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beloveds-embrace · 6 months ago

Note

dukedom!AU but they realize she’s quickly become a type of ‘peoples princess’ outside the duchy

The timeline for this one is before reader tells john her request! I got this ask before part two dropped and already had some of it written. Hope you enjoy, anon! <3

Dukedome au masterlist

I can imagine them realizing it not from seeing it, but from hearing it, maybe during a gala hosted by John and uou. The evening is alive with music and laughter, the grand ballroom brimming with nobles and dignitaries. Yet the chatter revolve around one figure: you.

“She’s truly remarkable, isn’t she?” one elderly countess says, her voice carrying across the marble floors and gleaming ceilings. “Always so graceful, so kind. I am quite glad she is Duchess Price, now.”

John stands near the refreshments table with Simon, and overhears the conversation. His hand tightens slightly around his glass, though his face betrays nothing. Nothing new to be talked about, it was natural. And yet-

“Graceful?” a younger lady chimes in, voice calm and polite. “She’s more than that. Did you hear she personally visited the orphanage last week? Brought food and clothing, spoke to every child. And not for show- she refused to let any journalists near. That’s a true duchess.”

Simon’s brows furrows slightly, his jaw tightening. He exchanges a glance with John, the unspoken thought between them clear: she hadn’t told either of them about that visit. It wasn’t because John didn’t trust you, or that you need his permission; he just wanted to be aware of where you go and which guards you’ll take. For your own safety.

“She’s so approachable too,” a lord adds, gesturing with his wine glass. John knows this lord, he always ends up drinking too much and being too handsy. Why would you need to speak to him? “I spoke to her briefly earlier- she didn’t just listen, she cared. You can see it in her eyes. It’s no wonder the people adore her.”

Adore is putting it way too lightly.

From the other side of the room, Kyle watches as a small group of maids gossip near the staircase. He wasn’t one for eavesdropping, but their excitement is hard to ignore.

“I heard she gave her own jewelry to the head maid’s daughter to help her pay for her dowry.” One of them whispers, clutching her tray.

“That’s not all,” another group are speaking, talking about her as well. “The market vendors say she always pays more than is needed, even when they insist she doesn’t do. Such a lovely woman.”

“Wish the other nobles were like her,” the first maid says with a wistful sigh. “She’s the only one who treats us like people.”

Kyle’s lips press into a thin line as he adjusts his gloves. He prides himself on protecting you, but hearing how far your kindness extends fills him with a quiet sense of urgency. What if someone takes advantage of you and your tender heart?

It’s not just in the main hall that these words are said; down in the kitchens, Johnny is busy ensuring there’s enough food with the rest of the chefs. But still, he can hear two others talking while they work, trying not to sound too snappy or angry while he listens in on them.

As the night continues, the men find themselves more and more aware of how often your name arises in conversation. They hear nobles discussing your fashion choices (Simon secretly preens), others whispering about your visits to the poorer parts of town and the funds that have been allocated into revitalizing the areas, and even rival duchesses grudgingly admitting that you’ve set quite the high standard.

“I heard she stopped Lord Clinton from evicting his tenants,” one man says near the dance floor, though not quite close enough to be drawn into the dancing bodies. He is within John and Simon’s earshots.

“Not only that,” someone else “whispers”. “She made sure they had food and shelter through the winter. commoners love her, and she truly embodies what it means to be a noble. A true people’s princess, I say.”

John’s gaze flickers toward you, standing across the room and laughing softly with a group of nobles. You’re glowing tonight, the light catching in your hair and your smile as warm as ever, adorned in a beautiful dress.

“They don’t deserve her,” Kyle mutters, sidling up to him while holding a plate of finger foods.

John doesn’t respond, but his grip on his glass tightens again. It’s a wonder the glass hasn’t broken et.

Simon’s voice is quiet when he speaks. “The people see her as theirs.” He pauses, his gaze hardening. “But she’s ours first.”

“I cannot blame them.” John sighs. “She is the perfect duchess. But she is also my duchess, and they seem to have forgotten that.”

John means his words, and he knows his men agree with him. The world may love you, but they know the truth: no one else can have you- not the people, not the nobles, no one but them.

The ballroom continues to buzz with conversation, and John focuses back on the two men near the edge of the dance floor.

“She’s wasted on a duchy,” one of them says, swirling his wine with a smirk, more than just a little drunk. “With her charm, she could outshine the Queen herself.”

“Not just charm,” the other adds in, just as drunk. “But Influence.”

Simon stiffens, his fingers flexing at his sides. “Influence” isn’t something he takes lightly when it comes to you. It’s a dangerous thing in the wrong hands- or with the wrong admirers.

“Careful,” John mutters to him. “They’re complimenting her, not threatening her.”

Simon’s glare softens ever so slightly. “Yet.”

Johnny slowly makes his way towards a hidden corner of the ballroom, gnawing on his lips as he listens to the whispers of you.

Did you see the way she stopped to speak with the gardeners?” one of them asks. “She even complimented the hedges I trimmed last week!”

Johnny’s grin fades, his fingers drumming against his thigh. He enjoys seeing people appreciate you, but this feels different. They speak of you with reverence, as if you’re some untouchable figure. But Johnny knows better. You’re no untouchable goddess- you’re his. Theirs. That’s what matters most.

It’s when you step onto the dance floor that the tension truly rises. A duke- one who’s been eyeing you all evening- approaches you with a bow, extending his hand for a dance. You hesitate, glancing toward John out of instinct. He doesn’t move, but his eyes darken, his jaw clenched as he watches you take the duke’s hand.

The music swells and you move across the floor, laughter bubbles from your lips at something your dance partner says. The men see it for what it is: polite, nothing more. But it doesn’t stop the knot of irritation tightening even further.

“She’s a vision,” someone murmurs nearby, unaware they’re being overheard.

“Who wouldn’t fall for her?” another replies.

The words hang in the air, heavy with implication.

Kyle’s gaze sharpens. Johnny’s grin vanishes completely. Simon’s fists clench at his sides. And John, ever composed, finishes his wine in one long swallow, his eyes never leaving you.

He can’t allow this to go on for any longer.

The dance ends, and as you return to the edge of the ballroom, you’re immediately surrounded by more admirers- ladies complimenting your gown, lords vying for your attention. Or would have been, if John hadn’t started making his way towards you, presence larger than life.

“Your Grace,” he says smoothly, and extends his hand to you, his expression unreadable. “Dance with me.”

The request- or rather, the command- is met with stunned silence. The nobles exchange glances, but a single glance from John keeps them all silent.

You blink up at him, momentarily caught off guard, before placing your hand in his. “Of course.” you murmur softly.

John’s grip is firm but gentle as he leads you to the dance floor, his other hand resting lightly at your waist. The orchestra begins a soft waltz, and he pulls you into the first step, his movements confident and assured.

Around you, the crowd watches, whispers starting anew, though you barely notice. All you can focus on is the intensity in John’s eyes as he looks down at you.

“You’ve been busy tonight.” he says after a moment, his voice low enough that only you can hear. It sends a shiver up your spine- his voice always so nice to hear.

“It’s my role,” you reply, offering him a small smile. “Everyone has been so kind.”

He hums, his eyes flicking briefly to the onlookers before returning to you. “Too kind, perhaps.”

You raise an eyebrow at his tone but say nothing, letting him guide you across the floor. His hand tightens slightly at your waist, and he pulls you even more closer.

“You’ve done well tonight,” he says after a moment, his voice softer now. “Better than I expected, if I’m honest. But I shouldn’t have been surprised. You always seem to surprise me, my dear.”

Your cheeks warm at the unexpected praise, and you smile up at him. “Thank you, John. That means a great deal.”

He leans in just slightly, his breath ghosting over your ear. “The way they look at you,” he murmurs, his voice dropping even lower. “They can’t take their eyes off you. And I don’t blame them.”

You glance up at him, startled, but his expression is unreadable once again. He continues to lead you effortlessly through the dance, his movements precise.

“But,” he continues, his gaze locking onto yours, “they’ll have to remember who you belong to.”

Your heart skips at his words, and for a moment, you forget where you are, the world narrowing to just the two of you. His eyes soften, his grip steady as he twirls you into the final steps of the dance.

As the music fades, he leans in again, his voice barely above a whisper. “You’re exquisite tonight, wife. Don’t let them forget it.”

With that, he leads you off the dance floor, his hand never leaving yours. The crowd parts for the both of you, their gazes following you both as John guides you back to the edge of the room, where the others wait.

You’re still breathless, his words replaying in your mind as he steps aside, positioning himself at your shoulder. Whatever protests the nobles might’ve had about your absence dissolve under his watchful glare.

And though John doesn’t say another word for the rest of the evening, his presence alone is enough to ensure no one dares to crowd you again, and no one comes between you and them. Simon and Kyle keep you busy, chatting happily with them, and Johnny joins later when the guests begin to trickle out and no one would question why a chef is there.

People’s princess you maybe, you are still theirs. John simply had to show and remind everyone of that fact.

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urdreamydoodles · 2 months ago

Text

MARVEL COMICS CHARACTERS X FEM!READER

You are extremely physically affectionate towards your lover

Characters: Peter Parker, Tony Stark, Steve Rogers, Thor, Loki, Clint Barton, Natasha Romanoff, Bucky Barnes, Matthew Murdock, Frank Castle, Bullseye, Marc Spector, Taskmaster, Johnny Storm, Reed Richards, Ben Grimm, Susan Storm, Felicia Hardy, Stephen Strange, Namor, Johnny Blaze, Eddie Brock / Venom, T'Challa, Elektra Natchios, Muse, Victor von Doom, Peter Quill & Nova

Peter Parker (Spider-Man)

- Peter Parker was not used to this. The easy touches, the warmth of your hand against his, the way you leaned into him as if gravity itself was pulling you closer. He had spent so much of his life keeping a careful distance, making sure the people he loved never got too close—because close meant vulnerable, and vulnerable meant loss. But you? You never seemed to care about the dangers or the excuses. You curled into his side when he sat on the couch, laced your fingers through his when you walked together, kissed him just because you felt like it. And Peter—awkward, hesitant Peter—was utterly helpless against you.

- At first, he didn’t know what to do with it. The first time you pressed your face into the crook of his neck while he worked on his web-shooters, he short-circuited so hard he nearly ruined the entire mechanism. "Uh—babe? Not that I’m complaining, but—is this a thing? Are we doing this now? Oh, we are doing this now. Okay. Cool. No problem. Just—uh, gimme a sec to process." But you never waited for permission. You just kept touching him—soft, constant, reassuring—until eventually, he stopped questioning it and started needing it.

- The first time he realized just how much he needed it was after a particularly brutal night. A fight that left his body aching and his mind even worse. He barely made it through the window before you were there, wrapping yourself around him like you knew. And suddenly, everything that had been clawing at him—the guilt, the exhaustion, the loneliness—dissolved. He didn’t say a word. He just held you tighter, buried his face in your hair, and breathed.

- Now, Peter craves it like oxygen. He reaches for you before he even realizes it—pulling you against him in his sleep, hooking an arm around your waist as he scrolls through his phone, nudging his nose against yours just because he can. The world is cruel, unpredictable, dangerous—but your touch? Your warmth? That is something Peter Parker will never take for granted.

Tony Stark (Iron Man)

- Tony Stark was a man who built walls. Not the kind that crumbled easily under the weight of kind words and patient gestures—no, his were reinforced, designed to keep people out. He had spent years perfecting the art of distance, of making sure no one got too close. But you? You were different. You didn’t knock on the door, waiting for permission—you climbed right over the walls, landed in his space, and stayed. With your hands, your lips, your unwavering need to touch him, to hold him, to remind him that he was not alone.

- At first, it was… jarring. Tony was used to attention, yes, but not this kind. Not the kind that wasn’t expecting something in return. The first time you hugged him—just because—you felt the way his body went rigid, the way his hands hovered awkwardly before settling on your back. "Wow. This is… new. Okay. Hugs. We’re hugging. Cool, cool, cool. No existential crisis here." But you never relented. You pressed into his side when he worked late, kissed the back of his neck when he got lost in his own head, traced absentminded patterns into his palm during meetings. And Tony? He found himself melting into it before he even realized what was happening.

- The real turning point came one night when he woke up gasping, his chest tight, his mind drowning in memories that refused to stay buried. He didn’t even have to reach for you—you were already there, pulling him close, pressing soft kisses against his shoulder, grounding him with your touch. "I’m here," you murmured against his skin, and Tony Stark—genius, billionaire, survivor—broke. He clung to you like a lifeline, burying himself in your warmth, letting himself be held in a way he had never allowed before.

- Now, he seeks it out. He’ll act like he doesn’t, make some snarky remark about "needy girlfriends", but the second you stop touching him? He’s pulling you back in, draping himself over you like the most dramatic man alive. "Hey, where do you think you’re going? My affection quota isn’t filled yet." And if anyone so much as thinks about commenting on it? He just smirks, pulls you even closer, and says, "Jealous? You should be."

Steve Rogers (Captain America)

- Steve Rogers was a man out of time, a soldier who had spent most of his life with his fists clenched, his mind trained to endure. He was not accustomed to softness, to indulgence, to the kind of affection that did not come with conditions. And yet—here you were. Always reaching for him, always pressing close, always reminding him that he was yours. You kissed the inside of his wrist like it was sacred, ran your fingers through his hair when he let himself relax, curled against his chest like you belonged there. And the truth was? You did.

- At first, he didn’t know what to do with it. The first time you wrapped your arms around him from behind, he went stiff, his body tensing as if bracing for an attack. But when you simply hummed, resting your head against his back, something in him unraveled. He exhaled—slow, steady—before covering your hands with his. And that was the moment he realized—this was not something to fear. This was something to cherish.

- The first time he sought it out was after a particularly difficult mission. The kind that left blood on his hands and ghosts in his mind. He came home, exhausted, battered, but the moment you reached for him—he melted. He let himself sink into your arms, let himself need you in a way he rarely allowed himself to. And when you whispered, "I’ve got you," he closed his eyes and believed it.

- Now, it’s second nature. He reaches for you without thinking—pulling you into his lap when you’re both reading, brushing his knuckles against your cheek as he passes by, resting his hand on the small of your back whenever you’re near. Affection is not something he was raised to expect, but with you? With you, it is something he will never stop craving.

Thor

- Thor Odinson is a man of grand gestures, of roaring laughter and earth-shaking love. But when it comes to you—his affection is not just thunderous, but constant. He adores the way you reach for him without hesitation, the way your hands find his in quiet moments, the way your touch lingers as if you cannot bear to be apart for too long. And oh, how he thrives under it.

- The first time you showered him in affection, he grinned—wide, bright, eager. "Ah! My love, you are truly as radiant as the stars!" He embraced you effortlessly, lifting you into the air, delighting in the way you laughed against his chest. He was never one for restraint—if you wanted to touch him, to hold him, to kiss him senseless—he would let you. Encourage you. Because there was nothing Thor loved more than being loved.

- But it was the quiet moments that truly undid him. When you curled against him after a battle, your fingers tracing over his scars. When you pressed sleepy kisses to his shoulder before drifting off. When you simply held his face in your hands, looking at him like he was more than just a god, more than just a warrior. Like he was yours. And in those moments, Thor Odinson—Prince of Asgard, champion of realms—felt human.

- Now, he craves it like a force of nature. He pulls you into his lap without warning, presses lingering kisses to your forehead, wraps his arms around you so tightly you can feel the strength in them. If anyone dares to comment, he simply laughs, throwing an arm around you with a smirk. "Jealous, are we? Ah, but who could blame you? My beloved is irresistible!" Because to Thor, your love is not just something he accepts—it is something he reveres.

Loki

- Loki was not accustomed to tenderness. Affection, in his experience, had always been fleeting—given only in exchange for something, laced with expectation, or worse, manipulation. But you? You gave without asking. You touched without hesitation. Your fingers traced the sharp lines of his face as if he were something to be studied, not feared. You kissed his knuckles absentmindedly, tangled your fingers in his hair, rested your head against his shoulder as if it were the most natural thing in the world. And Loki—cunning, guarded, untouchable—let you.

- At first, he did not know what to do with it. The first time you cupped his face in your hands, he had gone utterly still, his breath caught between his ribs, waiting for the inevitable trick, the hidden knife. But all you did was smile, tracing the delicate skin beneath his eyes as if he were precious. As if he were yours. And something in him—something ancient, something wounded—cracked apart.

- He is not a man who gives easily, but when he does, he gives completely. Now, Loki seeks your touch like a starving thing—leaning into your warmth as you press against his side, pulling you into his lap without a word, letting your hands wander over him as if to prove he is real. He teases, of course—"Darling, do you find me so irresistible that you cannot keep your hands to yourself?"—but his voice is softer than it should be, his hands tightening against yours as if begging you never to stop.

- And if anyone so much as questions it? If they dare to call him weak for the way he melts beneath your hands? He merely smirks, his arm curling around your waist as he whispers, "Ah, but love, what better trick is there than to make the gods themselves fall to their knees?"

Clint Barton (Hawkeye)

- Clint Barton had spent a lifetime watching his back, expecting the worst. He was not used to gentle hands, to soft embraces that did not come with conditions or an ulterior motive. He had lived his life running—always moving, always fighting, never letting anyone get too close. And then you happened. You, with your touch that lingered like a second heartbeat. You, with your hands that grounded him when the world spun too fast. You, who reached for him not because you needed something, but simply because you wanted him.

- At first, he brushed it off with humor. The first time you reached for him—grabbing his hand absentmindedly, brushing your lips against his temple—he raised a brow, smirking. "Wow, you just can’t help yourself, huh?" But then he noticed the way he relaxed under your touch. The way the tension in his shoulders eased when you pressed a hand against his back. The way his pulse slowed when your fingers traced lazy circles against his skin. And suddenly, it wasn’t funny anymore—it was necessary.

- He never asks for it outright—he’s too stubborn for that—but you start noticing the way he lingers. The way he moves closer without realizing it. The way his fingers brush against yours just a little too long before he actually grabs your hand. And when you finally call him on it—"Clint, you like this."—he just huffs, rolling his eyes. "Yeah, yeah, don’t get a big head about it." But his grip on you tightens. Because for all his bravado, he’s never letting this go.

- Now, he doesn’t even try to fight it. He pulls you against him when you’re standing still too long, rests his chin on your shoulder, tugs you into his lap with a grin. If anyone makes a comment, he just shrugs. "What? She’s warm." And if you ever stop touching him? If you deny him affection? He’ll groan dramatically, throwing himself onto the nearest surface. "Babe, please. I’m literally dying. Have some mercy."

Natasha Romanoff (Black Widow)

- Natasha Romanoff was not built for softness. She was trained to endure, to resist, to survive—but not to need. Affection had always been a tool, a weapon to be wielded when necessary, but never something meant for her. So when you came along—when you touched her so easily, so freely—she did not know what to do with it. The first time you hugged her, without hesitation, without purpose, she had simply frozen.

- It wasn’t that she didn’t want it—God, she ached for it—but want was dangerous. Want could be exploited. So she told herself it was nothing, that it didn’t matter. But then it kept happening. You would take her hand absentmindedly, lean into her warmth without hesitation, press a kiss to her shoulder just because you could. And she—cold, untouchable Natasha—let you.

- The first time she reached for you, it was barely noticeable—a hand on your waist, a finger brushing against yours. But once she let herself have it, she couldn’t stop. Now, she seeks it. She won’t ask, won’t say a word, but if you sit beside her without touching her, she will fix it. A hand on your knee. A foot nudging against yours. A quiet, steady reminder that she is here. That you are hers.

- And if anyone so much as mentions it? She raises a brow, her expression unreadable. "What? You think I don’t deserve nice things?" Because Natasha Romanoff may not have been made for love, but with you? With you, she is relearning what it means to have it.

Bucky Barnes (Winter Soldier)

- Bucky Barnes was a man starved of warmth. For so long, his body had belonged to everyone but him. He had been touched in violence, in control, in suffering—but never in love. Never in a way that asked for nothing. And then there was you. You, with your gentle hands and your stubborn refusal to let go. You, who traced the lines of his palm as if mapping a constellation, who pressed kisses against the cold metal of his arm as if it were worthy of tenderness. You, who reached for him as if he were not something broken.

- At first, he flinched. Not because he didn’t want it, but because he didn’t know how to take it. The first time you pressed your forehead against his, he nearly pulled away. But then you sighed—soft, content—as if this was normal, as if he was normal. And he… let it happen. Just this once.

- But once was never enough. He started to crave it, to need it. Now, he is the one reaching for you—pulling you closer in the middle of the night, pressing his nose into your hair, grounding himself in you. If you so much as walk by, he is grabbing your wrist, tugging you into his lap, resting his chin against your shoulder. He doesn’t ask for it—he just takes it. Because after years of being denied choice, of being denied himself, this is something he chooses.

- And if anyone dares to comment on how much he clings to you? He just gives them a slow, dangerous smile. "You got a problem with the way I love my girl?" Because Bucky Barnes has lost too much already—he will not lose this. He will not lose you.

Matthew Murdock (Daredevil)

- Matthew Murdock feels you before you even touch him. Your presence wraps around him like a second skin, the scent of you lingers in the air, the warmth of your body radiates inches away. He hears the tiny shifts in your heartbeat before your fingers even graze his skin, the way it quickens ever so slightly before you reach for him. And he loves it—craves it. He is a man made of contradictions, torn between faith and sin, violence and tenderness. But you? You are the one indulgence he does not seek penance for.

- He drinks in every touch like a dying man. Your fingers threading through his hair, the press of your lips against his jaw, the way you trace patterns over his scars as if rewriting his past with something softer. He does not flinch, does not pull away—no, he leans into it, into you. Because for all the things he has lost, all the things he has chosen to lose, this—you—he will hold onto with both hands.

- He lets you guide him in ways he never allows anyone else. You tilt his chin up before pressing a kiss to his lips, brush your nose against his as if memorizing him in your own way. He revels in it, in the way you seek him, the way your affection comes without hesitation. He doesn’t have to ask, doesn’t have to reach—because you are always there, grounding him, holding him together when the weight of his double life threatens to break him apart.

- And if anyone ever dares to call it weakness? If they think for one second that loving you makes him soft? He only smirks, tilting his head. “You think I don’t know exactly how lucky I am?” His fingers tighten around yours, thumb brushing against your wrist where your pulse beats steady beneath his touch. “I’d rather be a fool in love than a man without her.”

Frank Castle (Punisher)

- Frank Castle is not a man built for softness. His hands are meant for war, his body carved from violence, his heart a thing long since buried beneath grief and blood. But then there’s you. You, who touch him with something gentle, something that does not demand or take or wound. Your fingers ghost over his scars as if rewriting history, your hands linger on his shoulders as if reminding him that he is still here. Still alive. Still worthy of being touched.

