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joelhoney · 11 months

Text

#1 girl

pairing: dbf joel miller x afab/sorority sister reader

kenny here... tumblr Blipped me u guys. but i loved this too much to let it waste into nothingness. so here we go again take two using an ancient blog i never even used (from 2016 mind u...) enjoy!

You're too wrapped up in sorority duties to remember somebody's supposed to pick you up and drive you home tonight. One pissed-off Joel, curious conversation, and cowboy hat later, your evening takes an unexpected turn.

warnings: no outbreak au, dbf!joel, self gratuitous age gap (21/51), shy reader w/ some bursts of confidence, blowjob (m receiving), handjob (f receiving), dirty talk, praise, degradation too..., overuse of pet names... must b all

Of all the ways you imagined spending your fifth day of spring break, the last was in your dad’s best friend’s pickup truck with lame rock playing dryly through the console radio. In fact, last is generous—the idea itself had never even been conjured in your head.

The reason why is because you and your dad’s best friend—Mr. Miller—don’t typically interact beyond the confines of dinners, mandatory laughter, and the occasional one-on-one about something like boys in college, or classes in college, or the drive to college. Nothing much had changed when you moved the brief drive away to UT Austin, and between you everything’s remained the same, even now in your senior year.

For instance, a break—summer, spring, winter—would begin with your parents picking you up and shuttling off to the house, and end with an affair of the similar sort. Quickly into your first year, though, you learned to always insist you either leave school late or leave home early for spring break to take advantage of campus parties, especially because your senior year had cemented your shiny new position as President of Alpha Phi.

Any officer position in a sorority already came with a good deal of responsibility, let alone the presidency; and in addition to having recently turned twenty-one, the role required you to exhaust every drop of social battery, every ounce of skill you had at party hosting and alcohol obtaining without the use of a flimsy fake.

The eliminated nerves of using fakes made you much less nervous during parties, which often led to you letting more loose than usual. This party you’re in was thrown by some frat on campus, but this house is your last place of four; first two pregames, then a bar, then here. At some point at the bar your sisters had surprised you with a fun gift for the night, so you’re also wearing a pink sash, onto which rhinestones spelling out #1 Girl have been glued with precision.

Already you’re dizzy, wiping clammy fingers on the stiff cotton of your tight tank top, the curve of your tits spilling over the Alpha Phi logo. It’s small on you, the hem high above your navel and higher above the loose, low hem of your denim shorts. If they fell low enough on your hips, the high arch of your pink thong would’ve shown itself—maybe it did at some point, you’re too loopy to care.

“Oh, no,” you’re saying, but you can barely hear yourself over the rap song playing and everyone singing along, “no, I hate Jäger.” You’re shaking your head at your best friend and Vice President, Lia, who raises two handfuls of the opaque liquid. She shakes her head, sets them down on the table you’re leaning against.

“Lighten up, duuude. We’re taking them to celebrate your first and last spring break as President.”

“Aw, fine,” you muse loudly, giving in. “Only this once.” Out of obligation and genuine gratitude, you allow yourself to stomach your least favorite drink—then another, and another, a bit of each shot dribbling down the column of your throat and stickily onto your chest.

Lia snaps at the red bra strap that peeks out of your tank strap, laughing. “Settle down, Prez.” A partygoer, rowdy as they come, roughly deposits a sweaty cowboy hat onto your head and you yelp in surprise, steadying it. Whoever gave this, I’m keeping it! you holler, laughing as you feed yourself a shot of something your tongue enjoys more.

Absolut crowds the inside of your mouth when you take it back, interrupted only when a hand comes to shake at your shoulder. In your rush to turn, you nearly hit them with your hat.

It’s Cole, a good friend and member of the frat whose house you’re currently getting tipsy in. His eyes are rimmed and the whole air of him smells like weed. He offers one greeting: “Yo.” His eyes slide down to your chest, where your tugged-down tank has exposed a few inches of your red bra’s lacy cups.

“Hey,” you say, the syllable sounding sticky. “Up here, you ass. Jägerbomb?” You offer a smile.

“‘M a’ight. Listen, some…” He shakes his head, like he’s trying to place what he’s here to tell you. Then he nods, having remembered—“Right. Some old guy’s out front asking for you.”

“Asking for me? Old… guy?” Your eyebrows scrunch together, mind foggy. “My dad?” Shit. You’d completely forgotten they’d be picking you up today or tomorrow. Maybe they’d been waiting for hours—it’s one-thirty, the clock on the living room mantel reads.

“Nah, man, not your dad, this guy’s… he’s got a red pickup truck, um, he’s, like, he’s old looking.” He raises a hand above his own head. “Tall.” His voice is drawly with the weed high, but as soon as he said red pickup, you knew exactly who he was talking about. One look at your phone confirms it—five missed calls and a message, 11PM, sent by your dad: Joel’s in the area for work. He’s going out with buddies but can swing by the house to pick you up. I’m giving him your #.

“Fuck.” You blink. “Fuck! I gotta go.”

You never usually have to pack shit to go home, considering the drive isn’t too far. Briefly you consider making a detour to collect things from your sorority house, but you decide to sacrifice the laptop and the few important chargers. So, armed with only your phone, you wrench your way out of the crowd, a few goodbyes thrown in your direction and back.

The front door is open so the partygoers spill onto the front yard, intermittent conversation littering the area. Along the pavement, frat guys’ Civics and and Priuses are parked beside an old looking red pickup truck; leaned against it is—

“Mr. Miller,” you blurt out when you’re closer to him, voice steady (your mind is just as well, shocked back to lucidity from his presence). “I’m sorry. I had no idea you’d be picking me up today—tonight—” You heave a sigh, apologetic, refusing to meet his eyes. “Sorry.”

His arms are crossed over his chest, the sleeves of his button-up rolled up to his elbows. Even from a few feet away you can make out the shape, the lines of muscle on his forearms. He looks tired, moody—more than usual—and your heart pangs with guilt at the idea that you could be the reason behind it. But despite your best—really, your best—efforts, your stomach still swoops the same way it did when you were seventeen and naive, enough to find next-door-neighbor Mr. Miller extremely handsome. Hell, extremely hot.

It didn’t make sense. You’d suspected your little crush would be that—an adolescent, childish thing, evaporating more and more into thin air with every drive made to campus. But he never stopped being handsome, never stopped his corny jokes and the pet names that got you warm every time you visited over break. You had plenty of eye candy on campus, athletes and gamers alike, and yes you’d been picky, but had managed to sleep with a select few—despite all of it, only the remnants of your fantasies of Mr. Miller satiated you when your hand creeps into the apex of your thighs late at night, lust wrangling shame into silence for a few minutes.

You blink and the train of thought is over—the real thing is here, eyebrows set low, mouth frowning.

“Kiddo,” he starts, his voice thin with exhaustion, “look, I’ve done my share of… drinkin’, and that. I get it. But you gotta…” He clicks his tongue, eyes looking your outfit up and down. “You gotta let me know, let your parents know, where you are, and if you’re okay. ‘Cause I really did not want to spend tonight drivin’ from house to bar, to bar to house, feelin’ like I was lookin’ all over Austin for you.”

“I know,” you supply quickly, nodding. Your hands, fidgety, find purchase on the fibres of the silk sash strung along your figure. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Miller. I didn’t check my phone the entire evening, and—”

“It’s okay.” He says, nonchalant, lifting himself off the side of the car to walk to the drivers’ side. Gruffly, he adds, “Car.”

You’re quick to tug the door open, settling yourself on the passenger seat and breathing nervously. Your legs are littered with body glitter, your chest with the tack of Jäger. You spot him outside, his walk slow. He’s annoyed—rightfully so—stopping just shy of the door to pinch at the bridge of his nose, his lips miming a slow exhale. When he finally wrangles himself to sit, it’s quiet for a minute, then another.

“Y’have fun?” He starts the car, thrumming it to life. You nod, then offer a verbal answer—yeah. He nods, wiping a palm over his face. “What were you up to?”

“I, um… I organized a pregame for my sorority.” You toy with the rogue strands of denim of your shorts. “We went to a bar, after… then another… then, well.” You gulp. “Here.” The last question escapes you in a shaky, breathy squeak. “And you?”

“Hah, sure, kid. Had some contractor thing, half an hour from here. Then drinks with a coupl’a buddies from work. Could’ve been home by eleven-thirty,” he says roughly, driving through the still-vibrant streets of campus, “but it’s nearin’ two and I’m on a college campus.” The urge to apologize bubbles at your lips, high in your stomach, but you remain quiet. After a few stretches of dry silence, he asks again. “That party must’ve been real fun for you to leave your old man—and me—on radio silence, wun’nit?”

“Sure,” you manage, stammering. “We were celebrating my sorority presidency.” The dark scenery of Austin blurs past.

“Oh, sorority presidency,” he repeats, both teasing and genuinely curious. “I did hear your dad mention you were in Alpha Phi, s’that right?” You nod. “What’s that, then? Do presidents get cowboy hats?”

Your face grows hot, hands reaching up to clutch at the rim of the hat atop your head. “No, this—somebody put it—it was a joke, Mr. Miller.” A huffy laugh escapes you. “Sorry.”

“Sweetheart,” he says, and you wrench the reminder he’s 51 he’s 51 he’s 51 through your head while he pauses, “‘m drivin’ you around Austin late at night, and I’ve known you for your whole life. How ‘bout we drop the Mr. Miller act, alright?”

“Oh. Okay,” you say. His hands grip the steering wheel firmly, and your eyes wander to his arms, to how he’s basically stuffed into the shirt he’s wearing, big and broad and bulky. His eyes remain focused ahead, so you let yourself indulge a tad bit more—lower, to the material of his jeans. It’s dark in the truck, so you can’t see much, just the flex of his thighs. “Joel.”

“Attagirl.” You chew at the inside of your cheek, already feeling arousal simmering in you, low and dirty. You’re going to soak through this godforsaken thong. “Mind if I make a pit stop?” You shake your head profusely, watch as he pulls into a gas station parking lot. “Want anythin’, girl?”

“N—” your lips form, but you scrap your original answer. “Gum, if they have it.”

“Be damned if they don’t.” He slams the door shut and you watch him enter the store, watch him through the glass panels. He’s so broad. You’d nearly completely forgotten how stupidly you liked him, and now it’s coming, throttling back full-force, especially with the thrilling aspect of it possibly coming to fruition. You are, after all, an adult. And so is he, paying for his shit with a tight-lipped expression, arms crossed again, arms big and—Jesus.

You squeeze your thighs together, willing yourself to get your shit in place when he pulls the door open again, his eyes scanning your seated figure. He tosses you the packet of gum, and you respond with a sweet thank you, Mr. M—Joel, and you fiddle with the packaging as he starts the car again, driving until scenery grows more and more familiar, closer to home.

“By the way,” he says, voice husky with the unuse of not talking for a while. “Think it’s best you spend the night at my house tonight, kid. It’s late. Later than late.” 2:44, the console digital clock reads in blinky red text. “Your parents don't want the door rattlin’ open at this hour, so I’ll let you in the guest room.”

