#please I feel so cut off from like half the cast

[chaserofstarsandtheabyss]

This book I’m reading gives me SO MANY MIXED FEELINGS

[dekuneho]

five in the morning ☆ ( ​prohero!katsuki x reader ) mdni | suggestive

The digital alarm clock seated on your bedside table flickers, casting a glow that reads 5 AM in the asscrack of morning. Your boyfriend is dead asleep and probably won’t wake up for a while, hopefully. You don’t waste opportunities that the universe has clearly granted on a silver platter, and so you set to work right away.

You slip off the bed, skillfully slithering away from Katsuki’s grip. He stirs momentarily, legs sliding over the warmth you had left; you hold your breath, watching him carefully. Katsuki continues snoring.

Mission accomplished.

Katsuki’s the better cook, and he had been spoiling you rotten all this time with his three-star Michelin cooking. Considering how well he treated you last night, you want to treat him by waking up to breakfast in bed this morning. It’ll be nothing special, but he’d be on the other end of the princess treatment this time, and it’s at least something.

A traditional Japanese breakfast would take a while, but you had prepared beforehand with leftovers and freezer foods. Now, the real challenge is perfecting Tamagoyaki the way Katsuki does — an impossible feat, but you wouldn’t be Katsuki’s favorite person in the world if you weren’t stubborn and headstrong.

As the rice boils, you move to reach for a cutting board but instead, startle at a warm figure pressing against your back.

Fuck. He wasn’t supposed to wake up right away! You barely started. Did he wake up once he realized you were missing?

“Katsuki,” you say, twisting around to meet your boyfriend’s half-asleep daze. “Can you go back to bed and pretend to be surprised in preferably an hour or so?”

“Nah,” he rasps out, octaves lower than usual. “Don’t wanna waste my view.”

Your plans have been foiled, but whatever. The heat emanating from Katsuki’s body makes you want to leech off him for a little longer. This morning had been a little too cold for comfort.

Katsuki keeps quiet as you work, his chin resting on the curve of your shoulder. He doesn’t murmur any complaints or criticisms, so it could either be because he’s approving of your methods, or it could be because he’s dozing off on your clavicle. He’s pliable as you glide through the kitchen, back and forth — and still, Katsuki’s like a cat perched over you.

“Hey,” Katsuki says. You feel his voice rumble over his chest, and it meets your shoulder blades. “Baby, look at me, please.”

A please so early in the morning? What a miracle.

You shift around, meeting Katsuki’s sharp and heated gaze. Seems like he enjoyed watching you a little too much. You smile, your arms slowly winding their way around his shoulders as his nose brushes against yours.

“Hi,” you whisper in the space you share, grinning.

“Mm,” hums Katsuki, expression turning fierce.

Without warning, he ducks and bites over your nose. It doesn’t hurt, just the threat of his sharp teeth on your skin. Still, you jump in his hold, bewildered and possibly a little aroused?

“Katsuki—”

He licks over your mouth, humming like a cat purring in approval. 

Well — scratch that. He’s more like a dog, licking your face like that, what the hell? You hide your face with an arm, ignoring the heat pooling in your stomach at how Katsuki’s staring at you like he’s mistaken you for breakfast. Breakfast that you worked hard to prepare!

“Down, boy,” you scold. Is he experiencing cuteness aggression?

“Had some on your lips,” Katsuki explains, like he couldn’t have just wiped it off with his thumb. “Tastes good.”

He pokes his tongue out, and you go cross-eyed, trying to follow it. There’s a trace of sauce on it, and you have to summon the power of a thousand men to hold back from sucking on it. He cages you on the island counter with two beefy arms.

“You, I mean,” clarifies Katsuki.

The thousand men are failing miserably.

“Katsuki,” you warn, sounding winded. Pointedly ignoring his grin, you push on his chest. “Let me finish your damn food first, ungrateful brat.”

“You ain’t my ma,” Katsuki snarks back. “Could make you one, if you—”

“Katsuki!” You push on his shoulders with more force, ears burning. Katsuki barks out a gleeful laugh, sounding too lively at this hour, feeding your mess of irritation and arousal.

Katsuki skids to a halt before you can reach the dining table, leaning forward to capture your lips in his. You inhale sharply, fingers twitching uselessly by his side. Katsuki pries your lips open with his, licking into your mouth some more. You can taste the residue of the fruits of your labor ( the breakfast that will get cold soon if Katsuki doesn’t cut this shit out ), and his hand sliding down to cup your ass is all it takes for you to melt against him.

You jerk away, needing to breathe. Katsuki watches you with a frown. You feel lightheaded.

“Fuckin’ cute,” he mutters, pinching your cheek. “Cookin’ breakfast f’me like that. So good to me, baby, you know that?”

“I — I should be the one saying that, Katsuki,” you say, embarrassed. “‘s why I wanted to surprise you.”

Katsuki scowls. “Stop acting all cute so damn early in the morning. I don’t want to fuckin’ marry you on some random fucking Wednesday.”

Breakfast is quiet, with you steaming from embarrassment and Katsuki preening from his win, all smug and stupidly handsome. It didn’t work out as planned, but maybe it was just an opportunity for you to share a Wednesday morning with your Katsuki, who’s criticizing the lack of spice but inhaling every grain of rice on his plate. 

You smile at your food. Maybe marrying him on a Wednesday wouldn’t be so bad.

[infictionalwonderland]

Hey, I hope you’re having a good day! I had an idea, Marvel cast flirting with y/n for x minutes?

. . MARVEL CAST FLIRTING WITH Y/N Y/L/N FOR 10 MINUTES STRAIGHT!

Coming home from an extremely long and stressful day/week was unfortunately something very familiar to you—so familiar that you and your best friend (your not famous best friend who was your pilar through all the chaos fame brought) had created a little routine; she’d send you various videos and links to movies and online books she knew would relax and amuse you.

So, cuddled up in your bed with your pyjamas and your star lights on (a true child at heart, always) you opened up your chats with them and eagerly swiped to see that they’d sent.

‘Marvel Cast Flirting with Y/N Y/L/N For 10 Minutes Straight!’ was the video for tonight.

Immediately you cackled to yourself, hurriedly sending your best friend thanks in the form of ironic emojis and frantic proclamations of undying love, before loading up the (true to prior word) ten minute long video.

Surely this was an exaggeration.

The video began, large letters in a cute font appearing on the dark screen ‘the marvel cast all being in love flirting with y/n for ten minutes’. The quick ‘AS THEY SHOULD’ before the clips started playing made you giggle to yourself.

The first clip was from some years back, you were pretty sure this was a premiere for The Avengers, given how you looked and the quality—you were standing opposite on interview, smile on your face and dressed in a pretty outfit the same colour of your character’s aesthetic.

“How do you feel about your costume?”

Before you could even answer the interviews question, Scarlett intercepted your interview—hair in a short red bob and a smirking grin at her lips as she wrapped an arm around your waist.

“Well I know how we all feel about this ladies costume, it’s a beautiful piece that just makes the women wearing all the more beautiful. If that’s even possible.”

The edit quickly gave Scarlett beating heart eyes for you as she didn’t tear her eyes away from you for a second—making present time you laugh.

With that she kissed your cheek, leaving a red mark of her lipstick and walked away, dramatically winking in your direction.

The second clip was a blooper, from .. Captain America: Civil War, you thought. You were on Sebastian’s shoulders, thighs locked over his head—in character, as your character and his were mid fight.

He stumbled back over a table accidentally and you let out a startled yelp, hands flying to steady yourself in his long hair and one of his landing on your arse cheek to steady you as he steadied himself with the other.

“Is it bad that I’m loving this?”

“SEBA—“

“Cut!”

The third clip was you and Lizzie (Elizabeth Olsen) reacting fan tweets; Lizzie unrolled the piece of paper, her eyes lighting up as she giggled with a little smirk.

“Elizabeth. .” You wearily trailed off, looking at your friend.

“Sorry, sorry. Okay! This tweet says if i could just pretty BEEP please with the juiciest most mouthwatering cherry on top get a not kid friendly scene of Wanda and (Your Character) I could die peacefully, my wish fulfilled. I implore you marvel, listen to your dying fan.”

“That tweet had over fifty thousand likes as well.” A feminine voice added in from behind the camera, laughter in her tone.

You and Lizzie turned to each other at the same time, grinning.

“I mean the fan is dying babe. .”

“Right? We should totally make this happen, like, totally.” She gave you a cheeky once over, eyes appreciating all of you. “Because it was the fans wish, not mine, duh.” Lizzie added.

“Mhm.” You hummed with a smirk.

The fourth clip was a evidently some sort of ‘guess the body part’ game: a photo of what you were pretty sure was your bottom half was the picture currently used for guessing, in the picture you were leaned over in a pair of yoga pants and in your personal opinion, you looked good. Well, your arse looked good (amazing, otherworldly—you humbly added)

Lizzie was the first person to answer, the video showing each persons turn one by one and immediately she said, “that’s my girl. Y/N.” Then giggling she added, “now get my girls booty off the screen, I don’t need you all ogling her. We get enough of that, sometimes causes a strain on us. But we’ve remained strong together.”

Paul Rudd was next and he stared at the picture of you for a few solid seconds, “it’s Y/N.” He sheepishly admitted. He pointed an accusing finger dramatically towards the camera—“I only know this because of all the edits you guys make!”

“You don’t have to watch them.” The interviewer pointed out innocently; Paul pouted, grumbling.

Next was Anthony who instantly answered, “That’s Y/N right here!” He hyped you up, grinning. “Don’t even try and make it creepy, we do glutes together man, it’s why we’re the best asses in the cast. Up top!” Anthony exclaimed, holding his hand up towards the picture as if pretending to high five you or something—the interviewer timidly gave him a high five.

Sebastian was next as you (and everyone) watch his eyes flicker and grin that was more of a smirk spread across his cheeks, “that’s definitely y/n.” He assumed instantly. “Would’ve been able to tell you that blindfolded.”

“But—“

“I’d have just sensed her.” Sebastian giggled.

Chris Evans was next—a grin picked up on his face immediately, eyes trained on the photo of you and he ran a hand over his beard, lightly biting his lip (HEELLLOOO????)

“That’s Y/n.” Chris stated confidently, smirking lightly and the camera caught some of the team in line of sight exchange raised eyebrows.

The fifth clip was of Brie Larson who was being interviewed on some sort of premiere event again—presumably or her (marvellous) movie, Captain Marvel, smiling at the interviewer.

“Out of all of the people on the Marvel Cast, those who you’ve met, do you have a favourite out of them?” The interview questioned.

“I’m not really one for favourites but I would definitely say I’m closest to Y/n! She’s—she’s just so lovely and funny and she’s like a ray of sunshine, honestly. She’s been a great help in the filming process as well, she coached me through everything with so patience—I would’ve strangled me if I was her, but no, she just had that adorable smile on her face. She’s truly an amazing person and a better friend than I thought possible.” Brie answered enthusiastically with a soft smile.

“Awwww! We love to hear that—are any of the rumours about her true?”

Brie blinked, seeming taken aback for a brief moment— “Yes she does smell amazing, she’s always effortlessly beautiful, she’s unfailingly hilarious and yes no one in this world deserves her. But like. . if she’s open to it,” Brie paused, winking at the camera and making a call me sign with her hands and mouthing the words with a flirty grin.

The sixth clip was of you, Tom Holland, RDJ, Paul Bettany, Zoe Saldana and Pom Klementieff on Jimmy Kimmel, tasked with drawing your characters. The clip started just as you turned around the drawing of your character and well, it was actually surprisingly good in your own opinion—the audience immediately erupted into loud and obnoxious cheers.

“As great as that is, love, it still doenst capture the extent of your beauty.” Tom Holland, who was sat to your left, grinned cheekily at you and the audience practically shouted and hooted.

“Would anything ever?” Zoe shot back from your right side, twirling a lock of your hair affectionately and smiling as she leaned against you.

“I sincerely doubt that anything could.” RDJ piped up, giving you an unapologetic grin when you looked over at him with fond exasperation as the crowd was practically inconsolable in their glee and enthusiasm, shouting out your praises. “Give it up for sunshine, people. Our gorgeous ray of sunshine!”

“I—“

“They are quite right, Y/n.” Paul Bettany spoke over Jimmy who was obviously going to try and calm down his crowd.

The seventh clip started playing: it was a clip taken from Jacob Batalon’s story, clearly in a party setting—the video showed you and Zendaya in the centre of the dance floor, everyone around you clearly watching you both as you danced up against each other to the sounds of Yeah! by Usher.

“Mate I think your girls about to be stole.” The voice of Tom’s friend, Harrison, sounded from beside Jacob and presumably Tom himself and to empathise Harrison’s words, Jacob zoomed in on your faces, wide grins of ecstasy, and the way Zendaya was admiring you.

“Right in public as well, the scandal.” Jacob cackled.

The eighth clip was an interview of Chris Evans and McKenna Grace (you adored that little girl to pieces). The two of them were answering the ‘Webs Most Searched Question’s’ together.

“Who was.. Chris Evans, date at the Oscars?”

McKenna immediately ooed, smiling teasingly and Chris laughed from beside her.

“This is getting juicy!”

“Well, it was my mom one year and then my sister last year—“

“He wishes it was Y/n though.” The little girl laughed with a beaming smile on her lips and you, present time, arched a brow.

Chris bashfully chuckled with a smile and you swore you could see a genuine red hue on his cheeks, “I mean—it’s Y/n. Anyone would be happy to go with her.”

“I would be!” McKenna excitedly exclaimed as she grinned so sweetly you were now going to make sure you took this sweet child with you to the Oscar’s, Chris seemed to melt as well, recovering from his brief flustered moment.

The ninth clip was Sebastian and Anthony reading out their thirst tweets in a Buzzfeed interview, the clip started as Sebastian was pulling out a tweet from the large bucket.

He read it to himself and blushed faintly, Anthony’s eyebrows practically reaching his forehead as he tried to lean over and read it but Sebastian jokingly shoved him back.

“Oh for—That scene where (Your Character) chokes baby Bucky out with her thighs, his—his head all up in there; the shit I would give to be her, I would give my soul, my fridge, my moms purse, my dads golf clubs. Please, sir. Put your face between my legs like you did Y/n.”

By the end of the tweet, Sebastian had a deeply awkward and slightly perturbed look on his face and Anthony cackled at his side.

“Nah, I’m pretty sure he was more than happy with it being Y/n, wouldn’t change it even for your dads golf clubs.” Anthony laughed.

“That’s. . I’m gonna have to decline that, um, respectfully.” Sebastian spoke in regards to the tweet, ignoring Anthony.

In turn, Anthony ignored Sebastian as well and just dramatically kept winking at the camera.

The tenth clip was Cobie Smulders, who was being interviewed on some sort of carpet event, smile on her face as she spoke to the interviewer before her.

“How does it feel knowing that the lesbian community, myself included, are firmly rooting for your character, Maria and Y/N’s character (Your Character) to end up together?”

Cobie’s smile turned genuinely delighted, “I love it—we love it. Y/n and I actually have made so many PowerPoints and presented them to the Russo brothers, but alas. I do really want to end up with her—oops, sorry, wait. I really want my character to end with hers. . would be the appropriate wording. But I’m all for inappropriate if Y/n wants.”

Cobie jokingly bit her lip at the camera and you, watching the video, could not contain your laughter as the interviewer practically burst out with excitement.

The eleventh clip was a blooper from your filming of the avengers—you were standing next to Chris Hemsworth who had an arm around your waist, holding you to him as in the scene his character, Thor, flies the both of you away. But Chris quickly tugged you in front of him and began tickling you mercilessly, hysterical giggles falling from your lips as the people around you laughed as well.

“Chris, HAVE MERCY!”

“Aw, but I enjoy hearing your laughter. It’s a very pretty sound.” Chris laughed to himself, finally stopping his attack and letting you slump against his, back to his front. “I particularly like this as well.” He smirked down at you.

“CHRI—“

In the twelfth clip, you and Tessa Thompson were reading out thirst tweets together: “The feminine urge to fall asleep cuddled into Y/n’s boobs is too real, pls come here mommy.” You read out, giggling all the while.

“The urge is so strong.” Tess commented, nodding her add as she sneakily glanced at your chest with a innocent smile.

“Come here, baby.” You joked, laughing as you opened your arms for her and she practically leaped into them, resting her head on your chest.

“I’m living the dreams of millions right now and it feels amazing.” Tessa gloated jokingly, pulling away from you with only final squeeze and a little wink the camera caught.

“I concur.” You grinned back.

The thirteenth clip was you and Tom Hiddleston, talking with an interviewer on a carpet event. His arm was around your waist and both of you were wearing smiles greeting the interviewer.

“So, obviously, you both act in marvel movies, but not really close together! If you could, would you want to work more closely and have you characters be more involved?”

“I absolutely would.” Tom immediately replied with an honest, heartwarming smile. “And personally, it’s not even a fact of our characters being intertwined it’s more that working this fantastic woman beside me is a gift I have come to deeply cherish, truly it’s an honour. And I suppose, if our characters were to get involved, so to speak, that I would enjoy that because this is the y/n y/l/n, I’d be a mad man not to want that.” He finished charmingly.

You grinned, taking a bow, and both Tom and the interviewer laughed before that clip cut as well.

The fourteenth clip was at Comic-Con, mostly everyone on the cast had already been called out and taken their seats and then your name was called, the audience erupting into loud cheers.

Sebastian, who was sat next to your assigned seat, hopped and and jogged over to offer you his arm as you grinned and waved at everyone—the crowd screaming louder at his actions.

The screams only increased as Chris Evans and Don Cheadle got up to pull out your chair for you to sit down in—you pretended to swoon into Sebastian before kissing all of their cheeks and taking your seat.

“Where was the treatment for me?” RDJ joked.

“Man, they’re just whipped. But, like, who isn’t for Y/n?” Anthony stage whispered back to him and the crowd literally roared in excitement.

The fifteenth clip was Aaron Taylor-Johnson being interviewed with Lizzie for the Age of Ultron press, most probably.

“So, Aaron, obviously your character—spoilers, sorry—isn’t with us anymore but if you had the chance to explore Pietro more, who would you have wanted to explore a romance with?”

“(Your Character) definitely, Y/N.” Aaron answered with a little sheepish grin at the speed and Lizzie giggled into her palm.

