That's why his aunt got a squirelly look the one and only time Link asked her about it. Whatever, not like it's going to affect Link's life. 

He's spent two years so far avoiding exy and exy avoiding him, he just has to keep his head down and get through the next two. Then he could go be a fucked up adult somewhere else. 

Easy.

-----

Who wants to guess that it won't be that easy and that Benjamin might make more of an appearance in Link's life? I actually have another snippet that I'm pretty happy with that I might post later? Dunno. As always credit to Nora for creating this world.

[release-the-mccracken]

A Waste Of Blood And Sweat

Rating: Explicit

Prompt: Anthony has some alone time and decides to spend it taking care of himself in the best way possible and by that I mean I just really want someone to write about him jacking off specifically to the thought of other men

Ship: Anthony Green x Tucker Rule (main), Anthony Green x Justin Shekoski, Anthony Green x Geoff Rickly, Anthony Green x Frank Iero, Anthony Green x Cove Reber.

Warnings: Masturbation, fantasies, feminization, degradation, small penis, rough oral sex, blow jobs, top Anthony, bottom Anthony.

Ao3 link to the fic

Being constantly surrounded by a group of other guys sometimes took its toll on Anthony. Between the fighting and the lack of space, what really drove him crazy was having no privacy or alone time. Buses didn’t really allow for anyone to be by themselves and it was starting to make him itch. An unpleasant burning setting itself just beneath the surface of his skin, deep and aggravating. It made him restless and irritable. And as days passed by, he found it harder and harder to not take things out on his bandmates. 

Luckily, they found a hotel to stay in before he lashed out too badly. He could tell everyone else needed a break too and it made him feel a little better, knowing he wasn’t the only one being affected. Everyone needed a break and it had finally come. And Anthony knew exactly what he wanted to do as soon as he was alone, it was the same thing he always wanted to do once. All he wanted was to get off. No matter what, that was always what he did first. More than once, he'd ended up just humping a cheap hotel pillow like a horny teenager.

Even with exhaustion burning him up inside, his mind was still only on getting off and he’d fallen asleep almost immediately after with that pillow still clenched between his thighs. He was barely awake the next morning when his hips started rolling again, his dick more awake than his mind was. If anyone else found out, he’d be embarrassed. But when it was just him, he had a hard time feeling guilty for most things he did when he was chasing an orgasm. Sadly, that wasn’t even the most humiliating thing he did to get off. 

No, that title definitely went to the night spent in the hotel with a detachable shower head and the most intense water pressure Anthony had ever experienced. He had been filthy when he first stepped into his hotel room. His skin was grimy and sticky with sweat, and there was no way he was getting on the clean sheets like that. Reluctantly, he’d disappeared into the bathroom. It was nice, a tall shower with glass walls surrounding it and fancy off-white tiles on the inside. Despite being gross, he still wanted his usual ritual of jerking off. 

The hot water allowed his sore muscles to relax and his hand quickly found its way between his thighs. He would’ve been content to get off just like that, fingers wrapped tightly around himself, but he had a better idea. His eyes landed on the shower head and before he could even think, he was lifting it up and experimentally moving it towards his hard cock. A gasp left him at the first sensation of water sharply hitting the sensitive head, pleasure so intense it was almost painful. But that didn’t deter him and once he got used to the feeling, it actually felt really good even though it made him embarrassed. 

He felt like a girl with the shower head between his thighs and the water stimulating him. He’d be mortified if anyone saw him like this, embarrassed in a way he usually wasn’t when he got himself off. This just felt different from using his hand. This made him look desperate and whorish, and he supposed both of those labels did fit him. That didn’t mean he’d want his friends seeing him acting like that. Yet, the idea of one of them finding him like this stuck in his head and only seemed to make him more desperate. 

It’d probably be Tucker who found him like this. To him, a closed door was just a suggestion to stay out and he very often decided to ignore it. He could see Tucker barging in, needing to ask him or tell him something. His fingers tightened against the slick tiles of the shower wall, imagining Tucker seeing him like this. He’d make fun of him for being so desperate, barely inside the room before he was getting himself off. Imagining Tucker watching him shouldn’t have been as hot as it was. It should’ve felt weird and foreign; it should’ve been difficult to imagine his best friend in a sexual situation with him. 

They’d always just been platonic and he didn’t think he saw Tucker as anything other than a friend, but the thought of him was still enough to make Anthony more desperate. Maybe Tucker would even be willing to touch him. Rough fingers curling around his cock and demanding that Anthony fuck into his fist. Tucker would say it was to degrade him and part of it was, but he also knew Tucker’s hands would be tired from drumming all night. Either way, Anthony would thank him as he fucked into his warm hand. He’d just be grateful to have someone else getting him off instead of having to take care of it himself.

Tucker might even keep talking to him, making fun of him for being so needy. He moaned when he thought about Tucker telling him he looked like a girl with the shower head between his thighs, water stimulating his clit just right. Feminization wasn’t something Anthony was foreign to. He’d liked it before, dressing up and just feeling pretty. Usually in the privacy of his own room and usually alone, never with a partner who was actually feminizing him. And he thought that experience would ruin him in all the best ways. 

It wasn’t just a sex thing either, Anthony realized. He wanted Tucker to treat him like a lady, being his usual charming and gentlemanly self that Anthony had seen when Tucker was talking to actual girls. And afterwards, he wanted Tucker to fuck him like a whore. He wanted Tucker refusing to touch him, telling him he needed to get himself off or come just by being fucked. But the main thing in his mind was Tucker just watching him. His eyes critical and words biting, but his cock still pressed against his jeans obviously.

Anthony imagined himself gasping and moaning, begging Tucker to just touch him. Maybe Tucker would laugh at him asking for that. Either way, he wouldn’t give in during Anthony’s fantasies. But afterwards, he’d pet through Anthony’s hair and tell him he was so pretty for him. Right before urging Anthony to his knees and pressing his cock into his mouth. That thought had Anthony coming embarrassingly fast, but he partially blamed it on how wound up he was and the unique pleasure of the shower head getting him off. 

He didn’t even bother fighting the noises that left his throat as he came. His thighs were shaking and his knuckles had turned white from how hard he was gripping the shower head. It was intense as his orgasm took him so abruptly, water instantly washing away any evidence of the mess Anthony had made. Very quickly, the pressure became too much for him and he had to direct the water away from his softening cock. But he knew that couldn’t be the only time he got off like that, not when it had been so pleasantly overwhelming. 

That was the first time Anthony had thought about Tucker while he was getting himself off. He’d considered other people he knew before, he was pretty sure everyone did that from time to time. When he was a younger man, he’d thought about Justin a lot. He was constantly on his mind and Anthony had been convinced hooking up with him was inevitable. Sometimes, he thought about fucking into Justin and other times, he thought about Justin pushing into him instead. At times, it was just visions of them making out and rutting against one another. But nothing ever came from that and he didn’t regret that nothing happened. 

His habit of thinking of other guys he knew didn’t fade away as he got older either. Geoff had intoxicated his brain on the rare occasion. He didn’t think of him often, but whenever he did, it was overwhelming. Vivid images of his hands on the man’s hips, forcing himself into Geoff’s space until there was no room left between them. The vision of Geoff on his lap was one of his favorites. His cock buried inside the man, Geoff’s fingers wrapped in his hair and Anthony’s mouth on the side of his throat as they chased release. 

To nobody’s surprise, Frank also came to his mind sometimes. He appeared more often than Geoff did. Anthony decided he couldn’t even be blamed for thinking of Frank like that, the man was the horniest person he’d ever met when it came to performing. He’d writhe and grind, moaning and whimpering, either on his back and arching or down on his knees. Of course, that put some thoughts into Anthony’s head. He wondered how similar those sounds were to how Frank would sound underneath him, gasping and moaning with every thrust. No, Anthony couldn’t be blamed. He was just a man, after all. 

There were also some appearances that surprised him. Cove had come up a couple times and he wasn’t ready to unpack all of that. He blamed it on sleepiness and being half delusional the first time he thought about him. He’d woken up in the middle of the night, hard in his boxers, and had fumbled them down just enough to wrap a hand around himself. As he jerked himself off, he was still in and out of sleep. And without his permission, he thought of Cove sucking him off. It was shockingly easy to drift into that fantasy. 

He thought about his hand curling harshly into Cove’s hair, pressed deep in the locks to get a good grasp on him. His hand was slow and leisurely on his cock as he thought about fucking into the man’s mouth. Normally, he didn’t consider himself aggressive. But something about that night led his thoughts to be borderline violent, thinking about ruining his throat and hearing the effects afterwards. He came to the thought of hearing Cove sounding so hoarse and used, drifting completely back to sleep right after.

By no means was Anthony new to fantasizing about people he actually knew. He’d experienced it for pretty much everyone at some point or anything. That wasn’t what freaked him out, his inner desires weren't anything he’d ever felt like he needed to be scared or ashamed of. He’d always been pretty comfortable with his attraction and how his mind worked. But Anthony realized something mildly terrifying about his fantasies. No matter how many other people he thought about, his mind always went back to Tucker in the end. 

Honestly, it might be something that Anthony needed to unpack. He knew it wasn’t a great sign that Tucker was on his mind so often and he didn’t figure most people thought about their friends in sexual situations. Not that frequently and not when they were truly just platonic. But that seemed like a lot of self-reflection and Anthony wasn’t sure if he was ready to stare directly into that mirror just yet. It was a sensitive balance that he didn’t want to risk disrupting and he certainly didn’t want to ruin things with Tucker by making a move on him. 

He knew Tucker was far from homophobic, but the idea of being rejected by him made Anthony want to shrivel up and disappear. That was the kind of thing that made friendships weird, no matter how gentle the rejection was. Even if Tucker agreed, Anthony knew it was probably a terrible idea to get into any kind of a relationship with a band member. Anything that was more than platonic was off the table for the sake of their band. That was the responsible choice. But the amazing thing about fantasies is that they don’t have to be responsible and Anthony decided that maybe his fantasy version of Tucker was enough.

[lilyveins]

I like to call this: Bautista is oblivious and Jack is a useless dumbass

[the-soliloquies-of-sadists]

#259

“Seth? Right? C’mon in. Your brother told you who I am? Good. Want a beer?... Here you go. Let’s go out to the back deck. The sun went down, and the cool evening air is starting to kick in. Have a seat…. Ok. Seth, do you know why you are here? Let me be blunt. Your brother David owes me a lot of money. A lot. He’s been doing jobs for me that I need someone I can trust to do. But that’s barely covering the interest. I told him he needs to start working down the principal. So, he offered me… you….

“That’s right he sold you to me. You are going to whore off his debt…. Shut the fuck up. The deal is set. Have some more beer; it will help you to deal with what I need to go over with you….

“Your brother probably told you that I am a powerful man. Hopefully he didn’t tell you what I did. I will share with you one part of my business that you will be a part of. I have several whore agencies across several states. They ain’t like the whorehouses in the movies. The girls never see money; they show up at a set time and do whatever the man wants. They do not say no. They get to live in city, and they show their clients the best the city has to offer. They have everything paid for and get a nice credit card too.

“A few years ago—hell it’s more like ten or so, —I was convinced to do the same but on the fag side. Now, I knew nothing about fag sex, and it disgusted me. Once I got over the visuals, the business was just like the girls. The difference I found out was that I had to have two sets of whores—fag boys like yourself, and men old enough to be your father.

“It was Frankie, one of my goons, who told me that there is a lot money to be made by men taking the dominant role. I didn’t believe it. So, he arranged for me to watch him from a distance him work over this faggot. He didn’t tell me how much he was earning. When I saw this fag hand over three hundred bucks, I knew I needed to get into this. I mean my guy did barely anything other than smack the fag around, call him names, and sit on the faggot’s face at the end. That fag ate that fat ass while pounding its pud. Frankie even went over to the fag’s wallet and took an additional hundred out of it. And wouldn’t you know, that fag boy was loving life.

“Needless to say, that was how I got into the fag whoring business. I had Frankie lead it; he even got somewhat in shape, and now he’s my most popular whore men. Wait a minute, you know him. He fucked you behind a dumpster in the alley behind that fag bar a couple weeks ago. When I saw you at David’s birthday partner at my tavern and he told me that you were his sperm burping brother, I sent Frankie to find out more about you. I know that you can take a good pounding, face slaps, rough housing. Frankie also told me that you cleaned off his cock after we was done and that you drank his piss. You even begged him for more as he walked away from you, naked covered in piss behind the dumpster. That’s all I needed to hear.

“After meeting with your brother, all I had to do was press the massive debt. I knew how self-serving he was. He sold you out so fucking fast. And now I own you. Now strip faggot….

“You do realize who I am? No one ever disobeys one of my direct commands. Now think about your next move real carefully. STRIP YOU FUCKING FAGGOT. Take your time standing up. That drug I put in your beer will make you kinda dizzy if you stand too fast. Yeah, I didn’t want you to run back to your car. Kid, when you came in that door, you were mine. That’s it. Accept your fate. Good boy.

“Yeah, after Frankie roughed up that fag, I was curious. He arranged for me to use one of his regulars who was blindfolded. It was so much fun to kick and punch that faggot only to have him crawl to me, begging for more. With each time, I got more wicked, and they wanted more. I had a few fags over the years locked up and had the best of all worlds. My wife provides me with companionship. My girlfriend offers sensual making love and snuggling. And my faggot takes all my rage filled abuse.

“Underwear needs to go too. Let’s see what you have. Not bad. Looks like you are excited about being naked in front of me. That’s a lot of pre-cum. Decent sized balls. I’d say you are about six inches long. The shaft is a bit thin, but the head is good size. Your foreskin is not too long. That’s good. If there’s going to be one sweaty stinky dick around here, it will be mine. If yours becomes a problem, we’ll get you circumcised.

