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beskarandblasters · 8 hours

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Sagittarius

Rating: EXPLICIT 18+ MDNI

Pairing: Ezra x f reader

Word count: 2.4k

Summary: you and Ezra in your pod.

Warnings: SMUT! PIV, helmet riding, slight bondage? Idk what else.

A word from the author: has anyone done riding Ezra’s helmet yet? No matter. Here’s mine. With gratitude to the mutuals and the magic sluts.

Your meeting was an improbability on a largely deserted moon. He had talked so sweet, so flattering, so genteel. Like chloroform on a pretty handkerchief. Lorenzo fell for it, too. Lorenzo always was a sucker.

Ezra says he’s sorry.

Sorry he tried to rob you. Sorry he shot your husband dead. Even if Lorenzo did shoot first, you had really wanted to be the one to dispatch the conniving bastard, and he took that from you. The way he squirmed and huffed now, well, that’s his own doing.

If robbery and murder weren’t great enough offenses, he’d had the gall to track you all the way back to your rented pod and barge right in. He couldn’t just get away with that.

You’d heard him. He rattled the door, forced it open, metal creaking and groaning against rusted metal followed by heavy boots thudding against the corrugated metal floor. You’d already stripped down to your tank top and underwear, a futile attempt at staving off the humid heat of Bakhroma Green. There was no time to get dressed now. You held your thrower in both hands, finger itching at the trigger and your back against the brittle plastic of the pod walls. Fool as he was, he came in head first. When the butt of your Frontiersman didn’t quite connect with the required force, Ezra wheeled around and snatched your weapon away, flinging it clear across the pod.

Incensed, you charged at him. Grabbing him, wrenching his arm back and pulling until he hollered and fell forward. You let his weight drop onto the floor, he groaned and bared his teeth, writhing pathetically at your feet. Good. Serves him right. You watched him for a moment, hands on your hips and head cocked. There wasn’t time to consider the next step in dealing with your intruder. He was on the floor and you had the upper hand. You couldn’t let him get up, that was certain.

No sooner was your mind made than you threw yourself on him, doing your best to pin him down and get him into a headlock or something to incapacitate him long enough for you to toss him back out of the ship and leave him to die. Ezra grunted and panted, bucking and rolling, trying his best to throw you off of his back. You held your own as long as you could, but he was furious and strong. In a flash he grabbed your hair and flipped you both, knocking the wind from your lungs. The ensuing melee saw you tumbling and flailing about the pod, each of you trying hard to get the other to stay still. Panting, sweating, grunting, swearing. You aren’t sure how you end up on his back, holding him with his arms bent. Thankfully, he had no energy left to fight, because neither did you. You needed to tie him up.

It wasn’t ideal. None of this was, really. It was a shit show from the start and you’ve just had to accept that and somehow get through it. You did the only thing you could do under the circumstances and you tied him up with your panties. The fabric was probably cutting off his circulation and the knot may not hold long, but it was good enough. You did your best to put out of your mind the fact that you’re naked from the waist down now. It didn’t matter if he saw, you told yourself. As quickly as possible you were going to be shoving him out the hatch and leaving him far behind.

You flipped your captive onto his back, muzzle of your recovered thrower shoved into his chest. With your adversary bound, you relaxed for a moment, catching your breath before you had to haul him out.

You traced your fingertips over his visor. The glass is thick. Scratched and pitted and heavy over his head. Behind it he’s sweating. Small beads on his forehead, nose and cheeks that gathered together and slid down to his hair. It was your first good look at him. He was pretty. What a waste. With his big, round eyes, shiny, pitch-colored things; with his nose, soft aquiline curve, and lips, pouting open now, as he looked pitifully back at you.

He kept those clever eyes trained on yours as you shuffled up closer, knees on either side of his helmet. You rapped gently on the glass, smiling sweetly down at him. You ran your hands over the cool surface, but still he watched you. You lifted the hem of your sweatshirt, and brought it up, up, up over your bare tits, and tossed it aside. You watched with amusement, tilting your head sympathetically to the side as you squeezed and lifted your tits, letting them fall again before gently pinching your nipples. “Mmmm. Feels so good, Ezra. Touch me, please. I know you can make it even better.” You whined, teasing him. He closed his eyes, brows furrowed, muttering something you couldn’t hear under his helmet. “Oh, I forgot. You’re tied up. Well, I guess if you can’t take care of me I’ll have to just do it myself.” You sighed dramatically and rolled your hips, “I think there’s still a way you can help though. You do want to be good, don’t you, Ezra? You want to keep me happy, isn’t that right?” He wet his lips with his tongue and nodded shallowly, eyelids looking heavier. You circled your nipples with your fingertips, teasing them into firm points, caressing down your stomach and your thighs.

He squirmed below you and whined when you jutted your hips forward, pressing your bare pussy against the glass. Ezra stared, frozen as you repositioned, settling right over his line of sight so he could see exactly what you were about to do.

At first your movements were small and deliberate. Your puffy lips pressed lewdly, not quite wet enough, but enjoying the hard, smooth convex of the helmet between your thighs. You watched Ezra. He was entranced, focused intently on your cunt and the reality of how close you were, and the impossibility of his desires. He wanted to flatten and spread those lips with his lips and tongue and nose and chin. He would have had you thoroughly soaked by now if it was up to him, but you took your time.

One hand abandoned his helmet and came back up to pluck and twist at your nipples. You closed your eyes and thought of Ezra behaving himself well enough to deserve having his cock sucked. It was big, you could see that through his suit. It was immediately evident that all of that grappling had stirred something in him. His environmental suit was snug over his straining erection. The thick bulge curved up and across his hip, accentuated by the straps banded around his upper thighs. It was impressive in thickness and length. Shame that a nice cock is wasted on a bastard like him. You wondered if he was cut or if there’d be foreskin to slip back with your lips. You wondered if he would want to come in your mouth, or if he wanted to paint your face and chest with his spend. You thought of how it would taste. You thought of how good it feels to make a strong man so weak.

“Why can’t you be good?” You complained, breathy and unintentional. You didn’t even register that you’d spoken it aloud until another voice, deep and craggy spoke up. “I can be good. Let me.”

It was the first thing he had spoken that hadn’t been a shouted demand, or a threat. It aggravated you. “Shut up.” You snapped at him, he hitched his hips in protest, teeth bared as he watched your arousal slowly seep onto the glass, aiding your gliding movements. It made his mouth water.

Back and forth, a salacious drag right before his eyes, he watched you use his helmet for your pleasure. The delicate inner folds, the swollen bud of your clit, the tender flesh of your lips. Every quickening movement was like a wet, messy kiss, smearing your slick across the smooth plane. He licked his lips and imagined how he would drink you down. He thought of sucking your clit between his lips to feel it twitch.

He didn’t realize how destroyed he looked. Wet and pathetic and mewling. He couldn’t even feel the way your panties bite into his wrists anymore. He didn’t care. He wanted you to have him like this if you wanted.

You hitched closer and closer to your apex with every grind of your hips. The power alone was a potent aphrodisiac, having Ezra, big as he was, under your thumb made you so very wet. He was your plaything, now. Maybe you’d keep him. Use him how you wanted. You could come on his helmet, his thigh, his cock if you wanted to. He wouldn’t fight. Not with the way he looked now. His eyes were inky black and shining, his warm breath fogged the glass above his parted lips. You rode his helmet unashamedly, caring only for your own demented pleasure.

Your orgasm felt like a slow motion electric shock. His face was obscured by the wet mess you’d made. It bubbled and dripped obscenely.

Your panting breath matched the rise and fall of his chest below you. Slowly you began the return to reason, to the reality of your situation. Reality is changeable, though and yours took a turn before your eyes even adjusted from the post-orgasmic haze.

You were on your back in a flash. Ezra was caging you in and smiling bodefully down at you, triumphant. Your face was still flushed from your orgasm, but your joy quickly soured. Your panties lay in tatters beside your head.

“Have you had your fun now?” He mocked. Your release still clung to his helmet and you licked a defiant stripe through it, never dropping his dark gaze. Ezra chuckled and held both your wrists in one hand while he flung off his helmet and tore at the closures of his suit.

“What was your plan? You use me and then what? Leave me high and dry?” He shook his head, feigning disappointment in your carelessness, all the while fighting his way out of the dirty canvas suit, pulling at buttons and straps until one arm was free and his thin, sweat-damp undershirt clung to his broad chest.

You didn’t notice when you’d stopped struggling in his grip, but Ezra certainly did. He clocked the trail your eyes made from his lips to his neck, to his shoulders and down his torso to where the elastic band of his boxers peeked out. He loosened his grip, shook his other arm from its sleeve, and puffed out his chest. His suit sagged down his narrow hips, as he reached for the collar of his shirt and pulled it over his head in one swift motion. What a sight he was. Muscular but soft, rough but tender. The thick swell of his now turgid member pulled at his boxers.

He palmed over it, emphasizing the length with the slow drag of his hand.

He licked his lips. “Go on.” He challenged. “Tell me to be good again.”

The air inside the pod had become thick and heavy, your skin was warm and your joints all felt too loose. The snarl you had intended came out as a ragged plea of his name.

Ezra was gentler than you’d expected. He let go of your wrists with a pointed look meant to keep you from doing anything rash, and began to explore your body. He squeezed your hips, kneading the yielding flesh, then sliding his hands up your sides, letting his fingers follow the shape of your ribs. He caressed over your belly, circling your belly button with his thumb. He watched as your chest rose and fell. He slid his palms up, flat against your skin as he pushed your bare tits together.

You could feel his hips shifting against you, feel the weight of his bulge against your cunt while he dropped to his elbow to bring your nipple to his mouth. His touch was firm. You could feel the hunger and need in the way he licked and sucked at your pointed nipples. He was holding back.

“Tell me.” He repeated. His voice was deeper, gravelly.

Your eyes fluttered closed and for a moment you wondered what came next. You knew what he wanted from you in this moment, but after that? You didn’t have the strength to fight him again. You released the breath you had been holding and asked him once more: “Be good, Ezra.”

There was little resistance when he plunged into you. He watched your face as you took what he gave, the way your mouth fell open and your head tipped back as he buried himself deep in your wet heat.

He hooked his arms under your shoulders, keeping you beneath him, as if you’d dream of leaving now. He grunted with the force of his hips pounding down into you, each heavy stroke forcing breathy cries from you. “Ah! Ah! Ahh! Ezra!”