“Oh,” you say. “Sure.”

“D’you have a change of clothes?” He asks, even if he knows you climbed into the seat with nothing but your phone and a cowboy hat. You shake your head and he tsks. “You’re barely covered, sweetheart. Best be careful walkin’ around when the night’s this chilly.”

Barely covered. You think of every possible response, but what leaves your glossed lips is the riskiest: “What do you mean, barely covered?”

You figure if he starts saying shit like what are you insinuatin’, kiddo? You better sleep at yours tonight instead, it’s an easy out—you’re turning the corner onto your street now, and your stomach is boiling with nerves, sticky and anticipatory. “I jus’ mean… it shows a lotta skin.”

“It’s sorority merch, Joel,” you reply, half-amused and half-defensive.

“No, I”—he sighs, like he wants to backtrack what he’s just said—“I know, but… always worth somethin’ to be careful. Might catch a cold with all that leg… all that—you—showin’.” He parks in front of his house, this sizey, homey thing, and your heart flips knowing how familiar this place has been to you your entire life.

“I’m not going to wear winter gear to a spring break frat party.” You’re bolder, suddenly, but even if the statement is, your voice is level, meek, even. Joel nods, as if admitting defeat, and gets out of the car first; you follow, sneakers crunching against the asphalt as you follow him into the house.

“I hope,” he starts when you’re stationed beside him at the door, “I didn’t… offend you. I was jus’ concerned, is all.” Then he’s stoic again, slipping inside, straight to the kitchen to pour you a glass of water. He flicks a yellow light on and you squint when you get there, rubbing at your eyes to prevent them from aching.

You’re still rubbing at them when his gaze drops from your fussed-up hair and askew hat down to the shiny surface of your chest. Your goddamn top leaves him nothing to the imagination, your tits spilling out of it scandalously. The low cut even lets your bra peek through, red and bright and hey, you show up from college wearing these large university shirts and sweatpants—not this, never this. And your shorts, the way they’re really just a fucking belt, starting low on your hips and cut off high above your thighs.

Alpha Phi, the pink text on your white top reads on the left chest area. Right where your tits curve into the top, the slogan is printed: Union hand in hand. God, sororities and their fucking… quotable bullshit. And don’t get him started on the sash, this cutesy, frilly thing he wants to loop around your wrists so he can fuck you over the counter. He knows he can’t—it’s so wrong, so wrong. He’s known your dad for ages.

But you… you're so tempting, a little minx, chirping Mr. Miller all sweet and apologetic, chest out on full display. He blinks when he hears your voice filter through the fog in his head. “—off?”

“What was that, sweetheart?” His eyes meet yours again and he feels a twinge of embarrassment at the way your bashfulness has somewhat melted to give way to the clear amusement on your face. You must’ve spotted the way he ogled you; he wasn’t exactly trying his hardest to be subtle, unfortunately.

“D’you have something I can use to wipe myself off?” You gesture to your sticky collarbone area. “I got Jäger all over myself. Can’t handle the stuff.” You grimace at the memory, and he goes to grab a wet wipe; while waiting, you hoist yourself up onto the counter, bare legs swinging.

Joel turns to toss you the packet of wipes, but his throat dries before he can even call your name out. Your back is to him, and clearly you’re waiting for his return—you’ve busied yourself by sitting on his counter and letting the hot pink lace of your thong rise above the waistline of your shorts. Lord have mercy, he thinks to himself, adjusting his jeans as he walks back over to you.

“Wipes,” he says roughly, not anything else.

You accept the packet and smile shyly. “Can you…” you pause, the implication hovering over both of you, heavy. “Wait for me?” He nods, inviting. Warm. And he watches, inviting but not very warm anymore, the way you wipe over the expanse of your chest, over the curve of your tits, every other part of you dusted in glitter.

“So,” you say again. “Since we’re on first name basis now, Joel, I, um—I hope it’s okay to ask questions.”

“Sounds reasonable. Go for it,” he accepts.

“When’s the last time you went to a party?” Your smile is mischievous.

He chuckles, a huff of air. “...Long, long ago, kid. Back in my day, partyin’ meant beer, maybe a little weed… not that I'm complaining there, you understand.” He nods resolutely. “These days, a quiet home-cooked meal with just the people I really care about… is a party.”

“Wow, what an old guy answer,” you giggle. “Back in youuuur day.” Your raspy, honeyed voice wraps around the your with a teasing lilt.

“Oh, I’m old now, am I?” His stoic demeanor chips away when he laughs. “That makes you what, sweetheart? You’re barely a pup.”

At his words—at the utterance of pup—you roll your eyes and try to shift your seating so your thong doesn’t stick to your folds. “Okay, fine, next.” You’re not even wiping anymore, the material wrung into your fingers, which lay in a fist by your side. “When’s the last time you got shitfaced?”

He gives a grimace of a smile. “Aw… boy, it's been a while.” He comes closer, going from leaning on the opposite drawers to right beside you on the counter. You’re sitting and he’s leaning but still he’s taller, just a bit level. “But there was that one time back in my more adventurous days, when I was younger. A bachelor party wh… well, the details don't really bear talkin’ ‘bout in polite conversation.” He raises his eyebrows. “Why ya askin’ all this? What’s will all the last times?”

“I’m curious, is all.” You smile, leaning back; if his eyes drop just a bit, he’ll see right through your top, maybe even underneath the cup of your bra. “Okay, fine one last… last time.” You giggle, breathy. “When’s the last time you… had sex?”

The air shifts, and Joel clears his throat before chuckling. “S’none of your business, young lady. A gentleman is not raised to kiss and tell.”

“Oh, but he gets shitfaced n’ tells?” You test, pouting and leaning closer toward him so you can quiet your voice. “Come on. I won’t tell anyone I even asked.”

He sighs, contemplating. “Well… it’s been a while.” He gets his fair share of lays, when he goes out to bars with friends or the rare date, but nothing too drastic. It has been a few months. “But you didn’t hear that from me, understood? Now, let’s drop it.”

But you don’t drop it, you brat. “You’re like the born again 40-year-old virgin,” you tease smoothly.

“Try 51, honey,” he grunts out, depositing your dry wipes at the disposal across you. He turns back around, restrained.

“And what, you don’t wanna change that?” No, he thinks—what he wants is to take you over the counter ’til you’re sobbing and sore.

“Hey now, don’t think I don’t think about it sometimes. But I jus’—I don't wanna get involved with no one, even though... Hell, if I met the right person, I might just change my mind. Ain’t that the way it goes?”

“That’s such an antiquated view of sex,” you quip boldly, pressing your arms to your sides. “What happened to just having one good fuck?”

His eyes flicker down then up. “Well, hey. Slow down with the cursin’, sweetheart. And what in the hell makes you think I don’t do that?” He crosses his arms, offering a raised eyebrow and an insufferably smug smile.

“You didn’t necessarily object when I called you a twice-over virgin.”

He chuckles. “There’s more than one way to let it all out, my girl. You don’t have to just go all in to hit the spot.” The thought of him using his own—or some girl’s, actually, hand, throat… to get off, gets you all hot. You want to be that girl. His girl.

“Like how?” You ask, tilting your head to the side.

“Old man like myself probably can’t offer tricks you’ll find… useful.” He grunts, prepares to go upstairs. He reaches over you for the packet of wipes and your proximity urges him to stop, savor the closeness before the rational part of him reminds him you’re his best mate’s daughter.

“Okay, fine,” you say sweetly, voice much quieter—reserved just for the space between you two. “One last, then.”

Mmm, he huffs affirmatively, greenlighting your request. Impatient.

“Since when did old men do that?” You ask, inquisitive, placing emphasis on his self-proclaimed old man title.

“What? Entertain l’il minxes like yourself?” He responds, intending to break your newly-built façade of smugness.

“No,” you respond coolly. “Pack nine inches.” Then you’re clambering off the counter and walking to the stairs. He inhales sharply at the sudden vulgarity of your words, watches every move, every little bounce of your pert ass under the tiny shorts, the wave of your hair, every flex of the ridden-up lace thong against your back.

You turn briefly. “Coming or what?” And then you slip upstairs.

He hears the pad of your footsteps grow quiet and shuts his eyes, letting his composure waver in your absence.

Had he known Harold’s little girl would turn out to be the world’s biggest fucking tease—Jesus Christ. “Lord,” he rasps under his breath, repeating a mantra, holding back the urge to palm himself through his jeans. “Lord, have mercy.” Then he follows you, already spotting something different—the open door at the end of the hall.

His open door. It’s the one that directly mirrors your parents’, a revelation they all had a good laugh at. Sometimes if a matter was so pressing, a well-aimed pebble to the glass window would get Joel’s attention well enough. The lights are flicked on, cool-warm, in his bedroom. You’re in his bedroom.

Or you’re not. He walks in to find no trace of you, save for the scuffed white sneakers by the doorframe. He toes off his own boots and spots the walk-in closet light’s also been flicked on.

“Christ, you’re quick. You’re s’posed to be in the guest room.” He gestures vaguely to the one on the left side of the hall, even if you can’t see him.

“I had to pee. And I needed something to sleep in,” you say politely from inside. He grunts softly to himself at the thought of you undressing in there, the thought of you pulling on something of his.

“Get out of there,” he orders. “I’ll get you somethin’.” Under his breath he mutters, “S’my goddamn closet.”

You chirp okay but he adds anyway: “Hurry, out.”

So you do follow him, even follow the order to hurry, because you’re hasty in your exit, clutching the cowboy hat to your chest. “Sit.” He points to the bed, watches you set the hat next to yourself gingerly. And one last time he asks the Lord for mercy, quietly and in his head, before shutting off every other rational thought that had stopped him tonight.

You follow suit, hat still clutched to your torso, and he slowly comes to stand just in front of you, your face level with the buckle of his leather belt. When you shift he catches sight of the side of your bra, the lace of it. Eyes cast to your bare thighs, you pipe up.

“By the way, Mr. Miller—Joel, I didn’t mean to say any of—I mean, I thought we could talk comfortably about it… that… stuff, but I took it too f—”

“You’re damn fuckin’ right you took it too far.”

He spits it out roughly, harshly. Like he’s scolding you. A zip of shock goes through you—you hadn’t heard him swear so loud before. Maybe he is. “I give you a free ride home at half past one, give you water, give you a place to sleep for the night knowin’ damn well your momma n’ dad would both have killed ya if you stepped foot in that house wearin’ next to nothing. What do I get in return?” He looks down at you, two rough fingers jerking your chin to look up at him.

“I—” you squeak, your voice and confidence betraying you. You’ve soaked through your panties at his sudden switch in behavior. Like you’d broken a dam.

“I get a brat… whorin’ herself out to me like I’m not over twice her age.” He tuts, like he really is disappointed, and your heart almost drops. “I get all these damn questions about sex, like you think I’ll break and fuck you on my kitchen counter.” He was considering it. “All the teasin’, all the skirtin’ around in a thong and a fuckin’…” He shakes your chin. “S’there even anythin’ in that head of yours, honey?”