“I’m not making fun, I agree, for myself.” Lizzie commented unprompted.

“Why is that?” The interviewer questioned.

“Why—mate, I think it’s pretty obvious. Y/n is such a stunning person, inside and out, I would have loved to—and obviously her character is extremely sick and I’m certain the relationship between her and Pietro would’ve been the stuff of legends but. . come on, Y/n Y/l/n is my real reason.” Aaron joked.

“Get your own girl, she’s mine.” Lizzie glared.

There were still many minutes left of the video left and that alone astounded you; overcome with cackles, you forwarded the video the your Marvel groupchat—so yall bitches like obsessed with me or sum 🥰🥰🥰

[skbeaumont]

Five for Five | Joel x Reader Oneshot

“I ain’t stupid.” His tone is heavy now, words grating out of his throat like rusty razor blades. “Last I checked, we had one hundred and two. There’s ninety-seven here. That’s five missing.”

Summary: It was probably a stupid idea to trade five ration cards for a tiny bottle of perfume, and it's not surprising that Joel is angry, but you think it might just be worth it. Tags/warnings: fem reader, smut, dubcon, spanking, punishment, dom!Joel, sub!reader, first time, oral (m receiving), fingering, pet names, unprotected p in v, aftercare. Word Count: 4k

A/N: Forgive me father for I have sinned. This is pure filth. Please mind the tags/warnings.

“Where are the rest?”

Joel’s voice cuts through you as soon as you step inside the apartment. It’s late, already dark out, and the dangerous edge to his words makes you jump as you step inside, shoulders aching, feet numb from the long walk back home through the QZ.

“Jesus fuck, Joel. What are you doing here?”

He doesn’t answer, just holds up his hand and shakes the stack of ration cards that are clutched in his fist. The only light is coming from the wonky reading lamp in the corner and it casts an amber glow over the apartment and Joel’s stern face.

“I said,” his voice is steady, clear, but you can already hear the frustration that’s buried underneath it, the anger that’s so quick to rise in him threatening to bubble over, “where are the rest?”

“They should all be there,” you reply, letting your eyes fall down to your boots, toeing them off so that you don’t have to look at his face.

“Well, they ain’t.” He takes a step toward you, his own boots heavy on the worn linoleum floor. “And I wanna know where they are.”

“Did you check under the floor?”

Of course he’s checked under the floor, and of course they aren’t there, because last night you took a handful – five, max – and traded them for a tiny bottle of perfume that’s now stuffed under your mattress. Joel rarely checks the ration cards – he lets you deal with that side of the dodgy business you’ve been running together for the last year and a half – so you’d thought you could get away with it. That he wouldn’t notice. But this is Joel, and he’s noticed.

“I ain’t stupid.” His tone is heavy now, words grating out of his throat like rusty razor blades. “Last I checked, we had one hundred and two. There’s ninety-seven here. That’s five missing.”

With this last he slams the pile down on the kitchen side next to you, stepping right up into your space so that you feel his breath – hot and tinged with the scent of cheap bourbon – on the side of your face. You’ve seen him angry so many times, but it’s never been directed at you before, and you’re starting to understand why most people avoid his gaze in corridors, why men cross the street when they see him coming. 

“Did you miscount?” You ask, fighting to keep your voice level, light.

“Did I miscount?” He repeats, slow, each word enunciated like it’s a full sentence on its own, and you realise it was probably the worst thing you could have said.

His fingers are hot on your chin when he grabs it, tilting your reluctant face up, dragging your eyeline to meet his. His face is a sight to behold: eyebrows furrowed, deep groves carved out in the lines that surround them, his jaw tense, a muscle twitching as he grinds his teeth. There’s danger in his eyes; a fire behind them that burns as he stares down at you.

“No, I didn’t miscount.” He spits the last word out, eyes tracing the blush that’s crawling up your throat, the way your eyes dart away from his, the flicker of your pulse – fast, rising – in your throat. The trace of the misdirection, the lie, so obvious.

He can read you like a book, always could. But you’re stubborn. You’re not giving anything away if you don’t have to. Those cards are yours as much as they’re his, and this one thing you’ve allowed yourself in eighteen months is worth the way his fingertips are digging into the sides of your face.

“What did you trade ‘em for?” He asks.

“Fuck you.”

He laughs at this, lets your face go and takes a single step back, swings his arm to his side and lets it carry him into a half turn. You slump back against the door, peeling paint sticking uncomfortably to your back. But it’s a short-lived reprieve.

“Fuck me?” He repeats, turning back to you. “After all I’ve done for you, all the shit I’ve taken for you-”

“I didn’t ask you to!” Your voice is shrill compared to his gruff curses, but you continue, adrenaline spiking, “And you’ve been the cause of at least half of that shit, Joel. Don’t make out like you’re some knight in shining armour when we both know the truth!”

The truth: that he’s brutal, feared by almost everyone in the QZ;  that people only trade with the two of you because of your hard work and negotiation skills. Joel’s good for enforcing things, for smuggling things in and out, and for sending a message when anything goes wrong, but he’s also a broken man whose anger has got him into more than a few scrapes that you’ve had to get him out of with nothing more than your sharp tongue and quick thinking.

He lets you rally this outburst at him, doesn’t blink in the face of it, until you’ve finished. Then he’s striding back to you, slamming the hand holding the cards hard against the door behind you. It makes you flinch away but his other hand’s back on your jaw, grip tighter this time, forcing you to look up at him.

“Where are the rest?” He repeats, brandishing the ration cards so that they’re inches from your face.

“They’re mine as much as they’re yours.” You say, quietly defiant despite the way your voice shakes.

“You trade them?”

“What does it matter?”

“Nuh-uh,” He twists his hand, turns your face away so that you’re forced to look to the side instead of into his face and he can say the next words into your ear. “This ain’t how this works. I ask the questions, you answer ‘em. Did. You. Trade. Them?”

His face is so close to yours now that you can feel spit landing on your cheek as he speaks, his breath hot in your ear. It shouldn’t turn you on, but it does. You can feel yourself getting wet, slick pooling unbidden between your thighs. It’s hard to ignore a man like Joel, but it’s even harder to get close to him. You don’t think he’s ever been so near to you before, not even when you’ve tended each other’s wounds after a run went south.

You’ve always wanted him to; held a secret flame that’s grown brighter and hotter over the last few months. There’s something undeniably attractive about Joel. The way he moves, the quiet confidence he exudes and the brutal, coiled power of him. You’ve watched him set his fist into another man’s jaw and wondered what it would be like to be on the receiving end of his temper, his passion.

Now, with his face so close to yours, his thick fingers digging into your jaw, you feel yourself sinking into it, relaxing despite the tension of the situation. You want this, you want his anger and razor-sharp focus. It’s overwhelming in the best way, and you feel tears burning at your lower lashline.

“Yes. I traded them.”

A tear slides down you face and Joel’s eyes trace its path as it glides over your check, pooling in the corner of your mouth, salty and unrepentant.

“What for?”

“Perfume.”

He laughs again, but this laugh is full of derision, not mirth. It’s a punch of a laugh, straight from his chest, catching in his throat and distorting into a growl that sends a shiver up your spine and a bolt of lightning through your cunt.

“Perfume.” He repeats, turning your face in his hand so that you’re looking at him again.

His pupils are blown wide, his face a mask of fury and something else that has you pressing your thighs together, seeking friction. He notices you doing it, lets his eyes follow the movement of your hips, the desperate, needy breaths you’re sucking in. He grins, teeth bared.

“And what, exactly, do you need perfume for?” He asks, not giving you time to answer before he’s bending down and pressing his nose into the side of your neck, inhaling deeply, stubble scratching your throat. “Smell sweet enough to me already.”

“Joel, please,” you say, but you’re not sure what you’re asking for, because he’s licking a thick stripe up the side of your throat and you think if he stops you might scream.

“Buy it for those boys I see sniffing around you sometimes? Huh?” He asks, drawing back from you and shaking your face in his hand roughly. “Knew you were nothing but a fucking slut.”

“I just- I wanted something nice.” You try to explain, the words catching in your throat as he slides one thick thigh between yours.

“Something nice? What makes you think you deserve something nice, hmm? Ain’t nothing nice in this place, you should know that as well as I do.”

And you do, God knows you do. The QZ is dark and twisted and fucking soul-crushing, but you’d wanted the perfume, wanted it with a deep yearning that matches the way you want Joel to keep going now, to push you and punish you and take what he wants.

“I think you need to learn a lesson, baby.”

You’re nodding into his hand, tears rolling down your face, splashing onto his thick fingers. He lets go of your jaw, takes you by the wrist and pulls you into the room, toward the sofa, over his knee when he sits. Your stomach is pressed into his thighs, face buried in the dirty sofa cushion and he’s got one hand pressing into your spine, the other searching out the button of your jeans. He undoes it, wastes no time in dragging the worn denim down your shaking thighs.

“You’re gonna lie there and take it, you hear me?” He says, splaying a hand over your bare ass cheek, moving the line of your knickers out of the way so that he can squeeze the meat of you, fingers dipping between your thighs, finding the slick liquid that’s leaking from you.

“Jesus Christ, you’re soaked already. Fuckin’ filthy little thing, aren’t you?” His accent is somehow thickening, vowels lengthening, the twang of his consonants increasing.

“I asked you a question.” He says when you don’t immediately reply, and you nod your head, wipe your wet eyes against the sofa.

“Count for me.” He says, and before you can take a breath to prepare, his hand is coming down sharply on you.

The sting is sharp; delicious.

“Count.” He hisses, and you whisper a faint one, breaking off into a moan when he lets his fingers graze the side of your puffy lips.

You wish you could see his expression, see if this is affecting him as much as its affecting you, if he’s watching with something like ecstasy on his handsome, haunting features.

The second smack is harder than the first, sharper and sweeter for it. It makes you jerk against him but he’s holding you down firmly with one solid hand in the middle of your back, pressing you into his thighs, into his lap. The denim of his jeans is rough against your bare stomach, scratching you skin where your shirt’s risen up. The third slap makes you yelp, harder again, but he soothes it immediately with his palm, rubs the flesh of your ass.

“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you? Enjoying being bent over my lap and spanked like the dirty whore y’are, huh?”

You can’t believe the filth that’s dripping from his lips. Sure, he curses plenty, and you’ve heard him cuss out entire rooms full of angry men, but this is something else entirely. This is animalistic and derogatory and indecent. And God help you, its sending rushes of hot liquid practically gushing down your thighs.

“Be so easy to slide myself inside you, you’re so goddamn wet.” He says as he sends another harsh slap onto your ass. “Open you up and press myself inside this soaking cunt, hmm? Bet you’d let me, too, let me do fucking anything to you.”

“Yes, Joel, please, anything.”

His third laugh of the afternoon is throaty and coarse, full of self-indulgence. It makes the hairs stand up on the back of your neck, makes you clench your thighs together and grind your teeth to stop you from crying out again.

“You gonna come like this, baby?” He asks, sliding his hand over the meat of your ass, down between your thighs to press at your entrance, slipping beneath your ruined underwear. “Come on my lap like the dirty fucking slut I know you are?”

The sweet sting as he pushes two thick fingers inside you almost pushes you over the edge there and then, but you bite into your lip – probably drawing blood, but you’re too distracted to notice. He curls his fingers, drags the pads of them over the soft flesh inside you, seeking out that spot that makes you almost black out, pleasure ratcheting up so suddenly that you gasp, coming hard in his lap, muscles shaking and contracting, cunt squeezing his fingers tight.

“There she is,” He hisses, curling them again, chasing you as you shift against him, overstimulated.

How is he so good at this? You’ve never seen him with anyone – he’s always given the impression that he has no interest in sex, in relationships, friendships, even. But the expert way that he’s playing your body like an instrument, chasing your moans and gasps like they’re the air he needs to stay alive, tells a completely different story. And when you jerk in his grip and he presses you harder against him, shifting on the sofa, there’s suddenly a very clear indication of just how much of an affect this is having on him, too.

“Shit,” His voice is ragged now: This outburst isn’t controlled in the way that the rest of the curses he’s been spewing into your ears have been. It’s unexpected and bitten back behind a grunt as your hip comes into contact with his cock – a solid, hot weight that fills the front of his jeans, pressing the button of his flies into you, his pocket a line of stitches on your stomach.

The next smack is all the harder for the tiny huff of a giggle you let out, which turns quickly into a hiss of pain when his palm comes down hard against you.

“Concentrate,” He warns when you don’t immediately count the spank aloud. “’m teaching you a fuckin’ lesson, here, remember?”

“Four.” You say, pressing your face harder into the cushion, rolling your hips just slightly so that his cock twitches against your stomach.

“Five for five.” He says, soothing your heated flesh with the palm of his hand before bringing it down one final time. “Five. Think you’ve learnt your lesson?”

You twist round in his lap, eyes dancing when you see the flush that’s tinted his cheeks, the way his gaze is lingering on the swell of your ass cheek in his hand, perspiration beading on his heavy brow.

“I don’t know, Joel, do you?” You say, voice teasing, and he snaps his eyes up to your face as he hisses through clenched teeth.

“Fuckin’ mouth on you, you insolent little slut,” he curses, fisting the collar of your shirt and pulling you upright, opening his legs so that you slide between them onto the cold lino floor.

“Think we can find a better use for it, hmm?” He leans back against the couch, pops the first button on his jeans. Your eyes follow the movement hungrily, unable to look away as he slide the zip down painfully slowly, tooth by tooth, the clicks loud in the silent apartment.

He doesn’t take the jeans off, just pushes them far enough down his thighs that he can fist his cock where it sits, heavy and thick, in his underwear. There’s a dark stain at the tip that makes your mouth water, and when he drags his briefs down, too, you lick your lips greedily.

He’s painfully hard – head flushed a deep red, veins standing out boldly against his thick shaft. There’s a thatch of dark hair at the base, and his balls are heavy and full when he tucks the waistband of his briefs underneath them.

He strokes himself lazily a few times and you let yourself look up to his face. His eyes are dark, pupils eating into the deep brown irises, brows furrowed slightly. The amber light of the lamp is casting his face partly in shadow and it only accentuates the strong, curved line of his nose, the deep creases that lines his eyes and forehead. He’s looking at you like you’re the only thing that exists, his gaze so sharp and focused it makes you dizzy.

“C’mon then,” he says, running a hot hand up your jaw to grip the back of your neck, pulling you in towards him. “I got no doubt you know exactly what you’re doing here.”

The scent of him is musky and something distinctly masculine, and you bury your nose in the thick hair at the base of him, place a heated kiss to the side of one thigh. This alone make him moan, a deep, throaty sound that lights you up from the inside.

You press your lips to the tip of him, flick your tongue out to kitten lick at the slit.

“Fuck,” he curses.

He’s sensitive. When you wrap a hand around the base of his cock and place your lips around him he hisses, fingers tightening their grip in your hair, free hand fisting the loose cover of the worn couch. You take him further in, suck your cheeks in to caress him, work your tongue over the delicate ridge at the head of his cock. He tastes like salt and sweat and something distinctly Joel, masculine and heady. When he hits the back of your throat you try not to gag, try to swallow him down, throat contracting around him so that he groans and curses.

“Jesus Christ, baby. Your mouth is fuckin’ filthy.”

You grin around his cock, work your hand over the part of him that won’t fit, then pull back and lick one long strip up his shaft, letting your tongue follow one of the thick veins. He presses himself back into your mouth, tightens his grip on the back of your neck and raises his hips off the sofa.

“You want me to fuck that pretty little mouth, baby?” He asks, and you nod, feel hot tears prickling in your eyes when he starts moving, dragging his hips back and then forward, forcing his cock into your mouth, down your throat so that you feel like you’re choking, like all that exists is Joel and his hard cock, his breathy moans and filthy mouth.

“Got such a clever fuckin’ mouth, baby. Just needed to find a way to put it to good use- shit, yeah, that’s it.” He pushes you down once more, groans as he bottoms out on your throat, then releases the back of your neck so that you can pull back.

You’re a mess, tears rolling down your face, saliva pooling in your mouth and joining your lips with Joel’s cock in long strings. Joel’s looking down at you with fire in his eyes, his dark gaze flicking from your mouth to your eyes to the open buttons of your shirt and the swell of your ass.

“Get up,” He says, wrapping his hand around your upper arm and pulling you to your feet.

Before you’ve time to get your balance he’s bending you over, forcing you onto your hands and knees on the sofa. He lines himself up behind you, drags the blunt head of his cock through your soaking folds and presses himself inside your cunt.

The stretch is intense. You squeeze your eyes shut, press yourself back against him as he inches inside. He pauses for a split second when he’s sheathed himself fully inside, then pulls out and begins a punishing pace, fucking you into the sofa, his hands gripping your hips so hard you’re sure he’ll leave marks in the shape of his fingertips.

“Pussy’s gripping me so fuckin’ tight, darlin’” He says, and something in your chest swells at the sound of ‘darlin’’ rolling off his tongue like that, full of something that’s dangerously close to fondness.

He’s a cacophony of contradictions, greedy hands gripping your hips possessively, then smoothing up your back under your shirt before sliding back down to slap the soft flesh of your ass. His thrusts are hard and intense, cock hitting that spot inside you that makes electricity jolt in your stomach with each movement, but then he bends over you, slows his hips so that he can kiss the skin of your throat. His voice – deep, husky, reverberating in his chest – keeps up a filthy chorus that has you whimpering into the couch, but he’s praising you, offering you gentle encouragement, his words warm and dirty and entirely overwhelming.

Being so good for me, baby, pussy’s so fuckin’ wet and tight around me. Can feel you getting close, you gonna come like this, huh? With my cock buried deep inside this pretty little cunt?

Without waiting for an answer he wraps an arm around you and finds your clit with two of his thick fingers. He starts rubbing confident circles over it, bringing you closer and closer to your inevitable climax. You grip his arm with your fist; fingernails digging into hard muscle.

Then suddenly you’re coming apart, white noise blocking out the sound of his hips slapping into yours and his voice and the low level hubbub of the other apartments, until there’s nothing left but your pleasure and his cock and his clever fingers, his nose pressed into your throat, teeth nipping the tendons there.

The world fades back into existence as you come down, muscles jolting. You feel yourself clenching around him with the aftershocks. Joel gasps into your neck, squeezes your tits over your shirt.