- He does not know what to do with it at first. The first time you reached for him—cupped his face, pressed your lips to his temple—he went rigid. Not out of fear, but out of something worse. Because he had forgotten what it felt like. Forgotten the weight of tenderness, the way affection could seep into a man’s bones and soften him. And Frank Castle does not do soft.

- But then you kept doing it. You never hesitated, never recoiled from him, never asked before reaching for him as if you knew he needed it before he even did. And soon, he began to crave it. Now, his hands find yours before you even offer them. His arm wraps around your waist instinctively, tugging you close, keeping you there. And when he buries his face in your neck after a long night, when his hands grip your hips like a man desperate to hold on, he does not speak—but you know. You know.

- If anyone ever dares to question why the Punisher—a man feared, a man unstoppable—allows himself to melt beneath your hands? He only levels them with a look that could kill. "You think love makes a man weak? Love is the only thing that ever made me fight harder." And then, without hesitation, he pulls you into his arms, presses a kiss to your forehead, and lets the world watch.

Bullseye (Lester)

- Bullseye is a man who takes. He is selfish, greedy, unapologetic in his desires. He is a man who was never given love, who was never taught tenderness. So when you give it to him—freely, without hesitation—it both amuses and terrifies him. You, with your hands always reaching for him. You, with your lips that press against his skin like a promise. You, who touch him not with fear, not with reverence, but with something even more dangerous—affection.

- He lets you do it, of course. Hell, he wants you to do it. He soaks up every touch like an addict chasing his next hit. Your fingers in his hair, your nails scraping down his back, your lips trailing over his scars like a silent claim. He thrives on it, thrives on the way you never shy away, never flinch, never hesitate. It’s a game to him at first—seeing how far he can push you, how much you’re willing to give. But then? Then it becomes something else. Something real.

- He doesn’t like to admit it, but he gets jealous. Not in the way most men do—no, his jealousy is something sharper, something deadly. If someone so much as looks at you too long, if they think they can take what is his, he makes it known that you belong to him. Not with words—words are useless—but with a smirk, a hand curling around your throat just to feel your pulse race beneath his fingers, a kiss so possessive that it leaves bruises.

- And if anyone questions why he allows himself to be loved? Why he lets himself have this? He only grins, something sharp and cruel. “Why wouldn’t I? You ever seen what happens when I want something?” His grip on you tightens, his lips brushing against your ear as he adds, “And trust me, baby—I want you.”

Marc Spector (Moon Knight)

- Marc Spector does not believe in good things lasting. He has lived too many lives, worn too many faces, bled for too many gods to believe in permanence. He is a man who knows how to fight, how to kill, how to survive—but not how to be loved. And yet, here you are. Always touching him, always pulling him closer, always reminding him that he is yours.

- He doesn’t know how to handle it at first. The first time you brushed your fingers across his jaw, he flinched. Not because he didn’t want it—but because he did. And wanting was dangerous. Wanting meant losing. But you were patient. You never pushed, never demanded—just gave. And little by little, he let you in.

- Now? Now he is desperate for it. If he wakes up in the middle of the night, his hands seek you out before his mind even catches up. If he is spiraling, if the weight of his past is too much, he finds solace in your arms, in the press of your lips against his knuckles, in the way you hold him without needing a reason. You ground him. You keep him whole.

- And if anyone ever thinks that loving you makes him weaker? That your touch somehow softens him? He only chuckles, dark and low. “You think love makes a man weak?” His arm tightens around your waist, his grip steady, unyielding. “No, love makes a man dangerous. Because now? Now I have something worth fighting for.”

Taskmaster (Tony Masters)

- Taskmaster is a man of reflexes, of calculation, of knowing before it happens. He has memorized a thousand different ways to break a man apart, has studied movement until it is nothing more than muscle memory. And yet, when it comes to you, all of his instincts—his sharp, honed precision—fail him. Because how does one prepare for you? For the way you reach for him without hesitation, for the way your fingers trace the edge of his mask before pushing it away so you can kiss the scarred skin beneath?

- He doesn’t flinch, but he stiffens—not out of rejection, but out of unfamiliarity. He is a man who has lived in the shadows, who has worn a thousand faces but never his own. But you? You do not want his skills, his talents, his ability to mimic the perfect kill. No, you want him, the man beneath the mask, the one no one else has ever bothered to know. And that is something he cannot prepare for.

- At first, he makes it a game—testing you, pushing you, waiting for you to hesitate. But you never do. Your hands are steady, your touch unwavering. You press kisses to his scars as if rewriting the story of how they got there. You run your fingers through his hair like it is something precious, something yours. And slowly, without realizing it, he starts to crave it. Now, if you pull away first, if your touch is missing for even a second too long, he misses it.

- And if anyone so much as questions why Taskmaster—a man feared, a man whose skill is his everything—allows you to touch him so freely? He only smirks beneath his mask, tilting his head. "Because she's the only thing in this world I don’t want to copy—I just want her to be mine.”

Johnny Storm (Human Torch)

- Johnny Storm is made of fire, of heat, of something too wild to be tamed. He burns bright, so bright, and yet—when you touch him—it does not hurt. He does not let it. You press your fingers to his cheek, and the flames simmer beneath your touch. Your lips graze his jaw, and he melts into you, his hands pulling you close, always close, as if the space between you is unbearable.

- He thrives on your affection. It fuels him like oxygen to a fire, makes him burn hotter, makes him alive. If you so much as brush against him in passing, his arm is already wrapping around your waist, tugging you back into him. If you lean against him while watching TV, he is grinning, burying his face in your hair, breathing you in. He is insatiable—not because he needs it, but because he wants it. Wants you.

- And oh, he flaunts it. If someone so much as looks at him the wrong way, he is already pulling you onto his lap, already pressing his lips to your shoulder with a smirk. “Yeah, she’s mine. You jealous?” It is playful, teasing—but underneath it, there is something real, something desperate. Because Johnny Storm has always been adored, has always had fans, admirers, women who wanted the Human Torch. But you? You want Johnny, and that is something he will never take for granted.

- And if anyone thinks that love, that you, make him less? That your touch somehow dims his fire? He only laughs, shaking his head. “You kidding? Love doesn’t make me burn out. Love makes me burn brighter.” And with that, he kisses you—claims you—right there in front of the world, because there is nothing about you he will ever hide.

Reed Richards (Mister Fantastic)

- Reed Richards is a man of science, of logic, of problems waiting to be solved. He is not one for frivolous things, for unnecessary distractions. And yet—you. You, with your hands that reach for him so easily. You, with your lips that press to his temple as he works, with your fingers that thread through his hair when he has been at his desk for too long. You, who has become something he cannot simply explain, cannot analyze, because love—true, deep love—is not something that fits within the confines of logic.

- At first, he does not know what to do with it. He stiffens when you wrap your arms around him from behind, hesitates when you take his hand in yours. But he is a quick learner. Soon, his fingers find yours before you even offer them. Soon, when you rest your head against his shoulder, he leans into you rather than away. And soon, he realizes that your touch is not a distraction—it is a necessity.

- You do not take offense when he loses himself in his work—you understand him, understand that his mind is constantly moving, constantly racing. And because of that, he makes an effort for you. He sets his tools aside when you tug at his sleeve, lets you press your forehead against his, lets you pull him into your world of warmth and touch and feeling. And over time, he begins to crave it, begins to seek it out rather than wait for you to give it.

- And if anyone assumes that the great Mr. Fantastic has no time for something as simple as love? He only adjusts his glasses, his fingers lacing with yours as he responds, "On the contrary, love is the greatest equation of all.” And then, without hesitation, he kisses you—not because it is logical, but because it is right.

Ben Grimm (The Thing)

- Ben Grimm is a man made of stone, of rough edges, of a body that was never meant to be touched. He has spent years pulling away, avoiding the weight of hands that might recoil, of fingers that might fear what he has become. But you? You never hesitate. Your hands find his without hesitation, your fingers trace the lines of his knuckles, your lips press against his jaw as if he is not a man made of stone but of something softer.

- At first, he tells you not to. “You don’t gotta do that, doll.” His voice is gruff, edged with something bitter, something vulnerable. But you only smile, only brush your fingers along his arm like it is the easiest thing in the world. And suddenly, he does not feel like a thing anymore. Suddenly, he is Ben again, just Ben, a man who is still worthy of love, of touch, of you.

- Now? Now, he needs it. Needs the weight of your arms around his waist, needs your hand in his, needs your touch to remind him that he is still here, still whole. And when you kiss him, when you cradle his face in your hands as if he is precious, he swears he could crumble beneath you. Because you see him, not the rock, not the monster, just him.

- And if anyone dares to look at you with pity, to question why you love a man like him? He only chuckles, low and deep, before wrapping his arms around you with something possessive, something sure. “She ain’t with me ‘cause she has to be. She’s with me ‘cause she wants to be.” And as you press another kiss to his lips, he knows—without a doubt—that he is the luckiest man alive.

Susan Storm (Invisible Woman)

- Susan Storm is a woman of poise, of quiet strength, of hands that have shielded the ones she loves more times than she can count. She is used to being the protector, the one who stands between the world and those she cares for. But you—you do not let her bear it alone. You reach for her, fingers brushing over hers, and for the first time in too long, she lets herself be held instead of holding the weight of everything else.

- You are a woman of touch, and at first, it surprises her. Not because she does not crave it, but because she has learned to go without. To be soft is a risk, to be vulnerable is a danger—but when you press your lips to her temple, when you pull her into your arms without hesitation, she melts. She had forgotten what it was to be touched without expectation, without urgency. With you, she remembers.

- Your affection is not a distraction—it is an anchor. When she returns from battle, weary from holding up her force fields for too long, you are there, guiding her to rest with a hand at the small of her back. When she loses herself in thought, in planning, in the weight of responsibility, you remind her that she does not have to be invisible to herself. Your touch pulls her back, reminds her that she is not alone.

- And when you reach for her in public, when you lace your fingers through hers in the presence of others, she does not pull away. No, she holds on tighter. Because love is not something to be hidden—not anymore. And when someone asks her if she ever tires of your endless affection, she only smiles, pressing a kiss to your knuckles as she whispers, "Never."

Felicia Hardy (Black Cat)

- Felicia Hardy is a woman of thrill, of quick escapes, of stolen jewels and stolen hearts. She has spent her life slipping through fingers, never staying in one place for too long. Love is a game to her, a dance she has always led. And yet—when it is you reaching for her, when it is you pressing kisses to her bare shoulder, when it is you curling against her at night—she does not run.

- You are soft in a way she has never trusted, yet she trusts you with something more valuable than any diamond—her time. Your hands are never idle when you are near her, always tracing patterns along her skin, always pulling her close, always grounding her. And though she will never admit it, she is addicted to it. Addicted to you. Addicted to the way you stay when she has spent her life learning how to leave.

- She teases you for it, of course. "You just can't get enough of me, can you?" she purrs, her voice all silk and mischief. But then you press your forehead to hers, then you kiss her like she is precious, and suddenly, she is the one gasping, the one holding onto you. Love has never been something she let herself have, but with you, she realizes she does not have to steal it—it is already hers.

- And if anyone dares to question why the infamous Black Cat allows herself to be caught in your arms so easily, she only laughs, wrapping herself around you like she has never belonged anywhere else. "Oh, sweetheart," she purrs, pressing a kiss to your jaw, "I'm exactly where I want to be."

Stephen Strange (Doctor Strange)

- Stephen Strange is a man of logic, of precision, of a mind that once thought itself above something as frivolous as love. He has wielded power beyond comprehension, seen realities beyond this one, and yet you—you and your endless touches, your unwavering affection—are the greatest mystery of all.

- You do not ask for permission to touch him; you simply do. You brush a hand over his shoulders as he studies ancient texts, you trace the lines of his scars when he is lost in thought. And at first, he stiffens beneath it, unaccustomed to being handled with such care. But you do not stop. You do not pull away. And so, little by little, he begins to lean into it.

- Now, when you curl against him in the quiet moments between battles, he is the one seeking you out, the one pulling you closer, the one pressing a silent kiss to your wrist as if to mark you as his. He will never admit how much he needs it, how much he needs you, but his actions speak louder than his pride. He has faced countless enemies, battled forces beyond mortal comprehension, but losing you? That is the one fate he refuses to allow.

- And when others look at him, the great Sorcerer Supreme, and wonder how someone so untouchable could belong so wholly to you, he only smirks, wrapping his cloak around your shoulders as he murmurs, "Even magic has its weaknesses. She just happens to be mine."

Namor

- Namor is a king, a warrior, a god among men. He has ruled beneath the waves, commanded armies, and stood against the greatest forces this world has ever known. He bows to no one. And yet, when you reach for him, when your fingers trace the sharp lines of his jaw, when your lips press against his skin like he is something sacred—he does not pull away.

- You are unlike anyone he has ever known. Where others fear his power, you cradle it in your hands, unafraid, unshaken. You touch him as if he is not a king, not a god, but a man. And though he will never say it outright, it unravels him. No battle, no war, no enemy has ever undone him the way your fingertips grazing his collarbone does.

- At first, he treats it as a privilege—something you are lucky to have. But then, you stop one day, pulling away just slightly, and it is only then that he realizes—it is he who has been privileged all along. He who needs you. Now, when you touch him, when you press yourself against him, his hands are already reaching, already holding you tighter, as if daring the world to take you from him.

- And if anyone so much as questions why the mighty Namor allows himself to be so utterly devoted to your touch, his response is simple. He lifts his chin, his grip on your waist tightening as he declares, "Because she is mine. And a king does not let go of what is his."

Johnny Blaze (Ghost Rider)

- Johnny Blaze has spent a lifetime running—from the past, from the fire inside him, from the weight of every sin he has burned to ash. He does not get to have softness, does not get to have something good—or so he has always believed. But you—you and your hands that never hesitate to touch him, to hold him, to pull him back from the flames—you make him question that.

- Your fingers trace the scars along his arms, the burns that never truly fade, and instead of flinching, you press your lips to them. He is not used to being handled like this, like he is something worthy of tenderness. And yet, you do it so effortlessly, so naturally, that he forgets how to breathe every time you do.

- When the Ghost Rider takes hold, when his body is consumed by Hellfire, you do not step away—you reach through it. Your touch grounds him, pulls him from the abyss, reminds him that he is more than a cursed soul wrapped in leather and chains. And though he will never say it aloud, he knows—if there is any salvation left for him, it is you.

- And if anyone dares to question why the Spirit of Vengeance allows himself to be so weak beneath your touch, he only smirks, pulling you into his arms, his voice a low growl against your ear. "Weak? Nah, sweetheart. You’re just the only thing worth holding onto."

Eddie Brock / Venom

- Eddie Brock is a man who has spent his life being unwanted—by his father, by society, by the world that cast him aside the moment he fell. Venom is a creature that has known nothing but hunger, a parasite by design, a monster in the eyes of humanity. But you—you reach for them both like they are something to be loved, and neither of them knows how to handle it.

- Your hands never hesitate. You stroke Eddie’s jaw when he grits his teeth, your fingers slipping into his hair like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Venom, in turn, coils around you, tendrils wrapping over your shoulders, tracing your cheek. "She is ours," the symbiote purrs, delighted, possessive. And Eddie, for once in his life, does not argue.

- Eddie is gruff about it, muttering things like "You’re clingy as hell, you know that?" but his actions betray him. He leans into your touch every damn time, closes his eyes when you kiss his temple, sighs when you pull him into your embrace. Venom is far less subtle, practically preening under your affection, slithering around you, murmuring about how perfect you are, how deliciously devoted you must be to them.

- And when people stare—when they whisper about how strange it is that someone so soft belongs to someone so monstrous—Eddie only smirks, wrapping an arm around you as Venom’s voice hums inside his head. "Let ‘em talk," he says, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "They don’t get it. But we do."

T’Challa (Black Panther)

- T’Challa is a king, a warrior, a mind sharpened by strategy, a body honed for battle. He moves through life with precision, with grace, with an unwavering sense of duty. Love, affection—these are things he appreciates, but never allows to distract him. And yet you—you slip through the cracks in his armor with every touch, every embrace, every kiss pressed to the back of his hand when you think no one is watching.

- Your touch is not demanding, nor is it fleeting—it is a constant, an unspoken declaration. And though he does not say it aloud, he finds himself seeking it, needing it. A hand at his shoulder when he is lost in thought. A brush of fingers along his wrist when he is tense. A silent, grounding presence when the weight of Wakanda, of the world, threatens to press too heavily upon him.

- When you curl against him at night, when you lace your fingers through his as he works, when you press your lips to his in a moment of quiet devotion—he knows, without question, that you are not merely his lover. You are his home. And for a man who has spent his life fighting for his people, for his throne, for his legacy—you are the one thing he fights for himself.

- And when others bow in reverence to their king, when they wonder how a ruler so composed allows himself to be touched so freely, he only smiles, his fingers tracing the curve of your jaw as he murmurs, "Because even a king is a man. And a man must cherish what is his."

Elektra Natchios

- Elektra Natchios is a weapon, a blade honed to perfection, a shadow in the night that moves without hesitation. She does not need touch, does not crave affection—at least, that is what she has always told herself. But you—you with your hands that never hesitate to reach for her, your lips that press against every scar she has earned—you make her question everything.

- At first, she resists. Your touch is a distraction, a weakness she cannot afford. But then, she notices the way her body relaxes under your fingertips, the way her breath slows when you hold her, the way her mind quiets when you run your fingers through her hair. And suddenly, it is not a weakness—it is a lifeline.

- You touch her like she is not just a weapon, not just a killer, but a woman. And though she does not say it, though she still carries herself like she is untouchable, her actions betray her. She leans into you when no one is looking, she lets you hold her after a fight, she lets you love her without condition. And that—more than any battle, more than any war—is the most terrifying thing she has ever faced.

- And if anyone dares to suggest that the infamous Elektra Natchios has softened under your touch, she only smiles—a sharp, knowing thing. Because she has not softened. No, she has simply found something she is willing to kill for. And that, she thinks as she curls her fingers around yours, is far more dangerous.

Muse

- Muse does not understand softness, not in the way others do. He sees the world in smears of red, in the curve of a scream, in the way the city bleeds its stories onto concrete. He is an artist first, a killer second, and something unnameable in between. Affection is not in his vocabulary—at least, not until you start tracing patterns into his skin, your fingers ghosting over his ribs, your lips pressing against his jaw like a whisper of devotion.

- He does not react at first. He merely watches, blank eyes reflecting nothing but the shapes of your hands as they roam over him. You touch him as if he is something real, something worthy of being held, and it confuses him. But confusion does not stop him from leaning into it. He lets you press against him, lets your warmth seep into the cold spaces inside him, and though he does not speak, he feels—feels the way your touch lingers, the way it changes him.

- Your touch is a contradiction to everything he is, a stark contrast to the violence that drips from his hands. And yet, he craves it. Craves you. He does not say it, does not know how to say it, but he shows it in the way he lets you near when no one else is allowed, in the way he allows your fingers to wipe the wet paint from his face, in the way he follows your warmth like a moth drawn to flame.

- And when people whisper, when they wonder why someone like you chooses someone like him, he only tilts his head, an eerie smile curling at his lips. Because they do not understand—they do not see the art in your touch, the poetry in your fingertips, the masterpiece you paint onto the canvas of his skin. But he does. He always does.

Victor von Doom (Dr. Doom)

- Doom does not yield. Doom does not bow. Doom does not allow weakness, nor does he tolerate sentimentality. And yet, when your hands rest against his armored chest, when your lips press against the cold steel of his mask, he hesitates. Not out of reluctance—but because you dare to touch him as though he is human, as though he is something beyond the monarch, beyond the mind, beyond the mask.

- At first, he dismisses it. You are simply fascinated, drawn to power as all are. But then, your fingers curl against his bare skin when the armor is removed, when his defenses are lowered, and he feels it. It is not awe, nor is it fear—it is something else, something dangerous. Affection. Devotion. Love. And he does not know what to do with it.

- You do not shrink from him, do not recoil from the scars, from the weight of his name, from the sheer gravity of his presence. Instead, you pull him closer, your warmth pressing into his bones, your touch unraveling the careful control he has spent years perfecting. And Doom, for all his brilliance, for all his power, finds himself undone by something as simple as your hands upon his skin.

- And if anyone dares to question your place at his side, dares to suggest that Doom has been tamed, they do not live long enough to repeat the mistake. Because Doom does not bend—but for you, for your touch, for the impossible gift of your warmth—he allows himself to be held.

Peter Quill (Star-Lord)

- Peter Quill has always been a man of touch. A hand on the shoulder, an arm around the waist, a flirtatious brush of fingers—it is second nature to him. But you—you take it to another level. You reach for him constantly, threading your fingers through his hair, tugging him into embraces, pressing kisses to his cheek just because you can. And at first, he thinks, Yeah, okay, this is nice.

- But then he realizes—this isn’t just casual affection. This isn’t just something fun. It’s you—you, who touch him like he is real, like he is worthy, like he is more than just a scrappy thief with a playlist and a knack for getting into trouble. You hold him with intent, with meaning, and it wrecks him.

- There are moments, quiet ones, where he doesn’t crack a joke, doesn’t fill the silence with music or sarcasm. He just lets you touch him—lets you brush your fingers over the stubble on his jaw, lets you trace the curve of his lips with your thumb, lets you pull him into your warmth until he forgets where his body ends and yours begins.

- And when the crew teases him, when Rocket smirks and Gamora raises an eyebrow, Peter only grins, pulling you closer with a laugh. "What can I say? I’m a lucky guy." But later, when it’s just the two of you, when your hands are pressed against his chest and your heartbeat matches his, he knows—it’s not luck. It’s you. And he’s not letting go.

Nova (Richard Rider)

- Richard Rider has spent a lifetime holding the line—for the galaxy, for his people, for everyone who has ever needed a hero. He is used to the weight of duty, of responsibility, of battle. What he is not used to is someone holding him. But you? You are relentless. You pull him into hugs without warning, lace your fingers through his, press kisses to the scars he’s earned in wars too many to count.

- He resists at first—not because he doesn’t want it, but because he doesn’t know how to accept it. He’s always been the soldier, the protector, the last man standing. But you refuse to let him carry it alone. You reach for him when his shoulders are tense, press your forehead against his when the weight of the universe sits too heavy on his spine. And slowly, slowly, he learns to lean into it.

- Your touch is an anchor, a reminder that he is more than Nova Prime, more than a warrior bound to the stars. You bring him back—to the moment, to you. And when he finally, finally allows himself to wrap his arms around you in return, to pull you into his chest and just breathe, he realizes—he has been waiting for this his entire life.

- And when the stars call him away, when duty demands he leave once more, he does so with the feeling of your hands still lingering on his skin, with the memory of your warmth wrapped around his soul. And no matter how far he flies, no matter how deep into the void he goes—he knows. He will always come back. Because he is not just Richard Rider, not just Nova. He is yours.