“Is this good enough?” He asked, slowing his pace and looking down into your unfocused eyes. He looked further, down the planes of your sweat-slick bodies to where he stretched you in his cock. He rolled his hips just so, catching your clit with the wet hair at the base of his cock. You came, and he could feel your pounding pulse through the thin skin of your neck where he nibbled and sucked. When your body settled he redoubled his thrusts, palming your breast and panting into your neck until the moment he pulled out and spilled across your cunt.

The pod was silent, save for your heavy breaths, and you watched Ezra with caution. He was looking around, taking in the blinking lights and muted beeping of the control panel. He looked curious. Maybe resigned. He rubbed your thigh and you lay beside him on the floor, too aware of how your initial plan of escape was now useless. Your brain too scrambled from the force of your orgasm to formulate a new one.

Perhaps fortunately, you didn’t need to. Ezra squeezed your knee and leaned over you. He kissed you slowly and tenderly. Then, quietly, he whispered against your lips “give me the starter.”

#ezra fanfiction #my mutuals <3 #friday fic recs #i can bring queue in warm

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beskarandblasters · 9 hours

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Talk Refined

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Summary: Orpheus and Eurydice. A Blacksmith and a Warrior. A Lawyer and the Lady He Meets at a Bar. Two souls fated to find each other across lifetimes. Here are just a few of those stories.

Pairing: Ezra x f!Reader. Reader is able-bodied and takes many forms. Described as having hair that can be pinned back in one instance, generally open description in others.

This is my submission for @wannab-urs Hozier Drabble Challenge! My character was Ezra, and my prompt was "Talk" off of Wasteland, Baby!. This was such a fun challenge, thank you so much for organizing it, Gin!

Word Count: ~5.8K (I blew past drabble, I'm so sorry)

Rating: Explicit 18+ / brief fingering / brief handjob / unprotected piv / language / main character death / Minors DNI

A/N: This was so incredibly fun to write and I actually had a huge smile on my face when I finished it that I'm pretty sure is still there. I'm incredibly happy with how this turned out. I've never written for Ezra before, so this was a really interesting exercise in finding the voice of a character that I found quite challenging to get to the heart of. Ezra folks, I really hope I did your boy justice.

Notes on literary references and the source of Orpheus' speech (not written by me) included at the end.

I'm also kind of just launching this super hot off the press, so please forgive any typos you may find and definitely message me about them once you're done reading.

Massive thank you to @beskarandblasters for the beautiful cover art for this story! 💚 Go hit Kel up if you're looking for a lovely header for your work!

Dividers by @cafekitsune!

Part I: The Darkness of the Night

He’s called Orpheus in this lifetime. Blessed with his mother’s tongue.

No way of knowing he forever will be.

A twist of phrase. A glint in the eye.

A white patch at his hairline is the only mark of his father. As if licked there by the rays of Apollo’s creation.

And he is his mother’s boy, plucking at lyre strings and humming low, branches bending to his ambit as he harmonizes with the rush of Zephyrus’ wings through tall grasses.

But you are a rich distraction indeed.

A distraction perhaps of the West Wind’s own making, for the god has always been a soft touch.

The breeze toys with your chiton as you drift in and out of dreams.

Molding gossamer to your form.

A promise of something just for him.

Orpheus reaches to run his knuckles down your arm, awaiting your stirring before he takes fingers over your shoulder, up to cup your cheek.

You turn to press against the warmth of his hand. The pad of his thumb softly skimming your bottom lip.

It sends sparks racing across your skin.

He hums a laugh and fits closer to you, warmer now than the midday sun. You slant your eyes up at him, greeted with a smile before he bends to press a long kiss to your mouth.

His lyre is discarded in the grass now, wildflowers poking up through its strings.

The hand on your cheek moves to pull at his red linen handkerchief around your neck. Tied there in the morn to guard the late-hour transgressions of his lips from judgmental stares.

Again revealed to him now.

He tucks the cloth into his zoster before his fingers dip under the gauze of your robes, cupping one breast before his lips replace fabric.

“The dryads, my darling,” you whisper a warning into the heated hollow of his mouth.

“Fret not, my love,” he chides with a whisper.

And you whimper a wanton, insincere protest as his hand adjusts to move lower still, nimble fingers inching your hemline up until your thighs are bared to him.

“Surely such creatures would sympathize. Look favorably on newlywed dalliance.”

“For they understand pleasures such as these,” he murmurs as his fingers slip over your core.

"The nymphs haven’t our flesh," you gasp against his curls as he bends to nip at the lush of your breast.

"They have our desires."

"The nymphs know fertile things in ways we never shall, my darling Eurydice," ghosts hot against your skin.

"And surely they know what comes of something flush with want."

The press of his length against you causes your hips to tilt into his hand as your languid knees fall open.

"To deny that nature is to deny the nymphs themselves, little dove."

He tips his face to brush petal-soft lips against your frantic pulse as he shifts over you.

"For you see, they don’t care."

And the breach of him causes your back to arch, nails digging into the corded muscle of his arms.

You bend enough for your eyes to land on the grove of oak trees.

Unsure if begging forgiveness.

Or reveling in their jealousy.

But there are other eyes on you this day. Watching the deft way your husband wrings pleasure from your form.

The way he rolls you over on a bed of meadowsweet to press deeper still.

Holding your body to his as he pulls music from your throat.

Other eyes, indiscreet in their desire and relentless in their pursuit.

Other eyes that lead to your journey across the Styx.

Lead to Orpheus’ torment.

They say there are ways to speak with the dead.

But words will not pacify the poet when the possibility exists to feel you beneath him again.

A body that writhes under his own. Skin soft against the way his burns.

The way you welcome the thick weight of him.

All of him.

Into the warm clutch of your wet cunt.

And Orpheus, driven by his desire and blessed with his mother’s gift, marches boldly into the depths of grief.

“You powers divine of the subterranean kingdom, where all of mortal creation must one day sink to our doom, if you will give me permission to tell you the truth unvarnished by shifty pretenses…”

“I’d hoped to be able to bear my loss and confess that I tried.”

And the dance of his fingers over gut string pricks the ears of the damned as he gives verse to his flesh’s torment.

“In the name of these confines of fear, in the name of this vast abyss and your realm of infinite silence, I, Orpheus, implore you, unravel the web of my dear Eurydice’s early passing.”

A prayer for relief.

“This is the place that we all are bound for, our final dwelling, and yours is the longest reign that the human race must endure.”

Through vulpine teeth.

“Eurydice too, when her due of years has been ripely completed, shall own your sway. Till then, I beg you to let me enjoy her.”

And it moves the hound to cease its lashing.

Moves the one eternally punished to rest upon his stone.

Moves the dead of Winter to cave to the tender brush of Spring’s hand.

And you are called forth by a voice between what should be your ears.

And Orpheus begins to move.

Daring to hope for your sweet clutch again as your footsteps grow louder against stone.

As you take the form he knows, more corporeal with every footfall.

The tenderness in your ankle made manifest with flesh.

And his cock throbs with the thought of you.

His wife.

His muse.

But there’s a pause in the lilting cadence of your step.

Where you’ve stopped to grab for the fallen handkerchief that slipped from his belt.

And the panic flooding his breast moves him against all hope.

And he turns.

And you reach for him.

Before disappearing for the final time.

With forgiveness swimming in your eyes.

Part II: Pilgrim, Stranger, Wanderer

He’s called Doran in this lifetime.

A name you learn upon ducking into the blacksmith’s workshop with another man’s name on your lips.

“Callum!” You call, greeted instead by a shock of white hair where blonde should be.

Round brown eyes where you expected green.

“Apologies,” you offer, “I am looking for the smith.”

“Callum was called away to his family in the north country.”

His answering voice like honey just starting to crystalize.

“I’m called Doran,” he bends his head in customary greeting.

And you note the broad spread of his hand against his chest.

“I apprenticed under Callum, in what feels like a lifetime ago now, I admit.” He offers a small smirk. “He asked that I mind the forge in his absence.”

And you give him your name but not your full belief in this story.

“May I help you with something, dove?”

You straighten against the rake of his eyes. “My horse requires particular shoes. She is of a larger breed and nothing standard will suit.”

And you turn your back to him leading the way outside.

Doran whistles low at the sight of your mare, a sturdy Friesian glossed blue in the morning sun.

“She is a stunning creature,” he purrs, gently taking his fingers over her strong neck.

Pausing to thumb the iris stamped into the leather of her bridle.

“She’s no delicate thing,” you watch as he circles the horse. “Her grandsire was a draft who pulled the High King’s carriage.”

He fits one massive hoof between his knees, gently brushing away the feathers at her ankle before she starts fighting his touch.

He adjusts her gently, inspecting her irons before she protests in earnest.

“It’s apparent,” he says, quickly dropping the horse’s foot and jumping aside before she stamps and shakes her head, “that her blood runs hot.”

“She does not favor the touch of men,” you answer, soothing a hand over her hindquarters. “I should have forewarned you.”

“A fair lady is entitled to her opinions when she is that beautiful,” Doran gives her a wide berth.

And takes his eyes over you instead.

“You are the nobleman’s daughter.” He squints against the sun. “The warrior?”

“I am.”

“Now,” he pulls a rag from his pocket and rubs at his hands, “I know well the dangers of feminine beauty but a warrioress is altogether new to me. You are not riding into battle soon, I pray?”

“One in my position exists in a constant state of preparation. But there is no rumble of battle on the horizon.”

His smirk dimples one cheek now.

“I shall have the shoes for your láir within the week. And I shall pray you need not fly away before then, little dove.”

“May I make half the payment now for your services? This was the custom with the old smith.”

“The only payment for my services I can insist upon is merely the chance to sit in your presence a moment longer. Would a fair lady allow a humble blacksmith that much?”

And you see straight through him. Through to the tools on the wall.

But the broad set of his shoulders under ash-smudged linen. The way he moves, lithe and light on his feet as he dances between his stock of iron bars and his cache of hammers. The bright wideness of his eyes that betray sincerity or something of its kin.

A humble one no. But this one, perhaps.

You drop a pouch of coins onto his anvil. “Where?”

“Meet me here. In the morrow?”

And you tell him “maybe” in the moment as you climb into your saddle.

But you arrive on foot the next morning.

_____

You meet him three mornings in the week it takes him to forge your mare’s irons.