Your mouth’d been open. You shut it and lick over your lips. “Yeah,” you defend weakly. His hand lowers to stroke at the column of your throat, then to hook under the tight strap of your bra, peeking out under the white of your top. He sidles it back and forth.

“S’this why you asked me all those dumb questions downstairs, huh, sweetheart? ‘Cause you wanted me to pull your top open and fawn over this”—he yanks the hat away, revealing your torso underneath—“little show o’yours?” Your cleavage is sinful, downright—perfect, perky, inviting him to mouth at your tits. Your sash sits prettily above them and he can’t help but pull at it, too, jolting you toward him.

“N—” you inhale sharply, letting him pull and push you around as he pleases. He observes the blinding glittery writing on the pink material and lets out a humorless, self-satisfied huff of laughter.

“Number… one… girl.” His rough thumb grazes over the divots of the rhinestones. “That’s jus’ about right, ain’t it?”

“Yes,” you reply, voice small.

“I’m not sure I agree, baby girl,” he drawls. His touch is precise—he knows exactly where to go, what he’s doing—but rough, dirty, almost, and the huge size of his hands don’t help to support otherwise. He tugs down your tank top so it’s tucked underneath your bra, and you yelp, making a move to cover yourself. He laughs again—“Sure, go all shy on me like you haven’t been showin’ yourself off to me all night. Knees.”

You get off quick, so quick you’re dizzy when you steady yourself on two knees. Two lithe hands make their way to his belt but he steps backward, revels in your evident confusion, clumsiness, the flush high on your cheekbones. “Buckle down, sweetheart.”

“But—”

“No goddamn buts. Listen to me.” He ends up being the one to make work of his belt, and while he talks you have to bite your lip to keep from going slack-jawed at the sight of him. You’d been kidding about the nine inches thing, but Christ he’s huge, strained against the tight denim. He’s thick even under the layers of clothing, and all you want to do is choke on him. “You’re gonna let me use that mouth t’get off, first thing,” he grunts, like this is all some chore to him, “because I am not goin’ to put my cock in my best mate’s daughter.”

“How about,” you croak lightly, “your fingers, then?”

“Jesu—we’ll see.” He tugs his cock out then, and he’s fucking huge, he really is, his tip angry and flushed and being rubbed along your lips, sticking them up with his precum. He sighs contentedly, humming low, the vibration sent straight to your half-open mouth. You suck on the tip of him, watch a slow smile form on his face. “That sash oughta say somethin’ else.”

Your silence grants elaboration. “Number one slut, maybe.” You shift on your thighs, trying to hide how aroused you are at his mean behavior. But he can tell, he can watch the way your blinking slows, the way your eyes glazed over, glassy and teary from trying to take more of him. He doesn’t tell you to slow down, or go faster; he just watches, eyebrows knitted, focused. “Budge up.”

A hand, big and calloused, threads through your hair and gives a tug, goading your mouth open so more of his cock slips past. Your jaw aches from the attempt alone, so you pull off before you start choking too much, tonguing at the parts of him you can’t reach—lower, until you’re laving at his balls. He grunts, pleasured, simmered down. Attagirl. Then you’re back, bobbing up and down, trying despite yourself to take all of him, until your eyes are watery and you’re spluttering, choked.

“Now this is…” He says, and it comes out in a contented little sigh, “a number one throat. Keep those pretty lips open, honey, ‘m gonna fuck them.”

You do, your achy jaw slacked as he begins bucking into your mouth, the sounds of your choking only spurring him on. He’s dominant, taking and taking, and you’re humiliated to find how wet you are, soaked through the lace of your thong and darkening the denim of your shorts. The tip of his cock hitting the back of your throat only gets him to thrust even faster, watching tears fall from your eyes, streaky with mascara. His best friend’s daughter, taking dick like a fucking champ.

He thrusts harder, each sound emitting a nasty, incoherent noise out of you, choked little gasps that have him harder each time. Gonna fuck this throat raw, he mutters. Since that’s what you wan’ed, ain’t it? You reach up, light fingers massaging his balls, and then his hips stutter, and with barely any warning, you feel his hot seed shoot into your throat, little satisfied groans leaving the man above you.

You swallow what you can, limited by his dick still in your mouth. When he pulls out you lap at the cum left behind, circle your tongue around your lips, make a whole show of it. You speak again, your voice raspy and spent: “Please, my turn?”

He lifts you up and smirks at the way you yelp in surprise, tossing you onto the bed and pulling you back onto your knees, your back to his chest. He wrangles your shorts off, gives your ass a smack as he pulls them down, enough to expose what’s underneath. The stiff material gathers just above your bent knees, restraining you from moving much.

“D’you know what,” he says, still sounding angry—like he’s lecturing you, stern, “I could’ve been in bed, wakin’ up at six to work… instead I gotta teach this little brat a fuckin’ lesson. Your old man not teach y’enough manners?” He tugs your bra down, thumbs roughly at your pebbled nipples, wrenching a moan out of you. He’s hard again, dick poking into your ass, and fuck you want him in you.

“He didn’t,” you sniffle, pitiful. “Y’gotta teach me, Daddy.”

“Oh, she likes that, don’t she?” He grumbles, like the title is annoying, juvenile. The way his cock twitches tells you otherwise. “Shut up, baby honey. I got this.” He reaches up your thighs and the ticklish, pleasurable sensation gets you hot.

Joel, you whimper, seizing in on yourself. He grabs your other arm, pulls it back toward him so you remain open and pliant. Please, wait.

“No time for waitin’, not when you spend hours prancin’ around like a little whore, sweetheart.” Without preamble, he’s running his fingers up your thighs again, not stopping this time until his fingers are pressing into your clit, rubbing over the thin, soaked fabric of your panties. “And you’re so fucking wet for me. My number one girl, ain’t you?”

“Yea,” you babble dumbly. “Your number one girl.”

“Thaaat’s right. My girl needs her needy cunt filled up, don’t she? By Daddy’s fat fingers.” You nod along, drawn in by the vulgarity of his words, the way he spits them out. You’ve spent several nights fantasizing how his big, rough hands would feel on you—and you’ve been outproven. He’s so fast, so skilled with his fingers; they feel delicious in you. And you can’t stop thinking about all of those girls he implied he’s slept with, the way they probably got to this first. Lucky bitches.

He’s gotten you so wet the entire night, even moreso now, that your pussy is making obscene squelching noises with each pump of his fingers, these nastily loud noises that humiliate you, that turn you on even more, that make you drip all onto Joel’s linen sheets. Fuck, you whimper. He swats at your ass. No swearing, he’s saying.

“Look up for me, honey. Up at the window.” Outside, the sun’s beginning to crawl over Austin, just the faint blues and yellows of early morning. You realize you know this because his curtain’s been pulled open—by him, earlier, before any of this even started, you assume. And the only other thing you can see other than the sky and the sliver of the neighborhood is your parents’ window.

“No,” you plead, looking down. He doesn’t let you, tugs you back up to look by your hair. He knows your parents won’t be up ’til seven-thirty latest. But you don’t know that, and for now, you don’t have to.

“What then, huh, sweetheart? When they go to check on the weather n’ they see their best friend poundin’ their young daughter? What’d they think?” You jerk away, overcome with pleasure and embarrassment at the imaginary situation. You feel his fingers pump in and out of you, filling you up. They’re probably thick and hot, glistening each time they come out. You’re tightening up; you’ll cum soon, make a mess on his hand, which already drips with slick. “So you better hurry. Better make a mess on me soon.”

“I am, I’m—I’m gonna,” you moan. You’re wrapped up in the way his fingers play you just the right way. You’re so close to the surface, and you’ve been wanting this for way too long, so you nod, let yourself get carried away by his words, let yourself give in, spreading your legs as wide as they can go as he fingerfucks you, working out the tension that’s been building up for forever.

“That’s my number one girl,” he grins into your neck, and you’re convulsing release onto his hand, wetting it even further. He wraps a hand around your waist, keeps you close to his figure, his erection at the small of your back. “That’s it, honey. Did so well for me.”

“I want it,” you say meekly. “Even if they see.”

He groans. “Sweetheart, you must think real low of me to believe I’d put my cock anywhere near Harold’s daughter’s pussy.”

You tug your panties fully down, just enough so they fall off on their own the rest of the way, and guide his slick hand behind yourself, pressing his finger first into your folds again, sensitive, and then up toward your tighter hole.

You feel his breath tighten behind you when you say: “How ‘bout there?”

#dbf!joel #joel miller #joel miller imagine #joel miller smut #joel miller x reader #pedro pascal smut #joel miller x you #joel miller x y/n #joel miller tlou #the last of us #tlou x reader #joel tlou #joel the last of us #joel x reader #pedro pascal x reader #tlou smut

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captain-hawks · 2 months

Note

What’s this? A Thursday edition of spicy sleepover??? Thank you as always, Dee!!

I think our dear Osamu needs some attention—perhaps in the bathroom 👀👀

impatient

osamu miya x f!reader

You wear a new sundress to the twins' birthday party, and Osamu's patience treads a woefully thin tightrope.

wc: 1.2k

c: 18+ only, established relationship, bathroom sex, fingering, oral sex (f!receiving), squirting, unprotected p in v, creampie

SPICY SLEEPOVER - PART V

“Didja really have to wear this?”

Osamu’s voice is a gravelly, labored exhale between the hot, messy press of his lips to your neck, punctuated by the sound of the bathroom door clicking shut as he pushes you up against it.

“Should I go home and change?” you ask, the amusement in your voice tapering off into a gasp as he drags his teeth against the soft, sensitive juncture between your shoulder and your neck.

“Fuck no,” Osamu rasps, the damp trail of kisses making its way to the swell of your breasts that’s hardly contained by the neckline of your sundress.

To be fair, Osamu’s first time seeing you in this new sundress was when you picked him up from work earlier—and he subsequently spent most of the ride over to Atsumu’s apartment going through the seven stages of horny grief.

“Atsumu’s going to be mad if we’re late,” you chided as the hand on your knee began to migrate higher.

“It’s my birthday party, too,” Osamu griped, lips turning downward in a pout as you laced your fingers with his and moved them to the outside of your thigh.

The goodwill of Osamu’s precariously balanced patience nearly ran out when you bent over to grab his brother’s gift out of the trunk—and you may very well have never made it inside, if not for the sound of Aran’s voice calling out your names in greeting as he leaned out the front door, the sound of music pouring out onto the sidewalk.

At the very least, the two of you managed to traipse through the house and backyard for hellos and before Osamu eventually caught you on your way back down the stairs from the bathroom.

It’s ironic, in a way—finding yourself pressed up against the inside of Atsumu’s bathroom door again, a breathy, low whine teetering on the edge of your lips as Osamu’s hands push up the skirt of your dress.

“Remember the last time—”

“—we ripped the towel bar right outta the wall.”