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shysuccubusstuff · 2 months ago

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Puppy! Caleb

Content: Puppy! Caleb; begging + overstimulation + pussy eating + like lots of drool+ brainmelt + size difference + submissive caleb => dominant! caleb

Note: Uni has been so busy that I haven't been able to finish writing the pt. 2 I have due (I'm finishing Rafayel, only Sylus left). So I will try to create more shorter! I hope everyone is having a good week!! ♡

Puppy! Caleb who has been eagerly waiting for you to arrive home. His heat began while you were at work, forcing himself to hold back by rummaging around your underwear drawer, taking one of them and sniffing it as much as possible, the erection on his pants only growing even further as he kept rubbing his nose against them. He knows you will get angry at him for doing so, but he just misses so much, plus you recently did your laundry, so there was no clothing that had even a bit of scent of you, guess this was as good as it would get for him at the moment, right?...

Puppy! Caleb who comes rushing to you as soon as you arrive, ears moving up and down, his tail wagging behind him as he clenched his jaw to stop himself from jumping on top of you. He tries so hard to hide his erection, hands on front of his cock so he can try to keep it hidden as much as possible. His face blushing as he remembers how he came multiple times all over your underwear, his other hand pressing another of your pairs to his nose as he kept overstimulating himself, cumming over and over again over it until the poor cloth was completely wet by it.

Puppy! Caleb who doesn't hold much more time. As soon as he feels you hugging him after a long day at work, it only takes him a quick whiff to make him rock hard again, his cock pressing against your lower half and your tummy, his hips starting to move up and down as he starts to breath heavier, his warm breath hitting against your ear as his mind started to wander. He knows he should keep it together, after all, he was a bit older than you, wasn't he supposed to be the calm one? Oh, but you smell so nice, so sweet, almost as if you were teasing him... Are you? He knows he shouldn't take advantage of his abilities, but how could he simply ignore that sweet smell emanating from your lower half? Sure it's fine if he asks you prettily for permission to lick you there, right?...

Puppy! Caleb who gets on his knees as soon as you allow him, hands quickly getting rid of all the clothes that kept him away from your body. As soon as he is able to see your bare cunt, just know he won't stop, suddenly putting your whole weight on top of his face, tongue lapping all over your lower half, using the tip of his tongue to tap on your clit, sometimes sucking on it just to hear those sweet moans escape your lips. As your voice begins to become higher, Caleb decides to take it further, using the tip of his fingers to slowly prep you as he keeps sucking on your clit, using his other hand to press you against his face each time you try to run away from him. "Just let me have this one, promise I will behave next time, please? I'm aching so much..." Caleb looked at you with those puppy eyes, eyes dilatated as he paused himself for a second.

Puppy! Caleb who suddenly has you on a mating position, his whole body weight pressing you against the mattress, your face buried on the pillow as you keep whining each time his tip hits against that soft place. You have no idea what exactly happened, your mind already too far gone for you to even realise just how much noise you were making. That is the same for Caleb, of course, his mind ended up overwhelmed just from your sweet scent, eyes completely dazed as he keeps pushing his hips against your soft ass, the feeling making him growl as he kept trying his best to not mark your whole body more than he had already done, your whole body being marked by hickeys, together with a few scratches done by his nails due to how hard he had refused from being separated from that sweet treat you were for him. "You're doing so good, baby... So good... You feel so good wrapped around me..." Caleb kept whispering sweet praises against your ear, his deep thrusts making a huge contrast with them, making you whine as you simply let him manhandle you as much as he wanted. "Please, hold on for me yeah? Please, please, please... Fuck your pussy feels so good, just--- Just a few more rounds, 'kay? I love you, I love you, I love you..."

This kept going for several minutes, with Caleb's weight pressing against you, forcing you to cum over his lenght again and again, your poor cunt now sore from the sheer strength he kept using to make sure to reach that sweet spot.

Note to self: Keep your puppy in check!

#love and deep space #love and deepspace fic #loveanddeepspace #love and deepspace #caleb smut #caleb lads #caleb love and deepspace #caleb x reader #love and deepspace caleb #lads caleb #lnds caleb #caleb lnds #xia yizhou

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hoshigray · 2 years ago

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𝐁𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐤 | ryōmen sukuna

𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬: true form! Sukuna x fem/afab! reader - mosterfucking - double penetration (he got two) - biting - spanking - light choking - mention of blood.

𝐀𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞: a quick something I wrote for Sukuna to take a break from writing a fic + I have jack shit for him in my masterlist, lmao.

Ryōmen Sukuna is most definitely a biter. There is no need to state this since it is obvious. But imagine him plowing you from behind, watching your ass quake under his erratic thrusts, forcing out choked moans from your writhing body moving to and fro with his. Tears roll down warm cheeks onto the cold cream sheets that cover the futon. Hands grip the material for dear life with every rut to your leaky cunt. And when he smacks the cusp of your ass, a shriek cannot be restrained from your lips.

Sukuna loves your screams. They please him to no end — a gorgeous tune to his devilish ears. As a sadistic man, nothing gives him more joy during these moments than inflicting pain onto your sweet tiny body forced to accommodate both his girthy cocks. A beast like him is allowed to use you as he sees fit. His little pet. His little toy. Not like you can refuse. Judging by how your body adapts to his dicks inside your holes, it is apparent that you're also enjoying this, too.

Two hands are stationed on your hips to propel you forward to him, and the other two hold your hands behind your back. You're left with nothing to conceal the whimpers and cries that fly out your mouth. He wants to hear it all — the sound of your ass meeting his pelvis, the choked sobs when his black fingertips dent into the depth of your hips, your pants for air as he takes them away. It turns him on so fucking much.

He can’t fight the urge anymore — the sight of your sweaty body quivering under his bow gets him riled up. Your skin, so beautiful and pure, displayed none of his markings from the times before now. Blue eyes narrow to your shoulder, clear of nothing but sweat. Well, he’s just going to have to fix that.

He comes down to your shoulder and sinks his teeth into your flesh. A sharp cry sneaks its way out of you.

“Eyyahhhh!!! Su-Sukuna, don’t, please! I can’t have any ma— Ahhaahhnn!!”

“Who told you’re in a position to order me, brat?” He gives the mark on your shoulder a slow lick, tasting the twinge of blood to engage his taste. One of his hands snakes its way to your throat to squeeze. Your mind plunging into a deeper haze than before. “Know your place. Don’t stop screaming for me.”

More chews to your shoulders prompt more tears to escape from your strained-shut eyes. And the pacing of his cock becomes unbearably fast for your brain and senses to keep up. The pain inflicted by his demon mouth, along with the tongue from his stomach licking the sweat of your back, coinciding with the erratic tempo of his hips — it’s all too much to bear. And your release hits you hard, your cunt and ass clamping onto his lengths that continue to rut into your now sensitive parts.

“Mmmph, haahhh…Heh, now you think you can come without my permission, huh?” Sukuna whispers dangerously to your ear, and you whine when his teeth catch your lobe. “Such a pathetic pet, aren’t you.” He pistons his dicks deep inside, churning your tender areas to the point of incoherent babbles. “A damn noisy one, too…Hmmgh! Oh fuck, fuck…”

Before he experiences his climax, Sukuna gives the back of your neck one last bite. Your final shriek signals the ingress of his warm load filling your holes. He keeps you pinned to the futon, making sure you stay still for every bit of his essence to enter within you. Your mind is too far gone to try and fight it — too occupied with the feeling of him corrupting your body internally. Just letting him ride out his own crescendo until he slowly dismembers his huge members off of you. Heavy pants are used to steady his breathing, and he examines his messy work on your body. Bloody bite marks, your ass trembling from the onslaught of ruts and slaps, and silent tears trickle down a dazed face. He snickers to himself.

“Perfect.”

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captainsophiestark · 5 months ago

Text

A Very Dagger Christmas

Jake "Hangman" Seresin x Reader

Masterlist - Join My Taglist!

Written for my personal fic writing challenge for 2024, Sophie's Year of Fic! Featuring a new fic being posted every Friday, all year long :)

Fandom: Top Gun

Summary: Jake's down bad for his SO in a way his friends have never seen before, and they want to make sure his SO knows it.

Word Count: 2,015

Category: Fluff

Putting work into an AI program without permission is illegal. You do not have my permission. Do not do it.

"You cheated! I saw you bump the ball, don't try to deny it!"

"I did not cheat! You just suck at pool!"

"Pilots! I will ban pool for the rest of the night if I have to. Don't test me."

"Sorry, Penny..."

I watched the unfolding drama around the pool table of the Hard Deck with a smile as I sipped the last of my hot chocolate. Penny had closed the whole place for a little early Christmas celebration between her, Amelia, Mav, and the Daggers, and as the partner of Jake Seresin, I'd been invited along this year. The atmosphere, food and drink, and free entertainment all combined to make this my favorite Christmas party attended so far.

"Hey."

I looked up to see my boyfriend, Jake, crossing the room towards me with a big smile and two mugs in his hands. I shifted over a little on the cushy loveseat Penny had moved in for the evening's party, giving Jake room to settle in next to me.

"I brought you another cup of hot chocolate," he said, leaning in to kiss my forehead as I took the mug from him. "Not spiked, although I still don't know how you're putting up with all these idiots sober."

I laughed. "I love your friends, Jake. And I want to remember all the embarassing shit they pull clear as day, so I can use it against them later."

"And that's why you're the best. Amazing." Jake leaned in to punctuate his statement with a kiss, this time on the lips. I smiled into the kiss, then snuggled into Jake's chest once we broke apart. He wrapped an arm around my shoulders, holding me closely, and the moment was one of absolutely perfect peace and comfort despite the chaos continuing around us.

"Thanks for inviting me along to this, by the way," I said, my voice low as I curled into Jake, more relaxed than I'd been all week in the leadup to this party. Jake hummed, and I could feel the vibrations all through his chest.

"Thanks for agreeing to come. I've been to a few of these now, and this one's already a lot better with you here. A lot." I leaned even further into Jake, squeezing his thigh gently with my free hand. After a moment, Jake continued. "Although, honestly, you might want to wait to thank me until after we play Dirty Santa."

I let out a long, heavy sigh and pinched the bridge of my nose.

"Babe. I hate it when you call it that. You live in California now, it's White Elephant! Dirty Santa sounds like something much different and much worse than a fun gift exchange."

"Worse?" asked Jake, a familiar grin and note of mischief in his tone as he leaned down to whisper in my ear, his arm wandering from my shoulders to my waist. When he spoke again, it was nothing more than a low growl in my ear. "Or better?"

I considered for a moment, then shook my head and leaned back as much as I could in the small loveseat.

"No. The delivery and everything normally would've worked, but not for the phrase 'Dirty Santa', and not at the non-blood-relative family Christmas party. Nice try, through."

Jake just smiled and shook his head. He leaned in again, pulling me towards him like he was about to double down, but before he got the chance, we were interrupted by a few of his friends shouting from the pool table.

"Hangman! Get over here, we need some fresh blood at this pool table!"

Jake just rolled his eyes and waved the guys off, but they refused to take no for an answer. After a moment, I leaned up and kissed Jake on the cheek and gave him a little smile, then moved his arm from around my shoulders myself.

"Go," I said. "You've got honor to defend in pool, and you should probably get a game or two in now before Penny inevitably has to ban it."

Jake grinned, but he didn't move from the seat next to me.

"...Are you sure? I don't want to abandon you."

I just waved him off. "I'm fine, I like all your friends, and I already know most of them pretty well. No risk of abandonment here, I promise."

"Great." Jake leaned in to give me a quick kiss, then pulled back with a grin that spelled trouble. "Then I have some people who need to get their asses kicked in pool."

With that, he hopped up and took off to join the group at the pool table. I watched him with a fond smile, a warm glow sitting in my chest. He was absolutley ridiculous, but he was also absolutely wonderful.

While I was busy watching Jake, Natasha wandered over and took a seat in the chair next to me. I gave her a little smile, then turned back to watching Jake. After a moment, I heard her huff a little laugh, and I turned my attention back to her with a raised eyebrow.

"What?"

"Nothing. It's just... I've never seen him like this."

I frowned, trying to figure out what she was talking about.

"Nat-?"

"Hangman. It's been... nice, but really weird to see him like this."

"Nat, like what?"

She shook her head, her attention drifting to where my boyfriend was in the middle of trash talking at the pool table. She huffed another laugh, then turned back to me.

"He's wearing an ugly Christmas sweater. That matches with yours. Do you know what happened the last time someone tried to get Hangman to do that?"

"...No..."

"He dumped the one Coyote tried to force him into in a pool of oil from the planes."

I snorted, my hand flying to my mouth to cover a disbelieving laugh. I kept waiting for Natasha to smile or something to let me know she was joking, but her expression stayed dead serious.

"...Really?"

"Yes, really! And you're the first partner he's ever brought to more than one of our events, the first one he hasn't given a bunch of shit to for not drinking with him, the first one in years any of us have bothered to learn the name of. He's in a good mood, he's clearly just as happy to sit with you over here as he is to be in the middle of the pool game over there. Even right after he and Rooster get into it, he smiles at you two seconds later and it's like nothing even happened. Do you know how long those stupid moods of his usually last?"

I huffed a laugh and shook my head. Everything Natasha was saying had my heart racing, but I didn't want to let my imagination run away from me. Surely I didn't have that big of an impact on Jake, no matter what Natasha seemed to think.

"Hey guys," said Mickey, coming over to join the two of us with a smile. "I needed to get the hell out of that pool game while I still could. It's about to be a knock down dragout between Mav, Rooster, and Hangman. We're taking bets on how long it'll be before Penny bans pool and who's going to be the final straw to cause it if you guys want in."

"...What are the current odds?" asked Natasha, leaning forward. Mickey quickly walked her through the bet layout as it stood, then continued with a grin before she could stake anything.

"There's one other rule you should be aware of: no one's allowed to send our newest extended family member into the fray to influence the odds."

He nodded towards me when he said it, and I raised an eyebrow, but Nat almost shot out of her chair in indignation.

"What? Come on, where's the fun in that?"

"The fun is that we can actually take bets without a win card in everybody's pocket that can keep the game going all night."

Nat threw her hands up and flopped back in her chair, which was my cue to lean forward.

"Mickey... what are you talking about?"

"Hangman's one of the three live wires over there that's going to get way too competitive and ruin the game. If you go over there, you're gonna calm him down and totally ruin the fairness of our bet."

I laughed and shook my head, copying Nat and flopping back in my chair.

"I think you guys are seriously overestimating my influence on Jake's fundamental personality. We've been together long enough now that I think I would've noticed if he was a completely different person around me."

"Okay, first of all, no you wouldn't have," started Mickey. "If he were a different person around you, you'd only ever see the person he is around you, because you're necessarily around him when you're seeing him. And second, we're not saying he's a totally different person."

Nat hummed like she might disagree, and Mickey gave her a little nod.

"Okay, at least I'm not. What we're really trying to say is... he's obviously pretty committed, and very happily tied down. It's made him more grounded in a way that I honestly never thought I'd see. But it's nice, and it's definitely because of you."

I just hummed, processing Mickey's words. Jake and I had been dating for a few months, and although we hadn't really sat down to talk about it, we were clearly getting pretty serious. At least, I was. And it was nice to know that Jake's friends seemed to notice the same thing coming from Jake.

I stayed in my seat chatting with Natasha and Mickey for a while longer, until pool was eventually called off with Amelia having won the bet, to no one's surprise. Everyone wandered over to join Nat, Mickey, and I to begin White Elephant, and Jake settled into the loveseat next to me again.

"How was pool?" I asked as he handed me another mug of hot chocolate, further defending his position as my dream man.

"Fine, until Rooster started cheating. And then he has the nerve to call me on it when I started doing it to, to level the playing field!"

I just laughed and curled further into Jake's chest as he shot Rooster an aggressive stink eye. Luckily for all of us, Rooster didn't catch it.

The rest of the night passed much more peacefully sans pool table, even though White Elephant was as explosive as Jake had been expecting. Still, once it was over and we'd all settled in to relax together by the fire, any of the negatively chaotic moments of the night were long forgotten.

I laid my head on Jake's chest, listening to the soothing rythm of his heartbeat as Jake ran his hand gently up and down my arm. I was honestly on the edge of drifting off to sleep when Jake's voice drew me back. He was speaking quietly, right next to my ear, so softly that I wasn't sure he even meant for me to hear him.

"I love you. So fucking much."

I shifted just enough to meet Jake's eyes. He seemed surprised to find me awake, but a determination I usually only saw when I got to visit him on base was shining in his eyes.

"I love you," he repeated, louder this time. "And it's okay if you aren't ready to say it back or don't want to or whatever. But... I need you to know. I love you more than I've ever loved somebody before."

I smiled, my heart melting as I leaned up to kiss Jake. I ran my hands through the hair on the back of his neck, then pulled back just enough to meet his eyes again and whispered against his lips.

"I love you too, Jake. More than anyone or anything. So, so much."

His face lit up like the sun. His arm wrapped tight around my waist, and he pulled me closer to him than was probably appropriate for our current setting. He kissed me, hard, and I kissed him right back. I'd been in love with Jake Seresin for a while now, but it was nice to finally say it out loud. And even nicer to hear it back.

****************

Everything Taglist: @rosecentury @kmc1989 @space-helen @misshale21

Top Gun Taglist: @elenavampire21

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mostlysignssomeportents · 6 months ago

Text

Harpercollins wants authors to sign away AI training rights

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/11/18/rights-without-power/#careful-what-you-wish-for

Rights don't give you power. People with power can claim rights. Giving a "right" to someone powerless just transfers it to someone more powerful than them. Nowhere is this more visible than in copyright fights, where creative workers are given new rights that are immediately hoovered up by their bosses.

It's not clear whether copyright gives anyone the right to control whether their work is used to train an AI model. It's very common for people (including high ranking officials in entertainment companies, and practicing lawyers who don't practice IP law) to overestimate their understanding of copyright in general, and their knowledge of fair use in particular.

Here's a hint: any time someone says "X can never be fair use," they are wrong and don't know what they're talking about (same goes for "X is always fair use"). Likewise, anyone who says, "Fair use is assessed solely by considering the 'four factors.'" That is your iron-clad sign that the speaker does not understand fair use:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/06/27/nuke-first/#ask-questions-never

But let's say for the sake of argument that training a model on someone's work is a copyright violation, and so training is a licensable activity, and AI companies must get permission from rightsholders before they use their copyrighted works to train a model.

Even if that's not how copyright works today, it's how things could work. No one came down off a mountain with two stone tablets bearing the text of 17 USC chiseled in very, very tiny writing. We totally overhauled copyright in 1976, and again in 1998. There've been several smaller alterations since.

We could easily write a new law that requires licensing for AI training, and it's not hard to imagine that happening, given the current confluence of interests among creative workers (who are worried about AI pitchmen's proclaimed intention to destroy their livelihoods) and entertainment companies (who are suing many AI companies).

Creative workers are an essential element of that coalition. Without those workers as moral standard-bearers, it's hard to imagine the cause getting much traction. No one seriously believes that entertainment execs like Warner CEO David Zaslav actually cares about creative works – this is a guy who happily deletes every copy of an unreleased major film that had superb early notices because it would be worth infinitesimally more as a tax-break than as a work of art:

https://collider.com/coyote-vs-acme-david-zaslav-never-seen/

The activists in this coalition commonly call it "anti AI." But is it? Does David Zaslav – or any of the entertainment execs who are suing AI companies – want to prevent gen AI models from being used in the production of their products? No way – these guys love AI. Zaslav and his fellow movie execs held out against screenwriters demanding control over AI in the writers' room for 148 days, and locked out their actors for another 118 days over the use of AI to replace actors. Studio execs forfeited at least $5 billion in a bid to insist on their right to use AI against workers:

https://sites.lsa.umich.edu/mje/2023/12/06/a-deep-dive-into-the-economic-ripples-of-the-hollywood-strike/

Entertainment businesses love the idea of replacing their workers with AI. Now, that doesn't mean that AI can replace workers: just because your boss can be sold an AI to do your job, it doesn't mean that the AI he buys can actually do your job:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/07/25/accountability-sinks/#work-harder-not-smarter

So if we get the right to refuse to allow our work to be used to train a model, the "anti AI" coalition will fracture. Workers will (broadly) want to exercise that right to prevent AI models from being trained at all, while our bosses will want to exercise that right to be sure that they're paid for AI training, and that they can steer production of the resulting model to maximize the number of workers than can fire after it's done.

Hypothetically, creative workers could simply say to our bosses, "We will not sell you this right to authorize or refuse AI training that Congress just gave us." But our bosses will then say, "Fine, you're fired. We won't hire you for this movie, or record your album, or publish your book."

Given that there are only five major publishers, four major studios, three major labels, two ad-tech companies and one company that controls the whole ebook and audiobook market, a refusal to deal on the part of a small handful of firms effectively dooms you to obscurity.

As Rebecca Giblin and I write in our 2022 book Chokepoint Capitalism, giving more rights to a creative worker who has no bargaining power is like giving your bullied schoolkid more lunch money. No matter how much lunch money you give that kid, the bullies will take it and your kid will remain hungry. To get your kid lunch, you have to clear the bullies away from the gate. You need to make a structural change:

https://chokepointcapitalism.com/

Or, put another way: people with power can claim rights. But giving powerless people more rights doesn't make them powerful – it just transfers those rights to the people they bargain against.

Or, put a third way: "just because you're on their side, it doesn't follow that they're on your side" (h/t Teresa Nielsen Hayden):

https://pluralistic.net/2024/10/19/gander-sauce/#just-because-youre-on-their-side-it-doesnt-mean-theyre-on-your-side

Last month, Penguin Random House, the largest publisher in the history of human civilization, started including a copyright notice in its books advising all comers that they would not permit AI training with the material between the covers:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/10/19/gander-sauce/#just-because-youre-on-their-side-it-doesnt-mean-theyre-on-your-side

At the time, people who don't like AI were very excited about this, even though it was – at the utmost – a purely theatrical gesture. After all, if AI training isn't fair use, then you don't need a notice to turn it into a copyright infringement. If AI training is fair use, it remains fair use even if you add some text to the copyright notice.

But far more important was the fact that the less that Penguin Random House pays its authors, the more it can pay its shareholders and executives. PRH didn't say it wouldn't sell the right to train a model to an AI company – they only said that an AI company that wanted to train a model on its books would have to pay PRH first. In other words, just because you're on their side, it doesn't follow that they're on your side.

When I wrote about PRH and its AI warning, I mentioned that I had personally seen one of the big five publishers hold up a book because a creator demanded a clause in their contract saying their work wouldn't be used to train an AI.

There's a good reason you'd want this in your contract; the standard contracting language contains bizarrely overreaching language seeking "rights in all media now know and yet to be devised throughout the universe":

https://pluralistic.net/2022/06/19/reasonable-agreement/

But the publisher flat-out refused, and the creator fought and fought, and in the end, it became clear that this was a take-it-or-leave-it situation: the publisher would not include a "no AI training" clause in the contract.