On the first day he tells you of his travels through Spain and France. Of scrambling up the masts of the ship that brought him to your shore.

On the third, he recites The Bard’s work with such nuance that you’re not entirely sure he isn’t the man himself.

On the fifth day he leads you out to the ruins of an old monastery, up a winding staircase until you’re forced to stand so close on the crumbling parapet that you can feel the heat of him at your back.

Your head spins from something other than the height.

On the seventh day he places four horseshoes, lovingly wrapped in burlap and bound with hemp cord, into the hand he has cradled in his own.

Warm and worn.

“Can I see you again?” He murmurs, barely a foot between you.

“Is that wise?”

“I have been mistaken for many things, little dove.” He brushes two knuckles over your cheekbone. “Nary a man has included wise among them.”

And you scoff but press into his touch all the same.

“Forgive me my boldness,” he takes his fingers under your chin, “but I must pose the question.”

“Your mare does not favor the touch of men.”

“But,” he purrs, “do you?”

And your lips form the word “goodnight” but you don’t dare move.

Your eyes flash with a want that does not go neglected.

“Must you take your leave?” He thumbs your bottom lip.

“I must.”

“But what of my payment,” he hums.

“As I recall you beseeched me pay with my time,” you tilt your head, reveling in the brush of warm breath against your skin, “I dare say I’ve tendered more than my share.”

“And yet I am in debt every time you take your presence from me,” he smirks. “There is something of you, little dove, that I fear has a hold on—”

You steal the words from his lips with your own.

And the unabashed delight dancing over his features when you part makes you kiss him again.

You fling your arm to rest the irons on the first surface you can find, desperate to wind your hands in his hair as his fit to your waist.

He urges your mouth open with the soft slip of his tongue. Humming when you let him inside.

“Little bird,” he pants when he tears his lips from you, forehead thumping hard against yours. “I confess if you stay past this moment I shall not be able to exercise any measure of restraint.”

“Is restraint what you desire?” You angle heavy-lidded eyes up at him.

“Not in the slightest,” he swallows hard, fist still gripping at your hair. “But you are a gentle lady with a good name, and I—”

“I want you, Doran,” you murmur. “This.”

And his head falls back on his shoulders with a tight, pained hiss.

“I confess I have given in to the fantasy of hearing that fall from this lush mouth many nights since first we met.”

And he expects heat to rise to your cheeks at his admission. But the hand that cradles your neck finds no such warmth.

“Do you know how it works?” He hums low, running his palm down your sleeve to lace thick fingers with yours. “Pleasure?” He brings your knuckles to his lips, eyes glinting in hearthlight.

And there is sincerity evident in his gaze.

For you are a gentle lady with a good name.

“Mmm, have you felt this?” He takes your hand, gliding it over the rough wool of his trousers.

To the hard line of his length underneath them.

Your breath skips.

You are no stranger to amusement of the flesh. But never before have you felt so—much.

“Feel me, birdie,” he hums, rolling his forehead against yours, “what you do to me. I fear there isn’t any blood left for the rest of me.” He kisses you again. “Only for you. This. Just for you.”

“Your bed, Doran,” you murmur against his mouth.

The hand over yours encircles your wrist and he leads you through to his chambers.

He pulls you tight to his body again, mouths locked as his hands roam your form, unable to settle upon what features his fingers must traverse first.

You push the braces from his shoulders and he helps you with the buttons of his shirt, your hands skating up the smooth expanse of tanned skin before tugging at your own shirttails.

Your lips find his neck as he unbuttons his trousers. You’ve already stepped out of yours.

“So eager, birdie,” he wraps you in his arms, and your skin burns with his touch. “Surely you’ve seen it with beasts, yes?” He salts your neck with kisses. “It’s quick with them, you see. It doesn’t have to be. Doesn’t have to—”

A moan cuts off his babbling from where you’ve taken him in hand.

“Although I may yet need to beg your forgiveness,” his hips buck into your hand, “my stamina may yet waiver, upon this first time.”

His tongue slips into your mouth again and finally he finds himself enough to back you up until your thighs meet his bed.

“It’s been so long. So long, birdie, since I have held a woman.” He leans you back with his body as your hands fly to his hair. “Longer still since I have held one as soft. Supple and pliant as you.” His lips map your collarbone, nose skimming the valley of your breasts as he takes one in hand.

“Never before is a long time indeed.”

He sucks at tender, pebbled skin, drawing an arch in your spine as he shifts to settle between your legs.

“I give you my word that I will indeed take my time with you but I offer a preemptive apology in the instance that I fail upon this first time.” His fingers slip down to toy with your folds, groaning against your ribs at the wetness that he finds there. “Perhaps we are no different than animals indeed.”

You hear only half of his babbling.

The static of anticipation under your skin crackles in your ears as your hips tip into his hand. His thumb slides over your clit and you cry out.

“You see, sometimes a man just needs to bury himself deep.”

He slings your legs over his hips and sits up on his knees, stroking his length with your borrowed wetness as your hands find his thighs.

There’s a dark edge to his voice now. Heavy-lidded eyes locked on the core of you.

“This need. It’s far stronger than I ever will be.”

“Now, Doran, I need—”

He doesn’t make you wait.

And he keeps his word in the moments it matters. Slowly rocking his hips to stretch you open on his cock before your body begs him deeper.

Large palms settle around your waist as he builds in pace, alternating slow with fast. Tenderness with force that drives the bedframe to knock against the wall. When his thumb winds circles against your clit you cry into the night as pleasure rips through you. Greedy lips crash against yours as his weight blankets your reeling form. Fevered moans in his chest thrum through you as he savors the way your walls pulse around him.

He buries his face against your neck and you feel the bite of his teeth as he snarls, drawing closer and closer to the edge.

He cants his hips just so at the last minute, pulling himself from your heat a moment before his seed streams hot over your thigh.

You soothe a hand over the nape of his neck as his hips spasm with the last of it, wide hand cradling your jaw and tipping your face to his.

Kisses softer now.

Grateful.

“You are a rare bird indeed,” he murmurs against your ear, lips ghosting over your neck.

He finds himself enough to rise from bed and kneel on the floor, searching for his handkerchief amongst the tangle of his clothes.

Yours peeks from the pocket of your trousers, red against brown wool, and you lazily twirl a corner of it around your finger and draw it out.

Doran catches it from your hand, gently cleaning your thigh of his spend before pressing a kiss there.

“I shall return this to you clean,” he holds it up briefly before craning to press a kiss to your lips. “Don’t trouble a hair on your head with moving, birdie,” he bids you before disappearing to the kitchen.

You trouble the hair on your head all the same as you pull the jostled pins from it, tousling it out of the style your nurse had so meticulously placed it in this morning.

Doran returns with two glasses and a bottle of whiskey. He fills them as you prop yourself up on your side and he settles on the floor. One arm slung up on the mattress.

Adoration in his eyes as he tips his glass against yours.

“You didn’t tell me this was not your first time. Although I do find it rather a pleasant surprise,” he rubs a hand over the curve of your waist with lust-hazed eyes.

“I could scarcely utter a word amidst your chatter,” you tease with a grin as you take another sip of your whiskey.

His smile dimples his cheek.

“Are you—”

For once he hesitates to speak.

“Are you promised to anyone?”

You catch his hand and bring it to your lips, pressing a kiss to his palm before he thumbs your cheekbone.

“None but myself. And my duty.”

He hums in acknowledgment.

You finger the white patch at his hairline, twirling a clinging curl.

“Angered a horse as a child and she made it known with her hooves,” he offers. “Frightened the color from that spot, I’m afraid.”

“There’s character in it. I’m quite fond.”

He turns in and rests his chin on the bed, hand back to trailing over your curves.

“Dove?”

And you frown at the nickname.

“I am nothing so delicate, Doran.”

“A shrike then, perhaps,” he smirks, knuckles ghosting over your stomach.

And something about it makes your heart preen.

“Has a man ever,” his fingers dip lower over your abdomen, “put his mouth on you?”

It sends a fresh jolt of pleasure racing up your spine. You turn onto your back without thought, basking in his touch as fingers trail over your mound.

“Right here?” The pads of his middle and ring fingers wind softly against your clit.

“No,” you gasp.

“Then may I have the pleasure of being the first?”

And he is the first in a way that has you wishing for him to be the last.

The only.

_____

Your handmaid was sympathetic to your cause, having been driven from her own house for true love. They share a small cottage on your father’s land now.

Your mother, though she did not know the intricacies of your continued dalliances with the blacksmith, knew the shift in your demeanor was a man’s doing. And she always was a soft touch for love.

Your father.

Was your mother’s concern.

And so your nurse covers your footsteps with a tickle in her throat that needs clearing.

Ushers you back into your chambers before morning light with a knowing smile.

“I always thought you would make a pass for the stable hand,” she confesses one day as she pours heated water over your hair. “The blacksmith is a surprise.”

“An unpleasant one?”

“Not in the slightest. He’s handsome.”

You can tell there is more to the sentiment.

“Yes, and?” You ask with a raised brow.

“Rakish.”

“Perhaps rakish is what I need,” as you rub water from your eyes.

“No lady with sense needs rakish, my darling girl,” she chides as she rubs soap at your scalp. “But a lady with sense should indulge in it from time to time.”

This draws a smile across your lips.

“He treats you well?”

“He treats me to pleasure the likes of which I have never known. If I offer this kingdom the breath in my breast every time I leave its gates, the least I may be permitted is the choice of a lover.”

And so she fixes you bitter tea every morning that you return from your rakish man.

_____

The pair of you take to late night meetings at the old groundskeeper’s shack on your parents’ land.

Where the splashing of the brook over rocks and the churn of the water wheel stifle the way he makes you cry out in pleasure.

And for one so verbose, he does excel at discretion. Raking ashes from the forge through the patch of white in his hair. Bending shadows around himself as he slips from town and into the forest at the edge of the estate.

The pair of you carry on for months. Until summer sun yields to the darkening blanket of fall.

A welcome change that lengthens your stolen hours.

“I’d wager that we were lovers in lives past,” he muses one night, lips pressing kisses against a scar on your shoulder. “You know me, little bird. The very depths of me.”

“Perhaps,” you roll over in a luxuriant stretch, “you are easy to know.”

“The Townsfolk would perhaps beg to differ, my darling.” He rests his hand on your cheek as you curl into him.

“Must you go in the morrow?” He asks softly.