“What? Faggot, you are nothing more to me than my pickup. If I want to modify you out, I sure as hell am going to. I modify all my property. Tattoos, piercing, permanent hair removal, castration, branding, and so on. But actually, I am a bit cautious. I made the mistake of castrating a fag and regretted it afterwards. He just didn’t seem right to me. The cutter I went to tried to put in fake balls, but it still didn’t seem right. I ended up replacing that fag with another.

“I am looking for my perfect fag. I’m planning on letting my girlfriend go, but sometimes I need that close touch. Not going to do that with my wife. Every day now I realize that I want to be with faggots over women. Faggots are so much easier to mold into what I want. And every now and then I might snuggle with one.

“I like what I see. I want to see your cumload. Jerk off for me. I’ll give you a few minutes to do so. When you do, shoot in your spare hand. I want to see the quantity. I’m going to get your collar; it’s probably done charging. I’m also going to take your car keys. You ain’t going anywhere. Continue jacking….

“….Did you cum? You did! Good fag. When was the last time you came? Yesterday morning? Well that’s a good load. Here, lock this collar around your neck. Ok, so here’s the deal. You can jack off as often as you like, whenever you like as long as I am not using you. If I catch you jacking off, don’t stop. If you are watching porn, continue. But know this, no matter if you haven’t cum in days or you just had a massive orgasm, should I require your use, I fully expect 100% horniness and enthusiasm.

“This remote is hooked up to your collar. With this button… you fall to the floor just like that. Hurt’s like a mother fucker hunh? That’s on low. Remember that. It is also set up to shock you should you cross a 20-foot perimeter of the house. I am notified by an app on my phone when you do something that stupid. Also, the garage and my office on the third floor are completely off limits. You will not fare well should you cross that threshold without me.

“Bring your cock over here. Is your dick head sensitive. It is! Fuck yes! As you get soft, it’s driving you crazy. Good. Good. I see a problem here. Your pubic hair is all over the place. You shouldn’t have hair down here. Look how long this hair is. There’s enough so that I can twirl a bunch around my finger. With a firm yank,… it comes out in one clump. Aww shut the fuck up. Most of the time your screams of pain will turn me on, but now it’s just annoying. Another clump on the other side, and it doesn’t even look like you lost any.

“Look at me faggot. Say ‘Thank you.’ Good fag. Open your mouth. Here eat your pubic hair. Go on chew it. Nasty? I know, now swallow. And here’s… another bunch. Swallow these…. And these… And these… You’ll be permanently shaved in the near future so you won’t have to do much pubic hair eating.

“While you finish your snack, let me take you around the place and show you your duties. This is the kitchen. David told me that you went to culinary school but then dropped out. Well, you will be doing all the cooking here. Cleaning too.

“Let’s go downstairs…. This is your room, although you really don’t have privacy. Over there is your cot. Next to it is the plug you will put into your collar every night. I am notified on my app should the power level drop below 75%. That’s equivalent for not charging for a full week. Unless I just slam you with shocks, I should never get one of those notifications.

“You have a wash basin there, and your toilet is there. There’s your douche hose over there in the shower. No, I haven’t gotten around to buying it a toilet seat; the cold porcelain is fine. And I haven’t hooked up the hot water down here.

“Let’s go up to the Master bedroom…. You never climb into my bed unless I invite you in. In fact no non-sexual furniture for you either without permission. Through that door is the master bath. You will keep this place spotless. That includes licking clean my toilet. The rimseat next to it is when I want to make you toilet paper or a full toilet.

“And here’s the playroom. It’s totally soundproofed. You are going to suffer a lot in here. Screaming is encouraged. In fact, what time is it? Seven. Well we might as well start now. Get on all fours—knees and elbows. Spread those knees wide. Every night you will present yourself in this position, as you will every morning.

“Don’t get too excited. I am going to fuck you good, long, and deep. But that won’t until the end. We got a long way to go. You see, the only people who knows my affinity for preferring the boys to the girls are Frankie, me, and now you. Your brother thinks I’m adding you to my harem of fags. This is something that cannot get out. And if it does, I will know it came from you, and I want you to know the perpetual hell that will come your way.

“Tonight is a test of what you can expect, but keep in mind, tonight’s suffering will be only five hours long, much shorter than what will be if my preference is ever widely known.

“And after the paddling your ass to a welted mess, whipping your back until it turns to bloody hamburger, kicking your balls until they are swollen to twice their size, bruising up your face, and fucking you with very little lube, I may feel the need to snuggle up with you afterwards.

“But first, there’s a lot to do before we do that. Oh look your balls are just ripe for a good old fashioned full-force kick. Every night and every morning you will get one to always remind you what you are.

“Faggot right now with this kick your hell begins.”

[aoitrinity]

Why Do I Have to Feel Like a Fucking Conspiracy Theorist -- OR -- How I Find a Semblance of Peace on Sunday Night

I’m also going to start this out with a GIANT DISCLAIMER.

I am about to theorize about what may have happened to the SPN finale. I have absolutely no insider knowledge. I am merely speculating here based on the panels and a bunch of Twitter and Tumblr posts that I have been reading over the last few days. If you are not in a good place to read such things, TURN BACK PLEASE. Go take care of yourself and your mental health. You and your feelings are valid and deserve to be handled gently right now.

Additionally, if you are here to give me shit for being unhappy with the ending, please walk away as well. I am here to reach out and share my feelings with people who might be struggling to make sense of something that upset some of us in very deep-seated ways. I am not here to bother you or critique you or tell you that you’re lesser because you liked the ending. If you felt it was good, then go enjoy it.

Long-ass post beneath the cut, everyone.

Alrighty folks...I debated whether or not to do this because I have been spiraling down the hell that is the SPN finale since Thursday. The travesty of what happened to our show--to this beloved show that seemed to have been so perfectly and precisely written for at least four years that it had basically already paved its own tarmac on which to land its plane and we all thought we knew exactly what we were going to get. And then we didn’t. We had a nigh Cas-less and entirely Eileen-less ending. We had no goodbye between Cas and Jack. We had Dean dying young after finally finding his freedom, only to ascend to heaven with no one but Bobby. We had the weird, weird, weird incest-y death scene. We had the bridge crane shot thing because...sure. You do you, Robert Singer.

It was so terrible, so truly awful, and I couldn’t seem to square any of it with anything we had known going in. I tossed and turned and cried and didn’t eat or sleep all weekend. I spent hours just reloading tumblr and twitter, going to the Misha panel, reading and reading and listening and trying to figure out what the fucking hell is going on because I needed to know exactly where to direct my anger. And after a fuckton of talking with @winchester-reload, I think we have at least a very plausible theory about what happened here--I’m laying it out below as much for my own peace of mind as anything else, because otherwise all of these thoughts are going to continue to spin around in my head for weeks and I won’t be able to do jack shit.

Now to start off, unfortunately I do think Dean was slated to die from the beginning of this season. I don’t know WHY they thought that was the best way to go, and I wish they had listened to Jensen on this one. Part of me wonders if it was an order from on high based on the discussion between Becky and Chuck earlier this season--the writers knew it wasn’t a great choice, but they were trying to signal to us that we should feel free to write our own endings to the story because they’d be better (I can wax poetic on the signs of why many of the writers probably wanted Dean to live, but that’s another post). I’m not defending that choice by any means, just laying it out there that I think they didn’t necessarily all want to kill Dean like they did.

However, what I THINK I can explain now is what happened with Misha and why we got so jerked around with Cas’s story. Consider what we know (I can’t immediately source all of it, but I did my best):

At the end of episode 15x19, Lucifer has been returned to the Empty after being killed AGAIN. He talks with Cas. Maybe harasses him a bit about Dean, idk. But then...Jack shows up. New God Jack. And he picks up Cas and pulls him out of the Empty, leaving Lucifer behind, because seriously. Fuck that guy (also leaving behind his abusive father is character growth for Jack, so yay for that).

-Misha was contracted to film 15 episodes this season. He was only in 14.

-Misha told Michael Sheen he had to go back to film 1.5 episodes after the shutdown in March. (Starts at 6:13)

-Misha was in Vancouver during filming of the finale.

-Mark P said at Darklight Con that the last scene he filmed was with Alex and Misha (and Mark P was only in episode 19).

-Misha implied that he was present for various filming moments, including Dean’s death (start at 35:15), and said that it felt like a “mini-reunion.”

-Various sources have mentioned that Jimmy Novak was supposed to be in the finale.

-After episode 18, Stands tweeted a fan who was angered and hurt by Cas's death that they could talk about the “bury the gays” issue after the finale aired.

-In episode 19 we know there were takes of the parking lot scene where the only thing fans observing could hear was Dean yelling “CAS” at Chuck (fuck I can’t find this one right now, but it’s definitely out there)

-Also in episode 19, we had a very strange, awkward montage at the end of the episode.

-In episode 20, we know there were a FUCKTON of missing scenes

-We also had no opening montage, but three other separate montages.

-Carry on My Wayward Son was played TWICE, back-to-back at the end of the episode.

-Episode 20 was shorter than normal and had surprisingly little dialogue. The pacing was VERY strange.

-The cast and crew has been almost completely silent about the finale since it came out. When they have spoken, it has been with an awkward excuse of “Uh...COVID?”

-Samantha Ferris has specifically noted that, despite the Harvelle’s being back in play and a big heaven reunion having been planned pre-COVID, neither she nor Chad Lindberg received any such invitation to return.

-Cas and Dean POP Funko figures were pictured together in a replica of Harvelle’s in 15x04.

NOW with all of this in mind (and I’m probably missing some stuff too because there is so much--feel free to add on to that list), please bear with me because here is what I think we were SUPPOSED to get POST-COVID (after it was determined that the reunion couldn’t happen because of the virus):

In episode 20, we start with our NORMAL OPENING MONTAGE, like always. It traces everything that happened during the season. We are reminded of Cas. The confession. Rowena. Eileen. Jack. Billie, God, the Empty, all of it. 

Things then follow along in the episode where they did up until Dean dies and wakes up in heaven. After his conversation with Bobby, he drives off to find Cas (who, in the script, was listed as “Jimmy Novak” in order to protect against script leaks--who wouldn’t want to do their best to avoid spoilers about the finale with the wrapping of a fifteen-year show?). He does indeed find Cas. We get Dean’s end of the confession. Hell, maybe we even get a kiss. And then Dean sets up his new heaven home in the recreated Harvelle’s. Maybe Cas even fucking moves in. 

Years pass. We get Sam having his life on Earth (still can’t explain why they cut Eileen and couldn’t even have Sam signing vaguely to the blurry brunette in the background; if anyone wants to take that on, go for it). Eventually, Cas tells Dean that it’s almost Sam’s time. Dean takes Baby and goes to meet Sam at the bridge. The cover of Carry on My Wayward Son plays during this much shorter sequence. End of episode.

But that’s not what we got. Instead, much of what I just wrote about was excised from the episode. The remnants were stitched together after shooting had been wrapped. Filler was added in the form of montages and long, unnecessary extra shots to get the episode to something approaching a reasonable length. 

But why? Why would they spend all that time and money and quarantining on Misha, only to almost completely cut him out of the finale? I struggled with why the fuck the CW would want this mammoth show to go down as the greatest queerbait in TV history when they had the chance to do something truly beautiful and monumental with it? It couldn’t just be sheer homophobia, right? Well, I think that factored into it, my friends, but here is where my head is at right now.

It was about cold, hard cash.

Now I could be wrong, but this is what I’m thinking at the moment: Supernatural is going off of the air. Supernatural, the CW’s cash cow for fifteen years. Sure there is still money to be made on blu-rays and merchandise and cons...but they need people watching their shows. They need that sweet advertising revenue. And you know what show they have about to premiere? A show that could, potentially, bring with it a chunk of that SPN revenue?

Walker.

And if any of you know anything about the original Walker Texas Ranger, you know that the show was predominantly a show about a very heterosexual white man being very excessively heterosexual. And for SOME REASON over the years, many of the execs at the CW still seem to think that this show, Supernatural, is really attractive to a lot of middle-American white men...whom they desperately want to watch this new show with this guy from Supernatural that they already know.

Now here’s where COVID fucked us. I think Destiel was greenlit by TPTB, at least in SOME form, before COVID. But then the pandemic happened, and they panicked. They got the cut of the last two episodes and watched them in their original, probably queer form. And then, the execs at CW looked at the economy. They looked at their cash cow, about to make its journey to the great beyond. And they looked at this new little calf Walker that they were so desperately worried about. And they made a choice.

They decided that it would be too risky to take the step with Destiel. They were worried about frightening off their ever-so-valuable hetero male demographic with the possibility that a traditionally masculine man in his 40s could be in love with another man in an overt way. It was homophobia mixed with greed, spun up by fear for their revenues because of COVID.

So they called in Singer, possibly Dabb, although I wouldn’t be surprised if they went straight to Singer. They told them that Destiel had to go: executive orders. And the only way to make it go in a way that removed any trace of what had been there was to rewrite what happened to Cas and cut him out from the last two episodes entirely. It was too late to reshoot anything. They had to just cut and stitch and fill with bullshit montages. 

They removed the scene at the end of 19, probably because Cas and Lucifer discussed Dean. All that was left of Misha there was his voice on that fake phone call. They may have cut other things too, but I would bet my life that they cut a scene from the end of the episode and replaced it with that very strange montage. Then they moved onto 20. They cut out every scene with Cas. And left in only two platonic mentions of him, neither made by Dean. They tried to imply that Cas might show up in Dean’s heaven at some point, but that was as far as the editors could go in the time they had. They filled in with montages, awkwardly long shots, anything they could do to fill all of those missing scenes.