One of the big five publishers is Rupert Murdoch's Harpercollins. Murdoch is famously of the opinion that any kind of indexing or archiving of the work he publishes must require a license. He even demanded to be paid to have his newspapers indexed by search engines:

https://www.inquisitr.com/46786/epic-win-news-corp-likely-to-remove-content-from-google

No surprise, then, that Murdoch sued an AI company over training on Newscorp content:

https://www.theguardian.com/technology/2024/oct/25/unjust-threat-murdoch-and-artists-align-in-fight-over-ai-content-scraping

But Rupert Murdoch doesn't oppose the material he publishes from being used in AI training, nor is he opposed to the creation and use of models. Murdoch's Harpercollins is now pressuring its authors to sign away their rights to have their works used to train an AI model:

https://bsky.app/profile/kibblesmith.com/post/3laz4ryav3k2w

The deal is not negotiable, and the email demanding that authors opt into it warns that AI might make writers obsolete (remember, even if AI can't do your job, an AI salesman can convince Rupert Murdoch – who is insatiably horny for not paying writers – that an AI is capable of doing your job):

https://www.avclub.com/harpercollins-selling-books-to-ai-language-training

And it's not hard to see why an AI company might want this; after all, if they can lock in an exclusive deal to train a model on Harpercollins' back catalog, their products will exclusively enjoy whatever advantage is to be had in that corpus.

In just a month, we've gone from "publishers won't promise not to train a model on your work" to "publishers are letting an AI company train a model on your work, but will pay you a nonnegotiable pittance for your work." The next step is likely to be, "publishers require you to sign away the right to train a model on your work."

The right to decide who can train a model on your work does you no good unless it comes with the power to exercise that right.

Rather than campaigning for the right to decide who can train a model on our work, we should be campaigning for the power to decide what terms we contract under. The Writers Guild spent 148 days on the picket line, a remarkable show of solidarity.

But the Guild's real achievement was in securing the right to unionize at all – to create a sectoral bargaining unit that could represent all the writers, writing for all the studios. The achievements of our labor forebears, in the teeth of ruthless armed resistance, resulted in the legalization and formalization of unions. Never forget that the unions that exist today were criminal enterprises once upon a time, and the only reason they exist is because people risked prison, violence and murder to organize when doing so was a crime:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/11/11/rip-jane-mcalevey/#organize

The fights were worth fighting. The screenwriters comprehensively won the right to control AI in the writers' room, because they had power:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/10/01/how-the-writers-guild-sunk-ais-ship/

Image: Cryteria (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:HAL9000.svg

CC BY 3.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0/deed.en

Eva Rinaldi (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Rupert_Murdoch_-_Flickr_-_Eva_Rinaldi_Celebrity_and_Live_Music_Photographer.jpg

CC BY-SA 2.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0/deed.en

#pluralistic #harpercollins #newscorp #rupert murdoch #chokepoint capitalism #publishing #books #big publishing #ai #copyright #copyfight

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gyll-yee-haw · 1 year ago

Text

Dalton's rules

Elwood Dalton x reader

Annon requested something intense with our brand new boyfriend... well, here we go <3

A/N: In this fic he's still fighting professionally

Warnings: masturbation (f), dom!Dalton, Somnophilia, cum in underwear, degradation, edging, pussy slapping, choking, more slapping, creampie...

Like 2.4k words

---

The first rule was clear. Some days your boyfriend would get everyone screaming his name, except for you. Fight nights... how you hated them! Not only you had to wait anxiously for him to come out of that octagon alive, but he just refused to touch you afterwards.

He claimed it's for your own safety. He just gets too worked up during his fights... if he couldn't mesure his strength, if he ever lost control around you, he wouldn't be able to live with himself.

You were fine with it, most days. Well, of course you felt like rewarding your champion, but that could wait... the stress you went through during the fight and the days of preparation got you too tired to complain about it.

Well, most days...

There was this specific occasion, a very important fight for his career. Dalton had been training for so long, you felt absolutely neglected. Being the supportive girlfriend you are, you didn't say anything, though... you knew how important you were for him, and if he heard you were feeling like that, he would feel like the worst person in the world. And not only you didn't want to hurt his feelings, you didn't want to distract him and cause him to break any bones.

All you could do was wait.

Honestly? It wasn't that bad. Dalton always made it up for you. The days after his fights, before he started preparing for the next one, were the BEST. He got so clingy. He wouldn't let you go anywhere without him. His scary fighter face would be hidden under the sweetest permanent smile and kind doe eyes he only had for you. He would use his fat paychecks to spoil you. Buy you new jewelry for every fight he wins. Take you for dinner anywhere in this planet. And God... fuck you against every surface he saw.

Maybe it's because you had those things in mind and got too eager... maybe it's because this specific time he went too long without touching you... you weren't sure about why, all you knew was that the night after he won the fight, you were absolutely unable to sleep.

The discomfort between your legs was unbearable. You kept tossing and turning in bed, and he was so exhausted, so deep asleep, that not even your restless state right beside him was enough to wake him up.

You sighed frustratedly, looking at his face. God, he was so beautiful you felt like crying. It didn't help the way he never wore anything but those black boxers to sleep.

He was so tired... maybe he wouldn't notice if you touched yourself...

Yeah, that's the second rule. You're not touching yourself without his permission.

But... he would understand, right? Only this time...

Your eyes were glued to his face as your hand slid inside your underwear.

You were dangerously close to him, his body pressed against yours...

It felt like you were committing a crime. Unfortunately, that only turned you on more.

You were so fucking wet you were afraid he would wake up from the sounds your pussy was making.

Well, he didn't fully wake up, but something in him did. You froze when you felt him move. Except that he didn't really move. What you felt was his cock hardening against your thigh.

You wanted to cry. He felt so deliciously hard... what a fucking waste, you needed him so badly... you rubbed your clit so hard, but that wasn't it...

You might have lost your mind just for a second. But the next thing you knew was that you were grinding against his erection like your life depended on it. At this point, all you wanted was for him to wake up and fucking take you.

He didn't wake up at once. As he gained consciousness, he was fully convinced that was all a dream. He remained on that half asleep/half awake land, without moving a muscle. And you kept grinding on his clothed cock so fucking good. So deliciously hard... leaking more and more and... oh shit.

His eyes shot open as his orgasm started to build.

"Shit! Y/N, what the fuck?!" He grunted, voice still so sleepy...

You didn't stop. He grabbed your arm harder than he would like to as he filled his underwear with cum. So much cum it leaked all over your ass as you kept rubbing it against him.

"Oh for fucks sake..." He pushed you away. Fucking pushed you away. He had NEVER done that. "Look at the fucking mess you've made..."

His harsh touch didn't hurt half as much as the loss of contact.

"Dalton... please..." You whined. "Didn't cum..."

"Yeah? Good." He grabbed your hand, forcing you to stop touching yourself. "What the fuck was that?"

"M'sorry..." You squeezed your thighs together. "Needed you too badly..."

"That's the worst behavior I have ever seen in my life." He took a deep breath. "And you couldn't have pissed me off at a worst time."

You had no words to defend yourself. It was true, you broke two rules at once.

"I am so fucking exhausted... and have wake up in the middle of the night to deal with a brat." He continued, his grip still burning on your arm.

"Baby... please... I'm so sorry..." You insisted, burying your face in his chest. Your hands went to his abs, tracing it slowly and he tensed up.

It was obviously not only difficult to you, those days without any touch. But he would rather suffer a bit than risk hurting you or losing the fight.

"Oh my sweet girl..." He cooed, hand stroking the back of your head. "You know I have to be harsh sometimes, yeah?"

You looked at his face again. His sweet expression kept you calm, but his words didn't.

"You understand that I have to punish you right now, don't you?" He asked nicely, like you had a choice. "That I do what I do because I need to keep you obedient..."

You nodded shyly.

"Good girl." He sighed. "Tell me, my princess... when you were touching yourself without my permission... you didn't cum, right?"

You shook your head quickly.

"Do you need to?" He asked and you nodded immediately. "Yeah? How bad? Use your words for me, darling."

"So bad, needed it for so long..." You explained, eyes filling with tears.

"Hey, hey, hey..." His hand went to your cheek, stroking it lightly. "You need cock so bad you're gonna cry, angel?"

You felt humiliated. All you did was look at him. He had a huge smirk on his face.

"That's fucking pathetic." He mocked. "Spread your legs for me."

When you did, he ripped your underwear like it was nothing, throwing it somewhere in the room. The way his eyes landed on your pussy made your stomach churn.

He knew you were ready, so he immediately shoved two fingers inside, bending them, rubbing your walls just so right...

Your eyes immediately rolled back. You were so close before he caught you, it surely wouldn't take you too long to get there now.

"Does this feel good, baby?" He asked, fingers never stopping. "Is that what you needed?"

You nodded eagerly, hips moving uncontrollably as you felt yourself getting there... you grabbed the sheets and closed your eyes, god, you were right there, growing and growing and growing in your belly...

"Too fucking bad, slut." He said, removing his fingers from you at once. His sweet tone was nowhere to be seen now.

Before you could start crying at the loss of contact, he gave your pussy a loud slap. You gasped. You were used to Dalton being rough, but not that rough.

"What did you expect?" He mocked you again. "That I would just solve your fucking problem? Do you think you deserve that?"

When you didn't answer, he slapped your pussy again. "Thought I asked you a fucking question."

"I don't deserve it!" You admitted. "But I did what I did because I was too desperate... because I need you too badly..."

"You just had to wait until the morning, you know that." He explained.

"Couldn't wait... I couldn't." You whined. "Slap me again, please?"

His eyes widened. "You're trying to come from your punishment? Do you have any idea the kind of trouble that would put you in?"

"No... not thinking, just need you..." You moaned, arms wrapping around his neck, bringing him close. "Come on, baby... don't you miss me?"

"Y/N..." He groaned. "Can't do this right now."

"Why?" Your eyebrows furrowed.

"Because I'm fucking mad at you." He shut his eyes, like he was trying to tell himself that. He needed to tell himself, because he was getting hard again.

"No, you're not mad at me for real." You insisted. "Come on..."

"Am I not mad for real?" He raised his eyebrows.

You bit your lip and shook your head.

"Do you think I'm in the mood for playing?" He asked, looking at the clock on the nightstand. "At 3am?"

"I'm sorry... I won't do it again..." You pouted.

He sighed, his eyes on your lips as he licked his. He rested his hand around your neck as a warning to stay still while he leaned to kiss you. You melted into the kiss, hips trying to grind against his leg. His hand tightened around your neck.

"Quiet." He said against your lips.

He pressed his body against yours and you could feel how extremely hard he was again already. You had never met a man with that stamina. Well, everyone knew there was no other man like him...

"Listen to me. Carefully." He said, pressing his erection harder to your core, making you roll your eyes in lust. "I'm gonna fuck you now and then I'm going back to sleep. And if you wake me up again, I'm not gonna even look in your direction for a week, do you understand?"

You nodded with a certain difficulty, considering how his hand squeezed your neck.

"Do. You. Understand?" He asked again.

"Yes, sir." You replied weakly.

"Smart little brat." He chuckled. "Turn around."

He stood up to remove his underwear and you laid on your belly as fast as possible.

The sharp slap that laid on your ass didn't surprise you the slightest, but you still moaned.

He pulled you closer like you were nothing and started stroking his cock. He knew you were more than ready, but his cock was still a bit sensitive from the harsh stimulation you kinda... forced him into. So he entered you slowly, inch by inch. You couldn't believe how good it felt.

"Fucking missed this pussy, baby, I'll admit that." He said, movements starting slow, but deep. "Just wanted it to be more romantic, you know? Take you somewhere nice... in a pretty dress I'd ruin later..."

"M'sorry..." you cried out. When he was that deep inside you, he could get you apologizing for things you didn't even do.

"Yeah, but my girl doesn't like romance, right?" He grabbed your waist and started going harder. "She likes being treated like a fucking slut. A very fucking ungrateful one."

"S'not true..." You moaned.

"Oh am I crazy, baby?" He gave you another slap. "You wanna keep disrespecting me? Knowing you, you might get sick from the lack of attention..."

"I would!" You replied, desperately. "Could fucking die..."

"Dramatic fucking whore." He chuckled. "Listen to me now. Very serious."

You tried your best to concentrate. It helped that his hips stopped moving.

"You're gonna tell me to stop immediately if I hurt you, won't you?" He asked, in the most serious tone you've heard from him.

"Yes." You couldn't contain the excitement that phrase ignited in you. Should you be scared?

"I mean it. You won't get punished and I'll let you cum if you still want to. But you have to be honest, baby, I... I couldn't live with myself." He insisted.

"I promise, baby." You assured him. "You won't hurt me, I can take it."

"Yeah?" He chuckled again. "Well, you fucking asked for it."

After making sure you were as comfortable as you could get in your position, he forgot what the word mercy meant.

His thrusts fast and deep, his sounds animalistic. Hands on your hips leaving bruises... and if you could speak, you'd thank him for it. It was more than you expected... more than he ever gave you. But it sure was what you needed... and it didn't take too long for that familiar feeling, the one you had been craving all night, fuck, all week, start to build.

"DALTON, PLEASE!" You started by begging already, because you weren't in position to do anything without his permission, no matter how much you needed it. "PLEASE, I'M SO CLOSE..."

"Fuck, me too..." He said, never stopping his hard thrusts. "Come for me, pretty girl... hurry up..."

The relief your body felt as soon as it got his permission allowed your orgasm to build and build and explode harder than you could take it... all you could do was scream his name among incoherent words.

He followed right after you, filling you up so deeply...

As soon as he was finished, he wrapped his arms around you and laid down, holding you close.

"Are you okay, angel?" He kissed every inch of your skin he could reach.

"Fuck, I am now..." you sighed and both of you laughed a little.

"I'm sorry, baby..." His sweet tone was back incredibly quick.

"You didn't hurt me, I promise." You assured him.

"Good... But I'm not apologizing for this... I'm sorry that I neglected you for so long." He caressed your face gently. "You're so much more important to me than all that bullshit. I just..."

"I know." You cut him, offering him a reassuring smile. The look in your eyes meant all the words you couldn't say. Specially not at that moment.

"You do, don't you?" He sighed relieved. You were his ride or die. And he couldn't imagine what he would do without you. "I'm so lucky to have you."

"Well..." You shrugged playfully. "Guess that means it's all forgiven."

"All forgiven." He chuckled, bringing you closer to him.

#elwood dalton #road house #elwood dalton x reader #elwood dalton fanfic #road house fanfic #jake gyllenhaal #jake gyllenhaal x reader #jake gyllenhaal fanfic #jake gyllenhaal x you #jake gyllenhaal smut #jake gyllenhaal imagine #jake gyllenhaal x y/n

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cheriedivine · 11 days ago

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𝐀𝐩𝐩𝐥𝐞 𝐜𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐫 | chapter 3

previous | chapter 3 | next

꩜ synopsis: you’re best friends. just best friends. except when she lingers a little too long at your door. except when she calls you her favorite, and it doesn’t feel like a joke. except when her fingers graze yours and neither of you pull away. except when you start to wonder if she’s wondering, too…

꩜ Pairing: Ellie Williams x fem reader (no use of y/n)

꩜ CW: swearing, mentions of smoking. (lmk if i missed any)

꩜ WC: 7.1k

꩜ A/N: HEYYY I’M BACK long chapter (yay) full of tension and full of fluff. I love them sm… hope u guys like this one ;)

୨୧─── ⋆୨୧⋆ ───୨୧─── ⋆୨୧⋆ ───୨୧─── ⋆୨୧⋆ ───୨୧

A month had passed since that dinner with Ellie at your place, and something had shifted between you. Neither of you acknowledged it—both too clueless or too careful, avoiding it like it might disappear if left alone.

It was a slow Tuesday afternoon at the diner, the kind that dragged its feet and smelled like coffee and grease. You were wiping down the counter, absentmindedly humming along to the oldies playlist your boss refused to update. Your mind drifted back to Ellie—the closeness, the quiet intimacy. You started to wonder. But before you could spiral, your name was called from the back.

“Can I talk to you for a sec?” Maria—your manager—poked her head out from the kitchen.

Your heart did a tiny, nervous jump. That tone could mean anything. You nodded, tossing the rag into the sink and walking toward her office, nerves prickling at your spine.

She shut the door behind you gently, then leaned on the edge of her desk with her arms crossed. “How long you been here now?”

“Uh… almost two years” you answered, chewing the inside of your cheek.

She nodded slowly. “You’ve been solid since day one. Reliable. Good with customers, good with the crew. And I’ve been watching how you handle things during the rush—when I’m not around, it doesn’t fall apart. That means something.”

You blinked. “Are you… firing me nicely?”

Maria barked a laugh. “No, dummy. I’m promoting you.”

You just stared at her, eyes wide.

“Assistant manager,” she clarified, sliding a new badge across the desk toward you. “More hours, bit more cash, little less nonsense from me since you’ll be the one dealing with the nonsense now.”

You picked up the badge like it might vanish. “Wait, seriously?”

“Dead serious. You’ve earned it.”

For a moment, you didn’t know what to say. You grinned—wide, breathless—and then your eyes prickled without permission. This job even tho it could be shitty at times, it was the first job you got when you moved to the city, after your fallout with your parents, this promotion felt like a reward for all your hard work, “Thank you, holy shit, thank you.”

“Don’t cry in my office,” she warned with a smirk. “Go take five. Call someone.”

“Does this mean I can wear normal clothes now?”

Maria let out a small laugh, “Yes sweetie, no more aprons and visors”

You were grateful for that, already fishing your phone out of your apron.

Outside, leaning against the chipped wall of the alley behind the diner, you called Ellie.

“Hey,” she answered, sounding a little winded. “Everything okay?”

“I just got promoted.”

A pause.

“Wait, what?!” Her voice practically jumped through the phone. “Are you serious?!”

“Assistant manager. Maria just told me.”

You could practically hear the smile breaking across her face. “Dude! That’s amazing. Holy shit. I knew it! You’ve been killing it. I’m so fucking proud of you.”

You laughed, overwhelmed. “Thank you. I don’t know, it still doesn’t feel real. At first I thought I was getting kicked out”

“It is real,” she said firmly. “And we’re celebrating. Don’t argue.”

“I don’t get off for another two hours—”

“I’m already planning it. Just be ready. Something chill.’”

You rolled your eyes, cheeks warm. “You’re not serious.”

“Oh you know I am. Now get back in there, Assistant Manager.”

You smiled like an idiot the whole way back inside.

After the news Maria gave you, the rest of your day flew by. You barely remembered clocking out. Soon enough, you were in the locker room changing into your regular clothes—a pair of jeans and your favorite sweater, the one that always made you feel held. The weather was finally cooling down, and with it came the little joys: cozy layers, boots, and an excuse to drink hot chocolate without shame.

You texted Ellie that you were heading out of work and asked if she wanted to catch a movie or something. Casual. Friendly. Normal. The kind of thing that shouldn’t make your stomach twist—but it did.

A few minutes later, your phone buzzed with a notification—your Uber had arrived. The driver, a nice man in his mid-forties, made friendly small talk, and the ride passed quickly. You thanked him, said goodbye, and made sure to give him a five-star review.

You juggled a paper bag full of leftovers in one hand and your keys in the other, missing the keyhole on your first try. When you finally got the door open, you stepped inside.

It was dark.

Suspiciously dark.

“Sally?” you called out, flicking the light switch.

“SURPRISE!” your friends yelled, including your roommate Sally.

You nearly dropped the bag.

Dina popped a confetti popper that exploded with sad little bits of paper and glitter. Jesse stood off to the side, holding a plastic tiara he’d clearly grabbed from a dollar store. And Ellie—standing at the center of it all, grinning like an idiot—held a cake with the words “ASSistant Manager” messily piped on top, clearly by her own hand. A party hat sat crooked on her head.

Your jaw dropped. “What the—?”

“Congrats, Assistant Manager!” Ellie said in a sing-song voice, raising the cake like a trophy.

You blinked, stunned, taking in the streamers haphazardly taped above your bookshelf, the “YOU DID IT!” banner scrawled in black Sharpie on a wrinkled sheet of poster paper, and the small cake sitting on your coffee table.

“You guys did all this?”

“Dina did the banner,” Jesse said, already munching on chips.

“Ellie baked the cake,” Dina added. “Kind of.”

“It’s store-bought,” Ellie admitted with a shrug. “But I did the frosting. Hence the artistic genius.”

Your heart did that annoying flutter thing. You stepped inside, still dumbfounded, still holding the takeout bag.

“You guys are ridiculous.”you said, voice soft around the edges.

“And you are a boss bitch now,” Sally said proudly, giving you a hug as she took the bag from your hands and set it on the counter, next to some sodas and snacks.

Then Ellie was at your side, hand sliding into yours guiding you to the couch, her fingers were warm and steady. Her grin softened. “Seriously. You’ve been working so hard. You deserve this. We’re all so fucking proud of you.”

Your throat tightened. You tried not to cry again, but your eyes betrayed you, prickling with heat. “You’re all so amazing,” you managed to say, voice wobbly. “I hate you.”

“Liar,” Jesse said, and plopped the tiara onto your head without asking.

You laughed, ducking your head. When you looked up, Ellie was still standing close—close enough that your knees brushed as she sat beside you on the couch. Her party hat had slipped lower now, barely hanging on. Her eyes hadn’t left you.

“This is just the beginning,” she murmured, soft and sincere, her eyes on you—not the party. “You’re gonna do way more than assistant manager one day. I know it.”

You didn’t answer at first. Couldn’t. The look she was giving you—warm and full of belief, it pressed against something tender inside of you.

God, she made this so hard.

You swallowed hard, tilting your face down as your cheeks grew hot under the weight of Ellie’s gaze. Jesse and Dina were arguing over the playlist now, Sally was cutting up the cake and plating the slices in small paper plates for everyone.

But none of it registered—not really. All you could feel was the heat of Ellie’s thigh against yours, her hand still brushing yours on the cushion, pinky hooked like she couldn’t quite let go.

Sally came over, handing you a slice of cake on a paper plate and plopping down on the armrest. “Alright, boss, say something before we play charades or whatever Jesse planned.”

You laughed wetly, dabbing your eyes with the sleeve of your sweater. “What is there to say? I love you guys. You made me cry over balloons and cake.”

“That was the goal,” Dina said proudly. “Mission accomplished.”

The night went on with soft music, stolen photos, and a dumb group selfie that Jesse insisted on taking under the You Did It! sign. No one drank—per your very clear warning that you didn’t want to show up hungover on your first day with a promotion.

“I don’t need that kind of karma,” you’d joked earlier, and now you were curled up beside Ellie, full of cake and warm in a way that had nothing to do with temperature. Everyone was chatting, talking about their day and telling dumb jokes, you felt so grateful for this moment, wishing to freeze it forever in time.

Eventually, the party started to wind down. Dina had class early. Jesse had to open the record shop and Sally gave you a look that said “Early shift tomorrow, heading to bed.