“I’m afraid I must. For it is my duty. To ensure the safety—”

“—of the kingdom,” you both finish.

“In that case, I have made you a gift.” He reaches over your form down to the pocket of his cloak, and produces a small canvas pouch.

He sits up with you, pulling your back to his chest, arms around your middle as he watches you.

A small silver disk threaded on a chain falls into your palm. An iris stamped into the pendant.

“Doran, it’s beautiful. You made this?”

“It is perhaps more crude than a silversmith’s work,” he helps you fasten it around your neck, “but I wanted you to have something to remember my touch in the absence of it.”

You turn towards him such that he can see you in the firelight. Ash on your jaw from where you held him to your neck, perched atop his hips while he ground deep.

Silver pendant hanging just above the valley of your breasts.

“Beautiful,” he smiles, pressing a kiss against your lips, thumbing at the smudge on your chin. “I have always thought there to be something undeniably sensual in the furl of iris petals,” he rumbles, “how fitting for them to be your favorite.”

“Your imagination is swift, Doran.”

“You have not beheld what I have, dearheart,” he pulls you down against the bed linens once more.

Holding you against his heart.

And he is quiet for a long while, fingers running softly over your stomach, nose buried in your hair.

“What of my safety?” He asks.

A plea to keep you here.

“What shall I do?”

“I have no doubt you will find another iris that unfurls for you in the meanwhile,” you hum. Eyes slipping closed.

“There is only one, my love. I shall wait for your return.”

_____

A grand crowd lines the streets as you and the men of your battalion ride towards the village gates the next morning. Full of cheers and blessings.

And you offer the customary wave and nod.

But your heart hammers against chainmail.

Eyes darting through the crowd.

Willing a shock a white to appear.

And as you near the gates he greets you.

Warm brown eyes and a grin of pride. He rushes to push through the crowd as you approach on your mare, eyes never leaving each other.

You slip one foot from your stirrup and he jams one of his into it and stands, briefly.

Long enough to cup the base of your skull and lay a parting kiss against your lips.

You hurriedly pull your red handkerchief from behind your breastplate, pressing it into his palm as he drops away.

Crushing the cloth to his heart as you slip through the gates.

And it will yield the ire of your father and the warm, joyous tears of your mother.

But they matter not.

For you do not return home under your own power.

You return home under a shroud.

Your nurse slips into the night, treading your path with your necklace in hand.

“She was found with her hand over her heart. And this underneath it.”

And the blacksmith.

Wrought with grief.

Is never seen again.

Part III: The Helper. The Protector.

He’s called Ezra in this lifetime.

Brought to this bar by a group of associates keen on celebrating his win in federal court this afternoon.

And he knows it’s an excuse to drink on the firm’s dime.

He was an associate once too.

But they helped draft the brief that saved their client $44 million. A few drinks is a small thanks.

Ezra sticks to the corners, entertaining chatter only when approached. Kindly redirecting the advances of a first year who’s too young to realize flirting with a partner is career suicide.

He’s content tonight to sip his bourbon and observe.

“Okay, but I told you that Bismark case was horseshit and the judge was going to see that!” One associate who is two drinks too deep roars.

“That was so fucking risky, I still can’t believe you put so much weight on that,” another chides.

“Fucking WORKED though!” And the first man spreads his arms wide.

Knocking you into the sip of red wine you were about to take from your seat at the bar.

“Jesus, fuckin’—” you start before taking a deep breath and glancing down at the patch of deep burgundy beginning to spread on your white blouse.

Fuck.

“Boys, boys, this lovely lady didn’t consent to hearing your opinions on bullshit 4th Circuit rulings, okay?” Ezra appears, stretching an arm between you and the men. “Let’s be a little more careful, take it to a booth, yeah?”

“Miss, I apologize on their behalf,” he starts and you take another centering breath because you really are not here for some hotshot lawyer’s apologies. This is your spot, and they’re fucking with your Thursday night nightcap.

But the brown eyes you’re met with are wide and sincere.

And something at the very core of you thrums momentarily with something you can’t name.

“Please, allow me to replace your wine and cover your tab for the night.” He’s already calling the barman over before you can assure him that’s really not necessary because they’ve fucked up your night already and you just want to go home.

“Could you please arrange a fresh glass of wine for this lovely lady, place her tab on the card I gave you, and may I have a shot glass of white wine. I need the white wine as quickly as you can, please. Thanks very much.”

And you’re still staring at those brown eyes.

Bristling and dumbstruck at the same time.

“Ezra,” he holds out a hand in belated introduction, and you offer a firm shake and your name in exchange.

“Sorry, a shot glass of white wine?” You quip as the bartender places it in front of Ezra.

He slips a red pocket square from his jacket and dips a corner into the shot glass.

“Apologies, may I?”

And inexplicably you turn in towards him on your bar stool as he dabs at the stain on your shirt.

Just over your heart.

“White wine will keep the stain from setting,” he proffers.

You crane your neck to the side, trying to settle your focus on cut glass bottles and not the stranger tending to the fine layer of cotton just above your left breast.

He’s gentle though. Respectful in a way you perhaps didn’t anticipate.

He smells of hinoki wood and worn leather.

“Right as rain,” he announces and takes half a step back before offering you the handkerchief. “If you want to hold that there to blot some of the excess.”

“Um, yeah, thank you. Thanks,” you hold the cloth over your heart as the bartender returns with your fresh glass of wine.

Ezra settles on the barstool next to you.

“How…did you know that?”

“About the wine?” He swallows a sip of bourbon. “Must’ve read it at some point and it just stuck.”

“Seems you’re a good man to have around in a crisis then,” you smile and tip your glass in his direction. He gently touches the side of his against it, before tapping the heavy base against the bar and taking another sip.

Everything he does is briefly fascinating.

“I apologize again for these kids,” he reaches into the inside pocket of his jacket, producing a business card which he slides over to you face-down. “You should be all good with that,” he gestures at the handkerchief, “but I insist on you sending me the dry cleaning bill. If I’ve recalled incorrectly and it does stain, I will procure a replacement for you, you have my word.”

“That’s really not necessary,” you start and yet find yourself unable to stop, “and I’m not even sure it’s possible this is vintage—”

“Alexander McQueen, I know.”

You turn all the way towards him on your barstool now.

And his eyes glitter with your fascination as he runs his hand through the patch of white at his hairline.

“What are you reading,” he tips his head to the side as if to glimpse the cover of your book but he doesn’t break your gaze. Cheek dimpled with a half smile.

“Ovid. Metamorphoses.”

“For fun?” There’s a hint of surprise in his voice but it’s far from belittling.

“It’s…” you start before a smile splits your face, “yeah. For fun.”

And he echoes your grin.

“I re-read it for fun last year. I think the passage about Orpheus’ death is my favorite.”

“Fascinating,” you swallow a sip of your tempranillo. “Why that one?”

“Well, I believe it’s a commentary on both the unbridled rage of passion and a testament to the obstinate nature of true love.”

“Obstinate?” You incline your head incredulously. “That’s quite a choice.”

“And yet it holds true, does it not? Orpheus, arguably one of the most talented figures in Greek mythology,” and he’s gesturing broadly now, “able to enchant the very souls of feral beasts and move trees to bend their limbs just to be nearer his music.”

He jabs his finger into the bartop between you, “he moved Hades, both the realm and the deity himself, let’s not forget, correct?”

And you nod, amusement playing across your features.

“The earth and the underworld fell at his feet. And he shunned it all out of love for Eurydice.”

“And so what moral value do you place on obstinacy?” You ask.

“Obstinacy in love is the only way to experience it. To feel it so completely that you forsake everything else. Defy the world. For love. Fidelity to the wife that you betrayed by turning back.” Brown eyes are wide with his conviction.

He adds, “even Shakespeare said let it be virtuous to be obstinate.”

“Okay, in a COMPLETELY DIFFERENT context!” Your turn to erupt now, with arms thrown in the air where you’re met by his wide smile. “You cannot cherry pick that out of Coriolanus choosing to abandon his family out of sheer stubbornness, and frankly, contempt for his own people, to extol the virtues of love! Let it be virtuous to FORSAKE that love, is the whole point of that line.”

And this is the moment.

That Ezra falls in love.

And you’re not far behind.

Time slips from this point on. Patrons file in and out. More wine and whiskey is poured. Associates drunkenly clap him on the back as they make their way home, but none of it registers.

The world spins around the pair of you.

Until finally the bartender insists that he close his tab.

And you both step out onto a city street wet with the aftermath of a brief summer downpour.

“Thank you,” Ezra starts, “for the absolute pleasure of your company.”

He holds a tentative hand out, which you shake with a heartfelt “likewise.”

“Oh, your handkerchief,” you pull it from your pocket and hold it out to him.

“Keep it.” He smiles.

And you both spin on your heels. Proceeding in opposite directions.

But the warp and weft of the red cotton square that you keep rubbing between your fingers forces you to stop in your tracks.

You turn around.

And look back.

Meeting Ezra’s gaze from where he hasn’t moved a step.

He thumbs the corner of his lips, brown eyes locked on yours.

And you both move.

Urgent steps pulled by Fates’ string.

Colliding as you throw your arms around his neck and he locks you against him with biceps around your ribs.

Lips crashing together with the relief of a thousand lifetimes.

Lifetimes that you’ve known each other.

Lifetimes that you’ve lost each other.

And this lifetime. Having found each other again.

Taglist of folks who may be interested, as always, please do let me know if you'd prefer not to be tagged, or if you'd like to be added!

@morallyinept @iamskyereads @tinytinymenace @for-a-longlongtime @legendary-pink-dot

@oliveksmoked @nerdieforpedro @julesonrecord

Subpart headings are the meaning of Ezra's name in that section.

Orpheus' monologue included herein in italics is quoted from David Raeburn's 2004 translation of Ovid's Metamorphoses, published by Penguin Classics. The text of this translation just felt so Ezra that I had to include it in that form. If you'd like to hear it read by Hozier himself, head on over to his instagram circa summer 2020's Poetry Fridays for this and some other wonderful work.

This story references the version of Eurydice's death as precipitated by Aristaeus.

Láir means mare in Irish Gaelic.

"Let it be virtuous to be obstinate" is quoted from Coriolanus by William Shakespeare.