And they even had to take the opening montage, because literally everything in it pointed to Cas being there at the end of it all. They wouldn’t be able to leave out his scenes, they were too critical to the season. They couldn’t cut his confession without raising eyebrows. So they cut the whole thing and moved “Carry On My Wayward Son” to one of the newly-added driving montages at the end. Which is why we awkwardly had both songs play back-to-back--again, such a strange choice unless they were out of options and couldn’t exactly buy rights to a new track or compose anything else.

And so we were left with the shadow of the finale that we deserved, that Cas and Dean deserved. We were left without resolution or happiness or words. Bobo told us the most important thing about happiness is just “saying it” and our characters were silenced without anyone ever knowing the truth.

I think the writers might have known and been given the new party line that “Misha never filmed, he couldn’t, sorry, it was COVID, no one’s fault!” But I don’t think most of the cast even knew it had happened until they watched the finale on Thursday with us (though they might have been confused why the bit from 15x19 was sliced, they could reasonably have assumed it was a time thing and also BL episodes don’t make sense anyway). Why do I say that?

Well, first of all, Misha started sending out a bunch of excited texts to fans with some old BTS pictures about an hour before the show started airing on EST. He also wanted his children to see the episode, his YOUNG children. Why would he show them such a traumatic episode if their Dad wasn’t in it? What if it was because he wanted them to witness what was going to be a monumental moment in queer television history that their DAD got to be a part of? And then that was all dashed.

Which is why I think the cast and crew went almost completely radio silent the next day. I don’t think they knew. And based on how they have been acting on social media since then, I think many of them are absolutely furious, but they have been silenced because of NDAs, because they want to find work again in a cutthroat industry, because they don’t want to bring down the hellfire of Warner Brothers Entertainment upon themselves. So the most we have gotten is a little acknowledgement from the MERCHANDISING COMPANY trying to validate our pain (god bless Shirts, she is a LIFESAVER) and a response to my salty tweet about keeping good stuff in the closet from Adam Williams (the VFX coordinator) that seemed to acknowledge the validity of my complaint.

Then there was a scramble behind the scenes, I would bet my life. Talking points were fed to the boys who had panels today, to CE, to all the cast and crew:

Toe the party line. Misha never filmed. This was always about COVID. Do not mention Destiel. Do not mention Dean’s feelings for Cas. Do not promote the Castiel Project or anything that validates the idea that this was anything less than a superb ending.

And that is why we have heard so little from the cast on this front, and what we have heard has been muddled and contradictory. That is why the writers are saying nothing. That is why we have been left adrift.

Now before I close this out, I do want to say that I really, genuinely do not think this was on the writers at all. I feel like they tried to give us the best ending that they could, in a writers room that we know is notorious for splitting along party lines about the overall story (BL and Singer, who have always been about the brothers and their man-pain vs. Dabb and the rest who always seemed to want more for them and for Cas). I think they did everything in their power to at least end with Dean and Cas happy together. If they could give us nothing else, they wanted to give us that. And then the network took it from them. From us. From everyone.

For the sake of fucking money. 

And the WORST PART OF IT ALL, for me, is that in the wake of this disaster, the fans have been left to try and figure out what happened. We have had to wade through a mire of conflicting information in the midst of all of our collective anger and grief over this garbage ending of a show many of us have loved and even relied on for YEARS, all the while wondering if we’re just fucking crazy, if we have all fallen collectively into the hole of conspiracy theories. That hurts ESPECIALLY badly because we have taken so many hits over the years from other groups on social media saying we were crazy for seeing things that weren’t there (especially Destiel), for writing meta and analyzing tropes and believing the evidence of our eyes and ears. The network has made us relive that entire nightmare WHILE processing our grief for a show we wanted so badly to celebrate and which instead we now have to mourn.

So again guys, I cannot prove that this is exactly what happened at all; this is simply my idea of what may have happened. But right now, it’s the most sense I can make from this mess, and to be honest, the act of typing it out has helped me enormously in my processing of it all. I feel like I can see more clearly, like I know where to target my outrage and where to direct empathy. I feel like just fucking maybe, I might be able to do my job tomorrow without bursting into tears at random moments. 

I really hope that this post has helped some of you to, in some small way, process this too. We get through this the way that Misha told us at his panel this morning, the way the writers have told us to do all season long...we throw out the story God gave us and we make it better. We write our characters the happy endings they deserve. 

We save them.

One last thing--if you have not already, please consider channeling your rage into a donation to one of the five causes our fandom has put together to pay tribute to our beloved show and to mourn the ending it should have had:

-The Castiel Project

-Dean Winchester is Love

-Sam Winchester Project

-The National Association of the Deaf

-The Jack Kline Project

[loversandantiheroes]

Okay my whiskey fantasy. It’s a holiday, anniversary, I dunno. But he comes home. You’re in lingerie, teddy, the garter belt, the thigh high tights (I am having an absolute brain fart and can not remember the name), the high heels. you’re cooking him dinner in it. Somethin real texas for dinner. He wants to immediately fuck yiu, BUT NO he has to WAIT bc its dinner time and you worked hard. He’s waiting, and he’s watching you, you’re bending over at the stove, all that. Dinner is served, you —-

You lounge on the table to eat like a decadent and gorgeous pain in the ass, so he can see you’re whole body while he eats, forced to be patient. You’re being an absolute menace. He’s running his mouth the whole time OBVIOUSLY. Then he fucking wrecks you

No Candles Necessary

As I am a bonafide yeehonk foole (and I have the t-shirt to prove it), I could hardly resist this idea. Nonny, I hope like hell I did you proud.💗

Shameless Whiskey/F!Reader smut (18+ and yes that means you), 5.3k+ words (they just wouldn’t shut up), mildly beta’d and lightly edited.

Warnings: established relationship, unsafe food preparation practices, light foodplay (it only goes in appropriate places I swear), egregious dirty talk, improper use of a dining table, Switch!Whiskey returns, Switch!Reader by extension, fingering, oral sex (m receiving), deepthroating, PIV sex, unprotected sex (do as I say, not as I fictionalize), cream pie (bc I’m lazy quite frankly), actual pie (peach!), a little soft schmoop in between the smut just because I can.

Permatag: @missredherring​ @dovesnroses​ @astroboots​ @magpierhymes​ @alienprincesspoop​ @aasimarr​ @maythxthirstbxwithyou​ @recklesswit​

Pedro Permatag: @ithinkhesgaybutwesavedmufasa​ (sorry bab, more yeehonk) @corvueros​ @thirstworldproblemss​ @littleferal​ @krissology​ @frannyzooey​ @forallthstarsinthesky​ @princess76179​ @keeper0fthestars​ @venusandromedadjarin​

Cooking your boyfriend a birthday dinner in lingerie is probably not the best idea you've ever had. The man isn’t even home yet to witness the trouble you’ve gone to, still wrapping up a day’s work at HQ after closing out another mission. So you didn’t jump right into cooking in your frillies. No, you did the bulk of the work in sweats and a t-shirt, only stopping to change once you were down to the last stretch and the steaks had come off to rest. You've got sense enough at least to put on an apron, not wanting to risk getting hot grease on the delicate fabric or the vast amounts of bare skin the thing doesn't cover, and while you've already donned the garter belt and stockings you've left your heels up against the island counter so you can slip them on quickly when you hear the door. Still you can't quite help but feel less sexy and more silly as you stand there carving up a pair of garlic butter basted steaks while your forehead prickles with sweat and your ass, covered by neither the teddy or the apron, feels ice cold.

The things I do for love of a goddamn cowboy, you think with a shake of your head. Your whole plan is honestly on the high end of ridiculous. But then Jack is a ridiculous man, and he always seems to drag you headlong into absurdity with him. Some days it's his only saving grace - the boyish playfulness that tempers his arrogance into something charming rather than infuriating. It seems only right to be a little ridiculous for the occasion.

Once the carving’s done you give yourself a second to go over the spread and make sure everything's ready to go. It's early yet, but you're expecting to hear Jack's key in the front door any minute. He's made no mention of returning home early, of course, but he is every bit the sort that would try to surprise you on his birthday, and you’ve developed an uncanny ability to anticipate his moves ahead of time.

As it turns out, you have just enough time to slip on your heels before you hear the front door open and Jack calls out your name. You allow yourself a moment of satisfaction - you do love being right when it comes to this sort of thing - and slip into your heels.

“In here, baby,” you call back, stepping out to lean against the door frame.

“Somethin’ smells like heaven,” Jack says, rounding the corner into the dining room. He stops dead when he gets a look at you, mouth falling open in surprise. He’s hung his hat at the door, his hair already flopping over in a revolt against the slicked-back way he styles it in the morning, his suit jacket still on and buttoned. “Looks like it, too,” he finishes, the corner of his mouth curling into a grin. “I feel overdressed all of a sudden.”

You can’t help but answer that grin. “Happy birthday, cowboy,” you tell him, beckoning him over.

He all but rushes across the room to slide up against you, hands curling around your hips and playing with the tie to the apron. “Sure as hell is now,” he mutters. His palms slide down, cupping your ass to pull you in close. You bite back a hiss at the warmth, and he gives a low approving hum at the expanse of cool, bare skin. “Looks like I don’t even need to unwrap my present.”

“Patience,” you insist, pushing his shoulders back and grazing your lips over the tip of his nose as you evade the kiss he tries to pull you into. “No dessert until after dinner.”

“Dinner can wait-”

“No it cannot. I did not just spend the afternoon trying to keep hot butter off my tits so you could get impatient and let your supper get cold.” He traces a finger across your cleavage as you talk, tugging at the top of the apron to get a better look at the skin underneath. You feel the quip coming before he even opens his mouth, so you take the opportunity to give him a little push and show him just what he’s in for tonight. You bring up your hand, fingers curling under his wrist, turning his hand away and using it to pull him flush to you, the line of your thigh landing against the covered denim crotch of his jeans with just enough force to make him jolt.

“Be a good boy, Jack,” you say against his open, breathless mouth, “or you won’t get any dessert at all.”

Whiskey pouts, but his eyes have that dark glint that says he knows he’s in for trouble and he is just as pleased as punch about it. “You mean to torture a man on his birthday, honeybee?”

The smirk you give him makes his heartbeat kick up a little faster - you can feel the quickening of it in the pulse point against your fingertips. “Absolutely.” You stretch up enough for one brief, warm kiss and then step back, jerking your chin towards the dining table where there’s already two glasses of wine poured at the ready. “Sit. I’ll bring out dinner.”

He nods, tongue rolling slowly against his bottom lip. “Yes ma’am.”

His gaze is a heavy weight on your body as you walk away, raking down across so much exposed skin. You hear him groan at the sight, low and appreciative. He’s always been fond of seeing you wrapped up in lingerie, even more fond of tearing up the expensive scraps just to get you bare for him. You’d chided him about it the first time - the bodysuit he’d ripped clean in half from gusset to tit hadn’t been cheap, even though that little display had thrilled you far more than you’d ever want to admit - but he always replaced what he ruined without fail.

When you come back, divested of the apron with plates in hand, Whiskey is sitting just as instructed, elbow on the table, chin resting on his knuckles. He tracks every move you make, every sway of your hips, a playful smile hiding the effort of his restraint as you set his dinner in front of him. He barely spares the food a glance when you elect to forego your own chair and simply hop up onto the table, setting your plate near his and dragging over your glass of wine.

“You’ve outdone yourself, honeybee,” Whiskey rumbles, sliding a hand up your knee to your thigh, and he could not be talking less about the food.

You only smile, taking an unhurried sip. “Somehow I thought you’d prefer this to a new tie. How old are you now, anyway?” you tease.

“Sweet sixteen,” he says dryly, hiking an eyebrow while he squeezes your thigh for your cheek.

You chuckle. “Uh-huh, and I’m Mother Theresa.” You lean in, spearing a slice of steak on his plate with your fork and holding it out for him. “Now, I worked very hard on this, and I am going to be very disappointed if you try to skip dinner on me just ‘cause you can’t quit eyeballing your dessert. Open.”

He tips you a wink before dutifully opening his mouth, letting you feed him. The soft, indulgent moan that leaves him as his eyes slip closed is too subdued to be anything but real. “Honeybee that is gorgeous. My compliments to the chef.” 

“The chef is glad to hear it.” You swipe your thumb over his lip, collecting the sheen of juice and garlicky butter and bringing it to your own mouth, delicately sucking it off. “Could’ve used a bit more rosemary.”

Whiskey shakes his head. “Mm-mm. This is perfection on a plate, baby. I wouldn’t change a thing.”

The smile that earns him is genuine, and you bend to give him a quick kiss. He presses it, just a little, a swipe of his tongue that you open for just enough to nip at before pulling away. “Eat.” You gesture meaningfully at his plate.

All told, there isn’t actually much on it. Steak, roasted new potatoes, and asparagus with hollandaise sauce. You’ve only served up maybe half of what you’d usually set in front of him for dinner, opting for more reserved portions. It’s a favor to you both - his patience wouldn’t last through a full meal without the need for physical restraints. There’s more in the kitchen, of course, and an actual pie for dessert if you happen to get that far. You’re both bound to be hungry again after.

Whiskey tucks in, fork in his left hand while his right stays comfortably curled around your thigh, slowly creeping higher and higher until he’s playing with the lacy top of your stocking. You give him a warning tilt of your head, your own fork poised halfway to your mouth. All you get in return is those plaintive, innocent puppy dog eyes of his, but his hand doesn’t advance further.