Ellie checked the time on her phone, screen dim in the soft light. “Shit,” she mumbled. “Didn’t realize it was almost midnight.”

You looked at her, reluctant. “Yeah. Probably time to call it.”

She nodded, but didn’t move yet. “You tired?”

“No,” you said, a little too quickly. Then you added, quieter, “Not really.”

She smiled at that, the barest curve of her lips. “Still… should probably get out of your hair.”

You didn’t answer right away, eyes lingering on the way her hoodie hung loose on her frame, the strands of hair at her temple slightly flattened from the dumb party hat.

“Have a smoke with me before you leave?” you asked, rising from the couch.

Ellie stood too, rubbing the back of her neck with a shy little grin. “Alright, boss.”

The apartment was quiet as you made your way to the small balcony, your steps echoing faintly against the wood floor. Ellie pulled out her Altoids tin, flicked the lighter, and handed you the cigarette, her fingers brushing yours. Warm.

“So who’s gonna serve me my pancakes now?” she teased, sarcasm curling at the edges of her voice.

“That’s an extra task I’m still willing to do,” you said, lips twitching. “But it’ll require extra tips.”

“Oh yeah? Is being the best friend in the world not enough?” she replied with a lazy smirk, taking a drag.

Your breath hitched a little. Best friend. Of course. That’s what she was. Is. That’s what she’d always been.

You smiled anyway. “Of course it is silly. I’ll make sure to sneak into the kitchen and draw a stupid face with chocolate chips.”

Ellie chuckled, low and real.

Then her hand rested on yours—the one gripping the balcony railing. Her touch was light, but it grounded you like a weight. “Hey,” she said, softer now, no jokes left in her voice. “I meant it. I’m proud of you.”

Your heart thudded like a drum in your chest. “Thanks, Els.”

The two of you shared the cigarette, passing it back and forth in the quiet night. It was almost meditative. Almost intimate.

Eventually, Ellie looked away, exhaling slowly. “I should get going for real. Text me when you get to the diner tomorrow?”

You nodded. “Only if you promise to make fun of my stupid name tag again.”

Her grin returned, that familiar lopsided thing. “Absolutely.”

You walked her to the door. Stepped out the last embers of the cigarette with the edge of your shoe. And just like that, she was gone.

The door shut softly behind her. You rested your forehead against the wood for a second too long, letting out a quiet breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.

Ellie stepped into her truck, chest still warm with a feeling she’d been trying way too hard to ignore. Being quiet and alone with her thoughts only made it worse. She turned the radio on, hoping the mindless pop song playing in the background would be enough to drown everything out.

It worked. For a second.

Then she remembered the way your smile crooked just a little more when you talked to her. The way your eyes had gone glassy when she told you how proud she was. She wanted to make you feel like that forever and—

Nope. Fuck this. I’m not doing this.

She cranked the volume all the way up, gripping the wheel tighter, convincing herself it was just a phase. Just something she’d get over.

Eventually.

The next morning, your alarm dragged you out of a shallow sleep. You rubbed your eyes and blinked at the early light filtering through your curtains. You sat up slowly, stretching the stiffness from your arms and legs before slipping out of bed.

The apartment was quiet. Sally had already left for her early shift, and the remnants of the party were still scattered around. Paper plates on the counter, a balloon or two clinging to the ceiling, and your tiara sitting on the coffee table.

You brushed your teeth while staring at your own tired reflection, mentally hyping yourself up for the new responsibilities. You pulled your hair into an almost perfectly neat ponytail, your new uniform sitting slightly-starched in your bed. Once you got dressed and pinned the shiny name tag over your chest, you took one last glance at your reflection. It looked better than your old attire, that's for sure.

You got to the diner a little earlier than usual. Maria was already there, sleeves rolled up, reviewing inventory in the back.

“There she is,” she said, without looking up. “Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, huh?”

You smiled sheepishly. “More like—bright-eyed and about to collapse.”

Maria smirked, finally turning to you. “Get used to it. You wanted the title, now you get the joy of looking like you’re in charge even when you’re running on fumes.”

She handed you a small clipboard with the day’s notes. “You’ll still be doing floor work today, but I want you to start shadowing the closeout. Cash registers, logs, the whole thing. And we’re short-staffed for the lunch rush, so I might ask you to handle the scheduling this week.”

You blinked. “All that today?”

Maria raised an eyebrow. “You want the job or not?”

You let out a breath. “No, yeah. Absolutely. I’m in.”

Maria nodded, and her face softened. “Good. ‘Cause I wouldn’t have picked you if I didn’t think you could handle it.”

That quiet bit of validation settled somewhere deep in your chest. You glanced down at your clipboard, then back up with a nervous but determined grin.

“Okay, boss,” you said.

Maria rolled her eyes, already walking away. “Don’t push it.”

As you tied your apron and stepped onto the floor, your phone buzzed in your back pocket. A text from Ellie.

“Name tag looking sexy yet?”

You failed to not smile like an idiot.

“Hotter than ever” you replied, shoving your phone in your pocket before getting started with all your new tasks.

You were mid-way through checking the prep station when your phone buzzed again in your back pocket. It was Ellie. “Hey sorry boss, running a lil late. got caught up w/ a shoot. be there soon tho. save me a booth?”

You smiled to yourself, tucking the phone back into your apron. Typical. But you didn’t mind, you still had a shit ton of things to do so it was perfect timing.

“Hey, new boss lady,” one of the servers called from the back, “you gonna assign tables or just smile at your phone all day?”

You blinked and straightened up, clearing your throat. “Right. Let’s move, people.”

By noon, the place was packed.

The lunch rush hit hard—families, regulars, one annoying couple who kept changing their order, and it felt like everyone had decided to test your patience and the limits of the kitchen at the same time.

“Table five says their toast is too burnt. Again,” Jasmine groaned, setting the plate down beside you.

You didn’t even flinch. “Switch it for sourdough and refill their coffee. Tell them I said it’s on the house.”

She blinked. “Alright, Miss-almost-manager.”

You didn’t have time to respond because the dishwasher shouted something about a clogged drain, someone else said the register was acting weird, and your cook, Leo, had accidentally used the wrong sauce on two different plates.

You rolled up your sleeves, quite literally, and dove in.

Replaced a fuse. Took over the register for fifteen minutes to get the line moving. Helped on the floor. Gave your team water breaks. Even did a quick round of table touch-ins, checking in on customers with a polite smile and a “How’s everything tasting today?”

You didn’t feel calm. You were sweating under your uniform and your back hurt like a bitch, but no one else needed to know that.

You were in charge now, and you couldn’t fuck this up.

At some point between solving a syrup emergency and restocking the napkins, you heard the little chime above the front door.

Ellie stepped in, tugging her camera strap off her shoulder. She was wearing Joel’s jacket and her usual pair of jeans, with her beat up all stars. Obviously. She looked around for a second, a little stunned at the chaos still echoing through the space—and then she saw you.

Standing near the counter, clipboard in one hand, head tilted as you gave instructions to one of the new servers. Calm, focused, in control.

Ellie’s jaw ticked. She was done for.

You turned a moment later, as if sensing her. And when your eyes met hers, something softened in your expression— a flick of relief and joy that made her insides twist up in the best kind of way.

You made your way to her through the lunch crowd.

“Hey,” you said, a little breathless. “You made it.”

“Yeah. Place looks like hell—but you look hot.” Ellie said, mentally slapping herself on the face, why did she say that?

You snorted, shaking your head. “I’ve been on my feet for five hours, I’m sweaty, and I think I might be legally dead inside.”

Ellie gave you a look, taking a step closer. “Still hot.” She didn’t know why her mouth kept moving and it was upsetting her.

That made your face heat up, and you were grateful for the chaos around you to hide it. You cleared your throat, adjusting your clipboard.

“Your usual booth?”

“I want whatever booth comes with a side of you sitting with me,” she said. “When you can.”

Your lips twitched. “Can’t sit during rush hour, Williams.”

Ellie mock-saluted. “Understood, boss.”

She took her seat by the window, camera beside her, still watching you as you walked away.

God, she was so pathetic.

When the diner finally quieted down, after the crazy lunch rush, a soft hum of post-rush chatter replaced the earlier chaos. The AC kicked in gently above you, cooling the back of your neck as you brought over Ellie’s usual—club sandwich with extra fries and a tall glass of strawberry lemonade, condensation dripping down the sides.

Ellie’s eyes lit up as you set the plate in front of her. “God, I love you.”

You raised an eyebrow.

“—This sandwich. Love this sandwich.” she added quickly, grinning behind the straw as she took a sip.

“Right,” you said, sliding into the booth across from her. “I’ll better go then, enjoy your sandwich date.” You said teasingly.

She kicked your shin under the table. You kicked hers back, smiling stupidly at each other before falling into the usual rhythm—talking about your shift, her shoot, the latest drama from Jesse and Dina (They kissed again but still no love confession), and your roommate Sally’s stupid boyfriend that snored so loud every time he slept over at the apartment.

Ellie was halfway through a dramatic retelling of her awkward run-in with an ex-classmate during her morning shoot when her phone buzzed.

She glanced down, pausing. Her brows lifted.

“Huh.”

You leaned over the table slightly. “What?”

She tapped her screen and turned it so you could see the email.

From: Dr. Anderson, Surgical Foundation

Subject: Event Photography Inquiry

Dear Ms. Williams,

We’re hosting our annual fundraising gala for the Children’s Cardiac Research Foundation and we’re looking to hire a photographer to document the event. Your portfolio came highly recommended…

You blinked. “Isn’t Dr. Anderson, like rich as fuck and almost Elite famous?”

Ellie nodded slowly, scrolling. “Yup. Real fancy shit. It’s black tie, huge donor turnout. And—holy shit, they’re offering me almost double my usual rate.”

“Ellie. That’s insane. You’re gonna take it, right?”

“I mean—yeah, obviously,” she said, still scrolling, “wait—look. It says I get a plus one.”

“You gonna bring Cat as your date?” you joked, but the words tasted bitter in your mouth.

She snorted. “You’re never letting that go will you?” you shook your head in response. As if the thought of Ellie with another girl didn’t make you sick to your stomach.

“Well actually, I was kinda hoping you’d come with me.” She said in a more serious, yet nervous tone.

You blinked.

“To the Anderson gala?”

“Yeah. I mean—don’t worry, it’s paid for. They cover dinner and everything, and I’ll be working for part of it, but—c’mon. It could be fun. You’d look hot in some little dress or whatever. Plus it’s great exposure—for me, I mean,” she added quickly, ears going pink. “But also just… I want you there.”

Your mouth opened, then closed.

Then: “Wait—you want me there?”

Ellie raised an eyebrow. “Dude. I want you everywhere.”

You nearly choked on your lemonade.

She laughed, cheeks red now, and quickly took another bite of her sandwich to shut herself up. Where the fuck was all this boldness coming from? She has always been flirty on a surface level with you, but now she felt like being swallowed by the ground every time she opened that big mouth of hers.

You tried to play it cool, fingers toying with a napkin on the table. “You sure? I don’t wanna ruin your gig with my awkward social skills.”

Ellie tilted her head. “I only want you there. You make me feel like I can breathe when I’m working these things. You don’t even have to talk to anyone. Just eat the fancy appetizers, sit near me, maybe sneak me a couple fries while I shoot. That’s all I need.”

You stared at her. She wasn’t joking. She really wanted you to come.

Your heart fluttered stupidly in your chest.

“Well,” you said slowly, trying to sound chill even though your insides were screaming, “I guess I should probably buy a dress, huh?”

Ellie’s grin was so wide it made your knees weak.

“I’ll come with you,” she said. “We’ll make a day of it. Fancy gala shopping spree.”

You laughed, leaning your chin in your hand. How could you ever say no to her? especially when she was asking you like the world would collapse if you weren’t by her side. (Which partly was true).

Outside, the clouds shifted, casting a warm stripe of sunlight across the table. Ellie’s eyes looked extra green in the light. And somewhere deep in your stomach, beneath all the nerves and joy and chaos of the day—you already knew.

You’d go anywhere with her.

After Ellie finished her meal, you both agreed to go fancy-outfit shopping tomorrow after your shift. The idea made your stomach flutter—you’d never been to something this upscale before. (Unless your cousin’s wedding counted, but… it really didn’t.)

After Ellie headed back to her studio, you stayed behind for a few more hours, helping close the place and chatting with Maria about your first day as assistant manager. She praised you for how well you’d handled everything—especially the chaos of the lunch rush—which made your chest swell a little with pride.

By the time you stepped outside, the sun had dipped below the skyline, casting the streets in that soft, dusky glow. The September air was crisp, and you hugged your arms around yourself for warmth while waiting on your Uber. Your mind was still processing everything that had happened that day—your promotion, the rush, the weird calm that followed—and, inevitably, your thoughts circled back to Ellie.

She’d asked you to go to this fancy event with her. Needed you there. The thought made your cheeks flush and your stomach twist in a way that felt too familiar. But she was your best friend. Of course she’d want you around for something important—right? She was just being nice. That’s all. You told yourself that, again and again, even as the warmth from the thought lingered a little too long.

Luckily, the car pulled up before your brain could spiral further. The ride home was quiet—you weren’t really in the mood to talk after such a long day, so you stuck to polite small talk and leaned against the window, eyelids heavy.

Sally was sprawled out on the couch when you walked in. Her eyes lit up as soon as she spotted the brown takeout bag in your hand. She immediately set the table for both of you, and the two of you ate together, trading stories about your day.

She vented about her annoying coworker and how she’d nearly slapped someone. You told her about your new responsibilities and briefly mentioned the gala Ellie was shooting—and that she’d invited you as her plus-one.

“So… Ellie,” Sally said, mouth full of burger. “This gala thing’s kind of a big deal for her, right?”

“Yeah. She could get a lot of exposure from it—more clients, maybe even regular gigs.”

Sally raised an eyebrow, chewing slowly. “Uh-huh. And she’s taking you. As her date.”

You almost choked on your salad. “It’s not like that,” you insisted, trying not to turn scarlet. “She’s my best friend and this is important for her, which is why she wanted me to come. That’s all.”

“Mhm.” Sally smirked and went back to scrolling on her phone. “Keep telling yourself that, honey. Maybe one day you’ll believe it.”

You stared down at your half-eaten salad, your appetite suddenly gone. You excused yourself, blaming how exhausted you were—which, thankfully, wasn’t a lie. All you wanted was a hot shower and sleep for three days straight.

Meanwhile, Ellie sat in her studio, hunched over her desk, aggressively scribbling a list of the gear she’d need for the gala shoot. She was so focused that she didn’t realize how late it had gotten, or that she hadn’t checked in on you.

When she finally glanced up, she groaned and rolled back in her chair so fast it nearly tipped. Her journal slipped from her lap and landed open on the floor.

She reached for her phone, still charging on the windowsill, and stooped to grab the notebook. It had flipped open to a familiar page—one filled with soft pencil sketches of you. Some from the diner. One from that time you fell asleep on her couch. A bunch of smaller ones: your eyes, your hands, the slope of your nose.

Her chest tightened. She ran a hand through her hair and grabbed her phone.

“Hey, sorry—got a bit caught up with prep. You get home okay?”

Your reply came just a minute later.

“No worries, I forgot too lol. Just got out of the shower and I think I need to sleep for 72 hours straight.”

Ellie smiled to herself, already picturing your sleepy pout.

“U should go to sleep. I’m picking you up after your shift tomorrow. We’re going fancy outfit shopping”

“Yes ma’am. See you tomorrow, Els;)”

“Night, boss.”

Ellie sat back on her bed, legs stretched out, journal forgotten at her side. The lamp on her nightstand cast a golden glow across the room, soft and warm. She stared at the ceiling,

Her heart felt stupidly full—overwhelmed, even. She didn’t know if it was nerves from the upcoming shoot, this being one of her biggest gigs yet… or if it was the fact that you were coming along. You’d seen her work before, sure—camera in hand, sleeves rolled up, focused and pacing. But this was different. You being there, dressed up and standing beside her, there just to support her… it made her heart swell in ways she didn’t want to name.

You were going to this gala with her.

You were going to wear something beautiful. Stand beside her in a room full of people.

And she was going to have to pretend none of that mattered more than it should.

What the hell was she doing?

It wasn’t like she hadn’t noticed it before—the way her eyes always drifted to you in a crowd, the way her brain stored your smiles like a collector desperate for a full set. But lately, it had become harder to ignore. Harder to laugh it off. You were her best friend.

And maybe that’s exactly what scared her the most.

She sighed and threw her arm over her eyes, the phone slipping from her fingers and landing softly on the comforter beside her.

Saturday was going to ruin her. She just knew it.

Eventually, sleep came—the only time her thoughts quieted. But even then, there you were, slipping into her dreams like it was the most natural thing in the world. You were holding her like you were afraid she might vanish, looking at her with those eyes that made her want to give you everything.

She was so fucked.

It was actually kind of hilarious.

Afternoon sunlight streamed into Ellie’s studio. It smelled faintly of coffee and lemon-scented cleaner. Her camera lay disassembled on the workbench, each lens carefully laid out as she cleaned them with practiced precision, small cloth moving in gentle circles. The ritual grounded her. One lens at a time.

She’d already backed up her SD cards, organized her battery packs, triple-checked her lighting gear, she liked to be organized even if there was still time, it made her feel more confident knowing everything was already in place. She wasn’t nervous. That part was easy. Predictable.

It was you that made her heart act up.

Her phone buzzed from the corner of the table. She wiped her hands and reached for it, it was a message from you.

“Just finished the lunch rush. I’ll be out in 30 min, lmk when you’re on your way”

“Be there soon;)”

“Alright loser”

She chuckled to herself, slipping her hoodie over a black tank top and grabbing her keys. She threw her camera bag into the backseat just in case—because she never went anywhere without it, and headed out the door.

Ellie pulled up to the curb, tapping her fingers on the steering wheel in rhythm with the music playing through her speakers. The windows were cracked, letting in the cool September air, and her smile widened a little too much when she spotted you pushing through the diner’s front doors, bag slung over your shoulder, hair slightly tousled from the long shift.

You were smiling already when you saw her.

She couldn’t help smiling back.

You slid into the passenger seat, sighing like someone who’d just escaped battle. “Holy fuck that was some shift right there.”

Ellie laughed, pulling away from the curb. “Well, soldier, you earned yourself a trip to the mall with your favorite person.”

“Yeah? Who?” you teased.

“Rude, I’m disinviting you now.” she said dramatically, the edges of her lips curving into a smirk.

“Nah, you’d miss me too much” you blinked at her, making you both giggle. The car ride was filled with your usual chatter and jokes, making it go by quick, you almost didn’t realize when Ellie was already pulling up to the mall’s parking lot.

The mall doors slid open with a soft whoosh, letting in the blast of air conditioning and the distant buzz of chatter and music from inside. It wasn’t as packed, fortunately, just a few teenagers and some families. You glanced at Ellie beside you, adjusting the strap of your bag. “Alright,” you said, grinning. “Any idea what we’re going for? Or are we just winging it until we cry in a H&M fitting room?”

Ellie huffed a laugh. “I was thinking classic lesbian formal attire,” she said dryly.

You squinted at her. “You sure you don’t wanna wear a dress? I think hot pink could really bring out your eyes.”

She deadpanned. “I’m leaving you in the food court, I’m so serious”

You both laughed as you started toward the more formal clothing section of the mall. First stop was helping Ellie. She wasn’t picky—thank god, she found a crisp white shirt she liked pretty fast, and after trying on a few blazers and pants, settled on a sleek black set that fit her just right. You made her do a little spin in the fitting room hallway just to annoy her.

“You look hot,” you teased, arms crossed as you leaned against the wall.

Ellie rolled her eyes, but the pink in her ears gave her away. “Yeah, yeah. Your turn.”

And then the fun part began.

You hit three different stores before landing in one that had just the right vibe—not too expensive, but full of gems. You started picking out a few dresses, arms full, while Ellie found a seat just outside the fitting rooms, legs stretched out in front of her as she waited, a few minutes later you came out of the little fitting room. Dress number one was short, silver, and too sparkly. You stepped out with a twirl.

Ellie tilted her head. “You look like a disco ball. A very cute disco ball, but…”

You agreed with her, the dress wasn’t ugly, but it just wasn’t for the occasion.

Dress two was red and tight, she blinked too fast when you stepped out. “That one’s illegal,” she said, tossing a hand over her eyes, peeking through her fingers.

You laughed so hard you had to grab the dressing room door frame to steady yourself.

Dress three? She gave a small thumbs down before even saying anything.

And so it went—each new dress earning a quip, a blush, or a muttered holy shit under Ellie’s breath that she hoped you didn’t catch. But you were watching her just as closely. Not that she had to know, you were enjoying this a little too much.

Finally, you stepped out in the one.

Simple. Elegant. Long navy blue with thin spaghetti straps. It hugged you just right, flowing soft at the hem.

Ellie froze.

Her eyes looked over you slowly, like she was in slow motion, blinking like she needed to make sure you were real. “Okay,” she said finally, voice just a little rough. “That’s… yeah. That’s the one.”

You turned slightly. “I think so too. It’s just—” you twisted your torso awkwardly, “can you help me up with the zipper please?”

Ellie stood like her limbs weren’t fully cooperating, stepping behind you. Her fingers fumbled for a second at the small zipper along your spine. You could feel her breath, soft against your skin. Neither of you said anything at first.

Then—quietly, almost too quiet—Ellie said, “It’s perfect”

You smiled, heart thudding a little too hard. “It’s just a dress, Els.”

“Sure,” she said, adjusting the straps of the dress, her cold fingers lingering at the base of your neck for a beat too long. When you turned around, you were both flustered, trying to pretend like nothing had happened.

You looked in the mirror one more time before rushing back into the dressing room and changing before you could combust. Still a little breathless from the previous moment — Ellie’s hands had been cold and just a little shaky as she helped you into the dress, and the moment had hung in the air like something fragile.

Now, the two of you were heading to the register, your dress in hand, Ellie’s outfit inside the stupidly big paper bags from the first store you had gone to. You bumped shoulders as you walked, laughing about how you almost bought the glitter monstrosity “for the bit,” and then—

“Next in line?” called a voice that made Ellie freeze. There was no fucking way.

You looked up to see a girl behind the counter with a pixie cut and a nose ring, smirking slightly when she spotted Ellie.

“Shit, it’s Cat” Ellie muttered under her breath, too low for anyone but you to hear.

Your brow furrowed. “No fucking way”

Before Ellie could even pretend not to, Cat was already grinning.

“Well, shit,” she said, tapping on the register lazily. “Didn’t think I’d see you again.”

Ellie cleared her throat, suddenly very interested in the hem of the garment bag. “Hey. Uh—yeah. Small world.”

You glanced between them, your stomach doing that weird thing it had done when Ellie first mentioned her.

Cat looked over at you, giving a once-over that wasn’t exactly subtle. “Ah I see why you never called back.”