“Fuck, just like that, gonna come in this sweet cunt. Shit, that’s it.” His thrusts falter, hips slamming into yours.

You feel him twitch inside you as he comes, ropes of hot cum painting the inside of you, his stuttering breath at your ear.

You stay as you are for a moment, both gasping for breath, hearts hammering in your chests. His embrace is suddenly tender, muscles shifting as he relaxes against you. You don’t say anything, but he presses a kiss to the side of your neck, and that simple gesture opens a floodgate in your chest.

He pulls out of you but keeps his arm around you, guides you both down to lie on the couch, your back pressed to his front. The light in the apartment feels different than it did earlier, the orange hue warmer, kinder than it was.

Joel peppers kisses along the back of your neck and over each shoulder, his strong arm keeping you firmly against him. He wraps a thick thigh over both of yours and tightens it, anchoring you in place. You sigh in contentment, head quieter than it’s been for months, years, possibly.

“I didn’t hurt you?” He says into your hair, voice low.

“No, Joel.”

“You sure? I’m sorry if I was too rough. I don’t- I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“I liked it, Joel.”

He chuckles darkly, hooks his chin over your shoulder and teases the skin under your ear with his teeth.

“Fuckin’ filthy, aren’t you? Always knew you were.” He presses his nose to your neck, inhales deeply. “Perfume’s nice, by the way.”

[brokenmenswhore]

Ok ok here it goes

The reader is Aemond betrothed, but it's his brother Aegon who worships and desires her. No matter how hard he tries he can't hide it from his brother, mother, grandfather and even from the small council. He knows he can't have her and feels sad about it, but it doesn’t stop him from warning Aemond that if he hurts her Aemond will deal with him.

aegon if you see this i want you to know that you always deserve a happy ending i’m so sorry for this. that being said, i’ll say it again, I LOVE PINING

worship | aegon ii targaryen

pairing: aegon targaryen x fem!reader

warnings: angst, language, pining, a little brief smut (MDNI 18+)

────── ☾ ──────

The news of your betrothal to Aemond sent Aegon into a rage, his arm swiping everything off of the table in front of him. All he ever wanted was you, and now you were being given to another.

Not just anyone, however, but the brother that everyone chose above Aegon. You were now being forced to choose him too.

Aegon did not truly care for many. His father cast him aside, and his mother was much too young when she had him to do right by him. Heleana and Aemond were close on their own, and neither respected Aegon.

He quickly took a liking to you. He told you a joke that made you nearly cry in hysterics from laughing, and he instantly knew he was head over heels. It was the prettiest sound he’d ever heard.

Aegon absolutely worshipped you.

He has fresh flowers sent to your room each morning with your handmaidens. He claimed that after a day, they were no longer perfect, and that was unacceptable. Everything for you had to be perfect. You thought it was protocol to refresh the flora in all rooms each morning; you had no idea the special attention Aegon demanded for you.

He had several gowns sent to your room in green and gold, each more expensive than the last. When he knocked on your apartment door to see if they had arrived, you let him in to show him the extensive array of boxes.

“This is simply too much, Aegon, I cannot accept this,” you spoke.

“Do not be ridiculous, it is not too much,” he responded.

“Half of these gowns are worth more than my entire House.”

“I wish for you to have only the best,” Aegon said, matter-of-factly.

“Do you treat all your guests as such?” you questioned.

Aegon smiled. “Not all of my guests deserve it.”

If you did not finish a meal, Aegon would yell at the kitchen staff for daring to make something you didn’t like, and he would tell them they were to make something he knew you loved, or they were to be terminated from their position.

You told Aegon to stop doing that, and stood watch as you made him apologize for the way he spoke to them. Afterwards, he was not concerned with their feelings, but rather, yours.

“Are you angry with me?” Aegon checked, “I only want the best for you.”

“I know, Aegon, but please do not disrespect anyone to ensure it.”

Aegon believed himself skilled at hiding his affections toward you, but he was mistaken. Quite literally everyone knew, including Aemond.

When you interrupted a council meeting to deliver news to Aemond, the guards trusting his bride-to-be with the information, Aegon watched in annoyance. You bent down to whisper in his ear, and seeing you in such close proximity to Aemond nearly made him sick.

You went to pull away, but Aemond responded, gently holding your head close to him so that he could whisper in your ear, the words clearly only meant for you. Aegon could not help but display a sour expression, though he tried hard to hide it.

“Shall we get on with it, brother?” he spoke, cutting your personal conversation short.

Aemond smiled. He enjoyed setting off his brother. “It appears I have an urgent matter to attend to, my apologies,” Aemond spoke, standing and bowing toward the men of the council and his mother.

Aemond walked side-by-side with you, your conversation continuing. Aegon saw you lightly chuckle and smile at something Aemond said, and he was incapable of focusing on much else for the remainder of the meeting. No one else was supposed to make you laugh. No one. Not even your betrothed.

Aegon spent that night furious, the fire in his blood burning hotter than usual. He decided to confront you, demand to know what made you laugh, confess his feelings, tell you not to marry Aemond-

He knew he couldn’t. He stood in front of your chamber doors, fist raised, but did not knock. He was moments away from leaving when he heard a small whimper from the other side of the door.

Aegon couldn’t help himself; he pressed his ear to the crack of the door, intently listening to see if any more noises followed. The more he listened, the more he heard soft whines and whimpers, and he knew the pitch and tone of your voice well.

He softly cracked the door open, unable to control his curiosity, and nearly fell to his knees at the sight before him. The sounds were a result of you touching yourself. His cheeks turned a deep shade of red as he watched you. You couldn’t tear his eyes away. He was addicted to the sight.

He eventually forced himself away when he heard the faint sound of armor clamoring down a nearby staircase. He retreated to his chambers and remained awake for hours, unable to get the sight and sound of you out of his head.

He snuck out to the street of silk, in desperate search of anyone who reminded him of you. When he would someone of a similar height, build, and feature, he presented them with more coins than he remembered bringing.

He told the woman that she was to only respond to your name.

He bent her over on the edge of the bed, unclothing himself and immediately inserting himself into her. One hand wrapped around her hair, pulling her head backward, as the other gripped her waist.

She began to moan as he thrust in and out, but it sounded nothing like you.

He shushed the woman, and she stuttered, “you wish for me to be quiet, Your Grace? Most men wish the opposite.”

“I do not care what most men wish,” he responded, affirming that he wanted her to be quiet. Her noises were pulling him out of the memory of you, but he quickly returned, repeating the sounds in his head as he snapped his hips forward.

He squeezed his eyes shut, disconnecting the soul of the woman in front of him from her body, his mind’s eye replacing her with you.

Though the noises you made stuck in his brain, it was not only the sight of you eliciting them that he thought of. It was you as you normally were, smiling, laughing, swinging your hair backward to turn around- just existing.

Aegon desperately wanted to have you, to worship your body, to be the reason you made the noises he heard, but it was not purely lust. He also refused to accept that anyone else could make you laugh or smile, could make you feel content, or could make you feel truly happy. He knew Aemond could not give you the proper love and affection that he could. Aemond was not capable, and even if he was, he did not understand you like Aegon did.

When the family hosted a rather lavish event to commemorate your betrothal to Aemond, Aegon drank the Red Keep’s wine dry. He would down entire cups in one gulp and immediately demand another.

He watched Aemond intertwine his fingers with your own, and without even thinking, he smashed a glass on the table.

The room’s attention turned to him, but he leaned back in his chair and called for another drink as if nothing happened. Alicent shot him a disappointed glare, but Aegon simply kept on drinking.

Despite how furious he was, he could not stop looking at you. Even on his brother’s arm, you were the most exquisite creature he had ever seen. It did not escape his attention that the gown you wore was one of his extravagant gifts.

He was brutally awaken by the pounding of a fist against his chamber door in the depths of the night.

He rubbed his eyes as he opened the door, only to find Aemond, still clothed and put together from the celebration.

“We must speak,” Aemond said, inviting himself into Aegon’s chambers.

Aegon threw his head back in annoyance and shut the door. “What is the hour?”

“You must keep your distance from her from now on.”

That woke Aegon up. “No.”

“Brother, I know of your affections toward her, but they have forced you cause a scene in front of the whole of King’s Landing. She is not to be your wife, she is to be mine, and I require you to act as such,” Aemond explained.

Aegon was tired, his head pounding from a brutal hangover. “You do not deserve this.”

“Thank you,” Aemond responded, misunderstanding, and taking it as an apology.

“No, I mean to say you do not deserve her,” Aegon corrected.

“Mind your tongue,” Aemond warned.

“I know I cannot have her,” Aegon started, “and that is something that will sadden me until the end of my days. That does not mean my affections will disapate. I swear to the Seven, Aemond, if you hurt her, I will fucking kill you myself.”

“You could not do so if you spent the rest of your days trying.”

“If you harm her, I will indeed try, even if it takes the rest of my days.”

[cowgurrrl]

Roll The Bones

Pairing: Joel Miller x reader

Author’s note: I wrote this in the midst of a flare up so please enjoy and be gentle with your disabled friends <3

Summary: A bad pain day with Joel [1.5k]

Warnings: descriptions of injuries and subsequent chronic pain, medical settings and discussion, I think that’s it??

When Joel finds you, you're in a pitiful state. Your arm is folded over your face, covering your eyes even though the blinds are closed and the room is dark. Your right leg is peeking out from under the bundle of blankets and quilt, elevated with a lukewarm towel surrounding the swelling kneecap. The room smells like the salve someone in the town makes that's supposed to alleviate your pain. So far, it's just given you a headache. Your entire body throbs with pain and frustration. It shouldn't be like this, you think ruefully. I shouldn't feel like this. 

Joel lightly pads over to your bedside— his footsteps quiet now that he's discarded his boots by the front door— and perches next to you. His hand finds a home on your afflicted knee and carefully maneuvers his thumb over the tendons to help with the pain. You shift the arm covering your face to reach for him, and he smiles. 

"There she is," he murmurs as you take him in. His hair is long and a little unruly in the back, but you think it makes him look soft and domestic. He's shed his work jacket and heavier clothes downstairs and is clad in his soft, well-worn-in flannel. He smells like pine and leather. You want to wrap yourself in his warmth but settle for having him nearby. "Ellie told me you were havin' a rough day." He says. It doesn't surprise you that she did, even though you promised her you were fine and didn't need him. It's become rare that she doesn't update him daily on your health.

About a year ago, you were on patrol with Tommy when a Runner came out of nowhere and charged at your horse. She startled and bucked you off before you could regain control of the reins. The Runner was dead before you could hit the ground, and your horse would be recovered within the day, but the damage was done. You broke your leg in two places and dislocated your knee, in addition to a low-level concussion and cuts on your face and arms. When you came back into Jackson on Tommy's horse, half-conscious, bloody, and delirious with pain, Joel was horrified, Ellie even more so.

You were in the hospital for a month as they used what they could to put you in something akin to a cast and reset the bones. Joel and Ellie took turns being guards at your bed, monitoring what they gave you, when, and how much, and how your healing process was going. They were there with you every day, learning the tips and tricks to support you and keeping you sane as you stared at the white walls. 

Six months, the doctor said. Six months is all it would take to be back to normal as long as you did everything you were supposed to. Things have gotten better slower than you would like, but they have gotten better. You have really good days where you don't feel anything other than slight twinges when you move your leg in a weird way. Those days, it's hard to remember that you broke it in the first place. But other days, like today, you can feel every muscle in your leg tightening as stiff pain rockets up and down your body. You thought you could persevere enough to go to the store with Ellie, but your body obviously had other plans.

"My leg gave out on me when I was coming down the stairs. Pretty sure I made the whole house shake when I fell." You explain, and his eyebrows knit together in phantom pain as his thumb works your muscle. 

"You hurt anythin'?" He asks. "Other than your pride?" You blow air out of your nose in a half-laugh and shake your head. 

"Just some bruises," you say. He finds a tender spot in your knee that makes you hiss and ball up your fists, but he doesn't let up until the muscle releases. It's what he's supposed to do: break up the scar tissue, relax the muscles, and hope for the best. It still hurts like a bitch, and it'll hurt more in the morning. He mumbles apologies under his breath and kisses you to try and distract you, but your brain's been running wild for hours. "I went so long without any pain." You finally say, breaking the reverie and collapsing the unwanted space your pain often creates. 

"You've been takin' on a lot these past few weeks. It doesn't surprise me somethin' would flare up." It's an honest assessment. He warned you this would happen, but you ignored him. You thought you knew your body better. You wanted to know your body better. The returning thought and the gentle hand on your knee turn your tongue into sandpaper, and tears prick in the corners of your eyes. Despite the low light in the room, Joel catches it and makes a sympathetic noise. 

"Hey, talk to me." He says softly, shifting his hand from your knee to your face to catch a few stray tears. You shake your head and try and fail to form the words. Joel is patient. He always is, but he shouldn't have to be. 

"I'm so tired of being like this." You whisper, hating the feel of the words on your tongue and hating the sound of them even more. Joel gives you a confused look and pushes your hair out of your face. 

"Bein' like what?"

"Sick," you choke out. Now that the dam is broken, there's no stopping the bitter rush of words from leaving you. "We took her across the country and got rid of anyone who even looked at her wrong. Now, I can't even get on a horse without hurting. And I do all the stupid fucking things the doctor tells me to do. I do the exercises and take the medicine and everything, and nothing is making it better, and I'm so tired." 

"Why didn't you tell me that?" 

"Because I didn't want you to think I'm broken." It's a thought you've harbored since you were laid up in the hospital, unable to even walk to the bathroom without help, but this is the first time you've expressed it. You secretly hoped if you just didn't say anything about it, maybe Joel wouldn't notice. It's a stupid idea, given that your entire lives have changed since the accident. You just didn't want to get thrown away like all the other broken things in this world. Joel takes a deep breath and gazes at you. 

"Honey, you aren't broken. Not even close to it," he says. You want to counter him, but the weight of your emotion is too heavy on your chest. "I wanna know if somethin' is hurtin' you cause when you hurt, I hurt, okay? You're not a burden or somethin' to fix. You just… need a little extra care right now, and that's okay. I wanna take care of you."

"What if it's like this forever?" You ask, and he shakes his head. 

"It won't be."

"But, what if it is?" More tears fill your eyes as you await his answer. He didn't fall in love with this version of you. You don't know if you could blame him if he never does. But with enough ease and love to take your breath away, Joel kisses your forehead, right where your temple smacked against the cold ground. He kisses your forehead and the white scars littering your cheeks before finally shifting to kiss the knee propped up on pillows and hope. He doesn't flinch at the swelling or the angry spasms. He treats them with care and attention. He treats them as another part of you. 

"Takin' care of you has never and will never be on the list of worst things imaginable. Your health is not a sacrifice or a burden on me. If it's like this forever, we'll adapt, but I know you. I know how hard you're workin' to get better. I know we'll find a way to live with this," he says. "But I need you to talk to me when things aren't workin'. I can't help you if you don't tell me what's helpin' and what's not, okay?" You swallow around the lump in your throat and nod. 

"Okay." 

"Okay," he echoes. "I'm gonna get you an appointment with Dr. Lutton and see if we can't get you on a new treatment plan first thing tomorrow mornin'. Is there anythin' I can do for you until then?" He asks, fully prepared to go to the edge of the earth if you asked him to. 

"Can you lay with me?" You ask, and he smiles. 

"Of course, baby." He mumbles. He kisses your knee one more time before shuffling to wrap you in his arms. The warmth from his body helps relieve some of your tension and pain, and he kneads calming circles over your shoulders and back. Your focus shifts from the pain in your leg to the song he's humming, the vibrations in his chest a welcome distraction. The pain doesn't go away entirely— you doubt it ever will— but you rest your weary body against his and sleep, finding wholeness in his acceptance of your loss. 

TAGLIST: @abbyhaslongshorts @kiwiharrykiwi @sumsworldz @myloveistoolittle @anavatazes @marantha @cosmoscoffeee @shyminnie07 @beezusvreeland @eddiemunsonsbedroom @harriedandharassed @doodlebob-mp3 @ignorethisplz2004 @buckyispunk @d1lf-loverrr @vee-bees-blog @moel-jiller @anoverwhelmingdin @casssiopeia @maried01 @acupofhollie

[lehguru]

BE MINE + ONE PIECE MEN

request: them asking the reader to be their partner + luffy, zoro, sanji & law

info: gn!reader, i forgor how i characterize them so bear with me, also this is me trying to crawl back to one piece so im sorry if its rlly bad; not proofread!!! (i should start asking ppl to beta read those istg)

monkey d.luffy didn't really straight up asked you to be his partner. luffy being luffy, he walked up to you one day and said that you were his partner. you, having feelings for the captain for a really long time now, chuckled nervously, asking "what do you mean?". as he explained that nami told him that if he liked you, then he should ask you out, you could hear the red head sighing from somewhere—you knew at least half of the crew was watching you two right now. you laughed softly at the proud smile he wore and nodded, agreeing to be his.

roronoa zoro was almost the same as luffy, but at least he had the decency to actually ask you about it. during a beautiful day, you were on one side of the little garden that was built in the thousand sunny's deck, helping robin to water the plants. out of nowhere, a shadow was cast upon your crouching form; looking up, you noticed the green haired swordsman and smiled at him, getting up. "yes, zor—"

cutting you off, he asked in the same stoic tone he almost always had: "do you want to be my partner?". your eyes went wide and you let out a small exclamation of surprise. taking that as a denial, he turned back and started to walk away, but you managed to yell out his name. "yes! i will be your partner." the man huffed and nodded, but you could see a slight blush dusting his cheekbones.

when the subject is romance and love, you always expect sanji to be a master at it. out of everyone, he should be the one knowing how to ask someone to be his significant other, but he has never felt this... strongly about someone like he feels about you. when he approaches you to ask that, he's holding a little box with your favorite dessert, his long slender fingers shaking a little as words seemed to catch on his throat for the first time in front of someone he loves. he took a deep breath, a bead of sweat dripping down the back of his neck, you touching his arm and asking 'is everything okay, sanji?' with your sweet voice sent him over the edge. "do you want to date me?", his words were clear for him, but for you, he simply spat all of them out at the same time. you told him to breathe and say it again, and he did, his eyes looking at the floor with the shame of the rejection that would surely come his way. your head almost bumped on his as you jumped on his arms, screaming a yes and giggling loudly. he hugged you and spun you around, giggles of his own leaving his pink lips.

trafalgar d.water law didn't want to acknowledge his feelings for you. you were one of his closest friends, one of the few people he trusted the most—you knew things about him that he never told another soul; so he was afraid of losing you. terrified even. he had lost enough people that he loved during his life and he couldn't bear to lose another one. but... his other friends knew a little too much about his "silly" feelings.