All in all you’re rather proud of his restraint, at least until one spear of asparagus manages to drip hollandaise down onto your cleavage. Suddenly that quietly repressed hunger cracks and he’s surging up towards you, mouth half-open and tongue peaking out, ready to clean you up.

But that won’t do. Not yet. Your reflexes might not be as good as his, but they’re nothing to balk at, either. You brace yourself back on one hand, leaning away and planting one of your high heels against his shoulder to shove him back into his seat. The look on his face is priceless; mouth agape and pupils blown. 

Slowly you shake your head. “You know better, Jack.”

His eyes track up the inside of your thigh to the crotch of your bodysuit - or rather, the lack thereof - and the split strips of lace that don’t cover your mound, but frame it prettily for him. “Fuck, honeybee,” he mutters breathlessly. 

Dinner and a show was always the plan. So you take your time, dipping your finger and swiping up the stripe of creamy yellow and holding it out to him. Whiskey stares you down as he takes the tip of your finger into his mouth and sucks dutifully, his tongue plush and soft and working against the pad of your finger the same way he worries it over your clit. A rush of heat rockets through you, leaving your belly warm and a sweet tingle tripping down your spine in its wake.

Biting your lip hard to rein in the impulse to just slide into his lap, you drag your finger out of his mouth. It’s what he wants; to make you break first, to make you lose at your own game. And where’s the fun in that?

“It is your birthday, so I’m going to cut you a little bit of slack, but if you can’t mind your manners and do as you’re fucking told, you’re gonna get a lot worse than a birthday spanking, pretty boy. Now, I told you: no dessert until you finish your dinner.” There’s precious little left on his plate; a few scraps of steak, a couple potatoes, one lone spear of asparagus. You stab this last with your fork and hold it out to him. “Last chance, baby. You open your mouth for me and be a good boy, and you can have me any way you want.”

Whiskey looks dazed; seething and starved and love-struck all at once. You don’t even need to look down to know he’s hard. But he hesitates just for a moment, whether it’s deliberate or accidental you’re not really sure - sometimes the man just really wants to be punished - but in that space you see his body jerk, hunching slightly as his abdominal muscles contract involuntarily. You follow the movement with your eyes and sure enough, there he is. Full mast and straining hard against thick denim.

Smiling sweetly, you wave the fork at him. “Your choice, Jack.”

“You’re gonna be the death of me,” he says, and the roughshod timbre of his voice says it’d be a fine way to go.

Whiskey opens his mouth and takes what you give him.

You’re slow about it. Careful. Admonishing him when he tries to chew a little too quickly. Whiskey stares you down with eyes like coal seconds away from ignition. He holds your gaze while you slip another bite of food into his mouth, then lets his eyes slip down until they fix firmly on your half-exposed and already glistening cunt, and you know the moment you give him an inch he’s going to wreck the hell out of you for this.

When the last bite passes his lips he curls his hand around your ankle, squeezing. Always pushing his luck, this man of yours. You set his plate aside, glancing away like it’s no effort at all as he very methodically wipes his mouth with his napkin.

“Now can I have my dessert?” Impatience roughens the low gravel of his voice into something dangerously sharp.

You smile, leaning back on one hand. “There’s peach pie in the kitchen.”

He presses forward, left hand sliding big and warm up the inside of your thigh. The motion presses the leg you’ve used to pin him to his chair back until your knee is nearly flush with your chest, opening you up wider, the rush of air between your legs now shockingly cold against the wetness that had gathered there.

“Woman, the only pie I want a piece of is the one sitting right in front of me.”

The stretch along the back of your thigh burns, so you shift, hooking your leg over his shoulder instead. “I haven’t finished my dinner yet,” you protest cooly, reaching down to snag a strip of steak off your still half-full plate and popping it into your mouth.

Whiskey’s hands slip higher, and this time you don’t stop him, too busy sucking the buttery juices off your fingers. When the very very tips of his fingers brush the spread lace at the crux of your thighs he freezes, waiting for the rebuke, for fingers around his neck or your other heel to plant square in his chest. You consider it, sure; it’s certainly not a prospect without its merits. A man that enjoys being under your thumb is satisfying in a way that few things in life ever fully measure up to.

But honestly, you’ve worked hard enough tonight. Time to let him put in a little effort.

A tilt of your head and a curl of your foot against his shoulder is permission enough; slipping off the leash by way of a gesture, and the low smolder in his eyes blooms to a full burn. Whiskey stands to his full height, looming close enough for you to feel the heat bake off him as he shrugs off his jacket and unbuttons the cuffs on his dress shirt, rolling them up with a few quick turns of his wrists.

“Can’t let my girl go hungry now,” he hums in a voice like burnt molasses. “Lemme give you a hand there, honeybee.”

Smirking, Whiskey wraps an arm around you, brushing the tip of his nose against yours as you wriggle against solid heat of his body. His left hand wanders out of sight on the table as his lips meet yours, teasing your mouth open with the barest brush of his tongue, while his right hand trails warm and slow around your side and down and down to cup your mound.

It’s hard to believe you ever felt cold. You’re burning up now, skin flushed hot as his mouth grazes yours and breathes out: “Open up for me.”

And just like magic, you do. No input needed on your behalf; your mouth simply drops open and your legs shift wider in accommodation for him. There’s a clink of silverware and then he’s waving a fork at you, a strip of steak speared on the end. Whiskey’s eyes glitter as he pushes it into your waiting mouth. Each bite he feeds you is accompanied by a teasing dip of his fingers into your core, feeding you with his left hand while he touches you with his right. Your slickened folds part smooth and easy as he pushes his fingers inside you, a welcome but all too brief intrusion, before they trail up again to stroke at your clit. Again and again you rock your hips up, trying to encourage him to slip into you deeper, to give you a taste of the fullness and pressure of his cock, but every time his touch retreats.

You whine; a strange mix of frustration and pleasure. “Tease.”

“Takes one to know one,” he coos, the hand between your legs working faster. Heat builds quickly under his fingertips, a friction far more appetizing than anything else you’ve set on the table tonight. “You made the rules, honeybee. No dessert until after you finish supper. You do want your dessert, don’t you?”

He brings the next bite up, holds it tantalizingly close. You stretch out and he draws it back, and suddenly his fingers are rubbing a firm, determined circle on your clit. Your whole body jolts, gasping air with a pitiful little whine. There’s nothing but mischief on his face as he watches you, tongue sweeping against his bottom lip. He slows his fingers, brings the fork down again, closer this time. The food brushes your bottom lip before he pulls it away, fingers quickening again.

“Jesus,” you all but squeak. “Jack, don’t be mean.”

Whiskey gives you a considering hum, leaning forward to suck the sheen of butter off your bottom lip. “Oh darlin’ I would never,” he insists, punctuating the sentiment with a kiss that’s tender enough to be very nearly sincere if it weren’t for the fact that the motion of his hand never slows. A sweet, bright heat begins to build under his fingertips. “How could I be mean to my girl when she worked so hard for me, hm? I’m just paying that back in kind is all. You wanna come on my fingers, baby, you can do that all you like. I’ll make you come ‘til those pretty little legs can’t do much more than shimmy. You know I can. But you ain’t gettin’ nothin’ else until you clean your plate like a good girl.”

“H-ha-ah, fuck-how much more?”

He grins devilishly. “Just this last bite.”

“Oh you f-fucking jackass!”

Whiskey laughs. “Guilty as charged. Open up, baby, take what I got for you.”

He pushes the last bite past your lips and immediately delves his fingers into your warm and waiting cunt. The breath shudders out of you, fingers digging into the tablecloth as you try to hang onto enough composure to remember to chew and swallow. He’s slow for a moment, pumping and curling his fingers gently while he watches you eat. There’s a clink of silverware as he discards the fork and puts his arm around you, pressing his lips against your forehead.

“Good girl,” he murmurs sweetly.

Mouth empty now, you nudge your nose against his chin, wrapping your arms around his neck. “Jack-”

And then his grip becomes determined. The fingers inside you flex, the heel of his hand pressing hard against your clit and all you can do is cry out against the soft skin of his neck and hang on for dear life while he works you up and over the edge with shocking speed.

Trembling, you lock your legs around him as you come down, dragging his collar aside to bite lazily into the place where his neck and shoulder meet.

“Fuck,” he groans, hips rutting up against the back of his hand between your legs. “How do you want me, honeybee?”

That earns him a breathless laugh, goosebumps raising along his neck. “It’s your birthday, Jack. What do you want?”

Whiskey’s eyes drop to your mouth and he makes a considering sound, pulling back to suck you delicately off his fingers. “I think I want your mouth. And then I think I want to fuck you right here on this table until that divinely sweet little pussy wrings me fucking dry. Sound good to you, honeybee?”

“That can be arranged.” His eyelids flutter as you reach down to his zipper, not even bothering with his belt before you reach inside his jeans and the button fly of his boxers to tug his cock free, cupping your fingers to draw his balls out, too.

You move to stand and he shakes his head, caging you in. “No. Not on your knees, baby. On the table. I wanna see you all spread out for me. My pretty little present.”

He helps you. Sweeps your hair back as you lie flat on the dining table, scooting back to let your head hang just a bit. It’s not exactly comfortable. The edge of the table digs into your neck a bit, and the way the blood rushes to your head is not entirely pleasant either. But you watch Whiskey pace around you to take his place in front of your waiting mouth, cock bobbing and just barely beginning to leak for you, and you feel a gorgeous rush of heat at the sight.

Whiskey slides his palm up your stomach to cup one barely-covered breast. “Gorgeous,” he mutters, squeezing. “Absolutely beautiful.”

“Jack.”

“I know, darlin’, I know. But my God you’re a picture.” He cups your cheek, absently brushes the corner of your mouth with his thumb before sliding his hand back to give your head a little support. “Open up for me, angel.”

And once again, you open up for what he gives you. The angle makes it strange, the topography of Jack’s body less familiar as he slips into your mouth, your tongue dragging wet and slow over foreign terrain. The taste of him, hot skin and the tang of bitter salt, that you know well enough. You close your eyes at it, bring your hands up to his hips to tug him slowly forward and listen to the way he moans.

“That’s my girl,” he whispers, breathless and a little awe-struck. “Jesus fucking Christ. You spoil me, baby. Sweet as fucking honey, my god.”

A light touch against your breast makes you shiver, goosebumps raising as it draws lightly over your skin. A single fingertip, sliding the lace of the bodysuit aside to bare your breasts to the chill of the room and the warmth of Whiskey’s hands.

He mutters sweet things as he begins to move; sweet, tender, unconscionably filthy things. All the things you do to him. Do for him. The rocking of his hips is gentle at first, feeding you his cock inch by cautious inch. When he hits the back of your throat he pulls back on reflex, but the light scrape of your teeth and the sudden tightness of your grip on the plush meat of his ass sends him forward again. The angle eases the motion, and you relax into the pressure as he pushes in and in and...oh.

You feel the resistance at the back of your throat give gently; strange, but not uncomfortable. Above you, Whiskey lets out a pained groan.

“Shit. Oh shit yes, honeybee. Take it. Ohhh s-shit. Take all of it. Every goddamn inch. Fuck.”

And then his hips are flush with your mouth, the soft skin of his balls pressed up against your nose. Panting, he wraps a hand around the stretched column of your throat, swearing breathlessly. He moves, a small, careful thrust, and you can feel the tremor that ripples through him at the feeling.

“Just a little more baby,” he mumbles, pulling back until just the head of his cock rests within the warmth of your mouth. You suckle at it, working it eagerly with your lips and tongue while you breathe raggedly through your nose. Your hips jut up into thin air on their own accord, just as eager for him as your mouth is.

“I got you, honeybee.” The hand at your neck slips down, skimming over skin and lace until he finds your clit. The first touch jolts you, your cry stifled on his cock as you shudder up against him. “Good girl. I got you, baby. Jack’s got you. Keep going. Just a little more. Just a little more and then I’ll fill you right on up. Fuck my sweet girl’s brains right out of her head. Prettiest fuckin’ thing I ever fuckin seen, baby, holy fuck.”

You moan something against him - pleasure, acquiescence, god only knows - but the sound of it is lost as his cock slides steadily back into your mouth. The pressure in your head is distracting, tears prickling your eyes when he pushes in deep, but the stroking of his fingers and the feel of him in your mouth, sliding hard and slick and effortlessly down your throat is far more consuming than the discomfort.

He rocks into you. Fucks into you. Moans and gasping praises falling thick and fast from his lips as he moves. You don’t need to feel the way his balls draw up tight to know how close he is, how tight he’s riding the line between what he wants to do and what his body wants to do. You’re lost in it all the same; his pleasure and the fraying thread of his restraint. Your own pleasure, building quick and low and locking down the muscles in your thighs until they tremble. You float in it, overwhelmed and dizzy, until, very suddenly, you break.

Whiskey curses, pulling back to listen to you cry out, to let you curl up and clutch at him as he pants above you, muttering broken, desperate please of: “yes god yes honeybee all of it, gimme all of it, every last bit.”

You’re a wreck in the aftermath; pliant and limp, face teary and slick with spit and precome. He draws you up, wiping your face with a clean napkin before pulling you into a kiss that steals away whatever remained of your breath. He gathers you up, turns you until you can wrap your still-tingling limbs around him. Nudges his hips against yours, his wet cock dragging against slick skin and fragile lace.

“You okay, baby?” he asks, trailing soft kisses over your face.

You have to clear your throat before you can respond, the sound of it harsh and ragged like an engine turning over. “Y-yeah. Yeah I’m good. Dizzy, but good.”