#ezra fanfiction #my mutuals <3 #friday fic recs #i can bring queue in warm

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beskarandblasters · 9 hours

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A Twisted Fantasy

Cooper Howard/The Ghoul x F!Reader

Main Masterlist | Cooper Howard Masterlist

Summary: You masturbate while thinking about your encounter with the Ghoul.

Word count: 750

Warnings: reader refers to him as the Ghoul, reader is able-bodied, Cooper might be a little OOC but fuck it we ball, masturbation, allusions to smut, pet names (sweetheart), light canon typical violence, no use of y/n

Late at night, under the cover of the trees and the night sky, you think about him– the Ghoul.

You don’t know his name. But you don’t need to. All you know is that ever since you saw him weeks ago, you haven’t been able to stop thinking about him. It’s an unfortunate chain of events. You had pissed off the wrong crowd in Filly, owing them bottle caps you most definitely didn’t have.

And for that, a bounty was placed on your head. That’s when the Ghoul came into your life. But only for a fleeting moment.

You were walking the streets after dark, already a bad idea. A hand enclosed around your wrist as you were dragged into a dark alley, followed by the barrel of a gun pressed against the back of your head.

“It’ll all be over real soon, sweetheart. Be a lot easier if you didn’t resist either.”

“Please no-” you started to beg.

“I’ll have you know.. they didn’t care if you were brought in dead or alive.”

“Sir, please. I don’t have any bottle caps. I can’t-”

He spun you around you were facing him. His appearance didn’t scare you. You had encountered Ghouls before. But he was different.

He had a voice so sultry it made you melt, knees buckling underneath you. The brim of his hat hung low, covering his eyes. You were backed up against a wall, cool metal chilling your burning skin. A weird mixture of fear for what’s come and arousal coursed through your body. His gun moved to your temple while his other hand pinned your hands above your head. Fuck.

Tears welled up on your lash line, threatening to spill over. It wasn’t long before they finally rolled down your cheeks in an unstoppable flow.

“Please, sir. I don’t have anything.”

“Nothin’?” he asked, his eyes finally meeting yours as he cocked his head to the side.

You shook your head no, crying harder at the feeling of his gun against your head.

He looked conflicted, eyes betraying the words he was saying.

“Look, sweetheart… A job’s a job.”

You cried and stuck out your lip, hoping and praying for a shred of mercy. You’re a crying, pathetic mess and maybe he’ll sense that. He sighed and cursed under his breath, looking away from you and at the ground instead.

“I suppose I could say you ran off… That I need to track you down again…”

“Really?” you asked, your face lighting up.

“Maybe but only if you do exactly as I say.”

“Anything,” you nodded as he lowered his gun.

“Run as far as you can away from here,” he said, letting go of your hands.

You waited for further instructions but he shouted, “I said run!” shooing you off. “Unless you want me to change my mind.”

“No, sir!” you squeaked, running as fast as you could out of Filly.

You were thankful he spared your life but for some reason, you couldn’t get him out of your head. You replayed every time he called you sweetheart in your mind. It didn’t help that he looked just like a fucking cowboy, accent and all.

And now here you are, fingers deep in your cunt, thinking about the Ghoul. You wish he were here right now, watching you please yourself. Or better yet… you wish he were making you feel good instead.

You imagine he’d talk you through it, praising you for being such a good girl, telling you how good you take his fingers or his cock. You think about his pleasure and how long it’s probably been since he felt any. You’d take care of that for him, making him curse under his breath like he did that one night in the alley. You’d do anything he wanted if it meant he’d call you sweetheart again.

God, how twisted is this? You’re fantasizing about a mutant who had the power to take your life right there and then. But that adds to the allure, to the fantasy. You’d pretend to be his bounty any day of the week, letting him whisper in your ear as he fills you up.

Before you know it, you cum around your fingers. Waves of pleasure rush through your body as you bite your lip to muffle your moans. The disappointment of the situation settling in now. The Ghoul’s not here and you’re alone. You roll over and sigh, silently hoping that maybe, just maybe, you’ll cross paths again one day.

Fic notifs: @beskarandblastersfics

Dividers: @saradika-graphics

#timezone reblog

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beskarandblasters · 10 hours

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Hehe I’m glad I concerted you Pammy 🤍🤍

A Twisted Fantasy

Cooper Howard/The Ghoul x F!Reader

Main Masterlist | Cooper Howard Masterlist

Summary: You masturbate while thinking about your encounter with the Ghoul.

Word count: 750

Late at night, under the cover of the trees and the night sky, you think about him– the Ghoul.

And for that, a bounty was placed on your head. That’s when the Ghoul came into your life. But only for a fleeting moment.

“It’ll all be over real soon, sweetheart. Be a lot easier if you didn’t resist either.”

“Please no-” you started to beg.

“I’ll have you know.. they didn’t care if you were brought in dead or alive.”

“Sir, please. I don’t have any bottle caps. I can’t-”

He spun you around you were facing him. His appearance didn’t scare you. You had encountered Ghouls before. But he was different.

Tears welled up on your lash line, threatening to spill over. It wasn’t long before they finally rolled down your cheeks in an unstoppable flow.

“Please, sir. I don’t have anything.”

“Nothin’?” he asked, his eyes finally meeting yours as he cocked his head to the side.

You shook your head no, crying harder at the feeling of his gun against your head.

He looked conflicted, eyes betraying the words he was saying.

“Look, sweetheart… A job’s a job.”

“I suppose I could say you ran off… That I need to track you down again…”

“Really?” you asked, your face lighting up.

“Maybe but only if you do exactly as I say.”

“Anything,” you nodded as he lowered his gun.

“Run as far as you can away from here,” he said, letting go of your hands.

You waited for further instructions but he shouted, “I said run!” shooing you off. “Unless you want me to change my mind.”

“No, sir!” you squeaked, running as fast as you could out of Filly.

Fic notifs: @beskarandblastersfics

Dividers: @saradika-graphics

#comment reblog #my mutuals <3

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beskarandblasters · 10 hours

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Down Bad - A Joel Miller Drabble

Rating: Explicit. 18+ (Minors DNI) Pairing: Pre Outbreak Joel Miller x Female Reader Word Count: 800 Summary: You get ghosted after a one night stand with your handsome neighbor. Warnings: Drinking, smut remembrance, angst. A/N: Happy Tortured Poets Department release day! Thank you to @beskarandblasters for the amazing Taylor Swift Drabble Challenge AGAIN. I previously wrote Paper Rings for it. TBH, I stayed up until 3:30 AM listening to TTPD last night with @ohheypedrito and your girl is STRUGGLING TODAY, but well worth it. What an album.

One night out with your friends, one shared glance, one half smile, one opportunity, one drink bought, one phone number drunkenly tapped into his phone.

One date, one heated make out session in his truck, one moment of being heaven struck, one naked body left alone in your bed as he quietly leaves without a word.

One text telling him you had a good time, one week since you’ve heard from him, countless hours of yearning for your neighbor.

Across the street and two houses to the left, Joel Miller lives. Well manicured lawn, cute daughter who goes door to door selling Girl Scout cookies, large truck parked out the front dinged and well used.

You’ve been down bad for him since you first moved in, a quick introductory hello and wave one early morning as you took your dog for a walk, how could you be so attracted to a total stranger?

That stranger ignoring you from that moment on, leaving you feeling nuts. Sometimes you’d take your dog for a walk when you’d notice him mowing the lawn, sneaking a glance under your sunglasses, watching the sweat make his skin glisten. Teenage crush vibes, teenage petulance coming out because you can’t have him or his attention.

You never see him with another woman there, only his loud, precocious brother Tommy who stops to talk with you whenever you’re outside. You know he likes you, but you’re too drawn to his older brother’s beam to even want to lead him on.

That night shared between the two of you, it almost feels like an evil experiment. He fucked you, fucked you hard, stared into your eyes as he came all over you, devoured your cunt as if he was starving, made you cum so hard it felt like you were floating in a cosmic cloud of sparks, then he left you naked and alone. He owned your body, like it was some sort of hostile takeover.

You’re barely even sure it happened, like if you speak about the existence of that night, everybody will tell you it never happened, that you’re nuts.

Why did he leave you like that? Why did he strand you the way he did? Why can’t you have him? Why cant you have an us?

Doesn’t he know what you would do for his attention? How you feel like you could just die when you think back to that night? You’re pathetic for him, isn’t it romantic?

You replay the words he uttered against your skin as he fucked you. “You feel so fucking good, like you were made for me.”

The taste of your sweat against your lips makes you almost want to cry as you try to run the thoughts of him away on the treadmill at the gym. The last time you sweat like this his cock was stretching you, his hand holding your cheek, his tongue languidly licking into your mouth.

——

After a night of staring at the ceiling, sleep not visiting you, tossing and turning not being able to get the thought of the weight of his body against yours, you decide to sit out on your porch with coffee in hand, staring at the sky as dawn approaches. A door slamming across the street startles you. He’s outside. This is it, you live in the same old familiar town, he can’t escape you, you can’t escape him. You trudge across the street, only clad in your shorts and your old Rangers shirt. You wave at him to get his attention as he finishes lifting his tool box onto his lift gate.

You see him swallow as you stand at the edge of his driveway.

“G’morning,” he nods. “Quite early.”

“It is. Could’t sleep.”

“Happens to me too.”

“Mm,” you tap your foot, arms folded across your chest. “Did I do something wrong?”

“No, not at all.”

“Then why are you ignoring me?”

“S’complicated.”

“Try me, it’d make no difference.”

“Alright,” he runs a hand through his hair, “you’re too good. I don’t think it’s smart… for me to be with someone right now. Too much going on, ’n it’s safer if we just leave it at that. It’s better for you.”

“So, you fuck me, whisper all those sweet things in my ear, make me feel like I’m the chosen one, then just leave? How romantic Joel.”

“Never said I was the romantic type.”

“No, you’re just the fuck ‘em and strand ‘em. I guess.”

“Listen,” he looks down at his watch, “I gotta get goin’, got an important job to start. I really would like to talk more, I respect you too much ’n I really like you, I just think it’s better if you find someone else.”

“Right, well, see you around neighbor,” you bite.

Fuck it, you can’t have him.

#joel miller fanfiction #ts drabble challenge #my mutuals <3 #friday fic recs #i can bring queue in warm

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beskarandblasters · 12 hours

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— fallout dividers

[Free] Masterlist Headers & Dividers!