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

“I didn’t know you had a girlfriend,” Cat added, smiling wider now. “Congrats, you two look cute.”

Ellie’s eyes went wide. “She’s not— I mean—we’re not together,” you both blurted at the same time, face already beet red. “She’s my—she’s my best friend.”

You nodded, suddenly very aware of how warm your cheeks were. “Yep. Just friends.”

Cat raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced but amused. “Riiight. Well, here’s your ticket and have a good rest of your day. That dress is definitely turning heads.”

You gave her a tight-lipped smile, unsure if you were annoyed or weirdly flattered. “Thanks.”

Ellie quickly handed over the card and practically snatched the bag once the transaction was complete. You both mumbled some version of a goodbye before turning on your heels and speed-walking toward the nearest exit.

“Well that wasn’t awkward at all,” you said dryly once you were outside.

Ellie groaned into her hands. “I need to walk into traffic.”

You nudged her with your elbow, trying to keep it light, though your stomach was still doing some type of weird slow roll. “So, uh... that was Cat”

She sighed. “Yup. Bridesmaid number 3, the one I gave Joel’s number, I thought I would never see her again”

You hummed, pretending not to care. “You sure you don’t want her to come to the gala instead?”

Ellie whipped her head toward you. “Fuck off” she snorted.

You shrugged, half-smiling. “Just checking–” she caught the tiny grin tugging at the corner of your lips “Froyo?” you suggested, already pulling out your phone to check if the place in the corner of the mall was still open.

Ellie looked at you like you’d just offered her the key to heaven. “God, yes. I need something sweet after being humiliated..”

You rolled your eyes. “It’s literally your fault for being a flirt.”

You made your way to the frozen yogurt spot, picking your usual mix of flavors and toppings while Ellie piled on way too many cookie crumbles and a questionable amount of gummy worms. After grabbing your cups and two tiny spoons, you wandered back to the parking lot, the sky now a soft pink-orange as the sun dipped toward the horizon.

Once you were in her truck, bags safely in the back seat, Ellie started the engine, one hand on the wheel, the other already holding her cup.

You side-eyed her. “You are not about to eat that and drive.”

“I’m a multitasker” she said, taking a wild, wobbly spoonful that almost dropped onto her jeans.

You laughed, snatching the cup from her lap. “More like the cause of our death.”

“Oh my god,” she muttered, glancing at you as she pulled onto the road. “You are loving this.”

“You fed me fries the other day. It’s called balance,” you said, scooping a careful spoonful of her frozen yogurt and holding it up to her mouth. “Here comes the airplane.”

She groaned dramatically but leaned over to take the bite, her lips brushing the spoon. “Mm. Okay that’s good.”

“Right? It’s the cookie crumbles.”

You alternated between feeding her and stealing bites from your own cup, giggling every time she tried to talk with her mouth full or pulling a face when she got brain freeze.

At one point, she tried to make you laugh mid-spoonful and nearly made you drop it all over her dashboard.

“Ellie, focus on the road!” you shrieked through laughter, one hand gripping the dashboard as she cackled beside you.

“You’re the one that lacks feeding skills” she said, eyes crinkling with joy.

By the time you pulled up to your apartment, The sun had already dipped low. The sky outside was getting darker, the moon already visible, it was cold and quiet in that early night way. Ellie parked just outside the building, fingers drumming absently against the steering wheel.

You turned to her, both of you still glowing from the laughter that had filled the car ten minutes earlier — you feeding her spoonfuls of frozen yogurt like a menace, almost causing a near-death experience from a brain freeze at a red light.

“Thanks for driving,” you said, unbuckling your seatbelt. “And for the dress thing. And the yogurt. And surviving the Cat ambush.”

Ellie chuckled, rubbing a hand over her face. “Barely survived, but yeah. Anytime.”

There was a pause — that lingered, just a second too long, where neither of you moved. You reached for the door handle, hesitating. “I’ll see you Saturday?”

Ellie nodded, her voice low. “Yeah. I’ll be here early. Gotta make sure you don’t punk out on me.”

You smiled at her. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

You stepped out and gave the side of her truck a light tap before heading toward your building, turning just once to wave. She waved back, leaning her elbow on the open window, watching until you disappeared inside.

Later that night, Ellie sat on the edge of her bed, barefoot, still wearing the black hoodie she hadn’t changed out of since that morning. Her studio lights were off for once, the room only lit by the soft glow of her phone screen. A half-edited photo sat abandoned on her laptop.

She had told herself she wouldn’t overthink it — that you were just her best friend, and that the zipper moment and the way your laugh lingered in her head wasn’t anything serious.

But then you smiled at her like that. Like you trusted her with something small and precious. And it killed her in the quietest, stupidest way.

She flopped back onto her bed, arms spread wide, eyes burning into the ceiling.

“Fucking idiot,” she muttered under her breath, dragging a hand over her face.

She reached for her journal out of instinct, but stopped halfway.

No sketches tonight.

Because no matter how many times she put you on paper, none of it could match how it felt to see you — really see you — and know she couldn’t touch. Couldn’t tell you.

Not yet. Not ever.

So she grabbed her pillow, buried her face in it, and groaned loud into the silence.

Saturday was going to be interesting. Don’t fuck this up.

୨୧─── ⋆୨୧⋆ ───୨୧─── ⋆୨୧⋆ ───୨୧─── ⋆୨୧⋆ ───୨୧

taglist ♡‧₊˚₊✧

@adoreasconnie @liasxeatt @80saturn @eleanorsghost @youusunshineyoutemptress @jazzyxox @lesoulew @fangirlinc @hitmehardmommy @liztreez @chwekriz00 @vahnilla @elliespotion @haithone

lmk if anyone wants to be added!

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maiamore · 5 months ago

Text

TRICK OR TREAT

Pairing: Joel Miller x Female!Reader - No Outbreak Rating: 18+ | W/C: 3.3k

Summary: Joel deals with the hard part of raising a little girl when she turns out to be a sneaky teenager. He decides to bring her back by barging into a party uninvited and learns a very sweet lesson he might just bring home with him.

Tags: orgasm denial, handjob but not really, use of degrading terms, brat taming, unspecified legal age gap, sexualisation of a halloween costume not meant to be creepy please take it with a grain of salt

A/N: heavily inspired by this tiktok that had me in a chokehold for weeks, i’m a slut for the single dad trope god help me.

MASTERLIST | EXTRA

One of the worst things in the world might just be having to deal with the fact that your little girl would grow into the dreaded phase—being a goddamned sneaky teenager. Joel didn’t think it would’ve happened to him this soon.

It had been a definite no to going to whoever’s at wherever’s when Sarah asked him for permission last week. But now—he was standing in his empty home holding a greasy brown takeout bag—with a very missing daughter. It didn’t take a genius to know where she might’ve gone. Joel tried his damndest not to let his anger riddled mind cloud his judgement. After all, he was once a teenager too. Even though it might’ve been a long long time ago, he understood, didn’t he?

Sneaking out of his window to head down to his buddy Adler’s place for cheap beer and a good time. Getting to see the prettiest girls in Austin County wearing next to nothin’, so willing and impressionable.

Yeah. Maybe he didn’t want to understand.

God knows he’d been exhausted. Ten hours working through sweat inducing, back breaking labour. Even making a stop at Starbucks for the stupid bear claw Sarah loved. He had to remind himself—although it wasn’t exactly a comfort—that parenthood was a thankless job.

His bulky, dirtied work boots crunched over artificial autumn leaves on the front lawns of a much richer neighborhood. Dark skies lit up with an amber hue with the sheer amount of halloween knick knacks—through the gated fences and all, he took in the sight of the over the top front yard. Eyeing the cheesy decorations, an ache filled his heart at the sight of the carved pumpkins. It reminded him of the pumpkins he had all loaded up in his navy Chevrolet.

Sarah had been begging to carve pumpkins together and he’d spent nearly two hours at Home Depot picking ones she liked. “Dad! You gotta pick the good ones.” She was too much like her mother in that aspect. Persnickety. A trait he loved and hated—but his little girl had gotten all the good traits between him and his ex. Or so he thought. The ache he felt in his chest quickly manifested into indignation. He was pissed—the metaphorical dark cloud muddled his mind and vein popping out on his furrowed brows. Being a single dad was hard enough, he’d always been patient. But this counted as blatant disrespect in his mind. It was something he refused to let go without consequence.

Ironically, he’d blended in. Still in his work clothes-hardened after a long day, rugged and sweaty. Worn out dark green flannel, dirty work boots dragging across the sticky floors. A perfect contractor type 'costume'.

Before he even managed to get far in the house, his footing stutters when something hooks around the back of his tool belt that hung loosely on his hips. His line of sight followed what seemed to be a blue hook. Joel blinks, confused, now looking down at a woman who seemed older than the juvenile crowd she was in.

She was...dressed head to toe in a Bo Peep costume. It was endearing just how much effort this whole number would've probably needed. Had it down to the damn crook with an ankle length milkmaid dress.

What you didn't expect, was to be met face to face with the kind of face you'd find in your mom's nudie mags that she kept poorly hidden. Tired looking, brooding but charming in a rugged way. He was an all fuckin' Red-Blooded American man. You shook your thoughts away as quickly as it came. You had to focus on the stranger in your home.

Drawing your crook back, you adjusted the white bonnet on your head with its curved edge—knocking the crook onto the ground, in a futile effort to seem intimidating. Which was failing miserably. You were certain your expression was giving you away.

His deep brown eyes makes an exaggerated pass over your costume. You step back, giving him the same once-over with your arms crossed. The hell was some dirty looking old man doing here? You eyed the toolbelt that hung on his hips down to the dirtied outfit, it could very well be a costume but it'd looked a little too realistic.

Joel shifted, the faintest flicker of self-awareness tugging at his posture. His hand came up, rough and calloused, the kind of hands that look like they shaped wood into frames and sanded edges smooth. He drags his thumb absently across his jeans, trying to smudge away a streak of grime that clung stubbornly to the fabric. It only half worked. Your brows quirked at his gesture as if you'd just found a crack in the drywall.

"I don't remember ordering a plumber."

"Funny," he shot back, "was bout’ to ask where your flock was.”

You gave Joel an unimpressed look. Lips pursed with eyes a little narrowed. Willing yourself to not laugh at his wit.

“Lookin' for my daughter,” he explained gruffly, a hint of annoyance in his voice. “She snuck out. Thinkin’ she might be here.”

Your brows furrowed even further at your flimsy explanation. “Uh, not possible.” You retort simply. Blocking his way as he’d tried to pass.

“I’d personally made sure it was known to the parents that they’d be here.” You adjust your stance. Although your size had no match for Joel’s, he could’ve probably flung you aside if he’d wanted to.

“Gotta be more specific dude.”

He towers over you, broad shoulders blocking your view of the living room completely. You tip your head up to look at the source of the dark shadow casted over you.

“Sarah Miller. Curly hair. Brunette. My daughter.”

You instinctively backed into the shoe racks by the hallways. Eyes widening at the sudden blatant invasion of your space. You were pretty sure he’d heard you swallow in nervousness. Your lips parted to speak but the words had died somewhere in your throat.

You could smell him. Fuck. Musky, earthy…why the hell was that such a good smell?

You blinked a few times before snapping back into your usual persona. Squinting, you try to recall where you’d heard that name.

“Wait—…Sarah Miller? Yeah. I know her. Her dad said no to coming.” You said with folded arms. Sure of yourself. Though that made you pause. So this was her dad. Joel Miller.

“She’s…she’s not here as far as I know.”

He raised a brow at your response. He’d noticed your reaction, the subtle swallow, the hitch in your breath, the way your gaze lingered on him for longer than you had to wasn’t lost on him either.

“And I would know. I’m chaperoning this damn thing.” You said simply, properly introducing yourself and how you’d been hosting the party for your younger brother. Joel barely acknowledges the details. His eyes flicked past you to scan the room, then back again, sizing you up as if you were withholding something. It was clear he wasn’t here for small talk.

“You sayin’ I been lied to?”

“I don’t know who lied to you. But this is my house. Well—”

Your parents. But he didn’t need to know that. “But I know what goes on around here. Alright?” You shot back. A little more defensive than you intended to be. Wetting your lips in nervousness. “She’s 19. Just call her.”

Joel watched you speak, his eyes lingering on your parted lips. The way the light played on them, the subtle shine of your tongue as you wet them. He was starting to forget why he’d come here to find Sarah.

He furrowed his brows, not really in annoyance, but in thought. “She’s not pickin’ up. That’s why I came over.”

“And what makes you think she’d be here?”

He’d run a hand down his bearded jaw, looking a little impatient. He didn’t like being questioned like this, not to mention having one of the prettiest girls he’d seen in a long time being the one to challenge him.

“Gut feelin’. Father’s instinct. Call it what you want,” he said, meeting your gaze. “Don’t matter if you ain’t helpin’, I’ll go lookin’ for her my damn self.”

Joel hadn’t given you a chance to process his words, let alone respond when he’d bulldozed his way past you. Luckily, you’d stumbled back into some kid heading out the hallways.

You straightened up, still reeling at being unceremoniously shoved aside. A laugh bubbled out, half-amused, half-exasperated. It wasn’t everyday that an agonizingly sexy, single dad barged through your space and swept you out of the way like you were crumbs on a table.

Joel had been scanning through the crowd for what seemed to be forever, his expression permanently etched into a scowl. Shoving past rowdy college frat kids. He shot a quick look over the inebriated partygoers. They were barely even wearing costumes—if that even constituted as clothes to begin with. When did lingerie turn into appropriate Halloween attire?

His thoughts then strayed to you. A pretty little thing. There was something deliberate about the way you carried yourself, a quiet confidence reflected in the costume you thoughtfully crafted down to the details. Ribbons n’ frills and all.

Joel cleared his throat, jaw tightening against an intrusive thought. He didn’t even know you. But the way your wide eyes had met his earlier—and those soft, glossy lips of yours. It stirred something deep inside him, a quiet ache in a part of him he’d long ignored.

He snaps out of his daze when a younger girl rushes past him. And he catches it—curly brown locks. Joel doesn’t hesitate, closing the distance within a few long strides. “Sarah!” His hand shoots out to grab the arm of an unsuspecting party goer, she looks at him, mortified. “—Shit. Sorry. Thought you were...” He manages when he realises. Sighing as he raises both palms up, stepping away from the girl. “—...my daughter.” He says, more so to himself.

He draws his head back. A hand coming up to pinch the bridge of his nose. The feeling that he might be overreacting about the fact that his daughter had snuck out creeps in. He stops by the stairwell, his exhaustion finally catching up to him.

Looking up at a figure moving past him, he then stops a younger guy mid-step, a kid in a sad excuse for an Indiana Jones costume, clutching a red solo cup. “You,” the boy, obviously a little inebriated, blinks as he sways slightly. “Me?”

“Yeah, you. Where’d you get that?” Joel nods at the cup.

Indiana Joke squints as though processing that question took some real effort. “Oh dude, there’s a table—like, over there. Just grabbed mine. It’s free, man.”

“Great. Thanks.” Joel, again, doesn’t wait for permission, snatching the cup right out of the boy’s hand. He takes a swig grimacing at the taste of nasty room temperature beer. He crushes the cup in his fist, shoving it back toward the stunned kid. “Here. ‘preciate it.”

“Right on, dude!” the kid slurs, throwing up a lazy hang-loose sign before wandering off, blissfully unbothered.

He huffs, resisting the urge to roll his eyes at the kids carefree jock vibe. Though his patience—or what little he had to begin with—wears dangerously thin. As he scans the room, his gaze catches on a flimsy strip of tape that half-heartedly cordoned off the staircase. Probably meant to keep people from heading upstairs though was doing a piss-poor job of it.

Joel’s jaw tightens at the idea of Sarah being up there with some—... He moves before fully understanding the weight of his actions. Heavy work boots drags across the floors as he ducks underneath the tape to head upstairs. He paces around the hallway, it was nothing like his home for sure. Looking around at a framed picture of what seemed to be a damn soup can. He cringes, noticing a room to the left. By the time he pushes his door in, his phone buzzes in his pocket.

Sarah M. (10:15pm): Dad. Are you coming home soon?

Joel freezes mid-step. What? Did he make a mistake? His brow knits into a furrow, rubbing the back of his neck as he tips his head up to look into the room. Joel stares around the room for a moment, taking in the empty, though very much lived in space. The kind of room that he wasn’t about to admit just how much he liked it.

He steps further inside, cautious, his boots presses into the creaky floorboards. His eyes trailed over the setup—a CD player sitting on top of an oak shelf, band posters and old movie memorabilia lining the dark green walls. His fingers brushes over the weathered spines of a Lord Of The Rings trilogy tucked into the shelves. “I’ll be damned,” Joel mutters, then eyeing over a Bachelor’s Degree hung on beside the shelves, reading—your name.

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

A voice echoes through the dark room, the space lighting up in an amber hue with the click. Joel whips around to look at you. He moves away from your shelves, though, he doesn’t look quite as apologetic for someone who’d just been caught lurking in a place he shouldn’t have been.

“It’s bad enough you just bulldozed into a party you weren’t invited to, but now you’re lurking around in my room?”

He doesn’t quite respond to your anger. Folding his arms to observe just how much you could mouth off at him uninterrupted.

"Careful, now."

“…Oh you sick fuck—” You mused. “Bet you aren’t even Sarah’s dad.” Stepping a little closer to him. “Getting your rocks off to your fantasies of girls who could be your daughter’s ag—”

His gaze hardens visibly, jaw ticking at your accusations.

“Darlin’”, you’d shut up right then, throat tightening as he steps closer to you. You weren’t sure why you wanted to push him like this, but you had.

Swallowing thickly at the raw desire builds in your core now that you both were now alone, isolated from the prying, juvenile crowd. The proximity wasn’t helping either. You hadn’t noticed before, but Joel had a way of monopolizing people to his liking without even trying. Dark brown eyes threatening to break past your barriers.

“I ain’t your daddy, sweetheart. S’not on me to put you in your place.” His hands planted on the edge of the dresser behind you, essentially trapping you. He leans down more so he could be level with you.

“But girls like you need to learn, don’t they?” He whispers against the side of your head, the baritone in his voice sending shivers down your spine.

You nod dumbly. Chewing on the inside of your lips.

“Yeah?” He hummed. A slow hum of approval at your pliance. A far cry from the intolerable shit you were earlier. “Y’wanna be good for me, huh?”

His gaze scanned through your features, detecting any signs of fear. He found nothing but your arousal in your eyes reflecting his own. “Answer me.”

“Yes—…yes. I do.” You breathed out. Finding yourself snug between the dresser and Joel’s imposing figure.

“All dressed up proper n’ good.” He’d sighed into his words. Thumb coming up to rub over the pieces of fabric that covered your nipples. Joel wasn’t sure why, but it did more for him that you hid whatever you had to offer in your costume.

Teasing, coaxing the sensitive buds out over the lace. “What’s wrong, baby?”

You couldn’t do anything but clench your thighs in frustration at the lack of direct contact against your tits. Couldn’t trust yourself to speak either.

What a fucking jerk.

Joel’s other hand cupped around your other breast, kneading it into his rougher palms. It feld good, god, it felt so fucking good. You felt his thumb drag the ruched fabric that covered your chest to caress the sensitive buds. A soft gasp left your lips, saccharine sweet.

He’d wasted no time to dip his head down to suck your neglected tit into his waiting mouth. Other hand shifting down to slip beneath your dress. Gathering the fabric by your waist. You let out a strained moan when you feel a finger pushing the gusset of your panties aside to probe a finger into your already soaked pussy. “Lord a’mercy. Bo peep’s a fuckin’ slut now ain’t she?”

A strangled moan left your lips. Furrowing your brows to the edge in his words. “If you’ve got nothing nice to say maybe you should just shut the fuck u–ahhh–..p!” You gasped, arching your back to the intensity as he’d continued ministrations.

He fucked your needy pussy with just his thick finger. Your cunt sucked him in desperately, convulsing around him. Joel grunted against your ears. Your sweet moans nearly enough to make him cum. He knew the second he slipped his cock into that soft pussy he’d never be able to stop.

But he couldn’t allow you that pleasure.

You watched in anticipation as he’d palmed his quickly hardening cock over his jeans, twisting his toolbelt around so the tools attached wouldn't hurt you.

“What a fuckin’ mess.” He mutters, ridding your pussy of his finger. With a slight tilt of his head, you’d understood enough.

Sinking to your knees for him wordlessly. It didn’t matter that your knees were debasing yourself deliberately before him. You wanted to pleasure this man. Desperately. Your dress pooled full around you, providing Joel with a sight he didn’t quite realise he’d come to love.

Feeling his hand tangle into your hair to press your cheeks against his jeans. You’d let out a soft whine. Nuzzling your nose against the stiffening bulge.

You’d heard a dull clink of a belt. Staring up at Joel with a coquettish gaze.

You watched as he freed his thick cock from his jeans. Rough hands that engulfed the entirety of your face tilted your face up to look at him. “Don’t think you deserve this baby.”

You’d let out a huff of annoyance mixed with lust and impatience. He was intentionally fucking with you.

His heavy cock leaks with pre-cum, moving to smear the milky liquid against your cheeks. He’d let out a groan. Opting to fuck his cock through tight ring of his thumb and index fingers. You’d tried to tilt your head, just so you could attempt to wrap your lips around the weeping tip, but you were met with a harsh tug at the back of your head.

“Uh-uh.” He warned. Forcing you to just watch as he pumped his cock before your face. You could smell him, slightly sweaty from the day’s work, but the heady scent just made you ache all the more.

In an effort to ease the pain of your throbbing cunt, you’d attempt to slip your fingers into your soaked folds beneath your dress, only to be met with another tug. A disappointed sigh leaving his lips. “Never gonna learn.”

He jerks his cock languidly. Dry rubbing his cock with wince. A finger comes down to slip into your pouty lips. “S’this what you want? Stuffin’ your pretty mouth full with my cock?”

Your tongue wraps around his fingers. Hollowing your cheeks, drooling over it, you take them deeper before he pulls out of your lips with a slick pop. A trail of saliva following. He smirks down at you, lightly smearing the messiness against the bottom of your lips.

With the wetness gathered, he strokes himself easily. Groaning at how you were peering up at him through your lashes. Just waiting like a good girl for a reward that would never come.

He could feel himself getting dangerously close now, his hefty sack tightening up, ready to burst. With a grunt, he lets go of your hair, grabbing around your jaw once more. He pries your lips apart with his thumb.

“Fuck. Open up f’me.”

He angles his heavy cock to rest on your tongue. Groaning as his thick, warm cum spurts into your mouth. Not even letting you enjoy the notion when pulls away before tucking himself back in.

You’d pitifully looked up at him with your wide eyes blown out with lust. Confused at his lack of attention to you. He’d helped you up. Tapping your jaw condescendingly.

“Oughta watch what comes out of your pretty mouth next time, sweetheart.”