“You ain’t the only one, honeybee. Almost didn’t make it in time. Wanted to fill up that pretty mouth so bad. You just about did me in.”

He laughs and you join him, breathing ragged joy into each other’s lungs.

“Still want me to fuck you?” The question should be coarse, but somehow isn’t. Not with his sweat-slick forehead pressed to yours and his lips ghosting kisses against your mouth with every breath.

“So sweet,” you mutter, combing your hands through his hair.

“LIke hell,” he scoffs, holding you tight to his chest. “I ain’t and you know it.”

“You are to me,” you insist, pressing a kiss against the tip of his nose. He smiles, softens everywhere but that place that throbs with impatient heat against you. “Now fuck me, pretty boy.”

A flash of a grin is the only warning you get before he’s hooking his arms under your knees and pulling you to the edge of the table. “Yes ma’am,” he says obligingly, planting a hand between your breasts to push you back against the table as he lines himself up, sliding into you with one smooth, achingly deep stroke. 

You moan, knees drawing up as his hips meet yours and he fills the space inside you that’s been aching for him all day. Whiskey lets out a groaning sigh, leaning into you like he wants to bury himself whole inside you. He hoists one of your legs up against his chest, nuzzles the inside of your knee while he tries to find his breath again. The length of him inside you is rigid as steel and blindingly hot, still so close to his own end that he has to wait, worrying his teeth over your skin, until the urge to just rut against you like an animal until he comes finally passes.

And when it does, when he opens his eyes at last, he looks down at you with a dazed, hungry smile. He presses a kiss to the tip of his finger and brings it down to your lips.

“Love you, honeybee.”

Heavy-lidded and so wonderfully full, you kiss his finger and arch your back. “Love you, too, cowboy.”

And that’s the last intelligent thing you manage to say. Finally - finally! - Whiskey fucks you, each pounding swing of his hips making the china rattle like nervous teeth. Your arms strike out, curling and flailing, trying to find something to grab onto as he fucks you. The heel of your hand strikes one of the wine glasses and sends it tumbling to the floor where it shatters. The breath leaves your body in tiny bursts with each impact; little monosyllabic cries punctuating each one.

“Fuck, that’s my girl,” Whiskey murmurs. He cups your breasts, thumbing the pebbled sharpness of your nipples before his hands slide lower, finding the deep notch of the bodysuit between them. “Wrapped up so pretty for me.”

The lace tears away like it’s nothing, a clean rip down the center. Oh well. He’ll buy you another.

Whiskey folds over you, pulling you down closer so he can get an arm under your back, his hand grasping the back of your neck and pulling you up to meet his mouth. He’s still wearing his tie, the drape of fabric laying cool against your chest. Blessedly he’s not wearing his usual belt buckle. Foresight or oversight you’re not quite sure, but you’re grateful all the same as he grinds into you, a press of cold metal and leather against your belly.

He’s not going to last long, but it hardly matters. You’re too worked up, two orgasms down already, cunt so swollen and sensitive it’s hardly an effort to get you there again. But the feeling of him inside you turns that bright burn into something lower, deeper. Something that makes your muscles lock and tremble, straining up against him and gasping into his mouth.

“Jaaaack,” you whine, arms locked around his neck.

“Yes, baby,” he groans, voice quivering with every thrust. “Fuck yes I’m right there too, c’mon. Come with me, honeybee, come with me.”

His rhythm falters, grinding deeper and deeper, and all that strained tension in your body snaps like a rubberband. You sob, grabbing fistfuls of his dress shirt, twisting and jerking as you come apart under him.

All Whiskey can do is growl as you bear down on him, gritting a litany of “yes, yes, fuck yes, god yes, that’s my girl that’s my girl that’s my fucking girl.” And then he’s gone, too, driving into you with a sudden jolt and crying out against the side of your neck as he comes.

You’re holding him too tight, clutching him to you as you both lie there, panting and shuddering, a spreading stain of red wine pooling next to your head.

“Jesus,” he whispers, tries to shift up to find your mouth, but even that amount of drag on his oversensitive cock is enough to make him hiss and jerk. “Fuck.”

“Mm-hm,” you agreed dumbly.

Whiskey lets out a growling hum, smoothing your hair. “You good, honeybee?”

You trail kisses up to his ear, still breathless. “What do you think?”

He wheezes a laugh. “I think I gotta replace a lot more than your frillies this time.” The laugh turns giddy, and Whiskey presses his forehead against your temple. “And I think I’m hungry.”

“Pie in the kitchen,” you mumble, too drowsy to do much more than nuzzle into the damp tangle of Whiskey’s hair.

“What kind?”

“Peach.”

He hums, smiling drowsily. “My favorite.”

You give a slow nod. “I know. Happy birthday, Jack.”

He kisses you, slow and sweet. “Best I ever had,” he murmurs.

[quietmyfearswith]

longing stares ; august walker x fem!reader

status — completed oneshot

word count — 5,515 words

summary — in which august walker made the mistake of hurting the love of his life — thinking he had the upper hand, but in reality it hurts him even more than he cares to admit.

warnings — SMUT, unprotected penetrative sex, oral sex (f receiving), handjob, degradation? angst?? fluff? swear words, august talking down/shit about another boy, window sex

pairing — august walker x fem!reader

summary — in which august walker made the mistake of hurting the love of his life — thinking he had the upper hand, but in reality it hurts him even more than he cares to admit.

a/n — DNI IF YOU ARE UNDER 18, so this was inspired by this post, but i wanted to twist it up a bit to fit the song that inspired me to write,,, so i hope it turned out alright :> feedback is very much appreciated! 

tagging — @cruelfvkingsummer​

masterlist | series masterlist

The pencil that he balanced between his fingers snapped into two as he saw a sleazy employee's frail hands touch her shoulders affectionately. At first the Hammer found it foolish when Sloane told him his personal office would have two-way mirrors for walls; but now he was more than thankful for it as he was sitting down behind his desk because it allowed him to watch the scene unfold without them knowing about his intense stare at them. His piercing gaze would have buried this son of a bitch who dared touch what’s his as she was burying herself with work.

Well, what was his to be more accurate. But his brain couldn’t fully absorb that fact as his fingers were hastily sending a text to Benji that he was sending someone over to his department and to keep the idiot busy for as long as it took. Leaving his phone on the table, he didn’t bother to wait for a reply as he sauntered over to the outside of his office and opened the door as he called out, “Jonathan, Benji needs you in his department. Something about a malfunctioning gadget.” The brunette pointed to himself as he wondered, “Me? My name’s Joshua.”

“In case I haven’t made it clear, I don’t care about your name, John, I just need you to get over down and check out the malfunctioning device — and I’m not talking about your brain.” Y/N gasped out loud at what August said, for it was unusual for him to talk shit about others; she could only watch Joshua as he excused himself to go to the 30th floor where he was being called for.

Once he vanished within her line of sight, she brought her eyes to look at August who had a stern expression on his face, “You, in my office. Now.” As his voice left no room for questions, she stood up from her chair and entered his all too familiar work space. “What the hell was that about, Walker?” Her hands rested on her hips as she raised her voice at him once he came in too after closing the door to give them privacy. “What was what, princess?”

He mimicked her by placing his hands on his hips too; but he didn’t have the combination of a frown and pout that she had, instead there was a smirk on his lips. “You don’t get to call me that,” Even though she loved the way the nickname rolled off his tongue and how it was reserved solely for her, she now hated how it just served as a reminder of their past, “Not anymore, Walker. So cut the shit and answer my question”

Bobbing his Adam's apple up and down, August was cursing with how cold and serious she was being. “I didn’t like the way he was getting too close with you,” There was no reason for him to fabricate a lie so he decided to just tell the truth. “Well that’s rich,” She scoffed as she crossed her arms against her chest and looked at him with disgust, “You decide you don’t want me and yet no one else gets to have at least a chance with me?”

His brain interpreted what she said differently as he slowly moved towards her, speaking dangerously low, “Yes, princess, that’s exactly what it means. No one in this fucking world gets you, because you’re all mine. I don't care if they're a rookie in the CIA or some royalty. They will have to kill me before they get to you.” If it were someone else, they would have shivered in fear once they were backed against a wall by a trained, skilled CIA agent who has planted his hands on the wall by her torso, caging her in. But not Y/N because she knew two things — one, he would never harm her, not in a way she wouldn’t enjoy. And two, she was his weakness. 

“I’m not yours, Walker,” From a venomous tone she shifted to a calmer one which surprised the man as he furrowed his eyebrows in confusion, “You made it extremely clear that night about how what we had doesn’t mean anything to you.”

It was a miracle that August managed to open his apartment door as his focus was on leaving his marks on her neck. “Hated seeing him so close to you,” He growled without his lips leaving her skin as his foot closed the door. Lifting her up over his shoulders made her squeal, more so when he smacked her ass while he effortlessly brought the two of them to his bedroom. Y/N bounced slightly as she was dropped on his comfortable mattress.

Large hands ripped her dress in two and revealed the black lingerie set she had hiding underneath her office clothes. “You trying to kill me, princess?” August husked out as he tore his own dress shirt off before spreading her legs, thumb rubbing against her clothed core, “Princess, you’re staining through the thin cloth.” Sliding the cotton material off of her, he brought it to his nose and smelt her arousal before throwing it off the bed. Every time they ended up in his place, he sneakily hid her underwear so he could jack off to them when they aren't together.

Y/N gasped out as she felt his moustache tickle her skin as his lips left kisses on his ascent to her. A toothy grin was plastered on both their faces. His fingertips graze the under band of her bra, “As much as I love this bra,” August unhooked it and threw on the floor as his lips enveloped her breast as his hand grabbed and played with the other, “I’d rather see your body in all its glory.”

Her hands tangled in his hair as she arched her back, feeding more of her flesh to him. “Fuck bear, more please,” She moaned out loud when his tongue drew circles around her nipple before biting on the pebble. Pulling away from her tit, August smirked at her blissed out state as he undid his pants, sliding it off him as his cock sprung out. “And why were you going commando today, bear?”

Kissing her lips passionately so her smirk would be wiped off, he rubbed the tip of his cock on her slit, “Because I wanted to tease you at work,” Her mewls of need fueled his ego, her hands were clawing at his ass as she was trying to guide his cock in her hole. “What’s the magic word, princess?”

“Please! Please bear, need you so bad,” As soon as she whined out the final word August slid his cock right in her; velvet and warm walls welcomed his cock by gripping onto him tightly that it made him struggle to thrust in or out of her. Her grasp on his ass didn’t take and if anything it made her just dig her nails againdt the skin even harder, which only added to both of their pleasure.

Ruthlessly, August ripped both her hands from his plump ass to lay them above her head, his hands forbidding her to move them around His other hand lifted her leg, resting it on his shoulder, which allowed him to reach even deeper. “You like how deep I can reach in you?” Each word was accompanied by a harsh thrust to every word; her moans brought pride to his chest for they both knew he was the only one who could pleasure her this well. 

“Tell me, princess, tell me how much you like it when I fuck you,” The vein on his neck became even more prominent as he growled at her. Feeling the vibrations of his growl against her lips just made her glaze even more of her juices in his cock; a firm swat on her thigh had her focusing on his command, “You fuck me so good, bear,” She gasped out when his cock poked her sensitive flesh which made her an even more out of focus, “Only you can make me feel this good, bear. Want no one but you.”

Her words paired with the way her walls clamped down on his cock pushed him right over the edge; both of them gasped out when August pulled out of her cunt and let go of her hands. Before getting to question what he was up to, he leaned down until he was face to face with her cunt, quickly inserting his tongue on her pussy.

“Oh fuck, please bear, please rub my clit,” Graciously, his thumb rubbed on her clit as his other hand jerked his cock off while he shook his head side to side, driving his tongue even deeper in her. “Cum for me, princess,” Convulsing upon feeling the tremors of his words on her mound, she could only grab onto his head to grind her closer to her as she relaxed her body as she came.

“There’s my good girl,” He praised her while lapping her juices and drinking it all up. Opening her eyes once she felt herself significantly calmed down, she whimpered upon seeing his cum-covered moustache and red cock that was red and aching to cum. Sitting up, she moved closer to him and wrapped one hand on his balls while the other stroked the length of his cock, “Coat me in your cum, bear. Please, bear?” The innocence her eyes held contradicted the way she spoke and jerked him off sultrily — which made him throw his head back as he spilled his cum on her hands. 

Giving kitten licks on the tip of his cock prolonged his orgasm as he stroked her hair lovingly; once he let out all of his cum, Y/N licked some of the cum that spilled between her fingertips. Smiling widely, she looked up at him and opened her mouth to show how she had drank up all he had to give. Patting her head gently he praised her again, “Such a good girl for me, princess.” He kneeled beside her before taking her in his arms before collapsing beside her, August cuddled her close to him as she moved around to face him. Her finger was tracing over his jawline as they both silently cherished the post orgasmic haze they both were in. He loved being with her this way — loved the way their bodies worked in tandem. But they weren’t just a great pair in bed, Y/N was one of the few capable and intelligent employees Hammer has met. Though he often displayed a tough exterior, he could easily show her as well a vulnerable side of him.

There was an instance wherein she accidentally barged in on his night of wallowing in self-pity with the intention of fucking so she could release tension, she was instead faced with a sorrowful August. That night, she made it clear to him that he didn’t have to open up to him if he was uncomfortable. She just wanted to be there for him, even if they just both drank in silence, just so he wouldn’t be alone with his thoughts.