Please consider liking or reblogging if you use 💕

#oh fuck yeah #perfect timing j!!#dividers

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beskarandblasters · 12 hours

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A Twisted Fantasy

Cooper Howard/The Ghoul x F!Reader

Main Masterlist | Cooper Howard Masterlist

Summary: You masturbate while thinking about your encounter with the Ghoul.

Word count: 750

Late at night, under the cover of the trees and the night sky, you think about him– the Ghoul.

And for that, a bounty was placed on your head. That’s when the Ghoul came into your life. But only for a fleeting moment.

“It’ll all be over real soon, sweetheart. Be a lot easier if you didn’t resist either.”

“Please no-” you started to beg.

“I’ll have you know.. they didn’t care if you were brought in dead or alive.”

“Sir, please. I don’t have any bottle caps. I can’t-”

He spun you around you were facing him. His appearance didn’t scare you. You had encountered Ghouls before. But he was different.

Tears welled up on your lash line, threatening to spill over. It wasn’t long before they finally rolled down your cheeks in an unstoppable flow.

“Please, sir. I don’t have anything.”

“Nothin’?” he asked, his eyes finally meeting yours as he cocked his head to the side.

You shook your head no, crying harder at the feeling of his gun against your head.

He looked conflicted, eyes betraying the words he was saying.

“Look, sweetheart… A job’s a job.”

“I suppose I could say you ran off… That I need to track you down again…”

“Really?” you asked, your face lighting up.

“Maybe but only if you do exactly as I say.”

“Anything,” you nodded as he lowered his gun.

“Run as far as you can away from here,” he said, letting go of your hands.

You waited for further instructions but he shouted, “I said run!” shooing you off. “Unless you want me to change my mind.”

“No, sir!” you squeaked, running as fast as you could out of Filly.

Fic notifs: @beskarandblastersfics

Dividers: @saradika-graphics

#timezone reblog

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beskarandblasters · 13 hours

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POV: you just told Din Djarin that you think droids are cool

#BYE??????#din djarin #the mandalorian

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beskarandblasters · 13 hours

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Thank you so much!! 🥰🤍

You done?

Brat Tamer!Din Djarin x F!Reader

Main Masterlist | Din Djarin Masterlist

Author’s note: Inspired by the gif below 🥵🫠 (I couldn’t find who is the gif creator is, so if that person is you or someone you know please let me know and I’ll happily give credit where it’s due🤍)

Summary: You’re being a brat and bitching at Din. He decides to punish you.

Word count: 1.2k

Warnings: reader is able-bodied, canon divergent (long live the Razor Crest), brat taming, blindfolds, helmet comes off, spitting, fingering, oral sex (F receiving), vaginal sex, creampie, praising, pet names (pretty girl, cyar’ika), sir kink, no use of y/n

“You done?” Din asks, sitting and watching you pace back and forth in the storage area of the Crest. There’s a hint of amusement in his voice. He’s enjoying watching you bitch at him. You don’t even know what you’re bitching about anymore, probably something about what Din did or didn’t do. Something about tripping over his blaster he left on the floor and laughing when you stubbed your toe…

“Not even close.”

“Mhm,” he says, stifling a chuckle. He’s sitting with his thighs spread wide open in a full man-spread, leaning back against the wall of the Crest. He would be so attractive if he wasn’t so irritating right now.

“What’s so funny?” you ask, stopping dead in your tracks and folding your arms.

“Nothing,” he says. He’s definitely smirking under that helmet.

“No, tell me,” you press.

“Just waiting for you to shut up,” he chuckles.

“Make me,” you reply. It’s your turn to wear a sly grin now.

“Don’t have to tell me twice,” he says, rising from the crate he was sitting on and sauntering over to you.

He pushes you up against the wall, grabbing your hands and pinning them above your head. He brings his helmet beside your ear, talking to you in a low, gravelly tone.

“What happens when you act like a brat?”

“…I get punished.”

“That’s right, cyar’ika.”

You gulp and he chuckles, moving one of his hands on your inner thigh and feeling you shudder at his touch.

“Strip and wait for me in the bunk,” he commands.

He releases your hands and you do as you’re told, removing your clothes and sitting on the cot's edge. You hear him rifling through one of the shelves. You know exactly what he’s looking for; the blindfold.

Din doesn’t normally use the blindfold. He understands all too well having some sort of barrier on your head, depriving you of your senses. He only busts out the blindfold when you’re being a bad girl.

He returns with the silky black fabric in his hands, leaning against the doorframe in the bunk.

“Time for your punishment,” he says, walking towards you and crouching down in front of the cot to meet your eye level.

You let out a groan as he begins to wrap the blindfold around your head, prompting him to stop and ask, “Are you complaining?”

“No!” you say quickly.

“That’s what I thought.”

The blindfold is secured around your head. You can’t see a thing, relying on your other senses. Goosebumps prick your skin in anticipation of his touch. You hear his gloves hitting the floor and his hands pressing you down lightly onto the cot. His warm skin against you sets your nerves aflame, already shuddering in desire and need for him.

“Patience, cyar’ika,” he reminds you.

You hear the hiss of his modulator and kriff, he’s taking his helmet off. This is so unfair.

Another groan escapes your lips and all of a sudden his face is hovering over yours.

“What did I say?”

You don’t respond, only uttering a bratty wine.

“I think you need to be punished even more now,” he tuts, pulling back and sitting on the edge of the cot by your thighs.

“What?? No, I’ll be good. I swear!”

“Too late,” he teases.

He spreads your thighs apart, his face inches away from your cunt. His breath sends a shiver up your spine as he watches how wet you’re getting already.

“So wet. So ready for me,” he says, swiping two fingers up and down your entrance.

You whine again, aching for more of his touch, more stimulation.

“You don’t get to cum without my permission. Got it?”

“Fine,” you pout.

“Do better,” he commands.

“Yes.”

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, sir,” you whine.

“Good girl,” he praises.

His words make you melt. He moistens his fingers with his mouth, sliding one inside you slowly. He takes his time curling his singular digit against your walls, feeling how wet you are for him; how bad you want him already. He pushes up against your g-spot, eliciting a moan from you.

“You want more, don’t you, pretty girl?”

“Please, sir,” you whine.

“Beg.”

“Please, sir, I can’t take it anymore. I’ll be a good girl, I swear!”

“Fine,” he sighs, faux annoyance in his voice, “Since you asked nicely.”

He inserts another finger, working your cunt closer and closer to the edge of orgasm. He’s talented with his fingers and it makes sense, being that he could never really eat a girl out, until you.

Just when you think you can’t hold on any longer you ask, “Can I cum please?”

“Not yet.”

“I can’t hold on much longer,” you whine.

“I said not yet,” he reminds you.

But it’s a good thing he made you wait, because he brings his tongue to your clit, making swirls around it as he fingers you.

“Sir, please. I can’t-”

He cuts you off with a hum of approval against your clit. Your hands reach down between your legs and grasp his hair, tugging on his curls while you cum against his face. Your cunt flutters around his fingers as the pleasure built up in your core spreads outwards, infecting your limbs with waves of euphoria.

He pulls away once you’re done, wasting no time to be inside you already. He pulls his cock out of his flight suit and gives it a few strokes, before settling in between your thighs and entering you in one clean motion, without any warning.

“Din… Ah!” you gasp in surprise.

“You can take it,” he commands in a husky voice, drawing his hips back and slamming into you.

You nod and that’s when he grabs your chin, keeping your face steady and fixed on him. You’d give anything in the galaxy to rip this blindfold off already.

“Open,” he says with a squeeze on your chin.

You open your mouth and he leans down, his mouth hovering over yours. He spits in your mouth, closing it shut with his hand.

“Good girl,” he praises, kissing you passionately while picking up the pace and slamming into you unforgivingly.

You moan against his lips and he pulls back to ask, “Pretty girl gonna cum already?”

“C-Can I?” you ask with a shaky breath.

“Are you gonna keep acting like a brat?”

“No, sir.”

“Cum on my cock,” he commands again, finishing his command with a slam of his hips.

You cum around his cock, walls fluttering and pulsating around him. Your orgasm pulls his own from him, painting your insides with his cum. He lets out a mangled, unmodulated groan as he finishes, a rare sound for you but nevertheless a treat every time.

He pulls out of you and lays down next to you on the cot. You hear his modulator hiss as his helmet is replaced on his head followed by his hands undoing your blindfold.

“I really am sorry about your toe,” he says with a chuckle.

“It’s okay,” you laugh, looking over at him, “But I am gonna act like a brat again.”

“That was always a given.”

Follow @beskarandblastersfics and turn on post notifications to be notified when I post a new fic!

#comment reblog #my mutuals <3

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beskarandblasters · 15 hours

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A Twisted Fantasy

Cooper Howard/The Ghoul x F!Reader

Main Masterlist | Cooper Howard Masterlist

Summary: You masturbate while thinking about your encounter with the Ghoul.

Word count: 750

Late at night, under the cover of the trees and the night sky, you think about him– the Ghoul.

And for that, a bounty was placed on your head. That’s when the Ghoul came into your life. But only for a fleeting moment.

“It’ll all be over real soon, sweetheart. Be a lot easier if you didn’t resist either.”

“Please no-” you started to beg.

“I’ll have you know.. they didn’t care if you were brought in dead or alive.”

“Sir, please. I don’t have any bottle caps. I can’t-”

He spun you around you were facing him. His appearance didn’t scare you. You had encountered Ghouls before. But he was different.

Tears welled up on your lash line, threatening to spill over. It wasn’t long before they finally rolled down your cheeks in an unstoppable flow.

“Please, sir. I don’t have anything.”

“Nothin’?” he asked, his eyes finally meeting yours as he cocked his head to the side.

You shook your head no, crying harder at the feeling of his gun against your head.

He looked conflicted, eyes betraying the words he was saying.

“Look, sweetheart… A job’s a job.”

“I suppose I could say you ran off… That I need to track you down again…”

“Really?” you asked, your face lighting up.

“Maybe but only if you do exactly as I say.”

“Anything,” you nodded as he lowered his gun.

“Run as far as you can away from here,” he said, letting go of your hands.

You waited for further instructions but he shouted, “I said run!” shooing you off. “Unless you want me to change my mind.”

“No, sir!” you squeaked, running as fast as you could out of Filly.