"c'mon man, go ask them out." law saw himself being cornered by penguin, sachi and bepo one day, all of them with playful expressions. "the worst you can get is a punch."

he tried to ignore them, ignore how his cheeks seemed to be heating up, but they were being so obnoxious and annoying, he couldn't handle them anymore. with a burst of rage, he yelled at them, "can you shut up? i don't like them and they don't like me, either!"

"like who?" your voice made his heart leave his body and he felt like stabbing the three men—and bear—that were running away now. "no one." law replied, scoffing to himself for the slip up. "torao! tell me! come on!" now you were the one bugging him and he rubbed his face with his hand. you poked his cheek, giving him a little pout. "law, please!"

"it's you." he snapped, making you freeze. "it's you, dumbass." surprising the man, you started to giggle, making him go from annoyed to even more embarassed. "what?" you kissed his lips softly and started to walk away, saying that you accepted to be his partner.

2024 © content belongs to lehguru, but the characters used in them belong to their respective creators!!

[moonstruckme]

Hello love, I just found your blog and I must say that I adore your writing!! I’ve been looking for some new marauder content and couldn’t be happier with what I have come across here! 🫶🏼🩷

Can I request a counterpart to Dizzy? Where the reader comes home super tipsy and roommate James has to deal with their affection and sloppy behavior :)) I think that might be a fun change of perspective for those two.

If not, no worries! Thank you for your amazing work 🥹 take care 🫶🏼

Hi gorgeous, thanks so much! Apologies for the wait, this got a bit long haha. Hope you like it <3

cw: drunkenness

roommate!James x fem!reader ♡ 2.2k words

James hears the front door open and close, a painful sounding series of thumps, and not much after that. 

He sets down his late-night snack of melon he’s been sneakily eating from the bowl you’d cut it up in earlier, leaving his fork sticking out of a piece. “Hello?” 

Your reply is quiet, barely echoing down the hallway to reach him. “James?” 

He gets up and goes toward the door. You’re slumped against it, cast half in shadow from the lamplight that filters through the window to fall upon one side of your face, brows bunched as you toy clumsily with your shoelace. You look up at his approach, and your expression clears. 

“James!”

James smiles; he can’t help it.

“Hi,” he says, with nearly as much enthusiasm. “Did you have fun tonight, sweetheart?” 

You nod happily. “I brought you something.” 

He feels his eyebrows raise. “Something for me?” 

“Mhm.” You twist onto your side, mouth screwing up concentratedly as you lift your bum to fish around in your back pocket. “Here!” You pull out a squished mars bar, looking rather pleased with yourself. “Those are your favorite, right?” 

“They are,” he agrees, taking it from you, “thanks. Where’d you get this?” 

“A man was giving them out on the street.”

James blinks. “Just giving them away?” 

“I know, very suspicious.” You nod sagely. “But I already had mine, and it wasn’t laced with cocaine or anything, so I figure it’s fine.” 

Right, then. James will just have to check on you in the morning to make sure you’re still breathing. 

“Well, thank you for the gift,” he says, and is rewarded with your gargantuan grin. 

“I’m glad you like it,” you reply, eyes full of an earnestness so sweet it makes James’ chest hurt. “I never get to do anything for you, and you’re so nice to me.” 

“You do tons of stuff for me,” he scoffs, but you look prepared to argue, and he doesn’t want that. He gives your shoulder a friendly squeeze. “Hey, wanna get some water?” 

You go quiet, considering this. “Can I have it on the floor?” 

James laughs. “You want to drink your water sitting on the floor?” 

You smile like you don’t quite understand what’s so funny but are happy to go along with it anyway. “The floor is good,” you say, as though it’s a simple fact of life. 

“Alright.” James weaves his arm under yours, hoisting you up. “Sure, sweetheart, you can have it on the floor.” 

He all but carries you into the kitchen, your feet barely touching the floor as they stumble inelegantly over each other and your one undone shoelace. You make a small sound as he eases you down on the floor next to the fridge, looking decidedly worse than you had over by the door. 

“Do you feel okay?” he asks, keeping a wary eye on you as he fills a cup from the tap. 

You hum noncommittally, waving him off. “Don’t worry about me.” 

“Sorry, you can’t stop me,” he replies teasingly, crouching in front of you to pass you the water. He can’t stop himself. “Do you think you’re going to be sick?” 

You make a face, mouth twisting in disgust. “God, I hope not.” 

A nervous laugh escapes him. “Okay well, uh—here.” James grabs a nearly empty bread bag from the counter, taking the last two slices out and setting them on top of the toaster. He passes it to you. “Just in case you do.” 

You give him a soft look, as if he hasn’t just handed you a vomit bag. “Thanks, Jamie.” 

His heart sputters. You never call him that, and certainly never while looking at him the way you are now. He has the sudden urge to squish your face between his hands. 

“Course,” he says quickly, looking down and getting to work on the shoelaces that were giving you trouble earlier. You’d double-knotted them and evidently forgotten. The action of prying the knot apart feels good, giving his body something productive to do. 

For a while, you only drink your water quietly. James disentangles the laces and slips your shoes off, setting them next to each other on the floor. You put your feet in his lap, and he lets you. When you gasp, he looks up, alarmed. 

“What?” 

“James.” Your eyes are wide and glossy. “James, I just remembered the most wonderful thing.” 

His heart calms slightly. “What’s that, love?” 

“I cut up cantaloupe earlier. We should eat it!”

James grins, taking your ankles to move them out of his lap. “Great idea. I’ve got you, sweetheart.” He stands, ignoring your confused puppy sound at his leaving. 

Your eyes light up when he returns a moment later, bowl of melon in hand. 

“Oh my god, you’re the best,” you gush, reaching for the fork he passes you from the drawer. “Where were you hiding this?” 

“In my room,” he admits, sitting beside you. “I know you don’t like it when I eat right out of the bowl, sorry.” 

“Oh, I don’t mind so much anymore,” you wave him off, forking a chunk of melon and taking a bite out of it. “That was a new-roommate thing. I didn’t want your spit in my food, you could’ve had herpes.” 

A laugh startles out of him. “Did you think I had herpes?” 

“I didn’t know!” you defend yourself, and it’s ridiculous how endearing he finds it that you’re comfortable enough to talk with your mouth full around him. “You’re a very pretty man, James Potter. For all I knew, you had a steady rotation coming in and out of your room whenever I wasn’t home.” 

James guffaws, bumping your shoulder with his reprimandingly. “Wow, thanks for that. At least you think I’m pretty.” 

“Just the truth,” you say into your cup, voice somewhat quieter than before. 

He looks over, and you’ve gone a bit bashful, shoulders pulling up towards your ears as you down the last of your water. James thinks that he’s lucky you aren’t like this often. It’d be very hard to keep things platonic between you if you were this sweet and open with him as a habit. 

“I wasn’t sure about you when you first moved in either,” he says to lighten things. “The first time I opened the cottage cheese and saw peaches inside, I almost moved out.” 

You turn to him with your mouth agape, hand coming up to grip his bicep in offense. (He presumes he’s supposed to be intimidated, but all he can think about is how you never touch him like this, usually. It’s nice.) “You said it was good when I made you try it!” you accuse. “You liked it!” 

“It was okay,” he allows laughingly, letting himself cover your hand with his under the pretense of loosening your grip. “It was just off-putting at first. That was a lot of weird right out the gate, sweetheart. Sirius wanted me to call the police.” 

His plan backfires, and you drop your hand. Your chin, too, giving James a deadpan look through your lashes. “It’s not that weird. Tons of people do it.” 

“Sure, sure,” James says, patting your shoulder placatingly when you seem like you could argue more. “Feeling like you might be ready for bed?” You seem to have eaten your fill of melon. Your fork lies discarded in the bowl, swimming in juice. 

You deliberate for a moment before humming in affirmation. He stands first, taking both of your hands to help you up and marveling at the fact that you let him. When he turns to walk towards your room and you link your arm through his, he begins to worry he’s dreaming this whole thing. 

“James,” you whisper up towards his ear. “Jamie-Jame. I have a secret to tell you.” 

Definitely dreaming, then. A secret? He wonders what you could have thought of to tell him at this hour, in the state you’re in. Surely a good friend wouldn’t let you spill your guts when you’re this out of sorts. It could be something serious. Anything you’re not willing to share sober, he shouldn’t want to hear.

“What is it?” he asks, hating himself. 

“I’m not going to take off my makeup before bed.” 

A giggle bubbles out of him, so ridiculous he’s glad you’re not in your right mind to hear it. “Wow. Dire measures, huh?” 

You nod somberly. “I’m gonna be so upset with myself tomorrow. I’m gonna wake up with crusty-eye and a million new zits, but I just want to go to sleep so bad, you know?” 

“Mm, I think I see where you’re coming from.” James tries to sound like he’s giving it due consideration while he sets you down on your bed. You scoot back to the side, making room for him to sit beside you. He does. (Who is he to refuse an invitation like that?) “Yeah, you’ve just gotta prioritize comfort sometimes. You’ll make it up to yourself, I’m sure.” 

You level him with what seems to be your best approximation of a stern look. It makes you look extremely cuddly. “You can’t hold it against me when you see my skin tomorrow, James. It’s going to be atrocious.” 

He has to bite his lip to match your seriousness. “I guarantee I will not mind. In all the time I’ve known you, you’ve never not looked lovely.” 

“Oh, you wouldn’t get it.” You flop back onto your pillow, disconsolate. “You’ve probably never had a zit in your life.” 

“Actually, I went through a fairly bad stint in year eight—”

“That’s not fair,” you groan. 

He smiles at you patiently. “What’s not fair, sweetheart?” 

“You’re not fair.” You gesture vaguely in his direction as if to make your point. “You haven’t gotten zits since eighth year, first of all. Then on top of that, you smell nice. And you have really long eyelashes, which no boy should ever have. There’s no way you appreciate them as much as they deserve. And you call me sweetheart—what’s up with that?” James blinks, but you’re not done. “And you’re way too nice to me! It doesn’t make any sense.” 

“Right,” James says, considering. “So all I have to do is start getting zits, stop showering, and…trim my eyelashes, and then you’ll be satisfied? Justice will be restored?” 

Your lips curve, and you nod magnanimously. “Yes, please. Straightaway.” 

“Cruel.” He sets a hand on your knee, giving your leg a teasing little shake. “Should I stop calling you sweetheart as well, then?” 

You go shy again, looking just to the side of his face as a faint blush colors your cheeks. “No, that’s okay.” 

James has to bite the inside of his cheek to tamp down the full force of his smile. “Okay. Alright if I continue being nice to you as well? I’d feel like a bit of a prick if I stopped.” 

You give it a few moment’s consideration. “Fine,” you say, as if this is a large allowance and he really is on thin ice. James lets loose his smile. You copy him, your own grin lopsided and goofy. “Hey, can I ask you something?” 

“Anything.” 

“Can I have a hug?” 

“Oh, sweetheart.” The word tumbles out of his mouth before he can stop it, warm fondness oozing from every syllable. “Of course, come here.” 

Despite his own words, he goes to you, crushing you to his chest with perhaps a touch too much eagerness. You don’t seem to notice, drooping against him with your arms banded around his middle. He thinks he hears you breathe in. 

“Still feeling okay?” he asks gently, rubbing your back. You hum. “Ready to go to sleep?” 

“Not if you’re going to leave.” Your voice is muffled against the fabric of his pajama shirt. The skin beneath grows warm from your breath. “I like you so much, Jamie. You’re so nice to me, you know?” 

“Yeah, you’ve mentioned that.” He smiles to himself, palm sweeping over the bare skin of your upper back and the material of your dress. He wonders if you’ll regret having slept in it in the morning. He can’t stand the thought of wearing outside clothes in bed. Oddly, he doesn’t know if you’re the same. “I can stay for a bit, if you want.” 

“I like you, like, so much it’s a problem,” you go on as if he hasn’t spoken. You sound mildly upset. “You have no idea.”

Something tense and tentatively happy twists in James’ gut. It takes more effort than it should to keep breathing, keep rubbing your back. “I can stay, but you have to go to sleep, okay?” 

You ease out of his embrace to look up at him. Your eyes are somewhat focussed, but watery. “James, I like you so much.” 

“Let’s talk about it in the morning,” he says softly, heart a hard-to-ignore, thundering thing in his chest. “Let’s just sleep for now, okay?” 

“Okay.” You look reluctant but nod, laying back against your pillow. “Thanks.” 

James doesn’t know what you’re thanking him for. He’s not sure he deserves it. “Go to sleep, sweetheart.” 

“I’m going, I’m going,” you grumble, but reach up for his hand. He gives it to you, and you haul it to your chest with surprising strength, sending James slumping forward until he’s nearly lying down beside you. “Sorry,” you say drowsily. Then, after some thought, “Actually, no I’m not.” 

James laughs. He’s happy to know you, he thinks. You’re kind and funny and thoughtful, and apparently very talkative when you’re drunk. He likes you too. Loves you, maybe. He’ll think about it tomorrow.

[hotvintagepoll]

Propaganda

Angela Lansbury (The Harvey Girls, The Court Jester, The Manchurian Candidate)—The babe, the myth, the legend. In her own words her early hollywood roles were "a series of venal bitches" and they were all glorious. Half of them wanted to kill you and you probably would have thanked them. She even goes toe to toe with Judy Garland in The Harvey Girls! That said, she was chronically underused and misused during this era - she was just 36 when she was cast as Elvis Presley's mother in Blue Hawaii and a few years later commented that she'd played so many 'old hags' that most people thought she was in her 60s. She thought she was "all talent, no looks" but she was the full package! Post-1970 I hope we all know what an incredibly talented and compassionate badass she was, but I feel like not enough people know her early roles as a hot (often villainous) young thing.

Angie Dickinson (Rio Bravo, Point Blank, Ocean's Eleven)—Though it could be argued that overall her career leans more to TV, during this time period she was splitting movie title credits with the very top names in the business.

This is round 1 of the tournament. All other polls in this bracket can be found here. Please reblog with further support of your beloved hot sexy vintage woman.

[additional propaganda submitted under the cut.]

Propaganda for Angie Dickinson:

Propaganda for Angela Lansbury:

"Angela Lansbury might not be where your mind goes first when you think of hot leading women, because she had a later career revival. But she began acting in the early 1940s after leaving London due to the Blitz. In the first couple decades of her film career she has an openness about her. She said she never really fit in with the Hollywood crowd and to me she gives off a friendly, untarnished vibe."

"Most of us know Angela Lansbury as old lady sleuth Jessica Fletcher, but it's important to know that she was smoking hot in her younger days as well as a damned fine actress. Although she didn't get lead roles until her early 40s, at 17 she was a supporting actress in films such as Gaslight (1944), National Velvet (1944), and The Picture of Dorian Grey, for which she won the Golden Globe for best supporting actress and was nominated for the Oscar. Even in her memorable performance as the manipulative mother in The Manchurian Candidate, she is listed as a supporting actress as she does not play the love interest. She was successful both on stage and screen, and won the Tony for her lead role in the musical Mame on Broadway in 1966. TL;DR While Angela Lansbury mostly played supporting roles in films before 1970, she had what it takes to be a leading actress, which we know from her success on stage and tv from the mid 60s onward"

"She looked like a princess but bit like a viper"

"Is there anything this woman couldn't do? Act in comedy and drama, sing, dance, be a wonderful human being - quite simply a true and wonderful lady."

"god she had such an incredible career all throughout her life really but as a young lady she was just as incredible as she was in her later years. enchanting voice, amazing personality, and absolutely GORGEOUS. she lamented not having the looks to play leads in romance but that idea is so batshit because look at her??? she's one of the most terrific women of all time. also she's my grandmother's favorite actress and i truly get it"

"she is the fairytale princess of my dreams in court jester"

[churipu]

( OO4 ) ★ bloody mess , nanami kento

featuring. nanami kento x reader

warnings. mentions of blood, mentions of a lot of different pet names (sweetheart, love, etc.), hospital raahhh, anesthesia.

note. WHO'S BACK DOING THE 1K EVENT LAJSOS IM SO SORRY :< THIS ONE IS A BIT SHORT???

ENTRY ( OO4 ) OF THE "INTO THE IPINVERSE" MILESTONE

"quick question, how much blood do i have to let out to be deemed hospital worthy?" "a lot." "oh, well — that's not good."

tags: @sad-darksoul @sweeneyblue1 @idkuluka @colorful-happy-shit @tomie-it-girl

the room reeked of blood. if you get a gist of it — you'd likely think of death.

you held your phone in between your shoulder and your ear, slightly trembling as your muscle stretched. chewing your lip in frustration, the device ringing.

once.

twice.

thri—

"hi, sweetheart."

you sighed out in relief, "hi kento, i have a really quick question because i'm trying not to freak out—"

nanami immediately cuts you off, "is something wrong? what happened y/n?"

"quick question, how much blood do i have to let out to be deemed hospital worthy?" you asked him, eyeing the trail of crimson streaming down your ring and pinky finger — blowing on it softly, foot drumming impatiently. what a bloody mess.

nanami was silent for a few seconds, but you could make out a brief, "a lot."

that's when you finally let out a panicked but calm, "oh, well — that's not good."

the male on the other line shuffled a bit, and you made out a few static noises, "what happened, sweetheart? did you hurt yourself?" he softly asks you.

"um . . . i cut myself cutting fruits. it's stupid but — i was trying to imitate fruit ninja . . ." you explained, full of shame. yet again, from the other line, nanami shuffled; creating out static noises, "i should probably head to the hospital, right?"

"apply pressure on the wound, i'm already around the corner, love. keep on talking with me." he replies back calmly.

you did what he told you to do without ending the call, wincing every once in a while from the jolt of pain.

soon enough, nanami burst from the front door — his eyes finding your sitting form, a cotton pad wrapped around your bloodied fingers. with rushed steps, he approaches you, softly grabbing your hand, inspecting the wound.