He did end up letting her in and voicing out what was going on in his mind. Upon taking it all in she made it clear that he wasn’t the villain he made himself out to be. “You are not defined by what you have done,” Concern was laced on her voice that night as she held her face with gentle hands, “You were asked to do so in order to guarantee the safety of the whole damn world. If anything, it’s us who doesn’t deserve you.”

Just as he was about to rebut what she said, Y/N sweetly pecked his lips to shut him up right away, “Never talk shit about yourself, bear. You’re a great person and I would be more than glad to help you realize so.” From then on every time he entered his office there would be a sticky note taped on his desktop screen where she wrote something great about him.

“What are you smiling about?” He wondered as her lingering hand settled on his cheek, rubbing the prickled skin. “Just thinking about you,” Her vague answer just had him even more curious than he already was. It wasn’t unusual for the two of them to be quiet after sex, but there was something about the way she was looking at him and the way her touch seemed gentler, softer.

“What about me?” It was a rhetorical question, he didn’t expect any answer from her. So imagine his surprise when she mindlessly confessed, “I love you, August.” 

Sitting up against the headboard he stared at her with bewilderment evident on his face, “What the fuck did you say?” Clutching the blanket to hide her nudity, Y/N could not help but feel vulnerable and exposed as she sat up to level with him, “You heard me, August, loud and clear. I told you I love you.”

It was like a dagger pierced through her heart as he rolled his eyes and stood up from the bed as he rummaged through his drawers and grabbed a tank top and sweatpants, “I call bullshit on that.” Offense and hurt overcame her entire being as she hastily dressed herself up as well, “And why do you call bullshit on that?”

“Because it’s not real!” He shouted as he turned to face her shocked face; he has never raised his voice to or in front of her. Part of her was terrified — she didn’t know what he would do in a confrontational situation like this. Sensing her startled state, he then spoke in a lower tone, “The love that you feel for me, isn’t real. It’s just in your head, you’re just coming down from your high.”

Enraged she chewed him out, “Why are you invalidating what I feel? I know in myself that I love you!” Shaking his head no, August crossed his arms as he challenged, “We’re just friends! Fuck, we’re just colleagues!”

As soon as the words left his lips he could see the effect it had on her for her tears were threatening to leave her eyes and it caused him to feel as though someone had squeezed his heart roughly. “Do friends do what we do?”

Her weak voice made him feel even more bad than he already was but he still couldn’t stop himself from being an ass, “Friends with benefits do.” She smacked his chest as she yelled out in frustration, “I’m not just talking about the sex, idiot! I’m talking about whether a friend comforts you everytime you feel pity for yourself? Would a friend clean up your bruises and cuts after a hard mission? Or when I make sure you have enough homemade meals, what am I to you then?”

“Nothing,” The way he said it so casually and without a second thought should have scared her; and it did, “It doesn’t mean anything to me. You’re not mine nor are you my girlfriend.” That was the final nail in her coffin — the rude awakening that while she was out here going out of her way to make him feel loved and appreciated but he would never do the same for her, or so she thought.

“Okay then,” She shakily sighed out, “I’ll see myself out.” Bending down to grab her discarded purse but not before saying, “I’m sorry for wasting your time, Walker.” Not bear or August, he called her what everyone else did. It was a painful reminder of something he had lost and not appreciated enough. It was for her own good, he thought, she doesn’t deserve to be with a monster like myself. 

His hands abandoned his position against the wall as he recalled his harsh dismissal of her, “We aren’t together, in any shape or form. You made it very clear that night.” Taking advantage of the gap he created between them as he stepped back from her, she walked away from his office before he had a chance to say anything. Sitting down on his office chair he banged both his fists on the desk, which made all the objects in it jump slightly before coming back down. Deciding that he had enough for the day, he hastily collected his belongings before exiting the office to head home. 

As he got on his motorcycle, he remembered how firm her arms clung around his waist every time she rode with him. She feared falling on the vehicle and despite August’s repeated promises that he wouldn't ever let that happen to her; secretly, he loved it when she pressed her frame firmly against his back. It made him feel loved and appreciated — and that wasn’t the only time or her only way to let him feel so.

Turning off the engine as he parked, he trotted up to his apartment and once the door opened he took in the messy state of it. Ever since her exit, he neglected to take care of it because he wasn’t impressing her anymore. Besides, he fears that once he does organize his flat he just might find more relics of their shared time. 

Quickly showering the day’s dirt, he then laid down on his bed with a hand behind his head as subconsciously — or purposely if his brain decided to torture him as well — his would often replay what happened during these quiet, lonely moments of the night. And without fail, it always gives him the urge to smack himself for breaking her that way. Truth is she was everything he wanted and needed. Upon meeting her, he knew he wanted to change for the better just so he would be deemed worthy enough to be with her. There was something about her being magnificent in her own account that made him feel inferior to her.

It also didn’t help that he had never been in a serious relationship before; he often went for hookups and one night stands since his fear of commitment did not allow him to easily open up to anyone. But with her it was as if it was his instinct to tear down the facade he displayed to the world. “I love her,” He came to that conclusion and it shook him to his core.

Before closing his eyes to enter a state of unconsciousness, he then decided that he would confess what he felt to her, beg for her forgiveness, and ask for a chance to start a relationship with her. “Gonna do whatever it takes,” He promised to himself with a smile before pictures of him with Y/N clouded his dreams. 

The moment he stepped foot on his floor, he noticed how Y/N wasn’t in her cubicle. Maybe I’ll talk to her after work, he thought to himself as he entered his office and busied himself with work.

Y/N knew it was an atrocious idea — one that could backfire in her face — but something about yesterday’s encounter with August fueled her to do so. It was nearing four in the afternoon when Joshua stopped by her cubicle to ask her once again if she wanted to hang out with him; in all fairness, he was a nice guy. But once you’ve had a taste of gold in your life, you would never settle for a nickel.

“So Y/N, I was wondering maybe we could grab dinner after this? I know this great restaurant that just opened a couple blocks from here,” The brunette nervously suggested as he leaned against her post. Not sure if August was seeing the whole exchange, she decided to stand beside him as she trailed her hand to his forearm as she sweetly smiled at him, “Yeah? What do they serve?”

Cue Joshua nervously rambling about the menu and ambiance of the restaurant as a Hammer prepared to nail down his mark on his woman. The moment he saw the sleazy boy once again drop by her cubicle, he was closely monitoring the situation and was more than displeased to observe how his woman flirted back at him. The fucking audacity you have, princess, He thought as he sauntered over there.

Gasps were emitted from both Y/N and Joshua when August stormed in to interrupt their discussion— pushing the brunette away as he pulled Y/N in for a searing kiss, ending their conversation. With his hands pressed against her cheeks, he poked his tongue on her lips as he demanded she let him in; and he could not help but smirk when she rested her hands on his arms, not pushing him away and instead feeling more of him, while she parted her lips to welcome his tongue without hesitance. 

Pulling away from their kiss, August placed a few more pecks on her lips before placing an arm on her lower back before arrogantly turning to Joshua, “Sorry pal, I don’t think the memo has reached you, so I’ll just make it crystal clear for you — Y/N is my woman so you better steer clear from here unless you want an excuse to use your health insurance.”

Nervous gulping down and walking away from her cubicle was how Joshua rescinded to the situation; while August led Y/N into his personal office despite the gasps and stares of the other employees. Right now, he didn’t give a damn about their gossiped hunches for his princess tested his patience.

““What the hell was that about, princess?” He angrily asked as he turned to her with a stern expression as he rested a hand on his hip. Opposite him was a smirking woman who threw him the same answer she was given when they talked, “What was what, Walker?”

Realizing how the tables have turned, he exhaled through his nose in order to remain calm before huskily explaining how he saw things, “What were you thinking when you grazed his arm,” To emphasize, he ran a hand in her forearm to reenact how she sensually touched the other boy, “But you know what I find the most interesting? Was the way you eagerly kissed me back; do you know what that was all about?”

His breath touched her cheek having walked up right in front of her; this distracted her for a bit as her brain scrambled to formulate an explanation for her actions. “Well?” August lifted a brow as he slightly moved his head, prompting her to answer the question.

“I don’t know what that was, bear.” Despite her timid answer, he heard it loud and clear. But what really pleased him was the fact that she didn’t use his name rather she used the nickname she graced him that one time Y/N poked fun about how hairy he was since he refuses to shave his chest hair and moustache.

“So you had no idea as to why you touched him like that when you know for a fact that you belong to me,” He clarified to her as he tilted her chin up with the other hand that wasn’t resting on his hip to get her to look at him. 

“How many times do I have to make it clear to you that I do not fucking belong to you; that is what you said to me, right?” Her bold facade quickly disappeared as he grabbed her arms, walking towards the window. Making her turn to face the window, he pressed her cheek against the glass window, “Well I’m gonna fucking remind you that you belong to me and only me.”

Rough fingertips lifted her skirt, leaving the velvet bunched up around her waist, and ripped her panties to shove it in her mouth, “Don’t need you speaking if all that’s gonna leave your dumb mouth is you don’t belong to me. You’re not gonna speak unless you state my claim on you.”

A muffled whine was all she could let out as she nodded when her pussy welcomed two of his thick fingers that were ruthlessly slamming in and out of her. His other hand creeped towards her clit as he alternated between rubbing and pinching on the hardened nub. “Can you feel your cunt dripping? This is how your body reacts to me because you want me so bad.”

With the hand that was previously on her nub, he tore her blouse open and fondled a breast, “Such a naughty princess, not wearing any bra,” Pulling on her nipple elicited a prolonged moaned as she rested her forehead against the window, “Were you planning this the whole time?”

The answer she let out was obscure with her mind fuzzy from the way his fingers were hammering in and out of her mercilessly while he helped her remain on her feet by having a firm hold on her boob. “You’re still the needy princess I know you are.”

August smirked at how she let out a pathetic moan when he pulled his fingers out of her for it proved he was right. Palms resting against the cold glass, she turned her head around and watched as he lowered his zipper to pull his cock out. “Do you even deserve to have my cock?”

Nodding her head and up down was all the response she could give him as he continued to degrade her, “I don’t think you do,” To amp up his teasing, he rubbed the tip of his cock from her clit down to her opening multiple times; causing her legs to shake in need as she moved her hips towards his tip. “You’ve lost your princess privileges the moment you talked to him,” He whispered, lips pressing against the shell of her ear.

One of her hands left the crisp window and instead sought out for the warm hand that was in her boob, clawing onto him desperately to let him know how badly she still wanted him in any way she could have him. The sting of her nails made him smile wickedly as he took pity on her and slid his whole length in one go, “That make you happy, princess?”

The side of her head leaned against the window but she still managed to nod as she was extremely thrilled for having him inside her. Blindly, her other hand left the window as she searched for his vacant hand and collapsed them together. Even though her eyes were closed as she was blissed out with the way he was pounding in and out her hole without a care; August however felt touched that there was this part of her instinctively reached out to hold his hand affectionately.

He guided their entangled hands down to her stomach so he could press her back firmly against his front, “Never forget that you belong to me, princess.” It was in that moment that his wide tip grazed her g spot so she could only mewl and nod weakly as her overwhelming gratification blocked out her senses. 

Coughing up a bit once he pulled her panties out of her mouth, her shoulders then bore the weight of his arm, “Tell me you’re all mine, princess!” He demanded as barked it out on her before biting the shell.

“I’m all yours, bear!” She gasped out when he repeatedly hit her g spot every time his cock entered her. Her velvet walls were now making it harder for the Hammer to nail her for it clung to him like glue to the point that it was almost choking his cock, almost triggering an early orgasm from him. Wanting to focus on something else, his mouth peppered kisses on the skin of her shoulders and neck with the full intention of leaving dark, purple bruises so people knew she was off limits.

Y/N never felt this simulated in all the times she slept with August; the way his cock rummaged her hole with vigour and determination made her buckle her knees, the feel of his rough facial hair prompted her to push her neck more to his lips while her feeling his hand firmly against hers made her feel loved. In the haste of a moment, she let out a confession of, “Missed you so much, bear.”

Feeling his heartbeat increase at her confession, he snapped his hips faster to drive his cock even harder to her, in tune with the way his heart beat against his chest, “Really though you didn’t want me anymore.” He couldn’t take the way she sounded so broken — what made it worse was that he made her feel this way, and he vowed to himself that he wouldn’t cause her to feel that way again.

“I’m so sorry, princess,” Hearing him apologize, she turned her to face him again and was surprised when he kissed her lips softly — in contrast with how he was driving her cock in and out of her roughly — before letting his lips rest against hers as he continued to speak, “Never gonna let you go, never gonna hurt you.”

“You promise, bear?” Her small voice made her seem even more vulnerable than she already was; meanwhile August nodded fiercely as he kissed her once again. “I promise, princess,” That promise left his lips repeatedly against her lips.

Unvolutaringly clenching her walls on his cock, she moaned out loud against his prickly lips, “I’m so close, bear. Please let me cum.” And that reminded him how he was in charge and still has to decide if she gets to cum. 

“I think I can grant you one princes privilege, what do you think?” His smirk widened upon seeing her pleading eyes looked at him and moaned in agreement. Still holding onto her hand with one of his own, the other went to graze her cheek as he coaxed her, “Cum for me, princess; let me feel how much you missed me.”

He then drove his cock deep in her to the point he repeatedly bumped her g spot which set her orgasm off — she screamed out loud as her hand squeezed his hand so tight yet it didn’t have any effect on him. Loving the way her walls immediately relaxed their grip on his cock, he took advantage of it by chasing his own orgasm.