Fic notifs: @beskarandblastersfics

Dividers: @saradika-graphics

#the ghoul x reader #the ghoul x you #the ghoul smut #cooper howard smut #cooper howard fanfiction #cooper howard x you #cooper howard x reader #cooper howard x fem!reader #the ghoul fanfiction #fallout fanfiction #fallout

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beskarandblasters · 16 hours

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Nicest Thing Part 2: Our Feelings Prey Upon Us

Neighbour!Joel x f!reader

Rating: Fluff, innit (but my whole blog is 18+ only pls)

Summary: We are strong, independent people who don't need to be rescued by a man... but if that man is Joel Miller? Exceptions can be made.

Word count: 1,732

Content: Description of a panic attack, fear of driving, rom-com style fluff, Joel Miller AU but no ages mentioned (everyone is over 18 but they can be whatever you would wish), big swears, bad boyfriend mentioned, minimal descriptions of reader. Always Fleabag coded.

Part of the Nicest Thing masterlist mini series / Part 1 / Part 3 - coming soon

A/N: Thank you so much to everyone who read and engaged with Part 1, I am honestly overwhelmed by the amazing way you've taken these two into your hearts 🖤 So, what's in store today? More longing, more angst, more Joel Miller being all competent and, oh, so Joel like. I hope you enjoy, Part 3 will bring more gratuitous Austen references for those in need.

Reminder: You're staying with your uncle this summer and your friendship with his unreasonably hot neighbour, Joel Miller, is growing. Only one small hitch, the long-term boyfriend waiting for you back at home.

Thank you to @katareyoudrilling for being my original Austen inspiration, and to @pascalssbabyy @luxurychristmaspudding and @toomanytookas for being such fabulous friends.

Our Feelings Prey Upon Us

You stare down your uncle’s seemingly giant truck as if by sheer force of will, you can make it magically smaller. Your hands are actually sweating. You drag them against the denim of your jeans and continue scowling at the bastard truck.

Your uncle had tried repeatedly to get you to practise driving before he went away for the weekend, but you chose instead to stick your head firmly in the stand and pretend it would be totally fine. Wallow in the delusion that you were going to wake up this morning and have transformed into an entirely different person. One that loved driving and didn’t feel physically sick at the idea of even climbing up into the cab, let alone turning on the ignition. Or keeping this beast on the road. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

You eventually pull yourself up into the driver’s seat, clicking the seatbelt solidly into place with trembling fingers.

The silence around you begins to sound really fucking loud, a dizzying sensation that’s growing in your head and swirling down around your chest. Is this what the start of a panic attack feels like? You try to take a deep breath, rest your head on the steering wheel for a moment. Oh, for fuck’s sake, you can feel actual tears welling up, pricking at your eyes. You can hear your boyfriend’s voice in your head, ‘pathetic’.

Everything contracts, there’s a ringing in your ears, and you know before you know exactly what you’re going to do. You sigh to yourself, steady your shaking limbs and swing your legs back out of the door again.

Joel opens his front door almost before you’ve finished knocking.

So broad, so handsome in his charming scruffy, bedhead way. His mouth opens slightly as he pulls a hand down his face and over that enchantingly patchy beard, waiting for you to speak.

You attempt to plaster on a fake smile, ready yourself with a cool, insouciant ‘hey stranger’ but a mess of sobs escapes your chest, and a strangled, “I can’t drive the damn truck.” jolts out. Fuck’s sake.

The absolute worst thing that someone can do for you when you’re getting yourself into a state? Be kind to you. Absolutely fucking not.

Which is why, of course, Joel doesn’t hesitate to take you in his strong arms, wrap you close to his flanneled chest and plant a firm kiss on the top of your head. It would be sweet if you weren’t about to snot all over him. He smells like absolute fucking heaven.

“Hey, hey, what’s going on here? Why are we cryin’?”

“You can’t be nice to me Joel,” you hiccup out, “it makes it worse. I need you to be mean to me… please?”

“I’ll see what I can do sweetheart.” He pulls back for a second, just a second, gives you a wicked grin and then holds you close again. Part of you knows it’s probably a little bit of an excuse to have your skin touching his, the heat of you both pressed together, but it is comforting. You do feel better. Although, admittedly, now you’re a bit horny and stressed.

And ‘sweetheart’? That’s new, that’s delicious. You’ll take that.

You can feel your heart rate slowly return to normal. You push down those last tears and take a deep gulp, inhaling as much of Joel Miller as you possibly can. You look up at those deep, brown eyes, and their warmth on you has the same effect as the physical hug of his arms around you; calming, yet still making your lips tingle with an unspoken anticipation.

“I would just like to be able to drive and get some groceries. Could… could you come with me? Make sure I don’t kill myself or anyone else?”

“Sure thing, I’ll hold your hand and talk you through it if you’d like?” The devilish grin that sits on Joel’s mischievous face reaches his eyes with a glint of something so playful you can’t help but smile back, forgetting to breathe.

You push back against his chest, pleasingly hard against your flat palm, rolling your eyes at him, “Let’s just try and make it out alive, shall we?”

You’re not sure exactly how you’re going to be able to concentrate on keeping the truck going straight and functioning as a human being around Joel Miller.

He leads the way, ever the gentleman, pulling the driver’s door open and helping you climb up. You do everything painfully slowly, taking unnecessarily loud, deep breaths every few seconds. That dizzy feeling is creeping back as you put the truck into drive, but you look to Joel and the warmth of his smile makes you feel determined to try.

You’re going so slowly, the car behind you quickly overtakes and you’re relieved to see there’s no one else behind you. You can drive at your own pace and not fret about pissing anyone off.

You glance over at Joel. He’s calm, giving you a reassuring nod with a, “Doing good sweetheart.” that makes you grin despite yourself.

“You have to talk to me otherwise I’ll freak out. You can’t sit in silence or I’ll drive us off the road.” You’re not being funny, you really mean it, you’re sure Joel can tell by the hard edge in your voice.

He raises his hands up in mock defeat, “Ok, ok, what do you want to know?”

“Anything!” You know you sound slightly hysterical, but now is not the time to try and be alluring. Joel is getting a real insight into the clash of personalities that live inside you. He’s met the cool, considered, flirty you, now he’s getting a fast track to anxious, hesitant, slightly unhinged you. Lucky Joel.

So, he talks, this normally quiet, reticent man talks about anything and everything. His younger brother Tommy, growing up in Austin and only very rarely leaving the state, the construction job he hated but made his own by becoming the boss, how he used to play guitar. His voice is so soothing and before you know it, you’re at the store and contemplating which space to park in.

“Tell me exactly what to do.” You bark at him, panic instantly rising at the idea of trying to reverse what suddenly again feels like the biggest truck in the world. You swear, you swear you see him smirk at that, rearranging himself slightly, confident arm coming up around the back of your headrest as he looks behind, leaning into you. It’s doing something a bit unholy to you.

“If you insist, sweetheart.” Fuck, it’s hard to focus when can you feel the heat rising up from your belly.

Joel guides you in, giving clear instructions, not mocking you, watching your serious concentration face with brows knitted together and tongue poking out a tiny bit. You slam the truck in park and exhale a deep sigh of relief.

“Perfect darlin’, absolutely fucking perfect.” You let the praise wash over you and give your legs a little shake, trying to relieve some of the tension by squeezing your thighs together.

“Language.” You admonish him, but really you love hearing him curse. It sounds so good in his Southern drawl, makes you want to bite your lip and raise your brows at him coquettishly.

You mutter, “What the hell….” then shout a loud, “Fuck! That was stressful! Thank you.”

Joel laughs, deep and long, and you realise you want to make him laugh like that all the time. His head is still leant in close to you, if you moved just the tiniest bit, your nose would brush against his. You both pause. There’s almost a crackle in the air as you look into each other’s eyes. It would be so, so easy to reach into his hair, pull at those curls, bring his lips to your own.

A little flash of something hits your consciousness like an electric shock. Boyfriend. This is not your boyfriend. Clearly not, no chastising has taken place, no ‘Jesus Christ get a grip’ or ‘you need to be better at this’. Sometimes you’re so deep in something, it’s difficult to see how things could be different, until it’s literally staring you in the face.

You break this heady gaze with Joel, shake your hands out to try and dispel some of this fizzing energy, “Let me cook you dinner this evening, as a thank you?”

He laughs, “Sure… you know, I didn’t doubt you for a moment, sweetheart. You gotta learn to trust yourself more.”

He pulls back slightly, giving you a warm smile and nodding his approval, head against the seat but still studying you like he might be tested later. Full marks for Joel Miller in your opinion.

Has walking round a grocery store ever felt more magical than right now? It’s that same strange contradiction you’ve felt since you met Joel, so comfortable but also with a buzz in your chest, always a giggle on the tip of your tongue and an itch in your fingers to feel his skin under yours.

How anyone can look so handsome in a dark green flannel under fluorescent lighting is a mystery to you, but you keep stealing glances and purposefully brushing your hands against his as you add in more items to the shopping basket. He’s always so warm, the opposite of your permanently icy skin. You wish you could sneak your hand into his.

“Baby, your teeth are going to rot out of your head if you keep adding all this junk in.” He’s laughing as you add in a box of Captain Crunch. “Or you’ll get scurvy.”

“Shh now, I’ve got a very sweet tooth.” You’re not really listening… Baby, baby, baby replaying in your head as you try it on for size. Feels good.

Sweetheart, baby. You want to be all those things for him, want to wander round supermarkets forever with him.

Joel offers to drive the truck back home and it takes everything in your power not to kiss him right there and then. Back in your rightful place as passenger princess, you settle for placing your hand over his, bestowing a grateful squeeze at not having to drive again quite so soon.

“Hey, maybe you could read to me for a bit while I’m cooking? I can continue your Austen education?”

“Baby, I’d like that very much. Seems like I’ve got a lot to learn from you.”

It feels like a promise.