"come here pretty," he softly mumbles, tugging you gently, "we're going to the hospital."

two stitches.

because you decided to imitate fruit ninja — in your defense, it seemed really cool in the games.

with an IV attached to your other hand, you laid on the bed, half droopy as the anesthesia had already spread through your veins. limp and tired, a hard cast covering your wounded hand to press on the stitches.

"please keep watch of their hands, and try not to move it a lot during the healing process — come back in approximately two weeks time for cast and stitches disposal." you could definitely hear a doctor say — clueless to you or to nanami.

but you answered them nonetheless, slurring out incoherent words, "oh . . . doctor, yeah! okay, mhm, i got you, doc, i'll be back soon."

a few chuckling erupted and you shut your eyes, feeling fatigue take over, "how are you feeling, darling?"

fluttering your eyes open, you nod, "good. how about you, ken?"

nanami brushed your cheek gently, staring at your droopy state affectionately, his elbow prepped up on the hospital bed, "i'm good as well. are you still in pain?"

you shook your head with a stupid smile, "nope, just peachy," you smiled, "i have a dress on my finger—" proudly raising your index finger up, where the pulse oximeter was.

"it looks wonderful, sweetheart," nanami softly threaded his calloused fingers with yours, kissing your knuckles.

the wound was worse than he thought. at first, nanami didn't know whether to be worried about your poor choice of action or your wound in all honesty, but at this point — he's doing both at the same time.

the male was in the middle of a meeting with the gojo satoru when you called.

"right? and — i think they stole my fingers," you whispered, eyes darting around here and there before eventually trying to raise up your wounded hand. to which nanami prevented by carefully putting it down to your side, on the bed.

"i promise your fingers are there, darling." nanami chuckled at your behavior under the anesthesia.

"no, no. i swear, i can't feel them — the people stole my fingers while you were not here," you refer to the doctor and the couple of nurses who tended to you earlier, "go check them, i swear, ken. my fingers are gone."

cute. you were very cute. nanami knew he shouldn't be laughing at all, but the way you acted right now was . . . very out of character. the passion swirling in your eyes as you try to convince him that your fingers were stolen.

"angel, i promise. they're there, attached." he moved a few strands of your hair away from your face, "you can be angry at me if they aren't there."

bad choices of words. because the very next second, you were trying to pry open your cast to take a quick look at your fingers.

"no, no. darling, you shouldn't touch that," nanami stood up, carefully holding your unharmed hand. preventing it from gnawing at your harmed hand.

"'m trying to prove something here, ken . . ." you rolled your eyes, leaning back onto the bed, "let me go," your whines made him smile.

"darling, 'ts not good to touch it now. we'll get it taken off in a while," you softly whine at his words.

"'ts too long. my fingers . . ."

nanami cupped your face and pressed a chaste kiss onto your lips, "they're there darling, i promise." he held out his pinky.

you childishly nodded, intertwining your pinky with his, "okay. promise."

"are they there?" nanami asks, holding your unharmed hand as he used his other hand to steer the steering wheel of his car.

it had been at least a couple of hours, and the anesthesia was slowly leaving your system — enough for you to be dismissed from the hospital. here you were, sitting in his passenger's seat, "are what there?" you questioned back, still feeling a bit droopy.

"your fingers."

in confusion you stare at him, "of course they are, in here." you mumbled, raising up your casted hand.

nanami chuckled, this was only something he and you (under the influence) knew.

© CHURIPU 2024 , DO NOT COPY OR REPOST ANYWHERE

[pocketjoong]

❥𓂃𓏧EARLY MORNINGS

ꕥ𓂃𓏧 (SYNOPSIS): You wake up to find Hongjoong in your studio. What started with you helping Hongjoong, turns into an unexpected confession from the idol himself.

ꕥ𓂃𓏧 (PAIRING) idol!Hongjoong x afab!producer!Reader

ꕥ𓂃𓏧 (GENRE AND AU/TROPE): friends/co-workers to lovers. idiots in love.

ꕥ𓂃𓏧 (WARNINGS) smut. pwp. use of pet names (princess, love, etc). choking. oral (f!recieveing). orgasm denial. soft joongie. joongie is whipped. lmk if I am missing something. MDNI.

ꕥ𓂃𓏧 (WORD COUNT) 3.3k

ꕥ𓂃𓏧 (NOTES) Happy Hongjoong Day everyone!! I wanted to write something sappy, but I'll just keep it to myself, mostly bc I really don't have the words to express my admiration and love for this precious little human. So, if you enjoy this, please do consider reblogging or leaving feedback! shoutout to @joong-of-gold for beta reading this! TYSM

You awaken to the distant, muffled rumble of thunder, a gentle intrusion on the stillness of your soundproof studio. The first glimmer of awareness reveals the early morning hour, for light filters through the curtains, casting a soft glow throughout the room, but the sun is nowhere to be seen. You can also tell that it rained a few minutes back because you can see the wet streaks on the window and the fog that lingers outside. 

In the haze between wakefulness and sleep, you realise that you are covered with a jacket that is definitely not yours. Inhaling deeply, you catch the scent of familiar cologne that clings to the soft material. Your gaze shifts, and sure enough, you spot him seated on your chair, bathed in the soft, ethereal glow of the computer screens. Hongjoong looks beautiful in the soft light of your studio, akin to an angel, as he works on something you’re unable to discern from the couch. You blink away the remnants of sleep, confused as to why Hongjoong is using your studio when he has his own a couple of doors away.

“Hongjoong?” Your voice is a mere whisper in the silence of the studio as you sit up, absentmindedly watching the way his jacket falls and pools onto your lap.

“Oh, Y/N, you’re awake?” Hongjoong leans back into the chair, his fingers running through his recently dyed hair, which appears somewhat tousled as if he'd been frustratedly tugging at the strands. His hair is a dirty blonde and way shorter than it was when you saw him yesterday morning, a few inches away from being a buzz cut, but it suits him well. But then, you suppose he looks good in all hairstyles. After all, you’re yet to see him in one he’s unable to pull off.

Your curiosity is piqued, and you tilt your head as you regard Hongjoong, noting the fatigue etched across his features. A quick glance at the wall clock tells you that it’s just past five in the morning, prompting you to wonder how long he has been in the building. Given that the last time you checked, the time was before 4 a.m., it dawns on you that he must have entered your studio sometime within the past hour. The realisation that he didn't return to the dorms last night tugs at your heart, and a sigh escapes at the thought as worry for him grips your heart.

“Sorry for barging in unannounced,” Hongjoong begins, his voice carrying slight remorse. “I was working on something, but then I got stuck. I thought being here would provide some inspiration... But..." He trails off, shoulders lifting in a half-hearted shrug. As he begins to rise up from your chair, you quickly shake your head to signal him to remain seated.

"Just," you reply with a sigh, pushing yourself off the couch and stretching, wincing at the satisfying crack of your joints. "Lemme freshen up and get some caffeine into my system. Would you like some?"

Hongjoong politely declines with a shake of his head, already returning his attention to the screens. “It’s fine. I had a cup about twenty minutes ago.”

“Mmhkay,” you mumble as you exit the studio to wash up. Upon your return, you feel notably more alert, though you're confident that a cup of strong coffee will definitely help you more. You search the closet for the coffee grounds, tiptoeing to reach the packet.

“You know, you look…” Hongjoong’s voice trails off, his gaze sweeping over your figure as though he's searching for a gentler way to phrase his thoughts. You've barely managed an hour of sleep in the past 48 hours, and you’re sure exhaustion has taken its toll.

“Like a mess?” You interject with a wry chuckle, playfully finishing his sentence while switching on the coffee machine.

“Nah, you're too pretty for that,” he smirks, causing you to roll your eyes in response, even though his words send a delightful pang through your heart. “But you look like you haven’t been getting much sleep, which is surprising since you were in dreamland when I arrived.”

“That's because I haven’t,” you admit, watching the coffee streaming into the cup you've placed beneath the machine. You hum happily when the smell of coffee permeates the room, making you relax further. “If you don't count the one-hour nap I managed after finishing that video call.”

"Video call?" Hongjoong echoes, his voice tinged with curiosity.

“Yeah, there's this American band that's eager to collaborate on a track with me, so we were hashing out the details until the wee hours, around four a.m.,” you explain, picking up the cup of coffee and turning to look at Hongjoong, who now appears to be deeply engrossed in the contents on the computer screen. “You sure you don't want some coffee, Joong-ah?”

"Mhmm, I’m good," he responds, brows furrowed as his attention is momentarily diverted by your offer.

You nod, even though he can’t see it and take a sip from the cup, savouring the rejuvenating warmth. It breathes life back into your tired form, revitalising you in a matter of moments. Crossing the studio, you lean against the wall, observing as Hongjoong plays with the sounds. 

You both share a quiet moment, with Hongjoong immersed in his work and you taking intermittent sips of your coffee. In the silence of the studio, your thoughts drift back to the day Eden introduced the two of you. Despite being Hongjoong's age, you had already earned a degree in music production and established a modest reputation in both the Korean and Western music scenes. Eden had recognised your talent and had been quick to scout you, asking if you'd like to work for KQ. It was an appealing proposition, one that offered you the flexibility to pursue personal projects without forfeiting your earnings from outside ventures. So you had agreed without any hesitation.

Not long after, the older man introduced you to Hongjoong. You had already heard of him, the sole trainee at KQ for several months, eager to delve into the realm of music production. So, Eden entrusted you with the task of guiding Hongjoong’s musical journey since you had a professional degree. Although you were initially hesitant, circumstances conspired, and over time, a strong friendship blossomed between the two of you.

“So,” you begin, finally setting down your half-empty cup of coffee on the cabinet on noticing Hongjoong’s visible frustration. “What's got you all worked up?”

“I want to remix a track for the new album,” he replies, gesturing toward the computer screen in a state of vexation. “I had this vision when Eden hyung told me about it, but nothing seems to click.”

“Can I see what you’ve done so far?” You inquire, moving closer to lean over his shoulder, regarding the screen with pursed lips. You hold out your hand, requesting for the headphones. When Hongjoong doesn't immediately pass them to you, you turn to face him, only to find him peering at you through half-lidded eyes, his expression inscrutable. In a sudden, surprising move, he pulls you onto his lap, eliciting an involuntary squeak from you and a hearty laugh from the mischievous idol.

“Sorry, love,” he says, though there is a distinct lack of remorse in his tone. “It'll be easier for both of us this way.”

He removes the headphones from around his neck and allows you to wear them before pressing play. As the music fills your ears, you’re acutely aware of Hongjoong’s arms encircling your waist and his chin resting on your shoulder. Despite the delightful distraction, you focus your attention on the remixes he's crafted thus far. It becomes evident why he's been wrestling with frustration; each track seems to lack the spark that’s needed for them to stand out.

“Did you have any other ideas?” you ask, swallowing hard as he nonchalantly shrugs while still entwined with you. His movement causes his chest to press against your back, and you can’t help but be flustered. You knew that he had been working out, but actually feeling his defined muscles beneath his shirt is a different sensation.

“Not really,” he murmurs, his breath tickling your ear as he responds.

“Hmm,” you hum, doing a run-through of ATEEZ’s songs and attempting to conceive something more fitting while nestled against the group's leader. The endeavour turns out to be a more difficult enterprise than you initially anticipated. But you won’t complain; after all, he isn’t one to indulge in casual skinship, so you attribute it to sheer exhaustion and his mounting irritation. “I don't know if you've considered this... but there might be something that could work. Remember the beats I shared with you last week?”

“Do you mean this one?” he responds by humming a fragment of the track you had shared with him. With his chin still resting on your shoulder, his lips linger perilously close to your ear. You muster every ounce of restraint not to shiver pleasantly at his honey voice. “I had thought about it initially, but I didn’t want to use it without asking you.”

“Allow me to give it a try. I’m not entirely convinced either,” you assert, clearing your throat as you carefully get off Hongjoong’s lap. Retrieving your coffee mug, you lift it to your lips for a sip to regain your composure. Yet, in the very next moment, Hongjoong deftly snatches the mug from your grasp and takes a sip himself, letting out a light chuckle as your eyes widen in astonishment. You could swear you catch a whisper of “so cute” slipping from his lips under his breath, but you can’t be entirely certain, as he surely wouldn’t utter such words about you. Or would he?

Opting to dive into work, you retrieve the laptop and settle onto the couch, immersing yourself in the process. Lost in the task at hand, you’re completely unaware of Hongjoong’s intense gaze on you. It is only after you have a basic idea ready that you glance up and freeze. Shifting awkwardly in your seat for a brief moment, you bite your lips before patting the vacant space beside you on the couch. Silently, you press play as he takes his place by your side, watching him curiously as he focuses on the music filling the room.

“Wow,” Hongjoong breathes when he's done listening to the raw remix you’ve created. It's nothing extraordinary, merely an attempt to know if you’re going in the right direction, but the way his eyes sparkle as he looks at you tells you that you’ve struck gold. Before you know it, his lips are lightly grazing your cheek in a tender kiss, his proximity allowing his nose to gently brush against your skin. 

It should alarm you, how quickly you’re melting into his touch, so easily giving into him. This feels inappropriate; you're coworkers first, friends second, and you're uncertain about the ethical implications, considering you both work for the same company. But as he nuzzles into your cheek, all rational thoughts fly out of the window.

“Damn it, Y/N,” you shiver at the rawness in his voice. “You're so cruel. How am I supposed to contain my feelings for you when every time I convince myself I'm content with just being your friend, you do something like this, and I'm head over heels for you all over again?”

“Hongjoong,” Your voice is breathy, and the way you say his name with a gasp almost sounds like a prayer.

He swears, drawing you closer and gazing into your eyes with an intense longing that leaves you wordless, “Don't say my name like that if you don’t want me to kiss you senseless.”

“Who's stopping you?” You whisper, fisting the front of his shirt in your hands, desperately searching for something to ground yourself.

Eagerly, he closes the distance, lips meeting yours with an ardour that takes you by surprise. He nips at your bottom lip, and you feel your resolve crumble. You allow him to dip his tongue into your mouth. As he pulls you onto his lap, you straddle him, your hands finding purchase on his shoulders, drawing him closer. Abruptly, Hongjoong breaks the kiss, resting his forehead against yours.

“Tell me to stop,” he breathes, closing his eyes when you shake your head. “If I don’t stop now, I won’t be able to hold back.”

“Joong,” you murmur, cradling his face between your hands, your lips finding his jaw. “Please.”

“Are you sure?” He whispers, his voice tinged with uncertainty. “I’d planned on asking you out on a date first, to be honest.”

You giggle at both the unexpected confession and his endearing hesitance, causing him to pout in response. You understand where he’s coming from; he’s usually steadfast, not easily swayed by desire or impulse, but it appears that his usual unwavering patience is slowly unravelling.

“We can do that later, I’m not going anywhere,” you say, a soft smile playing on your lips. “Although, if you're not comfortable going further, we can stop.”

Hongjoong shakes his head, his lips finding yours once more in a slow, sensual kiss. “I want you,” he mumbles between each lingering kiss. “I always have.”

His words elicit a whimper from you, and you grind your hips against him, causing the denim of his jeans to rub deliciously against your aching clit. Gasping at the contact, you meet his gaze, finding his lips swollen and rosy from your kiss, his pupils dilated with desire. The next moment, he pulls away from you and eagerly tugs at the hem of your shirt, pulling it over your head. You giggle at his eagerness, “Greedy, are we?”

Hongjoong smirks and leans down to press his lips against the top of your chest, murmuring, “Only for you, my love.”

A quiet moan escapes your lips as your hands find their way into his dishevelled, dirty blonde locks, tugging just hard enough to coax a groan from him. Hongjoong retaliates by sinking his teeth into your neck, biting down gently before withdrawing. When you practically melt into him, he smirks teasingly, “You like that, princess? Want more?”

You nod, gasping as one of his hands darts to your back, skillfully snapping open your bra. His other hand slips to your throat, exerting gentle pressure, almost experimentally, just enough to encourage a deeper breath.

“Mmm. Not like that, doll. Use your words,” Hongjoong pulls away fully, allowing you to see the smouldering desire in his eyes, a sight that sends your head spinning. It takes you a moment to find your voice, long enough for him to caress your cheek with one finger, prompting you to close your eyes. “Don’t leave me hanging, Y/N.”

Your eyelids flutter open, and you gaze at him with a sultry intensity. “I want you to touch me.”

A sly grin curves his lips as he leans in, nipping your lower lip provocatively. “See, now, that wasn’t too difficult, was it, princess?”

You let out a whine as his thumbs rub over your breasts, teasingly tracing patterns. He lowers his head to suck on the skin around your nipple, his lips leaving faint marks. Hongjoong’s mouth is warm and wet, and every time his tongue brushes over your sensitive flesh, your body arches up against his in yearning. When his teeth graze over the tender area, you can’t help but grind against his pulsing erection, desperately needing friction against your clit. “Joong, please.”

“I’ll make you cum, princess. I promise,” he says, offering an innocent smile that contradicts the desire blazing in his eyes.

You're on the verge of delivering a clever retort, but any semblance of wit vanishes when his fingers push your panties aside and plunge into your heat. Your mouth falls agape as his skilled fingertips find the sweet spot deep inside of you, making your toes curl. A primal need stirs within you, and you roll your hips to meet his fingers, and it’s not much later that your legs begin to tremble. You’re close, so close, but just as you're on the cusp of ecstasy, Hongjoong yanks his fingers back, causing you to let out a desperate sob.

He hushes you softly with a soft kiss, his lips a tender apology, “Just a bit more, princess. Can you hold on for a bit longer for me?”

As Hongjoong gently eases you down on the sofa, you notice that he’s still dressed. You pout, tugging at the edge of his shirt, “Joong… off, please?”

“Patience, my dear. I promised I’ll make you cum, didn’t I?” He moves off the couch, pulling you closer to him to spread your folds.

“Fuck—” You arch off the couch, a sharp gasp escaping your lips the second his lips close around your throbbing clit. One of his hands keeps your legs pressed to the side, not allowing you to close them. For what feels like an eternity, he keeps you pinned, fucking you with his tongue and fingers but never allowing the release you so desperately seek. You’re a sobbing, sensitive mess by the time he pulls away for what seems like the hundredth time and sweetly wipes away your tears. It’s not until you hear the crinkling of a condom wrapper that you realise Hongjoong is kneeling on the couch, already undressed and ready.