“Take my cum, princess,” He breathed out and felt his thrusts decrease their pace while they still had the same vigour. Stilling as he shot loads of his sperm, he pressed her against him needing her to ground him back. With a kiss on the side of her temple he let out, “I love you so much, princess.”

Despite her brain being a fumbling mess, she caught on what he said and pushed herself off his cock and turned to look at him, “What?”  Her fingers were busy lowering her skirt and trying to make her blouse look presentable as it could be while August tucked his meat back in his pants so he could hold both her hands.

“I love you,” He reiterated before taking a deep breath, “I love you and it scared me to find out how strongly I felt for you — because this was something I have never felt for anyone.” A breathless gasp was all she could let out upon being presented with this information.

Sensing her confusion, August placed a kiss on the back of both her palms before speaking once more, “I know this is a lot to take in, but maybe we can take it one step at a time? We go out on actual dates so you can also let me prove to you how much you mean to me.”

Her eyes were searching for any indication in his that he was just pulling her leg, “I know I haven’t shown you exactly what you mean to me — and that is due to my stupidity and immaturity — but if you let me, I will treat you like the sublime and divine being that you are. Spending those days without you made me realize the vital role you fulfilled in my existence.”

Her lips broke into a smile as her heart fluttered at what he said; Y/N lunged to him, wrapping his arms around her neck as she kissed his lips passionately. The Hammer was more than happy to reciprocate the passion she had for the kiss as he wrapped his thick arms around the middle of her back. 

“Does this mean you’ll take me back?” It was shocking how soft the tone of his voice was when he asked this to her as they pulled away from the kiss. Bopping his nose with a finger, she smiled at him before nodding, “It means exactly that, bear. I love you and you have me now. Officially, that is.”

Loving the sound of that, he pecked her lips once again and pulled away with the widest grin his lips had ever made, “I love you more, princess. You always were officially mine, you just didn’t know it yet.”

[wiypt-writes]

Guilty As Charged

Guilty As Charged: Bucky Barnes One Shot

Summary: Defence Attorney James ‘Bucky’ Barnes is the absolute bane of your life…

Pairing: Lawyer AU Bucky Barnes x Reader (Frenemies!)

Warnings: Bad language words.

Word Count- Under 2k

A/N:  This was originally posted on my old blog ages ago, but I’ve just given it a little polish and thought, seeing as I’m on the Bucky Train at the moment, I’d bring it back. Also, my knowledge on US Criminal Law is sketchy at best, so humour me…

Disclaimer: This is a pure work of fiction and classified as 18+. Please respect this and do not read if you are underage. I do not own any characters in this bar reader and any other OCs that may or may not be mentioned. By reading beyond this point you understand and accept the terms of this disclaimer.

Bucky Barnes Masterlist // Main Masterlist

*******

In God We Trust, the words set about the Judge’s podium were fixed in your vision, motes of dust moving freely in the rays of sunlight which were streaming through the large, ornate windows of the court room and you took a deep breath, letting it out slowly, concentrating on expelling the nerves you were feeling with the air that left your mouth and lungs.

No matter how many times you were in this position, the reading of the verdict still got to you. Your gaze turned to the jury, as the judge did the same, that all important question ringing across the room, the air stiflingly tense.

“On the charge of murder in the first degree, do you find the defendant or not guilty"

“Not guilty.”

Fuck.

Cheers from the defendants family drowned out your loud groan as you rubbed at your temple. Looking over at your colleague, Sam, you shook your head in utter disbelief.

The judge continued through the remaining charges, second-degree murder and voluntary manslaughter, and your despair grew as the same verdict was returned for each.

You’d lost. And it stung, not merely because of your near perfect conviction rate, but for the family of the victim you were one-hundred percent convinced the accused.

"Y/N this wasn't your fault.” Sam stated in a low voice but you simply sighed again and shrugged.

"I was sure they'd see through his lies,” you glanced over to your right where the defence team, headed up by James Buchanan Barnes of Barnes and Rogers Law firm were shaking hand with each other and their defendant. Barnes' face was arranged in the usual smug look that you always had the urge to slap right off it. His partner, Steve, glanced over at you and gave you a genuine, sympathetic smile.

He’s always the most courteous out of the two, the one you actually didn’t mind dealing with when it came to cases.

"He fucking did it Y/N," Sam's voice was almost a growl, "I know he did."

"Well in the eyes of the law he didn’t." You stated, standing up.

The commotion continued behind you, as the defendant was told he was free to go. Making sure to keep your head down, you hastily shuffled your papers back into their respective files and packed your briefcase up. Picking up your jacket, you shrugged it on, smoothing down pencil skirt before you head to leave the courtroom before Barnes can pipe up with his usual smart ass quips. But you're not quite fast enough. "Commiserations Miss Y/LN, can't win em all." The familiar Brooklyn drawl hit your ears.

"Buck," Steve sighed "c'mon pal..."

You grit your teeth. You know you shouldn't rise to it, but you just can’t help it. The man is an utter jack ass in the courtroom. Spinning to face him, you shot him your best contemptuous glare, the one you always reserve for those people you really cannot stand, and looked at him like he was something you'd just trodden in.

"You know Barnes, there is such a thing as being gracious in victory as well as defeat." "Defeat?” He asked, looking at Steve with a puzzled expression on his face, “no, not sure what that is." "Eat shit.” You mumbled before turning to Sam who was stood behind you, watching the exchange. You nod to him and the two of you continued up the aisle towards the exit. The victim's family were congregated outside and all at once the start barraging you with questions.

"How did that happen?"

"You said it was a cert he would go down!”

"What about a private prosecution?”

You sighed and turn to look at them, you were exhausted. "I'm sorry.” You shook your head. “That new evidence that his attorney submitted, it was just threw too much of a doubt into the juries mind..." you held your hand up to gently silence them. “If you're serious about a private prosecution then I can meet you next week to discuss and put you in touch with a few people but I’m sorry, as far as the State’s involvement goes…I can’t do anymore."

Escaping as quickly as you could, you and Sam headed back to your office. After a short meeting with your boss, the District Attorney, who was as pissed as you were that the prosecution had failed, you emerged feeling twice as tired and battered as you had when you’d left the courtroom.

As Sam stated, there was only one thing left you could do. Drink alcohol. A lot of alcohol.

It was a short walk to your preferred bar, having decided to abandon your car and collect it in the morning. You were going to get drunk. Really drunk. "Hey Y/N, hey Sam." Clint, the bar tender greeted you. “I hear it wasn't a great day.” You looked up and saw he was pointing to the TV behind the bar. It was on a news channel, focussing on a report from earlier that afternoon which wasn’t surprising. The case had thrown up huge public interest ever since the body of the teenage girl has been found in the alleyway in Queens. The defendant confessed but somehow, the new evidence submitted was an alleged recording that the defence had gotten their hands on as proof the confession was taken under duress. If you were being totally honest, you had to admit that it didn't sound great, the officer did seem to be leaning heavily on the defendant, but the other evidence was, no, IS overwhelming.

But all it needed was that little seed of doubt, which the defence sowed expertly, and the jury couldn't convict. And now, thanks to Barnes and Rogers, specifically Barnes, in your mind a dangerous killer was walking free. As you stared at the television, you saw Barnes on the screen with the defendant, all smiles and Steve at his side. Barnes greeted the press with a raised hand. "Clint turn it over man." Sam almost pleaded and Clint shot you both a sympathetic look, before he pointed the remote at and flicked the report over to a mundane, late afternoon game show. You ordered 2 beers, and then settled at the bar on one of the tall chairs, crossing your bare, heeled legs as you and Sam began to dissect the case. You couldn’t help it, you always did this, analyse where you went wrong or right.

The pair of you got that enthralled in your discussions, that before you know it, it was an hour lager and you're now four beers deep... and Sam was fielding an angry phone call from his wife, Natasha. "I gotta go, boss." He sighed, apologetically, “it’s my little girl’s dance recital at six and if I miss this one, Nat’s gonna hang me out to dry!” You waved his explanation off. “Its fine, Sam. Oh, and take the morning tomorrow. That case has had us working all hours and I don’t intend on being there till lunch. Clint, gimme a bourbon please?" "Don't let Barnes get to you.” Sam sighed. “You know what he is like" "Smug, arrogant and annoyingly self-righteous.” You nodded. “Yup, I got it.” Sam smiled and dropped a friendly kiss to your cheek. "See you later." Clint slid the glass of bourbon over to you and you smiled before pulling out your phone to check a few emails and your social media. You were just reading through an article about a Billionaire in Manhattan who had designed some kind of metal suit that allowed him to fly (because that's gonna end well), when a familiar voice broke your concentration. "Can I buy you a drink?" You rolled your eyes and looked up at Bucky Barnes as he leaned on the bar, still in his suit, although he had dispensed of his black and white tie, and opened his top button. This was another thing you hated about him. He is utterly gorgeous. Like GQ cover gorgeous, especially in his sharp suits and silk ties.

And he fucking knows it, too. "Depends." You shrugged, throwing back the remainder of your bourbon. "Does it come with a side helping of irritating smugness?" He chuckled. "I'm off duty, Doll so no."

"In that case I'll have another Monkey Shoulder." You slid the empty glass back to Clint. "Take it you're not driving home?" Barnes asked, his azure eyes running over your bare legs. "Well if I do and I get caught, I'm sure you can get me off any charges.” You replied sharply, shooting him a look that made it clear you caught him eyeing you up. And it isn't the first time either. That's another reason you clash so much in the courtroom. Sexual tension. Fucking jerk. He barked out a laugh "You're really not happy with me are you?" "Not particularly." You shook your head, thanking Clint as he pushed the now full glass back to you, with a small wink. It's a double, you noticed. That should set Barnes back a bit. Bucky reached for his beer and after a pull he looked directly at you. "Come work for me." He said and you groaned.

Not this again. "I'm a prosecutor." You rolled your eyes. "Not a defence attorney. I told you that last time you asked. And the time before, and the time before that." "I'm nothing if not persistent." He winked, turning in his stool so he was facing you. "Besides, I can teach you the ways of the dark side." "You’d love that wouldn't you?" You snort. "Oh, Sweetheart you have no idea." He leaned forward slightly, his elbow on the bar and this time he is blatantly staring at the flash of skin that was showing above the buttons on your blouse. "My face is up here, ass hole." With a smirk he raised his deep, blue eyes and they locked onto yours. Despite yourself, you feel your breath hitch slightly. Dammed him and his sex appeal. "Why are you always this insufferable?" You eventually tore your gaze away from his and picked up your drink, glancing up at the TV as an excuse not to look at him. "Ah come on Y/N, don’t be like that." He reached out to squeeze your hand which was resting on the back of the tall chair you were sat in. "We could make a great team..." You raised an eyebrow and looked at him. "Professionally.” He added, his eyes not leaving yours as he took another large drink of his beer, and you pulled your hand away from under his. "I'd kill you within five minutes of us being in the same office." You glared at him as you took another sip from your drink. He chuckled and eyed you again, “to be fair I'm not sure Stevie would be able to function with a beautiful dame such as yourself in close proximity. He still flusters around any woman that isn’t his Peggy.” "That's because Steve is a happily married man." "So am I." He shot back. Ah yes, Mrs Barnes… "Your wife deserves a medal. She must have the patience of a fucking saint to put up with you." You said into your glass. "I have other hidden qualities which mean she's prepared to overlook my slightly less favourable personality traits." He quipped, and you looked back to see that lopsided grin on his face that flips your stomach. Behave Y/N. "They must be very hidden." You mused, and he let out another loud laugh.   "You're killing me, Doll.” "Good." You drained your glass. The liquid burnt your throat and you could feel the effects of the alcohol from the last few hours as your brain started to hum. You looked at Barnes who was watching you, his eyes shining with all the cheekiness of a teenage boy and you know you need to leave before you do something stupid.

Like snogging his dumb, handsome face off. "I think it's time I got going." You said simply, standing up. Barnes gave a nod, draining his bottle. “Yeah I should be making tracks too. Wife to see to, you know how it is.” You stood and he did the same, and you realised he was holding up your jacket, ready for you to slide your arms into. Narrowing your eyes slightly at his sudden chivalry, you couldn’t help the small smile that flickered across your face as you turned and allowed him to help you into it. His hands dropped to your shoulders and he span you round gently and smiled with those perfect teeth, a smile that lit up his beautiful face, his eyes crinkling in the corners. "Lead the way Mrs Barnes.” He instructed softly, dropping a tender kiss to your lips. "You know it's a good job I love you,” you smiled, sliding your arms up round his neck. "Yeah, I know." "Although right now I'm struggling to remember why." "Well, when we get home I'll just have to show you some of those hidden qualities I was talking about, see if they help jog your memory.” You bit your lip slightly at the dark flash of desire that flit across his eyes, and you leant up to brush your lips across his stubbled jawline. "Unanimous verdict,” your voice drops slightly as you pull back and he smirked again, “guilty as charged.” You tossed Clint a good bye, linked your hand into your husband’s and he walked you outside into the brisk wind, his arm pulling you close, his lips pressed a soft kiss to your temple. Yeah, James Buchanan Barnes might be an insufferable, arrogant ass hole in the courtroom, but outside it he's simply your Bucky.

[fandom-go-round]

Eyes Like Stars: Oberon x Reader

This is the 1000+ Follow Giveaway! Thank you for being patient with this and I hope everyone enjoys

Warnings: Reader Dealing with Mental Health By Ignoring it, Implied Mental Health Issues, Spoilers for Fate Grand Order Lostbelt 6, Oberon Lying like the Liar he is, Oberon might be a little OOC

           It’s easy to say that you’re busy all of the time but that’s not quite it. Yes, you have your duties to fulfill in Chaldea and emergencies pop up that need to be delt with. The more honest answer is to say that you keep yourself busy on purpose. If you have things to do, you don’t have time to focus on what’s happening in the outside world. Or your family. Or your friends. Or the fact you don’t think you can ever go back to normal. Doing things makes you feel better and it keeps you moving forward.