(Atsumu bitched about his security deposit for weeks.)

Osamu’s kneeling on the floor between your legs now, eyes sparkling with mischief as he gazes up at you, lips quirked upward in a grin as his hands brush the backs of your thighs.

It was years ago, back when Osamu’s hair was still an ashy gray, when Onigiri Miya was still a pipedream. Before he got down on one knee in the middle of a busy sidewalk in the snow and choked out a laugh when he told you he couldn’t wait any longer, pulling a small, black box out of his jacket pocket.

This apartment and bathroom are far nicer than the last one, too, courtesy of the blonde twin’s MSBY salary.

But some things haven’t changed—like the way your husband’s staring up at you now, eyes alight with a hunger and fondness that hasn’t faded in the slightest.

Osamu squeezes your ankle gently, and you lift one foot after the other as he slips your panties off, tucking them into the pocket of his black button down top for safe keeping.

“For someone that kept swattin’ me every time my hand went near yer ass out there, ya sure are wet,” he drawls from underneath your dress, coy as ever.

Your ability to formulate any sort of response is quickly vanquished by the feeling of his fingers sliding through your slick folds, and you can feel the slick drip of arousal already beginning to slide down the inside of your thighs without your underwear to soak into.

Osamu knows what he’s doing when he slips a finger into your tight entrance, angling his free hand just right so that the cool metal of his wedding band is pressing into your clit.

“‘Samu,” you whine, palm clamped to your mouth.

He shifts his hand, massaging the throbbing bundle of nerves with the ring while he stretches you open further with a second finger, and an amused huff falls from his lips as you drag a shaking hand through his hair.

“That sure ain’t gonna be inconspicuous,” he muses as you tug on the dark strands and muss them even further, biting your bottom lip to stifle the moan crawling up your throat.

“I’m sure Atsumu’s got a brush in here somewhere,” you pant out, readjusting your balance as Osamu lifts your left foot to rest on the edge of the tub.

“‘m gonna pretend ya didn’t just say my brother’s name while I’m between your legs,” he grouses.

“Give me a reason to say yours again, then,” you tease, if only because you know what kind of a reaction that kind of provocation will get out of your husband.

Osamu snorts and rasps under his breath, “Ya love playin’ with fire.”

And it’s the only warning you have before he licks a broad, firm stroke down the length of your slit.

Your husband is quietly modest about most of his talents, a pride that peeks through in the crinkling of his eyes when a new customer compliments his food. The steady, careful flex of the veins in his forearms as he shapes the rice with a rhythm that’s become muscle memory.

(He says Atsumu uses the Miya name to brag enough for the both of them, after all.)

But he’s different here, with his mouth latched onto your cunt like he’s never known a taste so divine.

Osamu knows just how good he is at this—making you tremble and whimper beneath the dexterous tease of his tongue, saliva and arousal dripping down his chin as he glances up at your ecstasy-stricken face while he’s knuckle-deep inside of you.

He might be the one on his knees, but you’re the one ready to fall apart, held aloft on continuous, cresting waves of pleasure only by the sheer precision of Osamu’s control over your orgasm. And he’s more than a little smug about it, too, as you writhe against the wall, tongue slipping into your cunt as he grasps the globes of your ass and works you open like a filthy, sloppy meal.

“Osamu.”

Sparks of searing, hot pleasure burst through your veins, and your legs feel impossibly weak as the rest of your muscles are fraught with tension. Osamu’s quick to notice the trembling of your thighs, readjusting his grip to hold you steady as your hand slides down the wall.

But it’s all for naught when he thrusts two fingers back into your pussy and starts sucking on your aching clit, the coil of tension deep in your abdomen collapsing in on itself under the weight of your pleasure as an intense climax punches out of you. Your hand scrambles for purchase, fingers closing around something soft as clear liquid sprays from your cunt, and Osamu lets out a deep groan as you squirt all over his face and hand, finger fucking you through the waves of your orgasm, his own hand colliding with the wall as he begins to lose his composure as well.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he exhales, voice rough.

There’s a loud snapping noise, and you glance beside you to find the towel bar dangling from the wall, both of your hands fisted in the material.

It’s only after Osamu’s subsequently bent you over the sink, cock plunging deep into your sensitive cunt until he’s filled you to the brim with ropes of hot, sticky cum, that he finally spares a remorseful glance at your joint handiwork.

“Should we try and fix it?” you ask as he presses a soft, lingering kiss to the corner of your mouth before making his way across the curve of your jaw, dubiously eyeing the ruined drywall anchors.

Osamu turns and stares at it for a moment, clearly weighing the pros and cons of doing something nice for his twin.

"Nah," he grins, twirling your panties around on his finger with a smirk before stuffing them back into his pocket and unlocking the bathroom door.

#osamu miya x reader #miya osamu x reader #miya osamu #osamu miya #haikyuu #dee writes #spicy sleepover weekend

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ficthots · 3 months

Text

Stanley

A/N: Well, it's happened. I am out of hockey fic retirement to bring ya'll this wonderfully delicious Matty smut. I mean, he's now a Stanley Cup champion...it's only right! As always let me know what you guys think and enjoy!

Word Count: 1.4k+

Warnings: SMUT. 18+ content only. DNI if under 18

3:23 AM.

The clock on the bedside table displayed what a whirlwind of a day it had been. A life changing day, really. The battle was over and the victors were celebrating. Your husband was celebrating. Now his legacy was permanently etched in NHL history. The biggest feat of his life.

Matthew Tkachuk was a Stanley Cup champion.

You were amazed that you had made it back to the house at all that night. Given that some of the team were still out and about celebrating their win. Matt had wandered into the ensuite just minutes before, giving you plenty of time to prepare.

Prepare what exactly? Your celebratory activity for him.

Wearing only a Panthers jersey, and only the jersey, you laid across the king mattress, waiting for your spouse to come and find you.

The feelings you had been experiencing all evening were practically indescribable. Truly, is there anything better than watching your favorite person in the world fulfill all of his lifelong dreams right before your very eyes?

Standing to the side as he embraced his brother, sister, mom, and dad, your eyes were rimmed with unshed happy tears. When his gaze finally set on you, you watched the pure unfiltered joy emanating from him. He had you wrapped up in his arms and placed the most knee weakening, heart pounding, clit throbbing kiss on you that you had ever experienced.

He was gone in the blink of an eye, pulled away to celebrate this moment with his teammates. You watched on, cheering the entire time, feeling as though the wind had been knocked out of you.

Now, he was finally all yours once more. With the light turning off behind him, he halted in his tipsy steps to see you. His jaw flexed, eyes growing instantly darker. “So, what does a girl have to do around here to sleep with a Stanley Cup champ?”

He slowly stalked towards the bed, shirt already discarded, only wearing his tight boxer briefs which did little to hide the raging hard on he was sporting. His movements were excruciating, simply burning to feel his touch on you, anywhere.

Hovering over you, arms braced on either side of your body, the loose jersey sitting high on your thighs, his eyes raked over your figure. He hummed, a deep low rumble from deep within his chest. Your breathing was already growing ragged, short, anticipation building as his brows furrowed.

Fingers grabbing the fabric on you, lifting it ever so slightly from your body, he let it fall back without exposing you. “What do you want, baby? Hmm?” Your lips darted out, moistening your lips quickly.

“You.”

His deep blue eyes locked onto yours, lowering his head to seal himself to you. It was sweet, gentle, the exact opposite of what you were expecting. Parting your lips, your tongue slowly moved from your mouth to his, sweeping seductively over his own. The taste of beer and liquor still heavily covered him.

A whimper escaped your throat as your slow makeout session slowly built in pressure. His roaming hands left your waist before tangling themselves in your hair. Sitting up to reach him further, your hands landed on his chiseled torso, rock hard beneath the warm embrace of you.

Speaking through kisses, his voice was ragged and desperate. “Take it off for me, baby, please. I need to see you, mama.” His fingers gripped the hem, helping you deposit the discarded jersey to a heap on the floor.

Laying flat on the bed below, his eyes bounced around, not sure where they needed to land. It took every ounce of strength he had to stand up and watch you. “Spread your legs,” you didn’t hesitate. Knees parting, your dripping core was on display for him.

Knowing what to do next, your fingers sat on your tongue for a few seconds, moving lower. You jumped in surprise at the electric shock that jolted through you when the pads of your fingers reached your clit.

An unfiltered moan slipped from you, watching as Matty shook his head. “Be quiet. We have a house full of family that could hear every single little noise you make. Does that turn you on? You fucking slut,” his own hand dipped into his briefs, slowly starting to stroke himself.

You bit your tongue, rubbing slow circles on your nub, slipping further down to plunge a finger into your soaking cunt. A gasp escaped, but you swallowed it down. Matthew had never seen such an angelic site before.

There you were, on display for him, playing with yourself. Your hair splayed around you in a near perfect halo. His wife. His real prize. Although, he had to admit, bringing that Stanley Cup home was a damn close second.

“Matty, honey, please.” He loved hearing your needy voice beg. Begging for him to fuck you senseless. He was holding off as much as he could. He had finally removed that last layer of his clothing, squeezing his dick to dribble out even more precum to assist with his jerking.

His teeth sank into his lip, finally pouncing on you. It was messy and disgusting, the exchange of saliva between you two. Dripping from your chin, clawing at his back to attempt to bring him as physically close as possible.

Yet, the tip of his cock rubbed against you, refusing to enter where you needed him most. Panting together, his fingers tweaked your perked nipples, mouth enclosing around you, nearly taking your entire breast. Your head flew back, eyes squeezed shut, his hand clamped over your mouth to keep your noises at bay.

Lips landed on your tits, sternum, the soft flesh of your stomach, before his mouth closed around your nub. “Baby, I want,” you were struggling to get your words out between the lapping at your slit and the harsh sucking of your clit. His meaty fingers sank into you, two at a time, and began pumping.

He kissed the inside of your thigh, your knee, speaking in a teasing way. “What’s that, mama? What do you want?” His shit eating smirk lit you up in flames, locking eyes as he ravished your cunt. “Use your words,” he nearly sang to you.

“I wanna suck you off,” he continued for another minute or so, entirely ignoring your request. Finally, he removed himself from you, inching towards you, his swollen cock aching for attention.

You didn’t wait, enveloping him into your warm and welcoming mouth. His eyes instantly fluttered shut, hand grabbing a fist full of hair as he began face fucking you. “Take it, baby. Take it all for me,” you greedily accepted. You had him fully in you, the tip of your nose brushing against his well maintained hair.

It went on like this for what felt like seconds only before he pulled back, gasping for air. “No, I can’t cum in your mouth. Need your pussy.” In the brief moment when you caught your breath and let your eyes slip shut, he had moved and was sinking deep into you.

“God fucking dammit,” he hissed, knowing he wasn’t going to be able to last too long tonight. “Fuck me, Matty. Show me how a champion would pound this pussy.” It was like lighting a fire from within, he began fucking you senselessly.