“You did so well, princess,” he smiles warmly, guiding your legs to wrap around his hips. “I think you deserve a reward, don’t you?”

You nod eagerly, your voice almost desperate as you implore him, “Please… Joong, yes.”

He takes his time as he eases into your folds, knowing that you’re sensitive and you’re grateful for his consideration. Once he’s fully inside of you, he withdraws slowly, repeating the motion with a gentleness that leaves you breathless. Your nails dig into his shoulders, pulling him to you as you yearn to be as close to him as possible.

“Y/N, my love.” Hongjoong coaxes your eyes open gently, his eyes filled with concern. “Loosen up, please. I won’t be able to move otherwise.” 

Taking a shaky breath, you relax, prompting him to smile. “That’s my good girl,” he murmurs, pressing a tender kiss to your forehead.

He slowly works up a rhythm, and it doesn’t take long for you to feel your high approaching. Sensing that you’re close, his warm fingers close around your throat to apply just the right amount of pressure. You clench around him in response, making him moan, deep and loud, as his eyes roll back.

“That’s it, princess,” he whispers, his hands trailing down to rub at your clit while he thrusts in and out slowly. His eyes draw shut as he revels in the sounds of your moans, your words unclear as you gasp out his name. “Will you cum for me, Y/N? Hm?”

You finally snap, your body feeling like fire as you succumb to pleasure. Hongjoong grabs you to keep you still. “You feel incredible, princess.,” he gasps, voice laced with desire. “You’re so good for me.” 

All the sensations are too much for him, and he curses, his thrusts becoming sloppy as he chases his own release. The room fills with the sounds of both of your moans before Hongjoong collapses on top of you, showering affectionate kisses on your face and neck.

For a brief moment, neither of you utters a word, still caught in the hazy aftermath. Your legs feel like jelly, and you’re still a bit woozy, so you simply watch as Hongjoong eases back. He ties off the condom and drops it into the trash can near the door, dressing quickly. Then, he returns to you with damp tissues that he borrowed from your cupboard. “Are you okay, love? Feeling sore?” He inquires, concern evident in his gentle voice.

“A little, but it was absolutely worth it. I knew you had it in you,” you tease, playfully winking at him, and both of you share a tired yet content chuckle.

“Good,” he responds with a warm smile, leaning in to press a soft, lingering kiss to your lips. “Do you need anything?”

“Cuddles?” You pout, gazing up at Hongjoong.

“Anything my princess wants, she gets.”

[rafeyscurtainbangs]

Please Please Please - Rafe Cameron Short Story (Part 1 of 6)

+18 Minor DNI

Older MobDealer!Rafe x Female Reader

🪄 re-uploaded because I had to make a new account.

⭐ republished ⭐

+18 Minor DNI

3333 words

Warnings contain spoilers: domestic assault, cheating, swearing, name-calling, gaslighting, threats, and mentions of killing partner, general violence. Every chapter after this, will have Rafe as the focal point.

📖 Loosely based on the song and music video Please Please Please by Sabrina Carpenter 💕

✨“Stopping in your tracks, you watch the tall blonde struggle to break free. He grits his teeth, fighting against the cuffs, his broad chest gaping at the buttons of his black button-down shirt. He looks like he’s been through it; a gashed lip, the bottom of his pressed shirt half-tucked, his hair messy and sweaty against his dewy, tanned skin.”✨

*blue font is present day

Reader’s POV:

Red wine, Tony’s favorite, Cabernet Sauvignon specifically. Tokara Telos, the first bottle of wine we shared on our very first date. Fitting for our two year anniversary. Slowly swirling the glass you watch the rich red wine cascade down the side. You look at the oven, eyeing the clock, watching a second hour pass. Nine… Dinner was set for seven. Where the hell is he? Maybe he texted me? Maybe he’s in a business meeting gone long or wrong?

Unread to read. Your heart skips a beat as you watch the three dots impatiently; Tony finally acknowledging you, letting you know where the fuck he is and what the hell he’s doing.

Nothingness.

The three dots disappear leaving behind the disappointing chain of messages.

Is he with someone else?

I hate that that’s where my mind goes first, since he’s assured me time and time again he’s faithful and I’m paranoid. It’s hard to give him the benefit of the doubt when there’s so much to doubt. Every excuse just sounds so fabricated with him, corroborated by his goons so I don’t have a leg to stand on.

Then there’s the talk around the country club… It’s just whispers, no real proof, but I swear it’s so goddamn loud. I’m rarely at the Island Club, but when I am, I can see the eyes on us. The cutting watch of women who Tony could possibly be seeing on the side; gossip shared just out of earshot. Everyones’ pity and focus always seems to be directed at me.

It’s embarrassing to feel like everyone knows my drama but me. No one opens their mouths. Ya know why? They’re scared… Scared of him. And I don’t blame ‘em. I’d be scared too.

So here I sit. Getting stood up by my boyfriend while he’s out doing god knows what, with god knows who, because he can. He can do whatever he’d like, break my heart, bruise my ego, because deep down I know there’s nothing I can do… The day I met him was the day I lost myself.

“Vlad,” you call from the kitchen, your voice bouncing off the walls of the lavish estate. “Vlad?”

“Miss?” Tony’s driver comes around the corner with a broad smile, taking in the smells of whatever lingers of the now cold pom de terre. “Smells delicious, Miss. I didn’t know you were a cook.”

“I’m not,” you sigh through a labored laugh. “Just thought I’d make what we had on our first date,” you hum, hearing the drunken slur in your own voice. Vlad cocks an eyebrow, clocking it instantly. “Umm… Dinner was supposed to be at seven,” you sough, gesturing with your glass toward the clock. “Do you know where he-”

“How was lunch with Anna?” He cuts you short, quickly changing the subject, leaving a sour taste in your mouth.

“Where’s Tony,” you return, trying your best to level your wavering tone, dismissing his “pleasantries”.

“The office-”

“What office exactly?” You snip, knowing it’s the Law Firm or The Country Club. Vlad’s gaze casts to the floor. He shuffles his Italian leather boot anxiously, not as good with his “excuses” as the other men on Tony’s payroll. It’s a wordless answer nonetheless - The Country Club. “Can you take me there? I want to make sure he has some dinner. I’m assuming he’s been there all day. The meeting just went long?” You ramble, without a verbal answer from him, gathering your things to leave as the older man flounders.

"Miss…” He cautions you, taking his turn with a faltering tone, making matters worse for Tony.

“Is there an issue?” You ask as you lift an eyebrow in his direction.

“Mr. Marietta is in an important meeting. As you know, they’re not usually the safest situations, and he demands your safety. Tony expressed to me that he would be home late. Would you like me to call him and ask when he’ll be coming home?” You roll your eyes, chuckling in disbelief as you stroll past him.

“I am perfectly capable of that,” you breathe as you snag a new bottle of red wine, heading out the door.

⨯ . ⁺ ✦ ⊹ ꙳ ⁺ ‧ ⨯. ⁺ ✦ ⊹ . * ꙳ ✦

The Country Club comes into sight, the gaudy neon sign flickering from a distance. The parking lot is packed, littered with cars; always jam-packed on the weekends. Kooks, Pogues, and tourists alike all brought together for their shared love of pussy.

“Park there,” you guide from the backseat as you spot Tony’s blacked-out Maybach truck parked under the streetlight. Vlad locks eyes with you through the rearview mirror.

“Would you like me to call him before you go inside, Miss?” You shake your head ‘no’ as you look out the window, drawing a deep, nervous breath before pushing out.

What am I walking into?

“Y/n?” Luis, Tony’s bodyguard and bouncer, calls from his seat outside the door. “What are you doin’ here?” He looks in all directions for watchers-on anxiously, the blood drained from his face like he’d just seen a ghost. Only a handful of people even know that Tony owns this shithole. To virtually everyone on the Island he’s just another Kook King. The Marietta to the Marietta and Klaus Law Firm. This is simply a front for something bigger, something Tony can use to wash his dirty drug money; a front. “You just missed Tony,” he lies through his gold-capped teeth.

“He’s here,” you smile as you step toward the door, grabbing the handle. Luis rests his large palm on top, looking down at you blankly. “He’s in a meeting, Miss.”

“And-” You ask as you twist the knob, but Luis doesn’t budge. “Move.”

“No.”

“Get the fuck out of my way,” you snap. Luis’s jaw tightens as he shakes his head ‘no’ standing firm. “You said he wasn’t here. Now he’s here and I can’t go in? That’s my fuckin’ boyfriend,” you hiss.

“I have orders, ma’am.”

“Orders?” You scoff.

“Orders-”

“Pussy,” you spit, turning on your heels, heading back where you came. Plan B. You pick up speed, clipping down the asphalt before he can intervene, following the line of men waiting outside, before slipping through the front door.

Your head hangs low as you walk through the dim, seedy hallway, pushing past patrons sauntering in and out of the gentlemen’s club. The main floor. I’ve never been here… The office is the farthest I’ve gone. You catch a few familiar faces from the Island Club, their eyes doubling in disbelief and shame for seeing you here and being seen themselves. Music blares as you storm toward the back; beautiful women dancing on the stage in nothing but Pleasers for the swarm of men gathered around, flicking and raining ones on the stage.

“Yes,” you gasp as you watch a stripper step out from behind the back-of-house door; catching it before it swings shut. Just a few paces and you’re there. You slide in your key and open the office door without a second thought, ripping off the bandaid.

Nothing… The office is dark, only the light of Tony’s laptop glowing in the empty post. Maybe he is gone. You step toward it, letting your heart rate settle as you circle his desk.

The corner of your lips curl into a trembling smile as you see a framed picture of the two of you on his desk. A post-it note affixed to the top with a reminder for tonight’s date.

Maybe I am paranoid… You pull out his large leather desk chair, taking a seat. Drawing a deep, needed breath, you let your shoulders fall, releasing some of your tension. It doesn’t explain why his truck is still here… Your eyes flash open, returning to the worry at hand landing on a bar napkin. Red lipstick.

Your stomach sinks as you hold the note, your eyes flicking to the laptop screen. Oh my god. Your heart shatters as you watch a blonde bounce on Tony’s lap, his lips locked on hers.

“No…”

“I know,” you sigh as you relax your head back onto the cold brick wall of Kildare County Jail, looking up at the ceiling.

“Did ya kill 'em?” The woman asks in a gruff tone as she crosses her arms over her chest, tits spilling out of her tattered, lace bralette as she snaps her gum. “S'that why you’re in here?”

“Thought about it? But no. That’s not why I’m here.” You open your heavy eyes, taking in your surroundings, contemplating all the choices that landed you here. The worst of it, ever being with him in the first place.

“So, what happened next?”

“Well…”

There’s a brief separation as Tony draws away from their kiss, staring toward the door of the Champagne Room. Luis… He must have figured it out. Tony pushes the stripper off his lap, gathering his clothes as he frantically dresses.

Here we go.

You hear the muffled bang of the first door and the gritting of his key working the lock on the second. You watch as the knob twists, light flooding the room as Tony pushes into the office coming toward you fast. Tony grabs your shoulders, and you fight him off. “Don’t fuckin’ touch me,” you snap.

“Baby, please. You gotta talk to me? What’s going on? Why are you so upset? Please just talk to me,” he pleads like he’s done before; times when I gave him the benefit of the doubt; times when I believed I could be the problem here. “We weren’t doing anything.”

“Tony!” You cry. “Are you fuckin delusional? I saw you fuckin’ that stripper with my own two eyes.”

“Princess, she was just dancing. It was a lap dance. Alright? You have to believe me.”

“Just a lap dance…” You scoff looking down at his undone belt, zipper down, dress pants pitched from his hard-on. He follows your eyes, hastily zipping and fastening his pants closed.

“I don’t know what you think you saw-”

“We’re done,” you chuckle tiredly as you step back, throwing open the side office door. Tony immediately reaches for you, clawing for your arm. “Let go of me,” you struggle.

“You’re not leavin’,” he asserts, pulling you back inside.

“I am. I’m done with you. It’s our anniversary, Tony. Look at where you are. Look at what you’re doing. How could you do this to me?”

“Do what? It was just a dance. I just got out of a major deal. Alright? I was about head home-”

“Liar!”

“Liar?” He questions. “Did you just call me a liar?” He asks as you feel the sting of his blunt fingernails digging into your arm.

“I know what I saw…”

“Princess… Even if I was lying. What the fuck are you gonna do about it. Huh? You’re mine, bitch. I own you. Where are you gonna go? What money do you have? How are you gonna afford this lifestyle you’ve become so accustomed to? Spending my hard-earned money like the gold-digging slut you are. You should be grateful,” he snarls as he steps toe-to-toe with you using his free hand to tug his leather belt from the loops of his pants.

You look up into his dark eyes as cruel words spit so readily from his wicked lips like he’s had time to prepare. I’ve seen this side of him, only once. He’s an evil man, and I know that. But this sort of cruelty has never been reserved for me. Until today. He grips his belt a little tighter in his fist making you take a few steps back but he stalks closer.

“You’re not goin’ anywhere,” he threatens.

“I am,” you whisper as you try to remain firm.

“I don’t think you understand this relationship we’ve got goin’ on, sweetheart. You go when I say you go,” he growls, tracing the belt along your bare thigh. “Do you think you’ll have a life after me? You think I’ll allow that shit.” He winds up smacking it against your skin. You gnash your teeth in pain, holding back tears, the most horrifying part knowing he could go far harder. “You know too much. You’re a liability. You have nothing. You are nothing without me. And you will be nothing without me.” Chills fall down your spine at his words and the crazed look in his eyes, his pupils blown from coke, pleasure, and rage.

“M'not scared of you.”

“You’re not. Huh? My tough girl.” He leans in; lips draw to your neck, kissing your pulse point, your rapid heartbeat calling your bluff as you inhale Cassidy’s cheap perfume lingering on his skin. You pinch your eyes shut as his large hand threads into your hair, tugging slightly while the other soothes your stinging thigh with his rough palm.

“I came from nothing, Tony. I’ll be fine.”

He scoffs as he uses his grasp on your strands to shove you away, letting the back of your head and body bang against the side door. Tony buttons up his still-undone shirt; bright red lipstick stained on the collar as well as his neck, a dark hickey forming to boot. Tears roll down your cheeks as you stand there defeated in your date night dress, your perfect makeup now streaming down your cheeks as you look into his soulless eyes.

“Fuck you, Tony.”

“Yeah. Yeah,” he chuckles as he pulls a cigarette out from behind his ear, placing it between his lips before snapping his lighter. “You leave, and I’ll find you. I own Figure 8, princess. Hell, I own this whole damn island. You better not make it too hard on me, baby doll. It’s our anniversary, after all. I’m sure you got somethin’ pretty for Daddy under that little dress of yours. I know you like it rough… but you might not make it out this time,” he laughs as he tosses his belt roughly toward his desk, the picture of the two of you clattering and shattering on the floor.

“Are you threatening me?”

“Me? Never… But if my hands are wrapped tight enough around that pretty little throat of yours and you don’t have enough juice to shout our safe word that’s on you, angel.”

“Go to hell.”

“I’ll give you a 5 minute head start, love. That seems fair?”

You grab the door and pull it open, taking a few steps before turning around again, pressing your back against the cool door, holding it shut as you look for an out. Luis is gone from his post, most likely keeping watch on the opposite end, Vlad in the parking lot, open water on the other side. There’s no way I can go back home. No family close by. No car. No escape. Looking out into the busy parking lot, you watch a squad car slow-roll through the back of the lot. Perfect.

Thank you, Luis. You reach down, snagging his Louisville Slugger perched against the weathered barstool. "Miss?” You hear his bodyguard’s frantic voice as he rounds the corner. You run into the lot as fast as your feet can take you, swerving around cars; dodging Luis.

You slam your eyes shut, swinging hard, nailing Tony’s Maybach truck, shattering the glass. The car alarm blares, echoing through the large lot. “Y/n!” Luis yells, but you swing and swing again.

“Y/n!” Tony barks from the door. You point the bat in his direction, twirling it before knocking off the wing mirror and sending it flying. A second siren fires, the sound of the police cruiser blares through the night, competing with the truck as it gets closer and closer.

You nail the glass, shards spilling into the truck as the cruiser pulls up, moving to the front of the vehicle you make your delinquency visible, quickly knocking out each headlight while the deputies climb out of their vehicle. “Get on the ground. Get on the ground now!” They holler.

“Deputy, this… this is a misunderstanding,” Tony assures as he enters the lot, softening his voice again.

“No, it’s not. And if I had a knife, I’d slash your tires, asshole.” The officers grab for you, expecting a fight, ultimately getting the latter. You cross your arms behind your back, smiling at Tony as they lock you in cuffs.

"Well, shit,” the older woman chuckles as she pulls you back to reality.

“Mhmm… but I’m a liability. After that little stunt I pulled, I know I’m living on borrowed time. Jail is the only place I could leave and be safe for the night. It’s just a band aid though; a temporary fix. I’m sure he’ll bail me out any minute, but who knows what’ll happen? I want to show him I’m not afraid.”

She purses her lips, debating whether to ask the million dollar question. “Are you?” She asks somberly.

“I wish I wasn’t-”

“L/n, someone just bailed your ass out. Let’s go,” an officer calls from outside the cell. The woman beside you taps your leg, giving you a little nod.

“He lays a finger on you, honey, I got no problem comin’ back here.”

“Thank you,” you whisper before turning toward the officer, giving her a wide, fake smile.

You rise to your feet, fixing your dress as you walk to out-processing. “To the left.”

Shupe matches your gaze from his post, giving you a wary glance. “M'am, are these your belongings?” He asks as he holds up the plastic bag of goods. You give him a soft smile and a nod. “Sure you got nothin’ you wanna tell me, Miss F/N L/N. Now’s the time,” Shupe warns. “You know, it’s Tony who posted your bail. He’s waitin’ for you outside-”

“I’m fine. Just fine, Deputy,” you assure as you fish your lipstick out from your clutch, slicking it on in the reflection of the privacy glass. “It was nothin’. Just a misunderstanding, as I said.”

“Just fine? Trashing Mr. Marietta’s Maybach truck was nothing? Just a normal night for the two of you?” He asks sarcastically.

You look at him and smile, dead-eyed and defeated. “It was our anniversary, actually.” Shupe’s eyes widen at yours, the occasion making your story even more unbelievable. “Have a great day, Deputy.”