           This, of course, means that your Servants make it their mission to get you to relax. It’s a push and pull that some have been doing for a long time and Oberon had noticed it right away. Not that he’s been trying to notice of course. He doesn’t like being here but if he can’t leave, he might as well find something entertaining to pass the time. And, as much as he hates to admit it, you’re the most entertaining thing in Chaldea.

           He can say, with no hesitation, that you work way too much. Oberon isn’t a fan of honest anything and watching you work yourself to the bone drives him crazy. It’s not like he cares, of course it’s not that. He just gets so bored watching you run from place to place, he wants to throw you off. He wants you to stop doing tasks and focus on something fun. It’s not because he cares though. Not at all. Not that he wants you to pay attention to him.

           That’s what Oberon keeps telling himself as he watches you in the cafeteria, head buried in some kind of report. Mash is talking about something and you nod along, handing her the report before turning back to your dinner. Which, he notes to himself, has been sitting on the table for at least an hour and is probably cold. He smirks when you take a bite and makes a face; that’s what you get for being so nice to everyone else.

           He watches as the cafeteria begins to clear out, food served and Servants retreating for the night. You stay at your table, dinner forgotten again as Gawain comes up to ask you something. It’s not the bags under your eyes that upset Oberon. You’re not that important in his life. He’s just curious to see when you’re going to pass out and if it’s going to be in your soup.

           “Master!” You jerk at the call, turning to smile to Nursery Rhyme and Jack as they run over to you. Gawain quickly makes his exit, telling you to have a good night as he goes. Your focus is completely on the kids now and Oberon would think it was sweet if you were less annoying. Sleep should be your only priority but instead you’re talking to the kids now.

           “You want a story?” He only tuned back into the conversation when your voice rose, preoccupied with watching the red archer clean in the kitchen. He had been scolding the cat berserker and Oberon was content to watch the omelet on the stove go into flames. Not his magic, not at all. He’s snickering when your voice breaks through the drama, turning to see the kids looking at you with wide eyes.

           “Please Master? Just one before bed?” Nursery Rhyme’s hands are clasped in front of her face and Jack nods by her side, their eyes wide.

           “Please please please?” Jack’s whining seems to be your downfall, a sigh coming from your mouth even as you smile.

           “I guess I can do one story for the night.” The kids cheer at your words and begin to dance around you. This is when Oberon finally comes over to you, smiling and setting a hand on your shoulder.

           “That sounds perfect. Let’s do it Master.” You jump at his touch and his words, turning to give him a confused look. Oberon doesn’t let you argue, helping you up and following after the impatient children. You try to turn towards the smoking kitchen but he doesn’t let you stop, ignoring the half glare you send him.

           “What’s going on over there? Was it you” He laughs at your question, giving your cheek a quick pinch.

           “How rude Master, and after I decided to help you out.” The dry look that you give him makes him smile, snickering to himself.

           “I never asked for your help. And since when do you like stories?” He shrugs at your question, focusing on how the kids have led you to their room. They don’t hesitate to invite you both in, jumping onto bed and snuggling under the covers. Oberon takes a look around the room, letting you negotiate the bookshelf for a story.

           “Are you going to help?” Nursery Rhyme’s question makes him turn and he smiles, going to stand over your shoulder.

           “Of course. That’s why I’m here after all.” You shoot him another look and he laughs, grabbing another chair to sit next to you. It’s fun to read with you, Oberon will admit that. You get so into it, making voices and getting input from the kids. He makes himself a nuisance, chiming in with wrong lines and asking silly questions but the kids eat it up. You look annoyed but its fond and he grins when he sees that he’s made you smile.

           The kids insist on another story and Oberon steps in, letting you take a back seat. He half watches as you begin to fall asleep, head bobbing against your chest. The kids are already out like a light but he keeps reading until your breathing evens out.

           He doesn’t want to carry you back. No way. He just doesn’t want to get in trouble when the others figure out that you’re not in your room. It has nothing to do with how soft your face is and how you snuggle into him. Nothing at all.

           Oberon tucks you in and watches you sleep for a moment before leaving. Better to go before he decides he wants to keep you. Damn Master, being so interesting. Such a pain. He smiles to himself, closing the door and vowing to keep an eye on you. He’s not going to let the most interesting thing in this place get away now.

[cvtqr]

hm, boring

parings; jean kirstein x reader x marco

content warning; relationship with sharing, hair pulling, face fucking, degradation, spanking, squirting, horse cock marco, + someone additional listening in

“jeannn~ ‘m tired. come cuddle with me pleaseee~” 

“EREN WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING WE’RE ON THE SAME SQUAD!?”

there he goes, ignoring you. nothing new though. every single night jean would be on his god damn game with his friends. night time was the only time you two could spend together because of your jobs getting in the way. he doesn't even like eren yet he choose playing with him over paying attention to you? tch, what a joke.

that's when the idea popped in your head. you reached over to the nightstand, grabbed your phone, and opened your messages. 

hey bodt! come over and hang with me n jean, haven't seen you in awhile :)

y/nnn!!! i was actually just doin some work at the cafe by your apartment! guess i’ve been overworking myself that i haven't had the time to come hangout with my best friends :(( but since it’s friday i guess ill drop by ≧◡≦

yeah it’s not good to overwork yourself! we’ve missed you, see you soon !

yup ;)

:)***** sorry y/n clicked the wrong button (・_・ヾ

its fine haha, see ya bodt!

you giggled to yourself. yeah, he was your and your boyfriends best friend, but he really was adorable. such a gentleman. 

well that's when he isn't drilling into your tight little cunt while jean jacks off to the sight...

“who were you texting now that you’re all giggly?”

“just inviting someone over!”

“who.”

that came out not so much like a question

“marco! we haven't seen him in awhile.” you said while walking up behind jean in his chair. 

he spun around in his chair and looked up at you, patting his lap. of course you weren't going to refusing sitting in his arms, so you snuggled into his lap.

“simp. hi y/n”  you faintly heard from jean’s headset 

“SHUT UP YEAGER YOU CANT EVEN GET A GIRLFRIEND”

you took his headset, since they were just in the lobby of a game, and put it over your head. 

“hiiii eren.”

“give me that you little shit.”

you lightly slapped him on his cheek and got up to sit back on your bed, hearing him chuckle.

little did you know you were going to regret thet later 

it wasn't long before you heard marco knock on the front door. 

you ran out of the bedroom and unlocked the door for him, greeting him with a warm hug. 

“ok so i kind of lied. i just wanted you to come over. but that's only because jeans ignoring me!” 

before giving him a chance to respond you took his arm and dragged him to the bedroom. 

“hey hey jean!”

“hey bodt - EREN STOP IT YOU FUCKING BASTARD.” 

you rolled your eyes and plopped down onto your bed, marco following behind you. you knew that jean has an agreement to share you from time to time, so you cuddled up into his strong arms, resting your head on his broad chest. 

he smiled and squeezed you tight. but when jean saw you two from the reflection, he was mad. he knew that he shouldn't have a reason to be mad though, he was the one rejecting giving you the much needed attention. he didn't know if it was because marco was the reason you were smiling right now, or the fact that his hand was roaming a little too far up your thigh. 

but what jean didn't know was that marcos been... well, sexually frustrated. like he said before, he been burying himself way too deep into work. being a CEO was a lot of work, even for someone as bright as marco. he used to go at it a little too frequently, but now he never even has the chance to jack off. 

so what was his real reason for coming here.

“eren are you there? eren? erennn”

not bothering to shut anything off he put his head set down on his desk and walked over to you and marco. 

 “you guys hungry?”

you slowly opened your eyes, looking over to jean.

you and marco both nodded your heads.

15 minutes later the three of you were gathered in the living room, you and jean sitting on either side of marco. 

everyone was laughing while jean teased you as always. but when you went to go playfully smack his head? the cup of ice cold water in your hand tipped over and spilt all over marco’s jeans.

“ ‘m so sorry hold on!!”

you ran up and into the kitchen grabbing a hand towel. you came back to the couch, sitting back in your spot, taking the towel, dabbing it all over the stain on marco’s pants. you didn't know why he was blushing to an extent though. 

“its, its fine y/n! its just water it’ll dry”

you removed the towel to reveal a huge bulge in his pants. so that's why he was so embarrassed.

“im sorry, im sorry! ive just been really frustrated lately and-”

“just help him, y/n.”

marco let out a relived sigh when you got onto your knees in front of him. you slowly brought your hand up to his zipper and pulled it down. he then helped you pull of his pants and boxers just for his erection to spring up and hit into his stomach. 

he never failed to impress you, he was defiantly bigger than jean. long and girthy with a few veins running down the shaft, pre-cum dribbling out of the tip. 

without saying a word, you took his cock into your hands slowly stroking him, using his pre-cum as lube. 

“p-please y/n. i want it in your mouth.”

knowing how mean and dominate he can get while riled up, you obeyed, enjoying the shy side of him.

you swirled your tongue around his tip before bobbling your head down, taking as much as you can. marco’s hands found his way into your hair while throwing his head back. it was taking everything to not just buck his hips up and shove his cock down your pretty little throat.

“so you’re just gonna let her run that slutty mouth up and down n not just fuck her throat? hm, boring.”

at the moment you wish jean would've just bit his tongue while marco let out a deep, long chuckle. 

he then tightened his grip around your hair and forced you down further onto him before thrusting up into your throat. he was way too big for you, the tip of his cock hitting the back of your throat earning a gag from you.

“what's wrong can't take it? i really thought you were a slut... getting onto your knees for your boyfriends best friend and letting him fuck that tiny throat of yours.” 

his degrading words were enough for you to slip your hands down your shorts, slowing adding friction to your clit. 

jean, now fully erect got up from his spot on the couch and squatted down next to you, pulling your hand away and out of your pants, a tight grip around your wrist. 

“i don't think anyone told you to touch yourself, now did they?”

without warning, marco came in your mouth, his warm cum spilling down your throat. he then pulled you off his cock, a string of saliva mixed with cum still connecting you to him. marco looked down to jean and nodded.

jean stood up, bringing you up with him and walked over to the bedroom, marco following close behind and closing the door once you all got inside.

jean pushed you down onto the bed. the two men were now hovering over you, looking down onto you. you definitely lost any sort of control over this situation. 

“hmm, i think you deserve a punishment baby. i mean for slapping me before.”

“that wasn't my fault tho-”

“shut up. no one said you could talk.” he spat out

jean then sat on the bed next to you. you knew exactly what he wanted. you crawled over and laid face first across his lap, ass perking up, while marco took a seat on jean’s gaming chair facing the both of you.

“you’ll only get ten today. i hear anything fall from that mouth besides you counting, i’m leaving to go spend the night at marcos”

you shook your head yes while a harsh slap landed right across your ass.

“o-one” you said while sniffling 

marco on the other hand was started to palm himself through his boxers at the sight in front of him.

“te- ten!” you basically cried out at this point. you usually get more, but jean was harsh tonight. 

meanwhile, no one in the room realized the discord chat going off on jean’s computer

surprised your still on... mikasa ratted me out about something so my mom called and chewed my ear out longer than expected.

helloooo?

jean?

“my sweet girl, you were so good for me. as a reward i’ll let you have marco’s cock. you’ll let him fuck you, right baby?”

eagerly you nodded while jean switched places with marco, now sitting on the chair. 

“as always im going to prep you first, i wouldn't want to hurt you. that alright?”

without having to say anything you pulled your shorts down and disregarded them onto the floor. 

marco then pushed you down onto your back while slipping down your panties. you looked up into his eyes while he shoved to fingers knuckles deep into your cunt, earning a sweet soft moan from your lips.

a few minutes after using his fingers to stretch you out, you left your climax building with a familiar feeling in your stomach.

“m-marco i’m gonna~”

about to cream all over his fingers, he pulled them out and flipped you onto your stomach.

“didn’t think i’d let you off the hook that easy hm?”

“marco pleaseee, i need too, please!!” you were basically sobbing over the fact that you wanted to get fucked

“no need to be a little cry baby y/n. he’ll let you cum when he wants to.” said jean from across the room, fucking his fist

“no, no its not that... it’s just that nothing feels better than your sweet cum running down my shaft.” right when he finished his sentace he shoved his cock right into your tight cunt, completely bottoming out and thrusting into you without giving you time to adjust.

“ ‘s too big marco please!”

“sorry, couldn’t help it baby.” the sight was so lewd. marco pounding into you from behind and shoving your head down into the mattress. jean behind you two fucking his first harder than ever. the room filled with wet slapping sounds and your loud moans, along with grunting from the two boys.

“ ah~ baby you’re squeezing me so, so well.” said marco while reaching his hand down, finding your clit and rubbing harsh circles around it.

“mm need to-”

marco sent a harsh slap onto your clit, sending your whole body jerking foward, squirting all over his cock.

marco let out another chuckle at your reaction. “wow, first time anyone’s ever squirted on my cock.”

he pulled out soon after and released all over your ass, crashing down on top of you, out of breath. jean was about to come over and help the both of you clean up until everyone heard a sort of high pitched moan. you and marco knew that didn’t sound like jean and both flipped over.

you all soon realized the headset on jeans desk, the green light indicating it was still on and running. you all then caught on to what was happening on the other side.

“wow jean... didn’t know little y/n was such a slut.”