Part of the Nicest Thing masterlist mini series / Part 1 / Part 3 - coming soon

Note: All images from pinterest. Dividers by @saradika/@saradika-graphics

Tagging in some Joel fans, let me know if you want to be added in/taken off:

@missladym1981 @jessthebaker @yxtkiwiyxt @rizzraa @bitchwitch1981

@axshadows @holacia3 @ghotifishreads @wannab-urs @burntheedges

@mysterious-moonstruck-musings @undercoverpena @5oh5 @bitchesuntitled @futuraa-free

@sawymredfox @sin-djarin @survivingandenduring @indiegirlunited @janaispunk

@tuquoquebrute @danaispunk @mothandpidgeon @morallyinept @freelancearsonist

@chronically-ghosted @sp00kymulderr @secretelephanttattoo @fhatbhabie @beskarandblasters

@yesjazzywazzylove-blog @windsweptarmadillo @mierac

@ashleyfilm @pedroswife69 @kirsteng42 @loquaciousferret @nerdieforpedro

#joel miller fanfiction #friday fic recs #my mutuals <3 #i can bring queue in warm

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beskarandblasters · 17 hours

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Nicest Thing Part 1: The Kindness of Strangers - A Joel Miller story for ALL OF YOU

Neighbour!Joel x f!reader

Rating: Fluff, fluff, fluffiest fluff, gratuitous Jane Austen references

Summary: Let's fall madly in love with neighbour!Joel

Word count: 1,437 words

Edit// now Part 1 of the Nicest Thing Joel Miller Mini Series - Masterlist here / Part 2 - / Part 3 coming soon

Content: Rom-com style fluff, Joel Miller AU but no ages mentioned (everyone is over 18 but they can be whatever you would wish), bit of alcohol reference, big swears, bad boyfriend mentioned, minimal descriptions of reader but just so you know, she is of course wearing A SUNDRESS even if I don't mention it. Always Fleabag coded.

A/N: I wanted to do a little something something for the @swiftiscruff friendship exchange, for all of those wonderful tumblr peeps out there who have been so kind to me, have read or shared my stories, or filled my dash with the most incredible fics of smut, angst and pure, delicious fluff. Thank you so much for being so welcoming and so utterly, utterly brilliant. You have all (honourable mention to Pedro of course for being the most delicious muse) made my life so much richer and I'm genuinely a happier person writing again and reading all your *amazing* fics.

This is also specially dedicated to @katareyoudrilling as she has been such a wonderful, supportive and fun friend to me on here and I know her love for Austen runs deep. I hope you enjoy my dear friend!

So what did I do?! WELL it's PURE JOEL MILLER FLUFF PALS! I wrote the original of this when I first starting thinking about writing again (5 whole months ago now) and I gave her a little glow up for you. It's not been beta'd so there will be mistakes, soz.

Note: All images from pinterest. Dividers by @saradika/@saradika-graphics

THE KINDNESS OF STRANGERS

You’ve been in Texas for a few days now and your Uncle has invited some of his ‘younger’ neighbours round for dinner and somehow, you’ve found yourself sitting outside on the porch next to Joel Miller. It happened so easily, you’re not even sure if you’d spoken to each other, a mutual understanding sliding between the two of you that led to being sat in companionable silence, watching the sun go down.

You let your eyes linger on this man, with a face so handsome it’s making you feel dizzy. The darkest, softest eyes, with the most disarming half grin aimed at you, you have to turn away before you start running your hands through that unkept hair, the hint of a natural curl feels like it’s begging to be smoothed by your fingers. You might need to resort to sitting on your hands. Jesus Christ. He’s making a heat rise to your cheeks just by looking at you. What a fucking look though.

You swallow thickly, try to regain some composure, “My Uncle is attempting to teach me how to drink red wine, so I can finally be a proper grown-up. Got to conquer that and then olives next.” You take a small sip, it tastes better already.

Joel nods at you simply and gestures for you to share a taste, his tongue running down the seam of his lip. Instead of handing the glass over, you realise you’re holding it to his now glistening pout and tipping gently, not breaking eye contact as you dare not breath.

Hot. God, it’s so hot.

It’s beyond intimate, you can feel your pulse thrumming in your ears as you watch a tiny bit of red wine escape from his lips onto his scruff. You have to physically stop yourself reaching over and licking it right off him. Jesus wept. He pulls a lazy hand across his chin to wipe the drip away, shaking his head appreciatively as you sit almost dumbstruck.

“S’good.”

You take another sip, exactly where his lips have just been and let your tongue brush against the warmth he’s left on the glass, certain he’s watching your every move under hooded, darkening eyes.

There’s a wave of energy cascading through you; both a heat and a coolness that’s leaving you a mess of contradictions. It feels intoxicating. Yet, weirdly comfortable, like you could just climb up onto his lap and it would be the most natural thing in the world. You don’t obviously. Obviously? Obviously.

How is it possible to feel this much chemistry with someone? An almost stranger you’ve barely met? Is this how other people feel about their crushes? Is it, in fact, normal? Are you the odd one for being slightly detached from the boys you’ve dated before, almost like it was happening to someone else?

You’ve never felt like this before, nostalgic for something as it’s happening; snapshots of sensations becoming a scrapbook you know you’ll keep revisiting forever. The feeling of the sun warm on your skin, the deep taste of the wine, the intensity of Joel’s gaze.

He clears his throat, looking down at the beer bottle in his hands and you bristle, preparing to hear something you don’t want to. “I know you’ve got a boyfriend… but, I’m trying to find the right words. This feels good. We feel good together.

Words are getting stuck, you sort of choke out, “I know.”

It’s making you dizzy again. It physically aches to look at him. You’re sitting as close as two people can be without actually touching, an energy vibrating in the space between you and what feels like a high-pitched scream in your head every time Joel moves to take a drink of his beer and his thick thigh brushes against yours. You hope he can’t see it playing out across your face and you let out a little sigh, which he misinterprets for sadness.

“You finding this hard? I don’t want to mess anything up for you.”

You shake your head slowly, “My boyfriend, he’s very controlled… when everything is on his agenda it’s fine, but he can’t deal with things that aren’t exactly as planned. I spend a lot of time trying to fit myself around him and I’m thinking… maybe I shouldn’t be ok with that. Maybe I should want more.”

Joel nods, lets you talk, and he’s listening, really listening. You continue nervously, “I get this feeling in the pit of my stomach when I’m around him that I thought was butterflies, but now… now I’m thinking it didn’t feel good.”

You don’t say it’s because now you know what those butterflies people talk about actually feel like.

“It felt bad. Like, anxiety. I wasn’t excited to be around him, I think I was nervous.” You sit with it for a moment, “Thanks for listening to me.”

A warm smile passes between you both, Joel shrugs those heavenly broad shoulders, “I’m not one to tell anyone how to live their life, but… this boyfriend sounds like kind of an asshole?”

He looks so genuinely bemused, you laugh instantly, and it’s funny because it’s true. Stupidly true.

“Yeah maybe, but then maybe I deserve him?” You scrunch your face up, you’re thinking of how you’re sitting here talking shit about your boyfriend with a man who you desperately want to touch you, desperately want to kiss your idiot boyfriend’s name right out of your mouth.

“Can’t imagine that for a minute darlin’. Might not be as innocent as you look, but that’s something else entirely.” He smirks at you, brings his beer bottle up to cheers your glass. A wolfish grin slips your way and you feel a guilty smile tug at your lips.

“What you reading?” He drops his shoulder, gently bumps against you, raises an eyebrow at the book propped up next to you, cover curled from so many re-reads.

“Oh. My favourite Jane Austen, Persuasion. They make you read Austen any in school?”

“I didn’t do much reading of anything in school… too busy chasing girls and listening to music.”

You tilt your head at him, “Steinbeck or nothing kind of guy, ey?”

“Somethin’ like that…” He lets out a low chuckle, “Nah, I liked the plays, really. Always enjoyed a bit of Tennessee Williams.”

“Fuck’s sake Joel, stop trying to break my heart on purpose.”

“What? Marlon Brando in Streetcar had a profound effect on a young man who was trying to get laid.”

“I bet he did, I bet he did. He had quite the ‘profound’ effect on me and my friends too.”

You can’t help but think Joel would look pretty damn fine in a dirty white tank top and Baker Boy hat.

“Ever get you laid?” He leans in, a mischievous hand curling around your jaw and you push against him with the flat of your palm playfully, enjoying the sensation of him so close to you and the delicious teasing.

“Not in front of Austen please… I’ll read some to you if you’d like?”

“I’d like that.”

That’s how you end up with his head in your lap, divine almost curls in reach as he looks up at you and you flick through the book to get to your favourite bit. Your left hand has fallen on his chest, so warm against your skin even through his soft grey t-shirt. It is soothing, the gentle feel of his breath against you, the rise and fall of his chest hypnotic. Fucking hell.

You’re putting on your best Captain Wentworth voice; “I can listen no longer in silence. I must speak to you by such means as are within my reach. You pierce my soul. I am half agony, half hope. Tell me not that I am too late, that such precious feelings are gone forever. I offer myself to you again with a heart even more your own than when you almost broke it, eight years and a half ago. Dare not say that man forgets sooner than woman, that his love has an earlier death. I have loved none but you.”

“You’ve fallen asleep haven’t you?”

“Hmm… no… I’m awake. Just restin’ my eyes.” He’s gazing up at you now, those beautiful eyes searching for yours and making you feel a bit like you might have to bite down on something so as not to press your lips to his.

He repeats you, “Half agony, half hope. I like it.” His hand reaches up and he traces the line of your cheek so lightly it’s making your head spin. “Does this Wentworth get his girl then?”

“Of course.”

You read until your Uncle fetches you both for dinner.

Part 1 of the Nicest Thing Joel Miller Mini Series - Masterlist here / Part 2 / Part 3 -coming soon

Tagging in some wonderful, amazing tumblr people who always make my day better. So much love and big Pedro kisses to you all.

@pascalssbabyy @luxurychristmaspudding @toomanytookas @futuraa-free @missladym1981 @survivingandenduring @janaispunk @mrsmando @goodwithcheese @undercoverpena @secretelephanttattoo @inept-the-magnificent @tinytinymenace @drewharrisonwriter @lu62 @readingiskeepingmegoing @morallyinept @freelancearsonist @holacia3 @beskarandblasters @atinylittlepain @party-hearses @wannab-urs @trulybetty @halfpastgrace @fhatbhabie @tuquoquebrute @swiftispunk @ramblers-lets-get-ramblin @la-vie-est-une-fleur29 @rulexofxnines @chronically-ghosted @jessthebaker @mysterious-moonstruck-musings @ozarkthedog @sp00kymulderr @burntheedges @nerdieforpedro @ghotifishreads @mothandpidgeon @bitchesuntitled @missredherring @tightjeansjavi @ezrasbirdie @kiwisbell @lowlights @toxicanonymity @whatsnewalycat @yorksgirl @5oh5

Know that if i left you off it's because I'm a dumbass

#friday fic recs #my mutuals <3 #joel miller fanfiction #i can bring queue in warm

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