“This is not a beauty pageant,” the female officer grunts, shooing you toward the exit.

I don’t know if I made the right choice… but I’m not gonna snitch. If I want to survive, I’m going to have to be strategic.

“I’m cooperating. Ain’t I?” You hear a deep voice echo down the hallway.

Stopping in your tracks, you watch the tall blonde struggle to break free. He grits his teeth, fighting against the cuffs, his broad chest gaping at the buttons of his black button-down shirt. He looks like he’s been through it; a gashed lip, the bottom of his pressed shirt half-tucked, his hair messy and sweaty against his dewy, tanned skin.

His eyes match yours; even from a distance, you can see how blue they are. His entire demeanor shifts, softening as a smile pulls on his pretty lips. A smile so beautiful, you can’t help but return the same.

There’s something magnetic about him, an intensity drawing your focus to him like a moth to a flame. He winks, and in that instant, everything changes. There’s no mistaking the connection swelling between you.

“Hey,” he mouths; your breath catches in your chest, pulse-quickening as time slows to a snail’s-pace. He looks at you until the last minute before being shoved inside his confinements. The metal door slams shut, jarring you from your daze, the bustle of the jail building from the solace in your mind.

Who was that?

It was momentary… a fleeting beat. The calm before the storm. You get pushed along, shoved toward the exit, and away from a sweet dream, thrown straight into a nightmare.

Part 2

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[castiwls]

down bad .ᐟ

Paring; dean x reader

Prompt; 'fuck it i was in love, so fuck you if i can’t have us'

Requested; anon

Notes; fav song of TTPD by farrrrr

also requests are open again!

Masterlist | Taylor Swift masterlist

“What are you doing here?” 

Dean Winchester turning up at your doorstep on a Wednesday afternoon was far from what you’d expected when you’d first woke up. You’d honestly never expected to see him again. You’d never wanted to see him again, yet here there he was. 

You had half a mind to slap the grin right off his face as you leaned on your door frame. “Awh come on sweetheart, you can’t still be mad at me?” His tone was playful, arrogant almost as he tried to step around him.

You blocked him shooting him an unimpressed look. “Still mad?” You scoffed. “Of course I'm still mad.”

Dean frowned slightly, his eyes narrowing as he looked you over. “You look good.”

“Don’t change the subject.” You cut in. “I’m not letting you in either. I’m not a hotel Dean.”

This time he scoffed. “I never said you were.” He tried to step around you again. “Come on. Just one night and then I’ll be gone. I’ll even pay for dinner.” His grin returned as he showed you his wallet. “It's on,” He pulled out a card squinting for a moment. “Hector Duff.”

You shot him an unimpressed look. “Credit card scams still? Seriously?” He hadn’t changed one bit in the year since you’d seen him. His smile still left your stomach fluttering and your heartbeat racing as he sheepishly shrugged. “What can I say? It’s a trial and tested method.”

“It’s illegal.”

He put his wallet away. “It’s only illegal if you get caught sweetheart.” 

You hummed unimpressed. “Why are you here?” You asked again. 

Dean huffed running a hand through his hair. He cast a look out to the street before looking back to you. “I made a mistake alright? We had something good…I know that now.”

“Dean you left without any warning! I woke up one morning and you were gone! Do you have any idea how that feels?” A whirlwind of emotions seemed to bubble as you spoke. Anger, sadness…longing. All of them seemed to be battling it out in your head for the top spot.

You managed to keep your face passive as you watched him closely. Dean was doing a good job to hide his own emotions as he watched you. For a moment you swore you saw a passing look of guilt but it was wiped away before you could blink.

He placed a hand on your arm, squeezing slightly. “Can we at least talk?” You frowned slightly as he pulled his best ‘kicked puppy look’ “Please.”

Your walls were crumbling at an alarming rate. Sure, you’d initially had the urge to punch him upon opening the door but the longer you watched him the more your heart seemed to take over. You’d genuinely loved him - you still did.

“Fine. We can talk, but that is it.” You stepped aside slightly. Dean grinned releasing your arm as he stepped in. He quickly made himself at home on your couch as you shut the door, taking a breath to calm yourself.

You could do this

Taking a seat on the armchair you watched him for a moment. A tense silence fell over the room for a moment before he lent forward, leaning his elbows on his knees. “I miss you.” Dean took a breath. “And I know what I did was wrong i just… I've never had something like this before.” He was being genuine. His eyes were soft almost as he watched you, his hand running over his hair. 

You mull over his words for a minute. The unsaid I love you hangs heavy in the air as you both sit in silence. Leaning back in your chair you purse your lips. “Fuck you, Dean.” 

His head shoots up as his body tenses. You stare at him imparity. 

“What?” He looks genuinely dumbfounded as he stands from his seat. “Sweetheart-”

“No.” You snap cutting him off. You made this mistake once. You’d lean Dean Winchester worm his way into his heart and you refused to do it again. You refused to be left stranded for a second time.

“I loved you. I really thought that you could have been the one.” You laughed bitterly. “But no. You chose hunting. You will always choose hunting.” The words seemed to fall from your lips like a waterfall, years of heartbreak and frustration bubbling over as you stared at the man who had taken your heart and crushed it.

“You led me on. You told me all these possibilities - promises - and then you just up and left!” You stood now, getting in his face. “I loved you.” Your voice shook. “And you left.” Your finger jabs into his chest as you feel yourself crumble. 

“So fuck you. Fuck you because we both know that this will never work.” Your voice is softer now as he stares at you, his lips parted slightly. Of all the things that could have happened, he never expected this. He never expected you to blow up in his face and it left him feeling like the shittest person. 

His stomach twisted as he watched your lip quiver and your chest pull in breath after breath. You took a breath your hands hanging limply by your sides. 

“Just…please leave.” You sighed, sounding as defeated as you felt. 

Part of you wanted nothing more than to let him stay. To let him tell you false promises which you could believe for the moment. To let you live in a fantasy that was never really real. 

But a larger part of you refused to fall back under his spell. Deans's words were just that…words.

 A whole lot of empty promises which left you feeling nothing more then a broken shell of the person you’d been before.

[crappymixtape]

baby let me in

REQUEST → @thecreelhouse , SUMMER BLURB PARTY ❝ 🌘 because of you prompt – angsty in-between at steve’s house post-upside down –* steve drives you home after vecna and cleans you up, but who’s gonna help him? | ( 1.2k – TW: blood, wounds, etc // steve harrington x reader, lovesick and a lil fluffy )

B A B Y L E T M E I N 🎶 even if the world don’t understand you, aquilo

Everything was a little hazy around the edges, soft in the low light of Steve’s parents’ room, your bare figures swimming in navy shadows and slivers of gold from the lamp on the nightstand. In any other circumstance this would feel different, charged, skin to skin on the bed and close enough to see the steady rising and falling of Steve’s breaths, but it wasn’t.

It felt like something between grieving and falling onto your knees in relief. Felt like gasping for air after being under water too long. Like you’d both lost something out there in the Upside Down and were leading each other through the dark, finding and feeling your way together.

Bent low over a box of medical supplies, Steve sorted through band-aids and rubbing alcohol, gauze and thread and needles – a first aid kit for monsters. He’d just finished cleaning and covering up the last cut on your back, hands sure and steady as he taped you up before carefully tucking the antibiotic ointment back into place.

The rush of adrenaline was long gone now, exhaustion creeping in around the edges of the bed as you sat knee to knee and cross-legged next to each other on the duvet. Steve had given you an old, oversized Journey tee to wear, the hem dancing just above your knees, but was shirtless himself. Wearing only a pair of old basketball shorts that hung low on his hips and you couldn’t help letting your eyes trail lazily over him.

Damp hair stuck messy across his forehead, a mark to match yours squeezing around his neck, his jaw half-cast in shadow – so stoic, so calm. His lashes were a long sweep over his cheek bones, gaze low in his lap, his lips twisted in concentration.

Pretty. So pretty. Even like this.

The muscles in his arm flexed as he spun the lid closed on the rubbing alcohol, his bare chest warm in the low light, like his skin held summer underneath it. You traced the bob of his Adam’s apple, the small tick of concentration in his jaw, soft slope of his shoulders, down, down, down, until your eyes caught on his shoulder blade.

Bright red.

An angry looking cut courtesy of a demobat or maybe the tangled vines that crept through the Creel house and it made your stomach knot with worry.

“Steve–” you started and it pulled his gaze up from his lap.

“Hm?” came out tired, but when he met your eyes and saw the furrow of your brow his own pinched together. “Oh–what is it? Your bandage?”

“No. It’s your shoulder blade,” you said softly, hand lifting to ghost over his back before pulling it back quickly.

He suddenly glanced away, nerves buzzing under his skin and shrugged it off, too casual for how bad it looked, “Oh, I’m okay.”

“Steve, it’s bleeding–”

“I’ll get it after I finish your stitches. Done it plenty of times.”

“But how can you reach–”

“Ah, I just turn around in the mirror and patch it up, it’s really no big deal. Don’t worry about me, Princess. I’ve had worse, it’s not impor–”

You grabbed his hand in yours, stopped him from digging out anymore supplies and he froze, the feeling of his fingers flexing against your palm making your heart stutter in your chest.

“Not important?” you finished his sentence for him, shaking your head, “Yes it is.”

Steve cleared his throat and tried to go back to finding a needle and thread, but you stopped him again and he listened this time.

“Let me help you…please?” you asked, meeting his gaze and his expression melted – soft, defeated.

“I just–it’s–it’s my job to take care of people, I gotta put them first because if I don't who's gonna make sure they're–”

“Steve,” you squeezed his hand, “It’s okay.”

And taking the box from him you let go of his hand and slowly moved around behind him, careful of your thigh, making sure to not bump the tape and gauze he'd pressed to it. Your eyes didn’t leave him, watching how his shoulders tensed, his pulse fluttering against his neck, the way he squeezed his eyes shut and tongue jammed into his cheek.

“It’s okay,” you said again and he nodded, eyes still closed.

“Okay,” he murmured.

Pulling a cotton ball from the supply box you uncapped the alcohol and wetted it, still watching. “This is probably gonna hurt,” you warned, eyes catching the way his hands balled into fists as he nodded quietly. Just get it over with. And when you pressed the cotton to his skin he sucked in a sharp breath through gritted teeth, a low rumble groaning in his chest.

“Sorry,” you worried, but he looped his hand around his back and pushed it to your waist.

“I’m alright, keep going,” he said, eyes still squeezed shut.

And so you cleaned it, slow, easy, gentle, as he winced and tensed and groaned, gripped your waist like a life line as you washed the blood from his back, red turning pink until you could see the cut clearly.

It wasn’t as bad underneath it all and when you placed the last piece of tape over the corner of gauze you let your hand linger on his back, your fingers resting on the ridge of his shoulder blade.

“Thanks,” he murmured, finally turning on the bed to face you.

A tiny smile flickered at the corner of your lips, but it faded the longer you looked at him. “Why don’t you think you’re important too?” fell out before you could bite it back and your cheeks warmed when his eyes widened.

“Well, I guess I just…I’m the oldest and those kids need me and as long as they’re safe then…” he drifted off at the end, hand moving to rub at the back of his neck and you took his hand again.

“Who’s making sure you’re safe?”

And it quickly pulled his eyes back up to meet yours. Warm honey and burnt caramel, a muddied mixture of surprise and bewilderment and deep gratitude.

“I…” he started, but couldn’t finish and you reached up to tuck a lock of hair out of his face.

“You’re important too, Steve,” you said softly.

And your words struck him heavy, his throat squeezing around everything he wanted to say to you, blinking rapidly against the stinging in the corners of his eyes. He tried to will it away but knew it was no use and closed them tight, tears slipping between his lashes and down his cheeks.

“Okay,” he said, voice thick as he let you pull him close to settle into the crook of your neck, his arms wrapping wide and warm around your waist.

And you sat like that there in the dark of the room, in the strange little bubble you’d created for yourselves out of vulnerability and trust, peeling back your layers and letting each other in. Seeing each other for the first time. Learning each other for who you really were.

A new start. A fresh start.

I’ll make sure you’re safe.

crappymixtape™ • steve harrington masterlist // stranger things masterlist ♥️ reblogs and comments keep me going, friends! ily! ♥️

[kikimurphys]

The Wrap Party (Part One)

Cillian Murphy x Reader

Warning: Smut!!!

Sumary: A casual night with friends takes an unexpected turn when Y/N finds herself alone with Cillian Murphy.

Notes: Please let me know if you like it and if you want the second part.

The pub was buzzing with life when you walked in, the air thick with the scent of spilled beer and the hum of conversation. Dublin’s Friday night crowd was in full swing, with groups gathered at tables, laughter cutting through the noise of the city’s clinking glasses and background chatter. You tucked a strand of hair behind your ear as your eyes scanned the room, searching for familiar faces among the sea of strangers.

At the far end, a large table was filled with your co-workers—some of the cast and crew from the film you had just wrapped. The mood was electric; after all, it had been a long, hard year of work, and tonight was about celebration. You could feel the excitement and relief in the air. You spotted Aria, one of the makeup artists, and made your way over to her.

“Aria, hi,” you greeted her with a kiss on the cheek, settling into the chair next to her. You slid off your coat, revealing your outfit—black shorts, boots, and a tight turtleneck. The outfit had been carefully chosen to walk the line between casual and striking.

“Hey, girl. You look hot!” Aria said, giving you an approving once-over.

“Thanks,” you said with a playful smirk. “Had to try, didn’t I?”

The night moved quickly. Drinks were poured, conversations flowed, and the laughter grew louder as more people joined the celebration. You were halfway through a story with Aria when you noticed Cillian walk into the pub, his presence impossible to ignore even in the crowded room. He exchanged greetings as he made his way to your table.

Cillian Murphy—the star of the movie, the Oscar-winning actor, and someone you’d exchanged polite hellos with on set but nothing more. Yet every time you saw him, something about him unnerved you, his quiet confidence and striking looks stirring a nervous energy within you.

“Hey there,” Cillian said with a soft smile as he reached your side. “Mind if I sit here?”

Your heart did a little flip at how casual he sounded, even though you could feel the heat creeping up your neck. “Not at all,” you replied, trying to sound breezy.

As he sat next to you, you exchanged wide-eyed glances with Aria. Sitting this close to him, your nerves buzzed under your skin. You’d always found him attractive in that quiet, brooding way, but now that he was sitting right next to you, his presence felt more tangible, more intense.

Alan, the co-producer, couldn’t resist teasing. “Why so late, Cillian? Too famous to have a drink with us?”

Cillian rolled his eyes, the corner of his mouth twitching into a half-smile. “I was picking up Ian’s birthday gift. He’s turning 18 next week.”

“Eighteen already? Damn.” Alan said, blowing air out of his mouth in a shocked grimace. They had known each other for years, and Alan had seen them grow. You, of course, knew he had kids. To be honest, you were a huge fan of his, but you weren't going to make a fool of yourself in front of him, so you decided to make casual conversation with him.

You nodded, a little in awe of Cillian’s life outside of work. You knew he had kids, but hearing him talk about them made it all more real. Before you could stop yourself, you blurted out, “What did you get him?”

Cillian turned his gaze toward you, and for the first time, you felt the full intensity of his attention. His blue eyes met yours, and there was a spark of something like curiosity there. He didn’t recognize your voice, probably never really looked at you before, and now here you were, having a real conversation with him.

“A bass,” he replied, sipping his Guinness. “He’s been learning for a while now, so I thought I’d get him a nice one.”

“Nice. I bet he’ll love it,” you said with a smile as you lit a cigarette, feeling a little braver.

After a puff, you extended your hand to him. “I don’t think we’ve properly met. I’m Y/N.”

His hand enveloped yours warmly as he shook it. “Cillian,” he said, his tone light, though you could see the hint of shyness behind his easy smile.

For a moment, neither of you spoke, the noise of the pub fading into the background as you took in the man sitting next to you. He was calm, yet there was something captivating about him—the way he observed the world around him without needing to dominate it.

“So, you’re in makeup?” he asked, breaking the silence.

“Yeah, I worked on the supporting cast mostly,” you said, waving your hand nonchalantly. “This was actually my first big job, so I was just kind of trying not to mess it up.” You laughed, half-joking, but the nerves were still there, bubbling just beneath the surface.

Cillian smiled, his eyes twinkling with amusement. “Well, you did good work.”

The compliment made you feel oddly proud, your heart fluttering at the thought that he had noticed. “Thanks,” you said. “I mostly did personal makeup for red carpets and stuff before this, but film and TV are where I really want to be.”

“More freedom, I bet,” he said, nodding, his gaze softening. “More creative control.”

You laughed, grateful that the conversation was starting to flow easily now. “Exactly. I love being able to help create a character, to bring something to life through makeup. It’s like storytelling.”

As you both fell into an easy rhythm, talking about your love for your craft, something shifted between you. The initial nerves were fading, replaced by a genuine sense of connection. You found yourself drawn to Cillian’s quiet charm, the way he listened intently, his full focus on you. It was intoxicating.

The pub grew quieter as the night wore on, and you found yourself more and more lost in conversation with Cillian. The laughter from the rest of the crew became background noise, a distant hum as you and he leaned closer to each other. There was something magnetic about him—a pull that you couldn’t quite explain but couldn’t resist either.

“Oh, I think we're gonna have to leave,” Sarah said with a laugh after noticing that the waitresses were cleaning the floors and doing the inventories.

“Hey, let's go to mine. It's still early and I got plenty of wine there,” you proposed, drinking the last of your cocktail.

Everyone agreed; the party wasn’t over yet. “Well, I better get going,” Cillian said with a drunken expression.

“Noooo, come on, let’s go to Y/N's,” Nial, another crew member, insisted.

“It’s late,” Cillian protested.

“Are we boring you?” you pouted. “Come on, are you busy tomorrow?” You looked at him deeply, your eyes full of life and youthful playfulness.

He hesitated for a bit but after he looked in the magnetic pull in your eyes and the way you bit your lips he gave in. “Alright if you insist” he chuckled. Everyone cheered and got up to gather their coats and pay the checks.

Back at your duplex, the night stretched on as a small group of you lounged in the living room, sipping wine and playing music. The evening had settled into something more intimate, a warmth lingering between you and Cillian that had been brewing all night. The final guest was leaving, and as Aria pulled you into a tight hug at the door, she whispered mischievously in your ear.