You had never cum so much in your life. It felt like the entire time was spent enveloped in the most wonderful orgasm you had ever experienced. Knowing the dirty words leaving his mouth was no aid to you. Being completely wrapped up in him was always the best thing in the world, Matty filling all of your senses.

There was nowhere else you would rather be. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!” Exclaiming as he emptied himself into you. He was shaky, arms no longer able to hold himself up, he collapsed onto you. Your hands traced lazy circles on his back, fingers dancing along his scalp. You peppered kisses all over him, wherever you could reach.

“I’m so proud of you, baby.” You whispered to him in the darkness, he snuggled closer to you, breathing you in. Grounding him back to reality, knowing that as of tonight his life was no longer the same.

Matthew Tkacuck was a Stanley Cup champion. But he knew that he held his prize every night when he slept. He was only able to murmur out a I love you so fucking much before the snores echoed into the room.

Tomorrow held all sorts of promise and you couldn’t wait.

#ficthots #matthew tkachuk #matt tkachuk #florida panthers #nhl #nhl writing #nhl fic #nhl fanfiction #nhl imagine #stanley cup playoffs #stanley cup

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stars-and-clouds · 1 year

Text

You know what makes Aymeric and Haurchefant special?

Despite having every reason to be cold, vengeful, mean and selfish people-being bastards, living in a house they weren't born to, growing up in an environment as hostile as Ishgard, having inherent beliefs different to everyone around them- they still chose to be kind.

I think it takes something away from them if we assume they were simply born with a kinder deposition.

Haurchefant was bullied by all of Ishgard, including his step mother, for being a Greystone. Aymeric was adopted and has really low self esteem because he probably grew up hearing how ill deserving he is of everything he got by being adopted into house Borel. Yet they both made a conscious choice to be better. They wanted to treat others the way they wanted to be treated themselves. They wanted to love and invite change when Ishgard taught hate and stagnation.

This is why the warrior of light would've failed in doing everything they did if it wasn't for Haurchefant and Aymeric. How many warriors of light have tried helping Ishgard before us? Over hundreds of years of war, this revolution can't have been the only one. Yet it was during our lifetime that the stars aligned perfectly to have Haurchefant aid us and Aymeric lead us into changing Ishgard for the better and bring about peace.

Without Haurchefant, we'd have ended up in prison and possibly executed (he saves us again by taking a blow meant for us) and we wouldn't have been let into Ishgard. And without Aymeric's trust over his best friend he wouldn't have let us go to Dravania and afterwards, invite the reality shattering truth about his ancestors' actions and usher Ishgard to peace and unity.

Everyone hails the Warrior of Light as the antithesis to bad with absolute power. That, if they're there, everything is solved. But without Haurchefants and Aymerics, the Warrior of Light would be nothing and would not be able to solve half the problems they have solved.

#ffxiv #heavensward #ishgard #haurchefant #aymeric #ff14 #Aymeric de Borel #Haurchefant Greystone #haurchefant my beloved #aymeric x wol #haurchefant x wol #haurchewol #estinien #Ffxiv analysis #Ffxiv fanfic #Writing

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eggyrocks · 5 months

Note

#53 with my babygirl suga pls....

suga is sooooo babygirl.........

500 follower special: #53 “Who crawls through someone’s window at 4am to go for ice cream?!”

sugawara x gn reader, established relationship, fluff, nonsense, goofy shit, reader doing weird shit (crawling through windows at 4am) not proofread

Their fingers move in a way that would suggest that they've done this before. They know what they're doing when they fiddle and twist at the outside of the window lock, biting down on their bottom lip in concentration.

Once the lock finally pops, they grin brightly, unbothered by the fact that it is their eighteenth straight hour without sleep or how soon enough the world will start to awake around them. All the can think of as they pull the window open and climb through, is the plastic bag they have dangling from their wrist, and their sleeping boyfriend, twisted up in bedsheets and half-hanging on the bed.

They step carefully through his room, depositing the bag on his bedside table. Sugawara's light snores fill the room, and they can't help but smile as they approach his bedside, sitting on the edge of the bed and admiring him for a moment, thinking fondly of how cute he looks before they lean in and gently shake at his shoulder.

"Koshi," they say, not bothering to keep their voice low. "Babe, wake up."

His expression twists in his sleep, brow furrowing and upper lip twitching. "Hmmph," he groans, stirring slightly.

They lean closer, placing a kiss on his slightly-sweaty forehead before they lean back, and flick the center of it.

Sugawara flinches, jerking back at the contact. His eyes flutter open slowly, and he twists his head at the sight of them. "Babe?" he questions. "Am I dreaming?"

They giggle. "Nope, I'm real," they say, and lift their arm to reveal the plastic bag of ice cream they smuggled through his window. "Brought this for you."

Eyes still heavy with sleep, Sugawara sits up, placing his weight on his forearm and reaching for his phone. The brightness of his screen makes him flinch again. "It's four in the morning."

"Yeah, and I brought you ice cream," they explain, settling back to sit cross-legged on the floor of his bedroom. Sugawara practically rolls off the bed, scooting closer to sit beside them. He rests his head on his shoulder as they pull out a pint of strawberry. "I was gonna get toppings but I stopped at three different twenty-four hour stores and they didn't have anything good."

"Who the fuck crawls through someone's window at four in the morning for ice cream?" he asks through a yawn, nuzzling in closer to their shoulder.

They're struggling with the plastic around the pint, trying to rip away at it with their nails. "The love of your life," they reply lowly, eventually giving up and tearing into with their teeth. "You know my birthday?"

Sugawara's arms slowly wrap around their waist, pulling them in closer, eyes closed as he tries to get as close to them as possible. "I know of it."

"Well, you broke into my house at five in the morning to take me for breakfast on my birthday, because you said you wanted to celebrate as early as you could," they explain, finally ripping the plastic clear off and popping off the lid. "And now, I'm beating your record. Happy birthday, Koshi."

They can feel his lips pull into a smile against the skin of their neck. "You're such a dork," he says, voice heavily laced with affection. "Thank you babe, love you."

'Love you, babe," they reply, slightly unfocused. The plastic spoon they brought is no match for the frozen pint. It just scrapes along the top, and they can't get a good scoop out. "Fuck, this is hard. I was hoping it would've melted by now."

His eyelashes tickle their skin. "It still counts as a birthday celebration if I go back to sleep, right? Your record will still count?"

"No," they insist, "you have to actually have the ice cream in order for it to count."

Without opening his eyes, Sugawara reaches down for the pint and sloppily licks along surface of the ice cream. "There, I had the ice cream. Now come to bed with me."

"Koshi..."

He looks up at them, sleepy eyes half-closed and a lazy grin on his lips. "Please, babe? It's all I want for my birthday."

All it takes is one look at him and his dopey, sleep filled smile for them to relent.

Their legs are tangled together, and Sugawara's holding onto them so tightly they wouldn't be able to pull away if they tried. He snores lightly. The sun rises, and the ice cream melts on his bedroom floor.

an: why was i sleeping on suga i love him

#haikyuu x reader #haikyuu #haikyuu fluff #hq x reader #hq x you #hq #sugawara koushi #sugawara x reader #haikyuu sugawara #hq sugawara #sugawara x you #sugawara x y/n #sugawara koshi x reader #sugawara koshi x yn #500 follower special

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1d1195 · 5 months

Text

Neighbors Extra V

Read Neighbors here | ~2.5k words

From me: based on this ask. Takes place probably in between Part 5 and Extra I

Warnings: a little angsty, a little fluffy, enjoy 💕

It was the stretch of bad weather that did it. Played a trick on his mind. It hurt to think about those weeks without his favorite people. He knew what bad weather could do to people and he knew how it could affect him. It was weird, the night before he rather enjoyed the sound of rain against the window, the slight chill in the air contrasted with the warmth coming off her from the bed. Now it seemed like a curse.

“Harry?” Rory called, hearing the thunder in the middle of the night. It made his heart ache to know Rory called Harry’s name and not for Mumma the way he usually did. Harry rolled out of bed pressing a swift kiss to her forehead despite his negativity settling into the pit of his stomach. He made his way for Rory’s room. He forgot about the frustration he felt about her and the weeks that she chose to separate them. Rory needed him.

“S’matter, lad?” Harry asked sitting on the end of his bed. There was relief in his eyes that was visible in the low light of his nightlight. That relief made Harry’s heart clench. He put his hand on his leg atop the covers and squeezed his shin.

“Is... is Mumma scared?” He asked softly.

Harry tilted his head curiously. “Mummy’s sleeping,” he assured him.

“Oh... um...” Rory was so little looking in his bed. “Mumma gets scared with thunder sometimes,” he explained. “I usually go sleep with her to keep her safe.”

Harry blamed the lateness of the hour for his slow-moving brain cells and not understanding what Rory was trying to tell him faster. “Oh?” He nodded. “I see. Well, do y’want t’come check on her?” He asked standing beside his bed and pulling the covers back.

He nodded eagerly; it was punctuated by a crack of thunder that practically shook the house. His eyes widened with fear while trying to be brave. After his little hospital stay, Harry noted how nervous Rory seemed sometimes—especially when it came to his mum and making sure she wasn’t nervous too. “That was scary,” Harry admitted and scooped Rory into his arms quickly, tucking his head against his shoulder.

“You’re scared of thunder?” He asked incredulously but didn't move his face from Harry's neck.

“Isn’t everyone?” Harry smirked without Rory seeing. “Y'know that Mummy is, me...s'like you’re the bravest one of us."

Rory squirmed a bit in Harry’s arms--like the weight of his phobia and subsequent fake-bravery was too much for him. “I think I’m a little afraid of thunder,” he whispered to Harry. Harry nodded and squeezed him.

“S’okay. S’brave of you t’want t’check on Mummy anyway.”

“I didn’t know if I was allowed to,” he admitted.

“Allowed?” Harry repeated.

“Because Mumma has you now.”

Harry didn’t want to have this conversation in the middle of the night. Not when he was feeling frustrated with the love of his life’s actions. Not when the weather was souring his mood. Not when Rory felt scared, and he didn’t know how to fix it completely.

“Rory,” Harry sighed stopping outside the bedroom. “Mummy and I are always going t’need you,” he promised. “You don’t have t’change how y’do things because m’here,” he pressed his lips against the little one’s forehead.

"Okay," he nodded.

Harry smiled at him again, ran his hand through his hair comfortingly before he headed back in the bedroom. He knelt on the bed and deposited Rory in the middle. She hadn’t moved. Probably tired from being perfect all day, Harry presumed. Rory nestled into the middle of the bed and Harry smiled softly, feeling more tired, thankfully, than when he woke up. His mind didn’t need to reel with more feelings of frustration before he fell back asleep. “Night, Harry,” Rory whispered.

Harry smiled as he drifted off. “Night Rory.”