Your eyes narrowed a little more as he presses a chaste kiss to your cheeks before leaving you to stew in your own blue-balls. You lifted your wrists to wipe over your lips, tasting the remnants of his salty come. A vibration in your dress pocket catches your attention.

Shithead (11:04pm): “Dropped Sarah back home earlier. Don’t think her dad will find out. Thanks sis, owe you one.”

#joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel x reader #joel miller x y/n #joel miller smut #joel the last of us #pedro pascal #pedro pascal smut #joel miller fanfiction

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fanaticsnail · 8 months ago

Note

presses the +1 button for write it write it write it re: the vampire post im

🥺🥺🥺

biggest, saddest, wettest eyes pleading sldakjlkgfdjksgkl

got out of work and immediately got smacked in the face with that post im aslkdjkglfd ALSO that gif of law is 👌

@remisloves

Anything for you, Remi! I'll call it a gift exchange for you for your art of my OC, Tobiuo. I also adore that Law gif, so I'm gonna use it again! Thank you for your ask, Remi 🖤🖤

Invitation

Masterlist Here

Word Count: 1,500+

Synopsis: Based on vampiric folklore, a vampire may not come inside a premises without an explicit invitation. The vampire, Trafalgar D Water Law, was now left with a predicament, and you were not playing fair about it.

Themes: Vampire!Law x gn!reader, mdni, 18+, NSFW, smut, prior relationship hinted, penetrative sex (reader receiving), bratty reader, begging, pleading, crying, vampire biting - blood consumption, porn with plot, biting, edging, based on this post.

Notes: Returning to my vampire era again. Oh no. Mini part 2 here.

“Please.”

That small word was the greatest symphony to the world’s most fantastic serenade. The body between your thighs, nestled with his cock deep within your abdomen, and rhythmically bucking up with the crude slap of hips thrusting, was the vampire: Trafalgar D Water Law.

You had been friends for a while, the heart pirates stampeding onto your island and begging to port to resupply from your homeland granted your first meeting. The captain of the Polar Tang had his Were-bear speak for him, Bepo the peaceful mouthpiece for his demands while negotiating the resupply. The winged naga, Penguin, and the fey trickster, Shachi, ensured you were informed of the dire circumstances they found themselves within. Their captain had been inadvertently starved, his grip on his own sanity slipping the longer he withheld his urge to feed on a human.

He was a doctor, and a creature damned, yet deemed savior to the living. His soul was long since departed, yet here he was: stripped down to naught but his essence and begging for you from your position above him.

“No.”

That response alone had him whimpering, his eyes stinging at the corners from the creases where his lashes kissed one another. He looked up at you like you were the lifeline tethering him to the world, coinciding with his desperate bucking, had you feeling superior and empowered.

While you did grant the Polar Tang permission to dock at your port, you did not gift Trafalgar Law, the vampire, permission to come inside your body. With the ‘rules of permission’ induced in with vampiric folklore, come and cum seemed to be interchangeable.

You had been edging this vampire for almost half an hour now. The mixture of your blood from a deep bite against your jugular swirled with the lust he was burying within you. Your body homed his cock with an ease he hadn't experienced prior, and he was easily lost to the feeling of your soul entwining physically with his.

“Please,” he cried out, his cock refusing to spill while his shaft shuddered in pure need, “I-I can't. It won't. The-... Please.”

His sweet babbles falling from your lips had you cooing and preening down at the dark-haired man. His inked fingers dug into your hips dangerously hard, his restraint tested with each slide of his cock dragging into your body.

“Why won't you let me come in?”

His round, glossy eyes darted between yours as his question rang deep within your mind. No amount of vampiric hypnosis could cause a human to invite someone in, and he would never dream of such a notion. He needed you to need him, and he had never been on the precipice of desire for as long as he was with you.

Pleasure had bloomed and crested within your body twice so far, and you had enjoyed each rock and buck from the skilled vampire who coaxed them out of you. Another wave of desire simmered the longer he begged, and your eyes glazed at how easily you sucked him deep inside you. He was lost with you, his heels planted while he encouraged you to pump his cock with your entrance.

“You want to come in?” you gently cooed down at him, cupping his cool cheek beneath your palm briefly before bringing both of your hands to perch on his shoulders. “You could have pulled out at any time, vampire. What held you fixated?”

“B-Better if I-I cum while drinking from you,” he admitted, his voice catching in his throat while he fought off the fatigue marrying his withheld release. “Please let me come in. I n-need to cum, I need to cum, I need to cum-!”

The captain you once met on your shore, stoic in nature and abrasive in conversation, was begging to flood you with his cum. He needed to release deep within you, and his resolve was wearing away at the edges the longer you forbade him.

“You can hold off a while longer,” you pouted down at him, teasing him with a gentle hand tracing his pectorals towards his sensitive nipple, “Show me that vampiric resilience.”

At that coax, a deep growl erupted from his throat while he rolled you immediately beneath him. He chased his high, the sloppy and languid thrusts of his cock prompting him to whimper and whine with each steady motion. You sighed and gasped at the new angle, your voice catching and fluttering in a similar mannerism to the way your body desperately contracted in rhythmic waves clapping against his shaft.

“You want to come inside?” you gently teased him. He cried out, sobbing while nodding his head at your question. His canines retracted over his lips, his mouth parting and gently tracing over the prior bite you first allowed him to puncture and soothe on your mortal flesh.

He was so hungry when you first met him, you could barely begin to escort him to town before baring your neck out for him to feast on. The eyes sunken and drooped, the features hollowed and forlorn of the vampiric captain tugged at your heartstrings, and you allowed him to feed from you to replenish himself.

After that point, you had not once invited him back to your house, nor given him permission to come in. Both of those factors now brought you heightened joy at the control you held above his head. Although you remained friends and grew in deeper infatuation the longer he remained with you, you were yet to take him fully home.

“Please let me come in,” he whimpered in heavy gasps against your neck, his lengthy tongue expelling and flickering over your skin, “I need to cum inside you. Please? I-I need you.” You flung your arms over his shoulders and cradled him in the nook. He didn't make a move to bite down or bully you, but his moans where muffled huffs against your skin regardless.

“Please.”

You hooked your legs over his hips and interlaced your ankles behind his back, digging your heels into his cool skin and spurring him to fuck into your body harder. His desperate thrusts ran sloppy and desperate as he sobbed into your neck. Your hands traced his tattoo before digging your blunt fingertips into his muscle.

“Okay, sweetheart,” you gasped, already feeling on the precipice of another wave of pleasure crashing over you at his sweet begging and pleading.

“You can come in.”

Immediately his sloppy motions sped up, his cum flooding your body with a stream of viscous release. His teeth surged down and punctured your pulse, moaning at your essence of life as it hit his palate. Your body was no better, immediately bowing your back in a perfect arch and giving in to your third release. White split your vision, the pain from his bite dissipating as your body reached a higher realm of bliss.

His rigid body fell forward, his sobs fading into growled huffs and pants while his cock twitched akin to matching his likely initial rigor mortis. His cool skin melted against your warm torso, his ice-like tongue lapping at the wound and healing it with his saliva.

As you felt your high dissipate, you attempted to wriggle away from his embrace to look up at the vampire weighing his body heavily on you. His grip on you was strong, and he seemed far away and withdrawn in his mind while he lapped at your skin.

“Law?” you queried, attempting to nudge him away from his position nuzzled into your skin. He released a sound that was akin to a laugh before slowly withdrawing up to peer down at you. Hips began to move once more, his hard and steely cock once again hitting a spot that shot sparks up your spine and need pooling in your belly.

“You invited me to come in,” he chuckled, pressing his forehead to yours while his he fucked his exiting cum back into your body, “I'm going to use that hospitality to the fullest, and come in over and over again until I deem it appropriate to stop.”

“Law-!” Your cries fell on deaf ears as he held your hips down and rut into you. Cruel slaps echoed within the room, his prior begs turning into feral grunts at each heavy buck. You reached down in a bid to hold onto him for anchorage, an action he slapped playfully away while he continued his animalistic brutality.

“Nuh uh,” he chuckled down at you playfully, “For all that teasing you gave me earlier, I am going to get my revenge by tearing out orgasm after orgasm from you. All you gotta do is lay there and take what I'm giving to you."

Your body gave in, need again returning and flooding your veins with its reignition. Lips parting and jaw slacking, your legs hang limply over his hips and encouraged him to thrust deeper and harder. His hands move to circle your thighs tug them against him to gain leverage for his motions.

“That's it,” Law praised you with a cockiness in his tone, “You just think about what you did to bring this on. Gonna cum in you whenever I want now."

"Thank you for your invitation.”

Tag list: @mfreedomstuff @daydreamer-in-training @since-im-already-here @gingernut1314 @writingmysanity @i-am-vita @indydonuts @feral-artistry @the-light-of-star @empirenowmp3 @racfoam @sunflowersatori @carrotsunshine @skullfacedlady @jintaka-hane @thenotsofantasticlifestory

#one piece #x reader #ask snail #snail answers #moots mooting #law x reader #one piece smut #vampire au #Trafalgar Law #trafalgar d water law #Trafalgar law x reader #Trafalgar Law smut #vampire!law #x gn!reader

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saphiccarma · 13 days ago

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darkhold wagatha x rio x reader bc mmm they would be so cruel and also so caring

thank you so much @another-fantasy-world for helping with the brain worms. We talked a lot about this so lots of thanks 🙂‍↕️, they contributed A LOT to this so go say hi

Very much 18+ Men and Minors DNI (guys it's like all nsfw and really long. We talked for like two hours about this.)

All three of them use magic for EVERYTHING. They refuse to participate in mundane human activities.

You better believe that this relationship, if it can ever be called that, is the perfect mix of pure torture and absolute pleasure.

It starts off slow, really slow - the corruption. It happens at a pace you don't even realize how much you rely on them before it's too late and you can't leave.

You have free will, at least you think you do. You can leave the house and everything.

But everytime you check your phone or a laptop, the news is surprisingly blank and there's nothing new online.

They let you leave the house, but one of them always comes with you. No exceptions. Whenever you do leave, there's a ringing in your ears, a tightness in your chest, a heavy pull back to the house. It hurts to be away from home.

At first there's no pet play. None at first. But like the corruption, it works it's way.

They told you it was an accident when you wake up with fluffy dog ears and a tail that wags whenver you're excited. (Accident meaning they tried a spell last night on you while you were sleeping)

Agatha lies through her teeth, "We're working on figuring it out. Patience hon." Her fingers trace over your ear and you have to supress a whimper because it feels so good

She would pretend she didn't notice and you would spend the whole day trying to get pets from your owners girlfriends. Rio gives them way too easily, cooing at you and rubbing your ears and stroking your tail. You have to work extra hard to muffle your sounds because she will tease you endlessly.

Wanda is more indifferent, busy studying to darkhold and only giving you a pet or two which leaves you rubbing against her leg and whining.

From that point on a lot more "accidental" spells happen where. It varies from cat, dog, bunny, or bear ears and tail. They tried a deer once. "Handles." Rio had called them.

Wanda acted uniterested but she particularly loved when you were a puppy (cat was Rio's favorite and bunny was Agatha's).

She would have you sit in her lap while reading the Darkhold, floating in the air.

It was just chilling at first, you in her lap, smiling while her fingers run through your hair and trace your ears.

But when you start getting fussy, squirming and whining, she shfits your position. It happens with just a snap of her fingers and suddenly you're proped up in her lap, sitting on her fingers. One wrong move and you'll tip over and fall.

So you have to stay still, perfectly still. Even when she curls her fingers inside of you and presses her thumb to your clit.

"Why are you moving so much?" She asks casually, rubbing slow cirlces over your clit, "Mommy told you to stay still."

The worst part? You can't even cum after that. (Although you do beg Rio which ends up in both of you having to watch as Agatha and Wanda fuck, not allowed to touch yourselves with vibes pressed to your clits)

For titles, Agatha goes by mistress, you call her anything else without express permission and you will be punished. But Rio calls her Aggie sometimes and Wanda usually does Agatha (She's not that submissive)

Rio does ma'am or daddy, depending on her mood. Agatha and Wanda never call her that. Or at least they claim not to, Agatha has called Rio daddy a few times when she was feeling particularly subby and Wanda used ma'am once.

Wanda does mommy or Wands to the other witches. But if you call her Wands then you're fucked.

A list of their names for you: Puppy, Kitty/Kitten, Bunny, Little Bear (sometimes Wanda will say it in Russian or Sokovian), Sweet girl, baby, darling, sweetheart, slut, whore, needy little girl, hon.

They refuse to use babe for some reason.

Agatha loves to use you as a table. Which is quite cruel, in your opinion at least. A table also = a footrest.

She will be reading the darkhold or a book on the couch, completely causal and have a cup of steaming coffee resting on your back, filled to the brim. She's not even drinking it, but you're on your hands and knees

At some point she rests her legs on your back as well, ankles crossed and not caring for how you whimper at the added weight.

(There was a time where did this while you had a puppy tail and it was absolute pain to have that wagging the entire time)

You know that if you spill even the smallest drop Agatha will punish you, but that doesn't stop you from trying to shift your position. Which consequently causees the tea to spill.

It burns but that's the least of your concerns when purple magic wraps around you and you yelp as you're dragged towards the bedroom.

"Such a naughty puppy hm? Can't stay still." She coos, waving her wrist to have her magic tie you up in bed, "Guess Mistress will just have to teach you a lesson."

Agatha's punishments vary from edging to spanking. And today? She chose both. She slapped your ass, having a vibrator strapped to your clit. If you came close? Agatha would pull it way, tutting before slapping your ass again.

And after edging you? She gave you an enchanted strap and used you for her pleasure - you weren't even allowed to cum.

Rio loves to challenge you to do to stuff, often things that were impposible. Who could bake the better cake? She could because she cheated. Who was faster? Her because she cheated.

You had learned it was best not to question it.

Her latest idea? Agatha fucks Rio and Wanda fucks you, whoever cums first loses.

Spoiler Alert: It was you. Wanda decided it would be fun to use magic hands and red tendrils, a weakness of yours. And Rio, the bitch, cast a spell on you that increased your arousal.

So you lost and Rio needed to give you a punishment.

Agatha and Wanda had merely smirked at you, licked their fingers before waltzing out, presumably to study the darkhold but you knew it would turn into more than that.

Which left you alone with Rio and her sadistic tendancies. Those sadistic tendancies that had you blindfolded and gagged, arms tied behind your back and ankles tied to the bed.

You felt the cool of her blade first, dragging across your bare skin, slow and steady.

Then the warm drip of wax, following onto your skin and left to dry only to be scraped up by the knife. It was a back and forth dance that left you whimpering, crying out even when Rio drew 'loser' into your skin with knife before healing it.

She fucked you so hard after that, making you cum over and over again until you were nothing but a sobbing, drooling mess for her, begging for her to stop.

"Nope, you lost sweetheart, that means we don't stop until I'm done."

Wanda's punishments were your least favorite. With Agatha and Rio you got some sort of relief, even if it was short lived. But Wanda was cruel.

If you were too needy, then you would get tied up to the bed. Starfished out, arms and legs spread for her. A ball gag was shoved in your mouth, muffling your whimpers.

Using her darkened fingers, and her magic, she edged you. Bringing you closer and closer to the brink of pleasure before ripping it away.

Each time she would coo, "Shh baby, you will soon. I promise you will."

But you never did because in the end she left you waiting and wanting. Needy for her but tied up and gagged while your thighs shook and she sauntered out like nothing had happened.

Rio walked in not long after that, snickering at your predicament and ignored your pleady eyes instead grabbing what she came for and leaving

Your favorite punishment? The one where you weren't being punished.

Particularly when Wanda fucked up bad. It was very rare that Wanda or Agatha got punished. With you and Rio it was common enough, but the other two? No.

But Wanda was snappy and tried to cast a spell on Agatha which ended about as well as you could imagine.

So now you were getting pounded into by Agatha's strap, allowed to come freely and whenever you want.

And Wanda was sitting in between Rio's thighs, chest to back while the green witch tweaked her nippls. "Doesn't she look so pretty moaning around Aggie's cock?" (special thx to anotherfantasy-world for this line)

The worst part for Wanda was that she could feel every. little. thing. Everything you felt she felt. And she wasn't allowed to come, which made it ten times worse because you had some sense of control in this situation.

You certainly got Wanda's anger taken out on you later, but the aftercare for that was so sweet.

One of the trio's favorite things to do with you was having you kneel. Specifically while eating.

You would kneel in between Agatha and Wanda usually, the former holding your leash. Sometimes it was between Agatha and Rio, but you always knelt next to Aggie.

A black collar tied around your neck, "Witches' pet." while you were stripped of your clothes and forced to kneel there with your head bowed.

Agatha would feed you bites of food, tugging on your leash to alert you and slipping them into your mouth.

You were treated as if you weren't even there, a pet to them and nothing more

#i'm prob gonna do a part two and make this a real story #but this was getting long and I wanted to post it before bed lol #agatha harkness x reader #agatha harkness x you #agatha harkness x y/n #wanda maximoff x reader #wanda maximoff x you #wanda maximoff x y/n #rio vidal x reader #rio vidal x you #rio vidal x y/n #wagathario x reader #wagatha x reader #agathario x reader #agatha x rio x wanda x reader

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chososdiscordkitten · 1 year ago

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Kento Nanami In Bed.

Pairing: Nanami x fem!reader Content: No plot, just filth. use of good girl, pretty girl, ect, oral (f&m), throat fucking, hand stuff overall just stuff I think of when I look at Nanami Word Count: 1.5k

(a.n) bum bum bum hammer time (＾▿＾）

⋆ ˚｡ ⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡ ⋆

MDNI

When it came to prep, Nanami was always very attentive in that area. One of the few men who don't hesitate to make sure you finish a few times before even considering his own needs. He prefers using his fingers rather than his mouth. Nanami always greedily ate up your whines that spilled from your lips. Enjoying the way your lips vibrated against his whenever you'd let out a hearty moan. And even more so, he felt you even more when he used his fingers.

Being able to tell when you came, walls pulsing around his thick digits as he kissed you- precise movements with his tongue would go unnoticed by you. Too caught up in your own orgasm to notice. Only offering sloppy movements from your tongue and shivers that rumbled from your shoulders down to your hips as his thumb refused to falter its movements on your clit.

Briefly pulling away from your puffy lips, only to look at your expression. “One more-” he huffed, making you let out a whine. Crashing your lips back to his as his fingers started pumping in and out of you again. When it came to pleasuring you- he always preferred to see your expression. Wanting to see you unravel bit by bit. Orgasm by orgasm. One thing about Nanami; he always liked seeing the honesty on your face your face offered after 3 orgasms from just his fingers.

When you'd be good, of course he'd offer praise. Taking advantage that your ear was in close proximity- Nanami would trail his lips from yours, kissing softly on your cheeks to your ear, lips brushing against the shell as you stood on your tippy toes. Head pounding from how overworked he had you, a smirk forming at the corner of his lips before speaking. “My pretty girl-” he’d huff, fingers curling up to the spot he had been abusing for too long.

Causing you to let out a drawn out whine at the pet name he used, “Doing so good for me.” that smirk growing, knowing you're too caught up in trying to cum again for him to notice he was soaking in the sight of you struggling to stay up right on your own two feet.

Knuckles turning white against the counter as he slowly inched you up higher on your toes. He'd only want to make you feel a tiny bit of pain when you didn't behave. Like the burning in your calves when you unwillingly stood on your tiptoes for however long he'd want you to. And when you'd be too eager- welcoming him home and almost immediately popping his fingers in your mouth. On occasion- and with your permission, he'd call you demeaning names. Knowing all too well you were uninterested in behaving just to hear them.

Nanami knew you'd work equally as hard for him to call you the filth that made you crack a smile. He liked pretending that with a few degrading names, one or two firm spanks to your bottom, and a stern hair pull you’d behave. But if Nanami was honest, he knew all those things would lead to you misbehaving once more, just for him to do it all over again.

And when it came to pleasing him, Nanami was always overly grateful. Praise spilling from his lips as your hands massaged the tops of his thick thighs. He liked letting you set your own pace at first, letting you gently lick up his shaft and fondle his heavy balls in your hand.

And when you finally wrap your pretty lips around his flushed cockhead, he’d throw his head back on his office chair, “There you go-” he'd drag out the words, eyes fluttering to the back of his head at your tongue swirling around his tip. “That's it-” he'd huff, feeling you start to lower your lips down his shaft, “Good girl.” he’d grunt, feeling his tip brush at the back of your throat.

When he'd feel your throat start to tire from his size- jaw growing tired from how thick he was in your mouth. Nanami never hesitated in grabbing the side of your head gently, hearing small whimpers vibrate onto his cock from him easing his member into your throat. Making sure to keep a gentle hand as he felt your throat contract around his tip.

Nanami would be gentle, slowly forcing your head to bob up and down his cock and you’d happily let him. When he's near his orgasm, his gentle hands would press their touch firmly against your head, making you let out a small choke at him holding your lips closer to his base. Leaving you to breathe from your nose as his cock twitched inside your throat. Knowing he was a head pusher- you and him created a tell whenever you knew you wouldn't be able to take it- rare were the times you'd use it.

The choice of where to cum when you blow him was always a difficult one for Nanami. Enjoying seeing your shocked expression whenever his cum would drip down your throat. But he equally enjoyed seeing his cum decor your face, that dilemma was always something he pondered the second you'd take the first kitten lick on his cock.

When Nanami would want to see your flushed face covered in his seed, he’d release the sides of your head and let you pull from him with a long gasp for air- Wasting no time in connecting his fist to his wet shaft, grunting as he worked himself over the edge. And you being the over welcoming lovely person you were- you'd open your mouth to get a taste. Tongue covering the bottom of your teeth as he grunted, teary eyes looking up at him.

With one strangled huff, he worked his cock- ribbons of white came from his tip, batting your eyes closed knowing he wasn't aiming for anything but your face. Nanami always took a few seconds as he worked himself down, admiring the sight of his cum splayed on your skin. Not even needing to tell you- you'd swallow whatever landed on your tongue. Making sure to open your mouth again to show him your clean tongue. Earning his hand to hold the side of your neck, his thumb brushing your chin with a smile. “Good girl.”

Nanami is a classic man, he’s almost always the top, his favorite positions are the usual ones. Missionary, doggy- whatever. But, the one that always made his cock twitch with anticipation, was when your legs were pinned to the side of your ears- face burning from how much pressure he was applying. Fucking into you; deep. Almost shifting into a mating press- but not quite there. Your cunt swallowing him with loud shlops and squelches, on full display to his prying eyes.

Feeling your nails dig crescent moons on his thighs as he thrusted himself as deep as he could. So deep your ears were ringing- eyes rolled to the back of your head when his uncaring fingers started rubbing rough circles on your clit. Using one hand to cuff your ankle to the bed, giving you a little more room to move the other one.