“Are you getting lucky with him tonight? I heard he’s single now,” she teased, her eyes glinting with knowing mischief.

Your heart raced at the thought, even though you tried to play it cool. “Oh my God, really? That’s what I was dreading,” you confessed with a nervous laugh. “But he is really hot. I think he likes me.”

Cillian's recent divorce had made headlines a few years ago, and you'd heard whispers about brief relationships since then. But the confirmation that he was unattached now lifted a strange weight from your shoulders. Not that it would’ve stopped you—deep down, you were already willing to give in to the pull between you. You could tell yourself it was just a one-time thing, something casual. Even though a part of you secretly hoped it might be more than just sex.

“Believe me, he does like you,” Aria whispered, pulling away slightly to give you a look. “Everyone noticed.” She grinned and added with a wink, “Just give him your best ‘fuck me’ eyes, babe.”

You rolled your eyes as she walked away, though a smirk tugged at your lips. Shutting the door behind her, you took a deep breath, trying to shake off your swirling thoughts. Now, it was just you and him. Alone.

When you walked into the lounge, Cillian seemed more relaxed now, his posture loose as he sat back on your couch. The conversation was quieter, more personal, but the tension between you was unmistakable. He watched you as you kicked off your boots, settling more comfortably into the cushions. There was something about the way his eyes lingered on you that made your heart race.

You talked about music, a shared passion, and it seemed like every word from his lips was laced with something deeper. His voice was low and gravelly as he explained why rock was so freeing—no rules, no expectations. You found yourself captivated by the way he spoke, the way he looked at you.

“And no rules is the best way to live, right?” you teased, your voice a little softer now, a little slower. You could feel the wine coursing through your veins, warming your body.

Cillian’s gaze darkened just slightly, and he smiled. “It can be... liberating,” he said, his voice dropping as his eyes held yours. There was something in the way he said it, something that made your skin tingle, your breath hitch.

The air between you was charged now, thick with something unsaid. His knee brushed against yours as he shifted closer, his movements subtle but deliberate. You could feel the heat of him next to you, the slow rise and fall of his chest, and the way his hand rested just inches from your own. Every tiny touch felt electric, like the smallest spark could ignite something bigger.

“You’ve got a great place,” he said, though his voice was quieter now, almost distracted.

“Thanks,” you said, glancing around before returning your gaze to him. You could see the way he was looking at you, the way his eyes kept drifting to your legs, your lips, the curve of your neck. “I decorated it myself,” you added casually, trying to ease the tension even though your heart was pounding.

He raised an eyebrow, impressed. “And those paintings?”

You smiled, feeling a little self-conscious but proud. “Yeah, they’re mine.”

His expression softened, genuine admiration in his eyes. “You’re an artist, then?”

You shrugged, trying to downplay it. “I like to think so. Makeup, painting... it’s all about creating something from nothing, isn’t it?”

He nodded slowly, his gaze lingering on your lips again. “Yeah,” he murmured. “It is.”

The tension between you was almost unbearable now, every glance, every shift in your bodies drawing you closer together. You weren’t sure who moved first, but suddenly, you were leaning in, your faces inches apart. 

Your eyes locked with his, and your breath hitched as the proximity made your heart race. The warmth between you felt magnetic, pulling you closer. You let a small, teasing smile curl at the corner of your lips. 

“You know what?” you whispered, your voice soft but filled with playful confidence. “You’re not as intimidating as you look.”

For a moment, the words hung between you, and his lips parted slightly in surprise. His eyes flickered with amusement, the tension easing just a fraction. 

Cillian raised an eyebrow, his lips quirking into a smile as he leaned just a bit closer, his breath warm against your skin. “Is that so?” he murmured, his voice low, almost teasing.

You smiled seductively, your hand lightly grazing his thigh as your lips barely brushed his. “Mmm-hmm,” you hummed, your tone daring, the intimacy between you thickening with every second.

Cillian’s eyes darkened slightly as he felt the touch of your hand on his thigh, subtle but deliberate, sending a surge of heat through him. He swallowed, his playful exterior faltering for a second as desire flickered behind his gaze. 

“You’ve got this quiet thing going on,” you teased softly, your voice like silk, “but it doesn’t fool me.”

His lips twitched in a restrained smile, clearly enjoying the banter but also trying to keep his composure. You were younger, that much was clear, but the confidence you exuded—how you playfully teased and closed the gap between you—was almost intoxicating to him.

“Oh yeah?” he responded, his voice gravelly, thick with the weight of the moment. “What do you think you’ve figured out?”

You leaned in even closer, your faces nearly touching. The air between you was charged, almost electric. Your gaze darted briefly to his lips before meeting his eyes again. The chemistry was undeniable now, and you could feel the pull of it—like neither of you could resist what was happening.

“That you’re not as shy as you pretend to be,” you whispered, your lips brushing against his, teasing him with just enough contact to make his breath hitch. “You’re just waiting for the right moment, aren’t you?”

Cillian let out a soft, nervous chuckle, his eyes fluttering shut for a brief second as he absorbed your words, feeling the warmth of your breath against him. He didn’t reply right away, his mind clearly racing between keeping his cool and giving in to the pull you had on him. You were intoxicating—your wit, your confidence, the way you leaned into him without hesitation. It was throwing him off balance in the best way possible.

“I suppose you’re right,” he murmured, his voice rough now, thick with the tension he was clearly trying to manage. His hand, which had been resting near his own leg, now grazed your thigh, almost testing the waters. The touch sent a shiver through you, the warmth of his hand sparking something deep inside.

You closed the remaining distance between you with a boldness that took even you by surprise, your heart pounding in your chest. Your lips met his softly, tentative at first, as if you were both testing the waters. The kiss was slow, unhurried, as though you were savoring the taste of each other after all this time. There was a palpable tension in the air, like a string finally snapping after being stretched too tight for too long.

His response was immediate, his hand moving up to cradle your cheek with a warmth and gentleness that contrasted the intensity of the moment. His thumb brushed lightly against your skin, making your heart race even faster. What started as tentative quickly deepened, his lips moving against yours with a hunger that mirrored your own growing desire.

You leaned into him, your fingers reaching up to tangle in his hair, tugging gently as you allowed yourself to get lost in the sensation of him, the feel of his lips, the warmth of his touch.

His thumb brushed lightly over your lower lip, coaxing it open, and you parted your lips for him. The sensation of his tongue exploring yours was electrifying, deepening the kiss with an intensity that made your knees weak. You felt the heat rising between you as his hand slid to the back of your neck, pulling you closer, leaving no space between your bodies.

The kiss sent waves of heat through you, and you melted into him, surrendering as your fingers tangled in his soft hair. His hand slid from your neck down to your hip, brushing against your clothed nipple in a way that made your breath hitch. A muffled, needy moan escaped your lips as you leaned in closer, craving more of his touch.

Without breaking the kiss, he effortlessly maneuvered you onto his lap, his hands gripping your waist as his lips moved down your neck and chest. He pushed the fabric of your top aside, exposing your skin to the cool air, and his mouth followed, leaving a trail of heated kisses across your bare chest. Your head fell back, mouth open, eyes closed in pure pleasure as he continued to explore.

You could feel his arousal pressing against you through your clothes, a steady reminder of the tension between you. The sensation of grinding against him sent sparks shooting through your body, and you gripped his shoulders tightly, anchoring yourself as the friction built between you. Every movement, every breath was filled with anticipation, and the room seemed to grow warmer with the undeniable heat shared between you.

The room filled with the sounds of your shared desire—ragged breaths, low groans, and soft moans that seemed to echo in the charged atmosphere between you. You grinded harder on his crotch, feeling his arousal grow beneath you as you grabbed the hem of his shirt and slowly lifted it over his head, revealing his toned chest. He groaned at the sight of you, a flushed, needy mess above him, his eyes dark with lust and affection.

Without wasting another moment, his hands moved to undress you with an urgency that matched the fire between you, though his touch was still careful, deliberate. Each motion was filled with unspoken want, yet tender and sensual, as if he were savoring every second. When you were down to your underwear, he leaned back in, pressing slow, burning kisses against your breasts. His hands guided your hips to rub against him, the friction driving you both closer to the edge.

Your breath hitched as the pressure built between your legs, the feeling of his lips on your skin making you press his face harder against your chest. Under any other circumstance, you might have felt embarrassed at how close you were getting by just dry humping him, but in that moment, nothing else mattered. The intensity, the anticipation, the heat of it all—it was exactly what you both needed.

He groaned your name against your skin, his hands gripping your hips tighter as you felt your release drawing near. Almost as if sensing how close you were, he palmed your arse, lifting you effortlessly off the couch. You let out a small gasp of surprise, but he didn't break the kiss, not for a second, as he carried you down the hall to your room. The way he held you, the intensity of his lips on yours—it was clear he wasn’t just lost in lust; he was lost in you.

tags:

@mamawiggers1980 @xsweetcatastrophe @galactict3a @thistheivyseason @cillianmurphyvevo @sweetcheesecakesblog

[jolapeno]

comfort came against my will

gif credit to @perotovar

joel miller x f!reader summary: it’ll begin with a little beg, a whispered plea—fingers wrapping around his chin, mouth ghosting over his: Let me ride you, Miller.

word count: 1.8k warnings: smut, p in v, jo's spelling and poetic nature. dedication: happy birthday to my friend, @swiftispunk - i know you love Joel, and i hope you love this. special thanks to @perotovar for letting me use their beautiful GIF that inspired half of my imagery, if not all of it.

There’s something about heavy rainfall.

The way it’s cleansing, renewing—almost reinvigorating, depending on when the last time it fell.

Joel found that the only downside is the scent it leaves behind.

Once, a long time ago, it used to leave behind a smell that others wished to bottle—a wish to burn it in candles or hang cheap versions from their car’s centre mirror in haphazardly cut-out trees.

Now, it has an aroma that reminds him of death. A stench which has dug itself into the hairs in his nose, unwilling to let go—clinging, desperate not to be forgotten.

But, you like the rain.

He'll always find you near the window when it pours, eyes tracing the droplets. Your chair purposefully, and with all intentions, pointing to the muck-covered window. Nothing more perfect, you’d murmur—fingers wrapped around one of the crystal glasses the two of you discovered on a run, pressing it to your cheek, off-coloured liquid sloshing as you sigh.

He’s pretty sure he could name a few other things more perfect than rain, but he does find it hard to argue that it isn't the most perfect soundtrack when your thighs are on either side of him.

Especially when the weather is like this. Where a flash of lightning can illuminate you, casting you in a brief spotlight that kisses over your curves and the evidence of your survival.

Tonight, it begins with you draining your glass, turning your head, eyes shimmering as you move from your place, coming to join him on the bed.

Your fingers, both a little rough and soft, wrap around his chin, before a little beg, a whispered plea fills the air—mouth ghosting over his: Let me ride you, Miller.

He couldn’t argue, would never protest. But, your mouth stealing any words he wishes to say. Because he likes having you under him—pinned, close, unable to look anywhere but directly at him. For when you stare, you make everything else pale in comparison. Made the world around mute, it all fading to nought.

You do so with ease, with a single look. One he imagines has always been there, all very much you, even if the state of things has tried to steal it away. He can easily imagine a younger you modelling it, one without the stress lines of living, it all softer, gentler.

Joel doesn’t mind that isn't the case now. He doesn't care for gentle or soft. He likes how sharp you are, that you can cut, wound and make him bleed. He enjoys that, even if he doesn’t deserve anything from you, you stand side-by-side with him, choosing him—wanting and needing, all raised brow with a smirk to match.

If you listen, the rain is telling us something.

You're close to his ear as you mumble it, lips ghosting down his cheek before a clap of thunder steals the phantoms of your whispered echo.

His hands fan over your hips, pushing up one of his tees that you're wearing, sliding it up with his thumbs—feeling how your skin moves, shifts, lengthening over your muscles and bones. His mind busy, occupied, only thinking about how beautiful you are, even when drenched in darkness.

How you’re all untouched except the few scars, the nips and scratches left by those who wished to end you, but found that you weren’t so easy to dispose of.

Joel knows that you’re vicious, all sharp teeth and a menace with a knife many shouldn’t ever want to meet in a dark alley, not that the world has cottoned on. Each try, each fail. He often watches, in awe, pleased, because you're like him. So smooth in the way you're prepared to split someone open, coat your boots in their ichor as the rest of them spill out. Leaving him, often, battling his feelings at the sight.

But while he knows that side of you, Joel also knows the other you.

The one who still believes the rain is romantic. A soul who wishes for a pretty print on a dress, even if you'll only wear it in the four walls of the place you two share. Modelling it for him, dipping your toe into a fantasy with him. You also like the little things, such as a pair of matching glasses, enjoying that they belong together, a metaphor for something you clearly desperately crave.

If he were an honest man, one not ripped to shreds and put together all wrong, he’d tell you you’re a more perfect sight than rain. Not just when you’re sitting on top of him or when you’re under him; not just when you’re panting, venom in your eyes and splattered with cherry-red. But, when you’re just beside him.

Breathing, existing, sleeping.

He’d tell you that you’re an image perfectly cut out of an old version of his happy ever after, slapped down and glued beside him now, even when he’s all tragedy and tragic. That your darkness dances with his faultlessly—making him less alone.

That for you, he’d want to be better, which included letting you go—even if you’re pulling him close—because a man such as him, with hands stained and scarred with horrors, shouldn’t get to touch smeared perfection. That you’re not really poisoned or rotten, just living, fighting—claws digging into the soil, all desperate for another moment.

It’s why he lets you have your fun, and then he flips you under him, palm to your cheek, stare burning into yours.

What’s it tryin’ to tell us? The rain.

You fit him inside of you perfectly—just like you’ve fitted yourself in his space. You’re all knotted around him, heat warm—inviting. Your thighs pressing close, legs crossing behind him, aiding, helping.

Not because you don’t think he’d get you there, but because you’re conscientious, caring—it appears in smaller gestures others wouldn’t notice, but he sees them. Bottles them. Keep them close when you’re not beside him.

Not that he shows it.

Unsure once again, for the billionth time since you stood beside him (and never left), what you see in him—what you think he can give you. Because he’s old, worn, somewhat broken beyond repair—not that it stops you from trying.

“More, Joel. Please.”

You don’t call him pet names, but he hears them in the silence.

They quiver and talk in hushed voices in the kitchen that is covered in grime and not fit for a beauty such as yourself. Some even sprout on his tongue, a fresh seedling, all untouched and unruined—not yet weeded from his throat.

He finds it harder to not let them fall when you sound as pretty as you do. When your nails press half-moons into his skin, leaving a tale of your own in his forearms and biceps, meeting him with everything you have as your walls tighten, delightfully, a match made in hell—because heaven would never allow him. Or you now, he supposes.

It’s why his thumb slides between the two of you, licked with his spit, mixing with the slick against your swollen clit. You gasp, spraying sweetness around the air that's heavy-layered with sex.

He’s forever starving, never quenched—a need for you that runs deeper than mere living and existing. Not ever able to purge you from his system, never wanting to either. Because you’re entangled with him, rooted, anchored inside of him so you can bob along and never go under.

Not that he’d let you.

Joel would never.

His hips punctuate that sentiment. Wanting you to know it, driving them in, so the words don’t go in one ear and out the other. He aims to stamp them in you, fuck them so deep into you you’ll never forget. The sound of skin on skin, groan and grunt, all filling the space, evidence of his determination, swirling around your returning breath, still moaning, murmuring—all scratchy and rough.

“—Let go, Joel. Fill me.”

It rips from him, your name.

Each letter is important, each sound giving the attention it deserves as it coats the air—mouth finding the space between your ear and neck, kissing, teeth nipping.

“Stuff me full.”

The rain hammers heavier, beating its fists against the glass as though it’ll only calm when he does as you’ve asked. As though you and nature are tied together, bonded—the real pairing made in paradise.

It’s then your lips find his, sloppy, messy, all uncoordinated. He can taste the bitterness of your drink on your tongue and the pleasure he’d given you. His mouth lapping it up, licking into yours, tongue far past your teeth as he grips you a little tighter, ruts into you a little deeper—as if hoping there’s more of you to explore, more vastness he can leave a mark on.

It's muffled, but you cut the air with his name as if your tongue is a blade. Your body tightens, mouth ripped from his as you bare your throat, chin lifted, eyes closed as it washes over you and your walls become a vice, hugging his cock in a way no one else ever has.

He's close.

So close.

Another flash, it all bright, exposing the sweat collected on your skin, the path it has made between your breastbone, the way your body looks under him.

Then it’s electric, ripping through him as he stains, writing you’re his all in thick ropes of white—his hips stuttering, slowing, riding it out what it is you do to him. It’s a feeling akin to being folded inside out and then put back again—making his muscles tense and relax, his bones forget they ache, as his throat burns with the force of his exclamation.

It’s minutes, little seconds clumping up until an expanse of time collects, and he’s ready to leave the space between your thighs.

Your eyes on him, all unwavering, mapping his features as though you’re an artist, ready to make him into a sculpture.

He doesn’t tell you to stop, he's learnt his lesson from doing as such—eyes ablaze, full of molten, words sharp as ice, all a twisted juxtaposition as you lay into him all the ways you were, are and am enamoured by him.

He’s sure his list is longer, but he swallowed that, too.

Joel had just nodded, left you angry for half an evening until his arms wrapped around you, and he felt you melt, less lava and more a candle-lit flame licking at him until he took you to bed.

Even if a scrap of time has passed since then, Joel is still no closer to finding himself comfortable with the look—the one he suspects comes with words. Ones you don’t thankfully spill, but ones he would mean just as much if he really asked himself.

It isn’t until you tap him, that he moves. You’re more nimble, quicker on your feet to fetch a rag to clean yourself and then him. Each touch delicate, your stare concentrated before the cloth is cast to some corner—a thing you’ll move and clean tomorrow.

And then, you’re beside him, finding the place you usually choose—all intentional, willingly given—as his arm finds itself around you. A flash of lightning displaying the two of your shadows pressed together, merged in ways the two of your souls are.

Swallowing, he finds your stare is back on the window, the world outside painting its own version of a masterpiece.

“Y’never said what the rain’s telling us.”

You smile, before you lift up your chin, looking at him through your brows. “Just stories. The rain likes to tell stories.”

an: ily, han.