The rainy night turned into a rainy day. Harry was quiet. She noticed it immediately. When she woke up with the help of her internal clock at six-thirty, she realized Rory’s little face was staring back at her. She blinked in surprise, wondering when he got there. Harry’s hand was resting protectively on Rory’s little rib cage and her heart melted so thoroughly she thought she would cry.

Swallowing the emotion in her throat she snuck out of bed to start breakfast as Rory would surely wake up with the help of his own internal clock in about thirty minutes. The rain and dark clouds made her think of her trip to the hospital in the middle of the night, quickly she shook her head of those thoughts.

As if on cue, Harry and Rory descended the stairs as she poured juice for them. “Hi Mumma!” Rory smiled excitedly. Harry released him and he scurried over to hug her legs. She bent and kissed the top of his head before returning to the scrambled eggs on the stove.

“Hi love bug,” she grinned. “Did you sleep okay?”

Rory glanced back at Harry and nodded. “Harry said I was really brave about the thunder.”

She was surprised she didn’t wake to the sound of it and moreover the sound of Rory’s little worried voice because of it. She pursed her lips and glanced at Harry as well. “Yeah?” She asked quietly.

Harry nodded. He pressed a kiss to her temple and grabbed the three glasses of orange juice to settle on the table. “Rory was braver than I was,” he repeated. “He wanted t’make sure y’were sleeping okay. Because y’get scared in the thunderstorms sometimes.”

Her heart clenched with love for the little one. More for Harry for going along with every little detail and every insecurity Rory shared with him. She smiled and nodded. “Thanks, cutie pie,” she ruffled his hair as he held onto her leg still.

Harry sat at the table. Normally, she wouldn’t have paid much attention to the position, but he didn’t really look up from his phone. He didn’t look up when she said breakfast was almost ready—when he usually hopped up to get plates, silverware, etc. Rory followed over to Harry. Joined him by sitting right on his lap, Harry moving instinctively to hold him as they examined Harry’s phone.

“Honey, can you ask Harry if it’s okay first—he might be doing something for work or—”

“S’fine, kitten,” he mumbled, interrupting her without further explanation.

“It’s highlights from the soccer game,” Rory explained.

Biting her lip, she suddenly felt a bit intrusive. Quietly, she set plates in front of the pair and then ate her own food in near silence—save for the cheers and announcers coming from Harry’s phone. It felt odd to feel left out. For so long it had been her and Rory. Perhaps she was imagining it, but she swore Harry almost seemed... annoyed with her.

After Rory started playing on his own, she would ask. Or maybe when Rory went to sleep tonight.

For now, even if she was a bit anxious about Harry’s coldness toward her, she couldn’t help but adore how sweet Harry and Rory looked at the other end of the table. The same concentrated expression on their faces as they watched his phone screen. Her heart was so full it felt illegal to be that happy. Harry kissed the back of Rory’s head without fanfare, without thinking. His phone propped against the flower vase while he ate his breakfast with one hand.

Just as quietly, she snapped a picture of the pair of them. One to send to her family as well as his for sure.

Rory and Harry were nearly inseparable the whole day. It allowed her to get a lot of cleaning and laundry done that had been neglected since Rory couldn’t play in the yard with the unending rainy weather. In the late afternoon, Rory asked that they play a few rounds of Candyland. So, they did. Harry smiled at Rory the whole time and chuckled every time her turn brought her back to the Peppermint Forest when she was almost to the Candy Castle.

It almost felt mean spirited.

But the boys went to play again in Rory's room after Candyland. Harry even got Rory to take a bath without the usual argument that ensued when she did. Their little day spent together right under her nose made her a little jealous—although she wasn’t sure who she was jealous of when she thought about it. They paused to have leftovers for dinner (because it was Saturday, and that was their routine) While they played, she read some of her long-neglected book that was often set to the side for room to play with her son.

“Rory wants you t’say goodnight,” Harry said quietly as he flopped onto the couch grabbing the controller off the coffee table. She blinked, glanced at the clock along the wall of the dining area and shook her head at how rapidly the time had moved.

“It’s eight already?” She asked, mostly to herself. There was no arguing, no ‘one more story,’ not even a good night kiss as had happened many nights before when Harry put Rory to bed.

He nodded anyway, scrolling through movie and show options on Netflix without even looking at her. She eyed him suspiciously the entire time she ascended the stairs to Rory’s room. “Hi Mumma,” he grinned happily. He smelled clean and fresh. His room was tidy (thanks to Harry’s kind reminders as they played, she was sure). Rory was perfect. But she may have been a bit biased.

“Hi baby,” she smiled. “Did you have fun playing with Harry today?” She asked.

He nodded. “We played so much,” it was as if he realized it all on his own and how weird of a day it was to have a playdate right near her without hardly including her.

“You did,” she grinned and kissed his forehead. “I love you. Sleep tight, don’t let the bed bugs bite.” She had said it to him since the day they met Harry and he had asked for clarification.

He grinned and rolled over sleepily. “I love you, too, Mumma,” he yawned. She turned his light off, ensuring the nightlight remained on. She closed the door and returned to the living room. Harry was unmoved; legs outstretched on the coffee table.

Harry shifted as she removed her book from the sofa and placed it beside Harry’s feet on the table. He was silent. Her discomfort amplified and she turned to him. “Are you...okay?” She asked. He nodded, still unspeaking. She bit the inside of her lip. “Uh...Harry, it really feels like—”

“It was really unfair,” he mumbled. His gaze was unmoving from the TV but he wasn’t watching.

“What was—”

“You just...stopped talking t’me. Y’didn’t tell me why. Rory had t’come t’me in secret t’invite me t’his game,” he reminded her. “I know why y’did,” he looked at her squarely for the first time all day. “But it hurt. And I never really got t’grieve it because you came back but it hurt,” he repeated. Her chest ached, feeling like he pierced a whole right through it.

“Harry,” she whispered, an apology forming.

He shook his head. “Y’don’t have t’say anything. S’over and m’not...” he sighed. “M’really not mad, kitten. M’not. S’jus’ the crummy weather made me think of it. Playing with Rory all day made me think ‘bout all those weeks I didn’t have with him. S’not fair and s’not anyone’s fault. M’jus... sad.”

Her heart felt shattered. “But—”

“You don’t have t’say anything.”

But she felt like she did. Harry resenting her felt like a very real possibility and it terrified her. “You’ll resent me.”

“Of course I won’t,” he turned to her with such fierceness in his eyes she felt as if the sun had finally broke the cloud barrier after their long weak of rain. “I know why y’did it. But m’sad about it,” he grabbed her hand. “I trust you that it won’t happen again,” he kissed her knuckles. “M’sorry I was cold today. I jus’ never got t’process or tell you how it felt.”

Well, if it was worse than this moment--and she was sure that it wasn’t even a fraction of the anguish and hurt Harry felt at the time--then she didn’t want to ever make him feel that way again. Didn’t want to experience it herself in any manner—even if Harry very much deserved to make her feel the way she made him feel.

“Harry,” she repeated. “I don’t know what to say,” she admitted. Tongue-tied, confused, and unsure. Things she rarely felt since she had Rory because she couldn't. “I... I don’t know how to—”

“Kitten,” he squeezed her hand. “M’not mad. M’not going t’hold it against you. But I needed to tell you, so I don’t.”

“Harry,” she felt like a broken record.

“Beautiful,” he echoed in the same tone. “M’not mad,” he promised.

She crawled across the couch, curled in his lap and nuzzled against him in a way that a grown woman had no business to do. Tears stung behind her eyes and her breath felt shallow in her lungs. “I was an idiot,” she whispered hoping it would ease the ache, the fear she felt of losing Harry when she had only started to have him.

“Oh, kitten,” he cooed. “Y’might be the most intelligent woman I’ve ever met,” he assured her running his hand up and down her back. “I was mean today. I shouldn’t have done that.”

“You should have punched me in the face.”

He chuckled. “Never in a billion years, love,” he brushed her hair out of her face. “You didn’t need t’do it, but I get it.”

“I didn’t. I shouldn’t have. I’ll regret it for the rest of my life.”

“M’telling you, you don’t need to. I won’t behave poorly like I did today again.”

Her heart felt so broken--she was afraid to speak. Worried it would just come out in a mess of sobs that Harry would unfairly have to comfort. “I can’t even believe you’re apologizing for your behavior. It was my own doing.”

“Angel,” he kissed her forehead, the tip of her nose. “You did what you thought was best as a mum. M’never going t’fault you for that; just...” he smiled and shook his head. “Tell me beforehand next time, yeah?”

She snorted. “I won’t ever let there be a next time,” she vowed. He winked at her, cupped her face with his hands that she missed gently caressing her and touching her in between playing with Rory, all day long. Gently, he pressed his lips to hers to seal the promise.

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denpa-dere · 4 months

Text

house arrest 6

afab!mc x satan

description: NSFW. You are confined to your room for your own protection. But how long will that last when the only thing standing between you and your housemates is a door and some willpower? Satan has a hunch he may know how to fix things.

warnings: breeding kink with talk scents/scenting, pregnancy, afab reader with she/her pronouns, dubcon heavy (all actions depicted are intended to be consensual)

tags: @love-and-lore @violet-turning-violet @ourfinalisation @craftybara

|| Intro || Mammon || Asmo (mini) || Levi || Satan (mini) || Beel || Lucifer (mini) || Asmo || Belphie (mini) || Belphie || Barbatos (mini) || Satan || Diavolo (mini) ||

Satan felt his phone buzz silently in his pocket. Then again. And again. Annoyed but roused from his book, he swiped up the device to see what was causing such a fuss. After a quick scan of his incoming messages, Satan deposited his DDD back in his pocket, packed up his book bag, and headed off towards home without a word.

You were calling for him (well, texting) in a panic, desperate for escape before Lucifer returned from the usual business that kept him late at RAD. Satan was, of course, happy to oblige.

Truth be told, by the time he had come around to fetch you, Satan still didn't have a plan. When you answered the door to welcome him, Belphie’s scent still clung to your skin. That much he didn't mind. The lingering presence of the youngest precluded the company of the eldest, which, combined with the gossip Satan had been dutifully following, proved that Lucifer had not been able to claim you first, after all.

Or second.

Or third.

And that was fucking funny.

You collapsed against him in the hall, nerves fried, shaking, suddenly feeling in far over your head. You babbled frantically about the day's events while Satan stroked your hair, cooing soft reassurances. Don't worry, you're safe, we'll figure this out together.

Just trust me.

As he ushered you along towards his room, the gears in his brain ground tirelessly, turning end over end against a thickly encroaching fog. Escape was unrealistic, doubly-so now that Barbatos had been introduced as a wild card.Who knows how long you really had before the other shoe dropped?

Felis catus, commonly referred to as the domestic housecat, is a small, carnivorous, multidimensional dwelling mammal of the family Falidae.

A male cat is colloquially referred to as a Tom, a female a Queen.

He locked the door behind him and placed a few quick protective wards to act as a barrier. It was shoddy workmanship coming from the fourth-born, but it would have to do. Satan wracked his memories, trying to pull what he'd studied to the front of his mind before it had a chance to slip away.