Nanami always enjoyed the sight of your face flushed from the overstimulation, the unfiltered groans from your trembling lips as he unknowingly bullied your sore cunt. So much so, that oftentimes you'd end another orgasm he'd pull from you, slack jawed and eyes shut tight as he praised you for taking him so well. Knowing he wouldn't be handing out those hard earned praises unless he believed you deserved it.

Cunt pulsing around him causing the hold on your ankle to weaken, clenching around him as you came. Only for him to release your ankle with a loud groan, feeling him pump one final firm thrust into you before he filled you. Making your crack your eyes open and engulf the sight before you, damp forehead and pinched eyebrows, low eyes glued to the ring of white forming at the base of his cock.

Definitely not the type to enjoy cock warming. Taking only a few seconds after he drove himself down from his high- enjoying the way your cunt hugged him perfectly in that moment. And so warm too- trust. Nanami always struggled with pulling himself out of you. But he would, making sure to press gentle kisses to your face as you let out small pants. “You okay darlin’?” he'd murmur against your skin, making you close your eyes and let a smile form on your lips.

“Mhmm-” you'd hum feeling his gentle hands hold onto your sides as he rubbed soothing circles to your skin, “I’m alright-” you exhaled with a smile, cracking your eyes and looking at him hazily. Your cunt threatening to push his hardworking cum out of you with every small convulsion. “Let's get you into a bath, hm?” his deep voice would ring through your ears in a way only heard in dreams. Tired eyes blinking shut as you nodded your head softly.

sum short to post while I finish a chosito piece xoxo

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system-to-the-madness · 1 year ago

Text

お米 Okome - Inumaki Toge x Reader

Pairing: Inumaki Toge x Reader (can be read as any gender, no pronouns used) Genre: hurt/comfort, fluff Word Count: 4 532 Warnings: mentions of blood and injury Summary: Inumaki hates that he can’t use his voice to express his feelings towards you

Masterlist

Inumaki Toge doesn’t usually struggle with his fate. If there’s a situation he doesn’t like, he prefers action over lament and puts his mind to work to find a way to change it. Sure, there are situations he can’t change, his cursed speech for example, then he works around those things, finds a way to deal with it somehow. He talks in onigiri ingredients, occasionally uses a notebook or his phone’s note app to communicate more difficult matters. Inumaki Toge doesn’t usually struggle with his fate.

Except now he does. His eyes fall on Yuuta and you, sitting on a bench underneath the Momiji, red leaves sparkling in the autumn sun. Even from the distance where Toge just stepped out of the building across the yard, he can tell how hard you’re laughing, can tell that Yuuta has the biggest grin on his face. He stops, several different thoughts shooting through his head all at once. He loves your laugh. He wants to make you laugh too. He can’t, because of his cursed speech. He envies Yuuta for being able to tell you joke and making you laugh like that. And suddenly he remembers this thing he read in a magazine, that said that girls like boys who can make them laugh, and his stomach sinks.

Toge already knows you like Yuuta. Its’s obvious. Do you like him because he can make you laugh? Toge stops in his steps where he was about to walk over to join the two of you, his heart suddenly thrumming almost painfully in his chest. Do you like Yuuta? He watches his black-haired friend, watches as he lifts his hand and leans a little closer to you. You stop laughing and lean in too. For a terrifying moment Toge thinks he’s about to witness you, the classmate he may or may not have had the biggest crush on since your first one-on-one training session, kiss his friend. But you don’t. Instead, you listen to something Yuuta says that Toge can’t make out over the distance and burst into another fit of laughter.

Suddenly Toge feels like crying. He could never make you laugh like that. Not by whispering a few words into the narrow space between you, not by letting words roll over his tongue. He can write them down, or pantomime them, or fool around to make you laugh, but he can never whisper them.

He wants to talk to you about normal things too, about the stupid weather, or how pretty you look with that new hoodie, or how clever your answers in class were, or how annoying Gojo and this new homework is. He doesn’t want to have to use his notebook for every slightly more complicated conversation, but he can’t be sure you would understand him if he didn’t. It doesn’t stop him from wishing he could use his voice to talk to you. Ever since he really, truly understood his cursed technique, he’s realized just how powerful and yet intimate voice is.

It’s something he’ll never be able to use to communicate his feelings.

Once, not long after Yuuta had joined the school, they, together with Panda, had talked about it. Or rather Yuuta and Panda had talked about his cursed technique, and he had listened. Panda had joked that if he ever wanted someone to kiss him, he could just use his cursed technique, which Yuuta had disagreed on, saying he’d need the other person’s permission to use his technique on them, otherwise it’d be harassment. Panda, who hadn’t thought about that, had quickly agreed, and the two had joked around a bit longer about the possibilities this offered. Toge thought about their words a lot. But there was something inside him, that wholly refused to use his technique for these purposes. It just wouldn’t feel right. Even if the other person agreed, or even asked him to do it, it would be like he’d take their will from them. He’d never do that for his own pleasure.

Toge gets pulled back into the moment by your voice calling for him. He blinks and looks up, finding you and Yuuta had turned to face him, waving him over. As much as he appreciates Yuuta, and as much as he likes you, he doesn’t feel like going over. He doesn’t want to hear the way your voice probably rises in pitch when talking to the special grade sorcerer, doesn’t want to watch Yuuta subtly touch you, doesn’t want to feel like he’s intruding on this moment between you, doesn’t want to burden himself with more heartbreak than he already signed up for.

He swallows thickly before he crosses his arm like an X in front of his chest.

“Okaka,” he denies, continuing his way as if he had planned on moving towards the dojo, instead of towards his friends.

He doesn’t dare to glance over to see your reaction. Are you disappointed? If you were, he’d feel guilty. If you weren’t, he’d be disappointed. If he’s being honest, he can understand that you like Yuuta. The guy is sensitive, and quiet, a good listener, great at giving advice. He’s funny and overall great company. And he’s crazy powerful. Otherwise he wouldn’t be a special grade sorcerer. And he saved your life when Toge himself was of absolutely no help whatsoever, instead almost throwing up from the taste of his own blood.

Toge is nothing in comparison to Yuuta. Sure, he has a strong technique. A strong technique he can use two to three times before his throat is bleeding. And he can be funny, or at least he’s good at making a fool of himself. And he can listen, but he never knows what to answer, worried that whichever advice he gives, it might not actually be helpful, or only make everything worse. So, if you like Yuuta, he gets it. If he were in your place, he’d also prefer Yuuta over himself. Not that you have to choose between the two of them, you could also be interested in neither of them. But the point stands: Yuuta is the better fit for you, and as much as Toge wants you to be happy, it breaks his heart.

“What was that,” asks Yuuta, tearing his eyes away from his retreating friend and looking at you instead.

You’re still watching Inumaki leave, his posture somewhat sunken in, hands buried in his pockets. He looks defeated and somehow you want to run after him, ask him what’s wrong. But that would be too pushy, too clingy, wouldn’t it? So instead, you swallow and turn back to Yuuta.

“I don’t know,” you sigh. “He’s been… weird lately.”

Yuuta nodded. “I know, right? And ever since that last mission…”

That last mission, on which Gojo sent the three of you. That last mission where Inumaki’s voice gave out before he could finish the command, which lead to the curse injuring you. That last mission where Yuuta had been the one who had finished the short fight in just a single blow. You knew better than to assume that Inumaki was jealous of Yuuta’s power. You knew he wasn’t. But still something seemed to have dimmed his formerly good relationship with Yuuta. And with you too. He avoided you, texted you less throughout the day, reduced his already limited vocabulary to the equivalents of agreement and disagreement. You feel like you’ve made a mistake somehow, said or done something that hurt him.

“Do you think he’d talk to me about it,” you wonder, your voice small, nothing left of the breathless laughter from a moment ago.

Yuuta chews on his lip as he considers your question, and you know he’s considering a few things he officially doesn’t even know about. For example that you like Inumaki, that you make an active effort to spend time with him, have conversations with him. You’re the one who understands him the best, understands his language the best, even without the notebook.

What you don’t know, is that Yuuta also knows the other side of the story. He knows that Inumaki uses his notebook with you the most, because he wants you to understand his mind. He knows that Inumaki spends a lot of time considering each and every conversation he’s had with you. Sometimes, it’s late at night, and Yuuta gets a text from Inumaki, telling him about a conversation he’s had with you and if he should have replied something else. It’s not hard to tell that Inumaki is absolutely enamoured with you, and you with him. At least it’s not hard to tell from Yuuta’s perspective. But the way Inumaki and you never seem to understand the affection the other is harbouring, Yuuta begins to think that it’s actually very hard to tell from either of your perspectives. Or you’re both just idiots. Which, honestly, as much as he likes the two of you, is more likely.

“I’m not sure,” Yuuta eventually answers your question. There’s a lot Inumaki is bottling up, a lot he doesn’t even tell Yuuta about, stuff Yuuta can only assume. “But I think he’d probably appreciate it if you asked. Maybe he won’t tell you what’s going on, but I think he’d be glad to know you care.” This is as much as he can do to be honest without giving his friend’s secret away to you. A secret, Yuuta doesn’t even know officially.

“Don’t you think he’d get annoyed? He looked pretty upset just now,” you ask. You’re torn between wanting to show Inumaki that you cared, and scared of getting sent away or even worse, him getting angry at you.

“I mean, if you’re worried about it, you can always give him an hour or two. But I don’t think he’d mind if it were you, checking up on him.”

You don’t question Yuuta’s phrasing. Everyone knows you and Inumaki understand each other on a different level, the speed at which you sometimes communicate in single words thrown back and forth leaving the others out of their wits and completely clueless what the conversation was about.

“I’ll give him five,” you decide, leaning your back against the wooden table and glancing up at the red leaves overhead. “If he gets mad at me, it’s on you.”

Yuuta laughs, knowing you’re not serious. You’re not the kind of person who blames others for the outcome of your actions.

“He’d never get mad at you.”

“He looked pretty mad at me for getting injured on that last mission,” you disagree with Yuuta.

“He wasn’t mad at you. He was mad at himself. He blamed your injury on himself, when he couldn’t stop that curse because his voice gave out.”

You winced at the memory of blood trickling down from the corner of Inumaki’s mouth. He had once told you that he sometimes got sick from the taste, and after the curse was taken care of by Yuuta, it had been easier to focus on Inumaki than your own state. You remembered how awful the bright red blood had looked against his unusually pale skin.

“It wasn’t his fault, and he knows that.”

“Rationally yes,” Yuuta agreed. “But he still blames himself.”

“I’m surprised he talked to you about that,” you admit, closing your eyes in the sun. Behind your eyelids the picture of Inumaki’s bloody and scared face haunts your memory. You open your eyes again. “He never mentioned anything like that to me.”

“He didn’t, but it’s obvious,” Yuuta said.

“Is it?”

He just hummed in agreement.

“What else is obvious?”

“A lot. But that’s not mine to talk about.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that you and Inumaki really should talk about some stuff,” Yuuta answers, “Like for example that you like him.” He almost feels bad at the way you freeze up beside him.

“I don’t,” you deny, but there is no force in your voice.

“Just saying,” Yuuta shrugs. “A lot of stuff is obvious. Just not to you and him.”

There’s a moment of silence and you have a feeling Yuuta knows what you’re about to ask, your cheeks burning with shame, but you ask anyway.

“Does he like me too?”

Yuuta turns to you then, his big eyes studying you for a moment intensely. “You don’t have to ask me that. You have to ask him.”

You exhale with a sigh a glance at your wristwatch: “Fine… maybe not today, tho.”

Yuuta chuckles, knowing that that’s going to be your response for every day to come, but he doesn’t call you out for it. He doesn’t know if he’d have the courage to confess his feelings if he were in your position either.

“Welp, his five minutes are up. I’m gonna see if he’s okay,” you declare, and stand up from the bench you had been lounging on. “Just-” you glance down at your classmate. “Just don’t tell him about this conversation, will you?”

Yuuta nods. “I can keep a secret,” he smiles, and you’re satisfied, before you head into the same direction Inumaki ran off to a few minutes prior.

He wasn’t in the dojo where you expected him to be after he had wandered off there, so left a little helpless, you began searching for him. After checking all the usual places, you finally spied him sitting hunched over on a bench next to the koi pond in one of the small, traditional gardens squeezed between the buildings. He looked lost in thought, so you made an effort to not walk too quietly as not to startle him. But when you reached the bench and he still hadn’t turned to look up you, you furrowed your brows in confusion. Was he mad at you?

“Inumaki-san,” you asked quietly, sitting down next to him with a safe distance. He wasn’t wearing his full uniform, instead of the black jacket he had pulled a warm, green vest over the white shirt sleeved shirt with the high collar that hid his curse marks. “Toge?”

At the use of his given name, he finally looked up at you.

Your breath stopped when you saw the sadness in his purple eyes. He quickly blinked it away, but you knew what you had seen, your heart hurting at the way he had seemed so lost. Maybe even worse was that he didn’t want to show his feelings to you, instead masking them up.

“What’s wrong.”

“Okaka.” Nothing. Why?

“Don’t,” you warned him, “Don’t lie to me. Please don’t.”

“Okaka, okaka!” I’m not lying! He said it with amusement in his voice, but when you failed to smile, his eyes grew serious again. “Okaka.” Nothing’s wrong.

“You know you can talk to me, right?”

“Shake, shake.” Yeah, yeah, I know.

“Do you want to talk to me?”

This time his answer took longer, and it was only quietly spoke when he answered with another “Shake.”

Instead of saying anything else, he began reaching for the notebook he always carried with him, but before his fingertips had even grazed the cover, you caught his hand.

“You can talk to me. I’ll understand you. No notebook needed.”

Toge looked up at you then, his eyes widened. What did you mean, you didn’t need the notebook? Would you really understand him?

“Tuna,” he mumbled, averting his gaze from yours, but from the corner of his eyes he saw you tilt your head. How the hell was he supposed to communicate his feelings with onigiri ingredients? He had words to agree and disagree, words to catch attention and swear, but how was he supposed to tell you his greatest wish was to talk to you without having to use this damn notebook, that he wanted to just use normal language, like everyone else? How was he supposed to tell you how much it hurt to see you liking Yuuta? “Okaka.” It won’t work.

“You can try. And if it doesn’t work, you can still write it down, okay?”

“Shake.” Okay. He reached his hand up, absentmindedly running his fingers over his curse marks peeking out from under his high collar. “Ikura.” I hate them.

He had more mumbled that to himself, but you nodded. “They don’t make life very easy, do they?”

“Shake.” No, they don’t. Toge focused on what he wanted you to know, that he wished he could talk to you without risking cursing you. “Furikake… saamon.”

Okay, this was new. Not just one, but two new ingredients. Rice spice and the other word for salmon. You furrowed your brows. “Can you say that again?”

“Furikake saamon,” Toge repeated, slowly, trying to convey his feelings through just these two words. This was never gonna work.

“You want to talk about your thoughts?”

His eyes widened at your correct interpretation of his words.

“Shake, shake!” Enthusiastically he nodded his head. “Furikake saamon! Nori nai!”

“Nori nai, nori na- you don’t want to use…”

“Nori!” He motioned to his mouth, then to the notebook in his pocket.

“Onigiri ingredients and the notebook? You don’t want to use them?”

“Shake, shake!”

He nodded again, and you could see how excited he was, his eyes shining with disbelief that he had managed to communicate something so out of context to you. Quickly he reached up and pulled the zipper of his collar down, so he could additionally use his mimic to tell you what he was thinking.

“Tarago Furikake.” His lilac eyes were widened expectantly, as he waited for you to decipher his words.

“You want to talk?”

He nodded, then pointed at you. “Tarago furikake,” he repeated, underlining his words with stabbing his finger into your direction.

“You want to talk to me?”

“Shake. Nori nai furikake tamago. Okaka.”

“I know. I know it’s difficult without the notebook,” you sighed. “But we’re managing. Right? It might take me a while to get used to it, but I we’re having a normal conversation right now, right? A bit like talking with someone in a foreign language, but not much different than that.”

Toge smiled, the sight making your breath hitch. You were used to seeing his eyes squeeze together when he smiled, but his mouth usually was covered by his collar. You couldn’t help but think that he was one of the most beautiful people you knew.

“Furikake nai, tamago, maguro, nori” he continued.

“Maguro,” you repeated the second last word, thinking what he might have meant. Quietly you mumbled the phrase he had just uttered, your eyes skipping away from his face and over the koi pond instead, as if the translation were written in the ripples on the water surface. Without talking, having to write everything down, he felt bad… like an outsider. Your eyes widened. Was this really what he had wanted to say? That he felt like an outsider? You looked back at him, seeing the shock on his face as he took in your expression.

“We’re making you feel like an outsider because you can’t talk to us? Toge-“

“Okaka, Okaka!” He quickly waved his hands around, signalling you had misunderstood. “Tamago. Maguro.” He pointed to himself.

“You feel like an outsider?”

“Shake!”

“Because you can’t talk to us?”

“Shake.” This time his voice was quieter, and he averted his gaze.

You exhaled quietly. You knew there was not much you could do to change the way he felt, nothing you weren’t doing already anyway. But to deny his feelings wouldn’t be right, even if you wanted to convince him that he wasn’t an outsider.

“I’m sorry,” you started. “I promise you, to us, you’re an integral part of the group, even if you don’t feel like you always are. Do you… do you have any ideas how we could help you feel more included?”

Toge shook his head. “Okaka,” he denied, and then pointing at himself: “Tamago.” It’s my negative feeling. “Tanaka-zuku mentaiko.” You’re doing everything right. There’s nothing you can do to change that. He hesitated for a moment before he added: “Furikake.”HHe hesitated for a moment before he added.

“Of course, we’ll keep talking to you. And you see that you can talk to us too. If I can learn to understand you, so can the others.”

Toge seriously doubted that, but he didn’t voice his thought, instead focusing back on what you had been talking about. “Tarago furikake mayo. Tuna-mayo furikake, saamon tamago, shiisamu. Takana-zuke tarago tuna-mayo shiisamu.”

You stared at him intensely, making his heart race. There was no way you had understood what he had just said. Was there? He was using words he had never used with you, or anyone at jujutsu high, before. He had sometimes used them when he had been younger, when he had talked to his toys as a little kid, finding ingredients for almost anything he could think of. That he still remembered them was a surprise. But there was no way you’d understand him like this, not even when he tried to embed the sentimental meaning of each word into his voice. Your eyes skipped over his face, as you were thinking hard, and Toge waited for the “Sorry, I don’t know what you mean, please write it down.” But it didn’t come. Instead, you answered him.

“I want you to be able to talk openly too. And I’d love to hear about the bad things you think and feel as much as about the good things. Because they’re part of you. Even when they’re hard, even when they’re painful and difficult to admit. But that’s why we have each other, right? So we’re not alone, so the difficult times aren’t quite as difficult. And you already make me laugh, you already make me feel happy. I’m always the happiest when I’m with you.”

You hadn’t used the word friend. The thought rang in Toge’s mind, and together with your last sentence it accumulated to the next words that spilled over his lips, words he had been certain he’d never actually say out loud. Words, which’s meaning he had thought he’d never communicate to you in any form or way.

“Tarago tuna-mayo furikake okome. Tarago tanaka-zuke okome.”I want to use my voice to tell you that I’m in love with you. I want you to be in love with me too.

The moment the words had left his lips, he wanted to make it all undone. What if you had understood him and didn’t feel the same way? All this time he wished you’d understand him, and now he hoped you hadn’t understood a word of what he had just uttered. The way you stared at him wide eyed was a good sign that you really hadn’t.

“Okome,” you asked, your heart beating in your throat. If you had thought rationally about the way he was listing food, you wouldn’t have had the faintest idea of what he had wanted to express, but somehow his emotions were swinging in his words, like the sounds accumulated to a meaning that wasn’t transported by words.

“Mentaiko,” he began, wanting to lift his hands to wave it off, to tell you that it wasn’t important.

But before he had completed the gesture, you caught his wrist with your dominant hand, raising the other between you, pointing at him.

“Okome,” you asked before pointing to yourself. Your voice was shaky, and you could see the moment Toge realized you had understood him.

His eyes widened and he paled a little, swallowing hard. You could see the fear in his eyes. He was afraid you’d turn him down, you realized, and your heart broke a little.

So, what did you do, when your best friend, who you had liked for far too long without acting on it, accidentally confessed his love to you? Using the word for “rice” nonetheless, the base ingredient for onigiri. Because just like one couldn’t make rice balls without rice, humans couldn’t live without love.

You repeated the gesture towards yourself, pointing at you again. “Okome,” you said, voice just as shaky as before, before pointing at Toge.

His eyes followed your finger, the way it was pointing right at his chest, where his heart was stuttering in excitement, and then doing cartwheels, as the realization began settling in.

“Okome,” he asked in disbelieve.

But you just nodded. “Okome.”

He acted quicker than you could really perceive. Your one hand was still holding onto his wrist, to stop him from gesticulating, his skin warm underneath yours, but with the other he grabbed the hand with which you had pointed between you and him. His fingers wrapped around yours tightly, pulling you towards him, pressing your hand right over his heart, while he leant in at the same time, connecting his lips to yours.

A shiver went through you, at the feeling of his warm body underneath his clothes, at his soft lips pressed to yours, at the strange tingling of cursed energy that radiated from his cursed mark. And then you abandoned all thoughts, and just acted on instinct, moving closer to him, wrapping your hand into the fabric of his vest, and kissing him like you had wanted to kiss him for such a long time already.

A sound of appreciative surprise erupted from Toge’s throat and you could feel him smile as he met your kiss with equal fervour, running the tip of his tongue over the seam of your lips. When you parted them just the smallest fraction, he didn’t hesitate to slip his tongue past them, exploring your mouth until both of you had to pull away for breath. You were breathing heavily, your mind foggy, fingers wrapped into his vest, holding on to something, otherwise it felt like the world would just slip away.

When you opened your eyes, you found he was already looking at you. His beautiful eyes were scanning over your face as if searching for any sign of discomfort, as if he expected you to scold him for kissing you. Honestly, at this point the only scolding he’d get was that he had stopped kissing you.

Unwrapping one of your hands from where you had clung to him, you brushed a strand of his bright hair out of his forehead, the curl soft against your fingertips. With a smile you leant forward, and pressed your lips to his left cheek, then the curse mark there, feeling the cursed energy sizzle through them. You moved on to his right cheek, then his forehead, the tip of his nose, his chin, peppering small kisses all over his face until he was full on laughing and took hold of your face with both of his hands, pulling you only far enough away from him to be able to look into your eyes. His were still crinkled in joy, but his voice was serious and heavy with how much he meant this single word phrase that left his lips without hesitation.

“Okome.” And then he kissed you again, slower this time, just to make sure you understood each little detail of what he felt for you. Inumaki Toge sometimes struggled with his fate, but as long as he had you to understand him, what else could he really ask for?

Tags: @nnasv @ashy-akuma @delzinrowe

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