Queens go into heat approximately every 3 weeks, each cycle lasting anywhere from a few days to two weeks.

You stood towards the center of the room and shifted your weight from foot to foot as your vision adjusted to the darkness, eyes flitting between endless stacks of books and cursed objects, some floating, some stationary, all dimly illuminated by low-burning candles.

Satan followed closely behind you, slinging his arms around your shoulders and pulling your back against his chest. Confusion was beginning to set in.

Queens can carry kittens from multiple Toms and will mate with all Toms in her pack during a heat.

Satan was no expert on humans, but he was pretty sure that part didn't apply to you.

He bowed his head low next to yours. You shivered when his lips caught your earlobe.

“I'm going to get you pregnant, okay?” He rasped, at his wit's end.

No one said you were chosen to represent humans because of your brilliance.

You were face down before you had a chance to respond. He could have sworn he heard something that sounded a lot like ‘please’ muffled between the sheets. The demon shifted his weight, anchoring you down further to knead your breasts with both hands. He took his time, rolling your nipples between bony fingers and savored the way your yelps faded into whines.

It made perfect sense, in his opinion. He hooked into your shorts and pulled so hard you heard stitches pop. From your position, you couldn't tell if he had shredded them or simply blown out the elastic waistband, but the result was the same; you were bare. You heard the clinking of what you assumed to be his belt buckle. A few moments and some rustling later, your guess was confirmed by the feeling of him prodding at your slit.

There was no time for romance, Satan thought a little sadly, spitting into one of his hands. Time was of the essence. He slathered his cock in saliva before entering you in one swift motion. Tears burned your eyes as you were stretched to accommodate him.

Pain quickly gave way to numbness, which gave way to pleasure. Your eyes rolled back, reduced to nothing but pathetic little ‘uh, uh, uh’s by your lover. Those hapless noises only served to further fuel his ardor. This was supposed to be a rescue mission, the ragged remains of his conscience chimed, unhelpfully. He squashed it. It was too hard to make sense of anything else beyond your sweat-soaked bodies and the rhythmic clapping of flesh on flesh.

This would work. He would make it work.

“Take it, take it, take it,” Satan hissed between gritted teeth. His fingers knotted cruelly in your hair, pulling your head back with unintentional force. You gasped for air. His other hand laid palm flat against the small of your back, pinning you to his mattress, steadying your body against his feverish little ruts.

Your poor, neglected clit throbbed. You wiggled an arm between yourself and the bed, sliding a finger on either side of the sensitive bud, working it in small, gentle circles as best you could. He felt you clench around him and licked a fat stripe up the side of your neck in response. The noise that escaped your throat was absolutely filthy.

Satan tilted your hips up, angling you just enough to brush up against that sweet spot that had you wailing. Your pussy pulsed and a warm, wet dribble of slick splashed against his thighs.

“That's it, good girl, good girl,” He groaned into your ear, hips slamming against your ass. He could feel the coil in his stomach straining, ready to bust at any second- and when it did, he bit down on your neck, hard.

Somewhere within the House of Lamentation, a door slammed.

#sorry to cuck you on your birthday lucifer ilu #obey me smut #obey me fanfic #obey me x reader #satan x reader #x reader #love & lore

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jifanjiang0710 · 3 months

Text

platonic yandere! father x fem! reader Warnings: incest (not between yandere and reader)

Fùqīn: Father

“Fùqīn.”

Though his eyes remained shut, legs crossed lazily off the veranda (ruffling his kù), an imperceptible upward quirk of the lips spoke of his acknowledgement. One sleeve hastened to conceal the bowl beside him, but you caught it just before it disappeared behind the garment.

“Intoxicating yourself?” Your tone turned icier, if possible, and your father scrambled to redeem himself.

“Of course not, [Name]-er, just indulging lightly in the morning-” You interrupt him with a whack upside on the head, with a fan someone had gifted you, unsympathetic to his pitiful wail. He had developed a rather bothersome drinking habit as of late, though by all means far from dangerous for your father was an elegiac drunk, often accompanying a teary sort of clinginess. It was evident even for the rare visitor to surmise that he was particularly attached to you, his only daughter and child. Since your birth, after overcoming his initial reluctance to hold you, you were rarely let out of his sight, often seen trailing behind the first prince or wrapped up in his arms, a little bundle of childhood. When he had left the palace you were carried close to his chest, none the wiser.

Even then you found yourself somehow coaxed onto his lap, tugged forward by the arm until your head could rest atop his chest. He raised the wine to your lips, to which you halt him.

“Fùqīn.”

“Alright, alright,” he sighed and set it aside. “Won’t you call me ā-diē like other children do? Am I not enough of a beloved father to you?” The complaint came across as more puerile than heart-wrenching. After failing to garner a response, he tousled your hair, raking long fingers through the strands that would take you two kè to put up. He had insisted before that he could braid your hair just as well as any servant, into a style befitting of the noblest of ladies (he cannot) (he has tried).

“You… must relearn royal etiquette,” you said, shifting out of his grasp to maintain a preferred detachment. “You cannot be sitting so crassly, or running your mouth when we return to the Imperial Palace. Fùqīn, we must demonstrate impeccable manners and grace show that our time here has not diminished our values as royals.”

“My brother deserves none of my effort.” He only pulled you back into the embrace, with the excuse of keeping you warm amidst the third snow of the season. “Was he not the one who saw my exile?”

“It is not just the Emperor. What of the Queen Mother, the princess, the concubines and their children? They will seize any opportunity or weakness to scorn us for lack of refinery. We would never shake of the brand of criminals.” For the first time this morning a draft made you shiver despite not feeling any effect from the cold just now, allowing him to lean in to monopolise more of your body heat. He was sensitive to low temperatures, but would still dwell outdoors frequently in winter months, dressed in scant layers of clothing. As much as he laughed it off as an odd quirk and impulse, you recognised it as a form of punishment, self-imposed suffering he inflicted upon his skin. You dare think that it is due to the guilt he carries for being the reason both you and he were here now, abandoned in an old residence someplace near the northern border.

He had remained silent this while, as if contemplative. An unusual occurrence. The wind tore through the house with greater ardour, brushing across frosted branch and soil to deposit a perilous chill within the stone walls. Finally, he placed a palm over your cheek, a gentle warmth soft as snowflakes adorning his smile, and spoke. “You wish to become a royal again?”

The lump of saliva in your throat felt much harder to swallow. “Yes.”

“Then I shall see it through.”

“…”

“…what’s wrong, [Name]-er?”

You dismissed it as a wandering mind, but you would never admit to him that for perhaps the second time in your whole life, he had frightened you. Though his arms were gentle and eyes soft, you could not find reprieve from the sudden chill you experienced earlier.

While your father the first prince savoured the tranquillity of an early grey noon, you begin to muse on the letter that had arrived so unceremoniously the month before. A horseman handed it to you, you unfurled the scroll, he left.

It carried the official stamp and seal of the Imperial Palace, a message direct from the emperor. The Emperor! Casting his gaze on disgraced royals such as you? The contents merely spoke of a potential reinstatement of both your titles by the next Lunar New Year, in time to celebrate the spring festival. The next announcement would be of the emperor’s visit to your humble residence. What could prompt him to make an in-person trip, much less to a land so far from the capital?

You had relayed this enthusiastically to your father, who nearly gave you heart palpitations when he downright refused to accommodate his brother the emperor.

“Fùqīn! You cannot reject a decree!”

“[Name]-er.” The autumn leaves had littered the courtyard, the task of clearing them he conveniently ignored. “I know you are eager for our period of exile to end-”

“I am! I don’t want to have you live like this anymore, not when you were supposed to be the Crown Prince, not when they slammed you with baseless accusations of treason!”

“Guāi, don’t be angry. Come here…”

But you snatch your hand out of his grip, seething at the injustice of your circumstances. “Even if we have to be civil to him, it doesn’t matter. As long as we can…”

‘As long as my father won’t have to bear the burden of his punishment anymore. As long as I can have a chance to provide for him better in the future, find a proper job in the capital… for both our sakes.’ You left that unsaid.

He laughed. He laughed and it was so incongruous that you were frozen in place. “My sweet daughter. Are you worried about me?”

“No. It’s so I can have a better life. You can rot here for all I care.”

“I know you would never do that.” He tugged you down effortlessly into his arms, wooden tea table shoved aside, and like a snake constricted you so tight you had to hit him twice on the head for him to loosen up. “My daughter… tell me this. Have I ever seemed displeased with my life here?” You can feel the weight of his chin on your head.

“[Name]-er, I am content here. As long as we are together, and I have you.”

Come to think about it, that’s when his excessive drinking problem worsened. ______________________________________________________________ Meeting the Emperor

The emperor’s arrival mirrored opposite of that of the letter. A silken-draped carriage, held aloft by muscled workers from further up north, the procession led by finely-maned horses and their carts. Only the wine vessels caught your father’s interest. You clutched your fan close, the same one that had arrived enclosed within the letter. That item, you did not disclose its origins to your father. As far as he is aware you had picked it up while visiting the town market.

The emperor, with all his grandeur, still did not hesitate stepping into the estate with only two accompanying soldiers, his retainers instructed to linger just outside the courtyard, and conveniently out of earshot.

“Ye Heqing.” He addressed your father, a courteous smile gracing his attractive features. “It has been a while, gē.” Upon receiving no response, his smile only widened, and he directed the next greeting to you. “[Name]-er.”

“Who gave you the right to call her that?” You had to placate your father, and kneel in his place. The emperor’s eyes lay on the fan he gifted you with, fixed securely to your side with a wooden chain.

“Huángshàng, please forgive him, he has not been feeling very well-” Blind panic swims in your vision, from the corner of your field of view you could witness your father scoff dismissively, obviously enraged at the familiarity in which his brother addressed you.

“I was fine until you came. Leave my family alone.” Ye Heqing takes a step closer to the emperor, his younger brother, the plain thin hanfu a distinguishing contrast to the latter’s dark red robes and golden-rimmed cap, while their faces parallel an eerie similarity.

“I assure you, gē, I wish no harm. I have but one request, that is the chance to speak with your daughter, my niece, in private.”

“LIKE HELL I WOULD LET-”

Your father was dragged away by the soldiers out of his own house, thrashing and yelling profanities so blasphemous it would have a commoner executed should they attempt the same. “[NAME]!” he howls out as a final desperate parting, or perhaps for help.

You raise an eyebrow.

“Now that that has been settled, shall we converse?” The emperor signals for you to stand, and you lead him to the tearoom, suddenly conscious of the sole shaky desk that had served you loyally for fifteen years. With trembling fingers and a chipped pot, you poured him a tea of the finest variant of leaves you owned, freshly ground.

“Thank you.” If he did not enjoy it, your uncle did not make it obvious. On the contrary his attention seemed to be fixated on something else. If not the fan you kept by your waist, then your eyes, forehead, hands, as if scrutinising.

He lifts the chains that attach the fan to the fabric. “I shall have to replace these with jade beads instead.” You still. Since when had he come so close?

“Have you considered my offer?” Another hand brushes past your hip, subtly at first, then snaking around it to grip.

In truth there was another part to the letter you had hidden from your father. A separate note handwritten by the emperor, to convey a personal request.

“So?” He inquired, savouring the hitch of your breath when his chest presses into your spine. “I have waited long for your correspondence, leaving me no choice but to advance my visitation earlier.”

“No.” Pulling away, you recall your father’s words.

‘I am content here. As long as we are together…’

“No,” you repeated. “Please forgive this niece, Huángshàng, for I am unable to accept that condition. I cannot, and will not, marry you.”

For a minute, it seemed as though the emperor were about to protest. The sharpness in his eyes began to brandish its piercing tip. He would have appealed somehow, with the title of Empress, or the solid security of your status and lifestyle, reverence of the kingdom, maybe even temptations of the flesh from a man as desirable as he (for who else would liaise with a banished royal?).

He chose to express none of those. Instead, he listened intently for another sound from outside. Surely enough, if you strained your ears, Ye Heqing could be heard through muffled shrieks. The emperor shook his head.

“I have desired you for a number of months now. Your resilience in the face of tribulation and commendable feats to keep yourself and my brother alive for this long have reached my ears. Consider me impressed. Though banished and left to die, you have established good rapport with the local townsfolk, enough to secure yourself a source of income.

“It hardly ends there. Utilising your father’s royal education and knowing he could not apply for the imperial scholar examinations; you advertised him as a tutor instead. Though lazy and idle my brother may be, he has the heart to spend his days teaching and nights studying. Two silver taels… a bargain of a price, for such a reputable teacher.” He flashes that signature charming smile, but nothing like the warmth of your father’s grin. “But,” the teacup is set down, “is that the fate you wish to burden him with forever? An unstable income with barely enough to wear additional layers of clothes in winter?”

He is referring to your father’s self-inflicted pain. You are about to raise your voice, defend him and explain the reason for such, but you understand what he is getting at. Do you want Ye Heqing to continue making himself suffer?

Sensing your hesitance, your uncle continues, taking your right hand in his. “He is not getting any younger, nor am I. I wish to settle down, with a wife competent enough to rule beside me for the maintenance and expansion of the kingdom. A wife who is, simply speaking, as gorgeous and spirited as you.” He placed a kiss on the top of each knuckle, gaze lidded and implicit.

“My father… is happy here. And he would never agree to be with the family that scorned, framed him for-”

“Framed?” The emperor’s eyebrows knitted in a perplexed scowl, though anyone could tell that it was insincere. The twitch of his eyes and repressed grin told that he had been anticipating the opportunity to bring up the topic of your father’s crimes. “Whatever do you mean, my dear?”

“He… he was innocent. He had never betrayed the former Emperor, or the kingdom! You had no evidence and only sought to exile him for the throne! Yes, he is greedy, indolent, obstinate, eats too much, drinks too much, deceptive, blur, foul-mouthed and everything in between, but he would never…”

“Never what, [Name]-er?”

“Never…” You don’t know why you faltered. “Never steal from the Emperor.”

Your uncle laughed. He laughed and it sounded just like your father, so incongruous that you have an odd sense of deja-vu. “Is that what he told you? Hahahahahaa… I,” he manages between fits of giggles, “Ye Moyao, Emperor of the XX kingdom, have never heard such a blatant falsehood in my life.”

“Wh- But he said that you accused him of stealing fifty-thousand taels, from palace reserves, to…”

He rubbed his chin. “True, we never did find out where the half a wàn silver taels had went, but he was convicted for a very different reason. Poor thing, did he not tell you?” He leaned in closer, lips to your ear. “Has he lied about it all these years?”

Seeing how dumbstruck you are, he resumes, voice somber. “Ye Heqing was found guilty of the attempted murder of the former Emperor, our father. He had kept a vial of poison in his sleeve pocket, to serve to him when he had the chance. Fortunately, it merely made him severely ill, and my father recovered within the year, by which time we had already identified Ye Heqing as the culprit and had both of you exiled.”

“You’re lying.” You would never have dared address the emperor rudely, but the news was absurd. Your father- No, that was impossible. “It’s not true-”

“I could have him executed; you know.”

The threat silences you. He chuckles. “Marry me. You --- nor he --- would have to suffer here any longer.”

You think long and hard, and nod.

______________________________________________________________

Days in the Palace

You saw the emperor’s entourage off as far as the edge of the town. Following your acceptance he had tried to lay a hand on you but was refused.

“Didn’t you notice, [Name]-er? The way he looked at you?! I’ll pluck out his eyes and scatter his remains! I’ll kill him! How dare he lay such a repulsive gaze on MY daughter? I’ll murder him, I really will-!”

“Fùqīn, you are not sober. Take the herbal tea.”

This tirade had gone on for the better half of the evening after the emperor’s departure. While you held the wine bowl high out of reach from his kneeling form, you began to consider the implications of a marriage with Ye Moyao. Surely it would be scorned and opposed, seeing as he was your uncle, but public opinion had never stopped him for acquiring what he wanted. The punishment of beatings for marrying within family or clan was a threat null and void in the face of the Emperor. You doubted he would have selected a very auspicious date for the ceremony, given how eager he seemed for the marriage to commence early.

Of course, your father was not informed of this decision.

“[Name]-errrr…”

“Tch. Do not display such disgraceful behaviour once we return to the palace.”

A sniffle from him.

Then, about eight nights before the Spring Festival, you two had ridden a modest carriage to the capital after collectively refusing the transport arranged by the Imperial Palace. Nearly immediately upon entrance you and your father had been separated much to his obvious chagrin. A band of handmaidens had ushered you off to an ornate room of dark wood and stone, and tutors were assigned to subject you to a strict series of lessons, educating you on national matters, the Lunyu, royal customs etc. Your diet had been no stranger to close scrutiny, and however majestic and grand the palace and its surrounding gardens may be, you were often confined to the spaces between the classroom and your chambers. Not that you minded that much, you still managed to interact with a great host of persons, and some childhood friends you could hardly recall.

You had not seen your father since. Word from the servants were that he had been called to meet the Emperor, by which time he would have learnt of his only child’s engagement with his own brother. Much to your astonishment there had been no news of a large fuss somewhere in the grounds; Ye Heqing was reputed for his rashness when it involved his daughter in particular. Speaking of your father, he became the favourite topic for gossip amongst the royal family and their associates. That much you could glean even with your limited interactions outside. About his attempted murder, his time in exile. It made you seethe. How could they assume so much of his character, his person when barely understood him?

In the days that followed it would be amiss to neglect the mention of the various gifts your soon-to-be husband was delivering to your quarters each morning. Whether it be your favourite mooncake flavours (how did he know??), vibrant and colourful jewellery, or intricate gadgets from the West, Ye Moyao seemed to acutely pinpoint your tastes, only selecting items that would catch your intrigue or fancy. It was mildly unsettling, as if he could pry you open and browse through your soul at will. It was lucky that your father was forbidden to meet with you for now, or else you think he would have eaten all the gifted snacks in your stead.

Until now it seemed that the emperor had no interest in meeting you until the wedding date. Your wedding was set conveniently on Lunar New Year’s Eve (appalling choice of date), and you only got to see your father on the day itself.

Your hair was done up by no other than the Queen Mother herself, who had wordlessly visited your abode and with elegant wrinkled fingers finished the job with an elaborate golden hair stick, another present from Ye Moyao. When you finally locked eyes with him at the ceremony banquet, there was an unidentifiable gleam within his gaze. The crimson red of your dress under the dark vest matched the colour of the sash over his flowing garments. From the second you were led down the red carpet you could feel the scrutiny of others creeping up your spine, nestling between the ossicles of your ears and piercing like clouds through your ribs. The traitor’s child. The emperor’s new obsession.

Strangely enough, your father was not here. Though your eyes ran many a lap over the whole courtyard you could not catch the familiar mop of brown hair floating in the crowd. Maybe it was not such a bad thing. He would have wasted no time in objecting to the marriage disrupting the progression of the wedding. You had no time to be disappointed, for the kowtowing ritual and tea-serving ceremony had begun. Even as you ate at the table, responding quite mechanically to the inquiries of the former emperor and the Queen Mother you had little rest, for Ye Moyao was gripping tightly to your hand for the most part, occasionally sliding up your knee and thigh. Expression still unreadable, you decided it tedious to do anything but entertain his whims.

Even as he carried you to the bridal chambers, you had not protested much.

______________________________________________________________

Ye Heqing's Appearance

“Dear wife, would you come here?”

After the whole ordeal of the ceremony you were spent, having little time to relish in the reinstatement of your official title alongside your new title as empress. Regardless you still made your way to sit beside him on the lavish bed.

Your uncle hums in satisfaction, pulling you close by the waist to bury his nose into your neck and inhale deeply. “It has been a while since I cared so much to indulge in a woman, much less choose to marry her.”

“Where is my father?”

He shook his head. “You needn’t concern yourself with the whereabouts of a traitor. I am all that you need t-”

“He is not.”

“…what makes you so sure? He had hidden the truth behind his banishment for a little less than two decades. Why are you so adamant on his innocence?”

It was as though the blood flow to your heart had halted. Every nerve and capillary burned with an overwhelming distaste, wanting to tear our flakes of skin where he had touched you, yet you remain pliant and silent. His hand moves to the knots on your vest, undoing them slowly, sensually. When he had reached for the hem of your dress your eyes were tightly shut, fists clenched at the side.

Expecting to feel cool air against your skin, you did not anticipate the warmth of a palm over your eyelids, and hot splatters of oozing liquid onto your skin. A gurgling and choke from Ye Moyao.

Once you cared enough to open them, you are instantly wrapped in the embrace of a familiar set of arms, carrying with them a homely, earthly scent. When you tried to pry him away to see just what he had done, Ye Heqing’s grip on you only became firmer, sword grasped in the other hand, intent on shielding you from the grotesque sight of his brother’s slit neck.

“Sweet girl, are you alright?” Your father uttered over the gasps and ruffling from his brother’s writhing. “Fùqīn is here.” He examines the ‘man’ that was the emperor, perhaps hoping to have prolonged his torment a little longer, but you came first. Once his beloved daughter was safe and secure he would go for the rest of the royal family, and then he could have his fun.

You think your father had entered through the window, or had hidden here for a while already. It did not matter; you would ask him of it later. “Your Royal Highness,” you addressed the emperor, back still turned to his although Ye Heqing had let you out of his arms to approach the dying man, “my father had not attempted to murder you and the former emperor.”

You could imagine his gaze, pupils blown wide and fixed manically on you. You only exhale and retreat. “If that was truly the case, he would have succeeded.”

A final slash of the bloodied blade, and Ye Moyao was no more.

#yandere x reader #leos works #platonic yandere #platonic yandere x reader #tw yandere #yandere oc #yandere x you #yandere imagines #yandere drabble

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